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sidespart · 3 years

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The Fall of King Romulus Part 9

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him… Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

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Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Roman kept his back straight and his gaze cold and aloof as he watched his proclamation sink in.

It was a simple thing, to be Romulus again.

Virgil and Patton had been sent to fight and die by their Kings. Roman had listened to Logan rant, many times, about his distain of the noble classes and their control over the common men. Whatever affection they had for Roman – it wouldn’t extend to Romulus.

They would leave.

“Well yes,” Logan said, sounding annoyed “I was getting to that.”

“What?!” Roman shrieked.

“Not require our services?” Virgil stared at him incredulously, “Didn’t we hire you?”

“Logan, you knew?” Patton said admiringly, “You’re so smart!”

“Oh, he did not.” Roman grumbled.

“Well.” Logan shuffled his feet, not looking directly at him, “The Marquis de Ornella called you Romulus. And you attempted to call him by his first name, so I assumed you knew each other- a noble connection was not out of the question.”

“Ha!” Roman pointed at him, vindicated “But you didn’t guess I was a prince, did you?”

“Well, no-” Logan looked on the verge of pouting.

“What services are we even providing? In this scenario?”

“-but If I had had time to do more research then- “

“You know what! That’s a great idea.” Patton smiled brightly, “I think we could all use a little cool down time – Logan why don’t you go back to the library and read up on Nothalevaele”.

“Notaleveale.” Logan corrected.

Patton frowned. “It’s not -aleveale? I swear that’s what he said.”

“It’s not Nothalevaele it’s Notaleveale”.

“Then what is it?”

Roman stuffed most of his good hand into his mouth to muffle a scream.

“Seriously.” Virgil smirked at him even as he leant over to adjust Roman’s pillow. “You just can’t get service like this anywhere else.”

Roman glared at him.

“He-” Virgil jerked his head at Logan, utterly unbothered by Roman’s glare – “shouldn’t go to the library alone.”

Patton nodded seriously and gave Vigil a wide smile.

Virgil glared back.

Patton raised both eyebrows.

Virgil folded his arms.

“No one needs to go anywhere – I told you I’m leaving.” Roman complained.

They ignored him.

Eventually whatever silent argument the two men were having ended with Virgil rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Go find your bag.” He told Logan, who nodded jerkily and all but fled the room.

Roman flopped back against the pillows with a thump, too tired to maintain his princely posture any longer. “He can go by himself, can’t he,” he muttered sulkily, “we’re not actually kids.”

Virgil and Patton exchanged another glance before Virgil turned away to the bedside table, fussing with his pots and potions.

“We’re not sure how many guards got a look at our faces before we got out of the bathhouse.” Patton told him, “Better not to risk traveling alone.”

“Oh.” Roman replied, his voice small.

He remembered the bathhouse. The screams from above. Virgil’s panic-stricken face as he glanced between them and the stairs. Logan with a blade at his throat.

He swallowed hard and cast his eyes down, picked idly at a loose thread of the blanket.

“We should be back before the bandages needs changing, but if you smell anything or see any new pus there’s some ointment left in this one.” Virgil held up a blue-green jar for Patton to see, “Just wash it out first with boiled water.”

“Pus!” Roman squeaked, looking up.

“Your hand was pretty screwed up.” Virgil told him gruffly, “The infection’s what gave you the fever. You need to drink more willow tea, at least one cup every hour – we’ll have to pick up some more salve whilst we’re out.” This last part he directed at Patton, who dutifully rummaged in their stack of bags and handed over their coin purse.

It looked worryingly empty. Roman remembered the extra nights they had booked at the inn – nights which they clearly hadn’t even ended up using - and winced.

“We should look for some road food too, Virgil continued “and a map if we’re really going nor – Oh!” He looked at Roman, eyes wide “Er – about the tea, I mean, you need to drink it every hour but only If you -want to? I mean you definitely should but” he waved his hands as if trying to physically shape the instruction into something optional. “You get it.”

Roman bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore the fondness bubbling up inside him. He had hardly even noticed the order.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked.

“Nearly two days.” Patton said softly. “You really scared us for a minute there kiddo.”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, “And- thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Aw Roman! You don’t have to be sorry for anything!” Patton said, “Or thank us – that’s what family’s for.”

“You’re not my family.” Roman said quietly, thinking of his father’s cool detachment and a castle full of empty rooms.

Virgil snorted. “Yeah whatever. Listen you gotta – you should eat. And sleep some more. And we are going to have to talk about all this when we’re back, okay Ro – er, Romulus?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Jeez do we have to call you that now?”

“I think it’s a nice name.” Patton interjected “It’s very umm. Regal.”

“Surely ‘Princey’ still works as a nickname?" Logan asked, returning to the room. He threw a pale green coat at Virgil, who made a face but obediently shrugged it on, pulling an orange knit cap down over the pointed tips of his ears.

Almost as an afterthought, he licked is thumb and rubbed at the dark kohl under each eye. He smirked down at Roman. “You ran away from being a prince and called yourself ‘Princey’?

“You called me that.” Roman said sulkily, deciding not to tell Virgil that he’d only succeeded in smearing the make-up.

“Umm.” Logan stood at the head of the bed. Roman braced himself for another round of interrogation, twisting the blanket between his hands. “I suspect I should apologise for– I was just trying to test my hypothesis before started making outlandish accusations. Obviously, I didn’t realise how long you have been dealing with- I mean, it’s actually quite impressive you maintained your sanity for this long given that-”

“Okay! Less talking!” Virgil declared, as Romans knuckles started to turn white. The elf slung one arm around Logan’s shoulders, propelling him towards the door.

“I was only trying to-”

“Later.”

The door closed behind them with a resounding thud.

“So” Patton said after a moment, casually reaching out with one thumb to wipe away the tears collecting in the bard’s eyes, “Would you like food first or a nap?”

***

The library of Steveange was the crowning jewel of the city. A towering hexagonal building that sat upon the cities highest peak, directly across from the gates to the royal palace.

Which meant the journey was almost all uphill.

Typical.

Virgil huffed, breathing heavily as he stomped his way through the streets, Logan practically trotting to keep up with his long strides.

Prince Romulus of Notaleveale.

Honestly, what the fuck.

At least it explained the whole armed guards thing.

Except actually it explained nothing because if you found a runaway member of the royal family, why in the hell would you then tie them up in a bathhouse basement?

Unless they were traitors working against the royal family – but then why go after a runaway prince at all? Ransom? They hadn’t exactly looked strapped for cash….

And why a bathhouse? Why not one the extremely defensible manor houses that were scattered throughout the upper echelons of the city??

Virgil let out a growl of frustration and came to a stop.

Roman’s injuries had been too systematic to have come from a fight. The northerners had tortured him.

And now he wanted to go back there?

It didn’t make any sense…unless of course the kidnappers had ordered him to go back…

Virgil took a deep breath and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to banish that thought. If he started thinking about the curse again he was going to lose it; end up in a spiral of what had they done and what had they missed and HOW were they supposed to protect him if-

“Virgil? Do you need me to count for seven?”

He forced his eyes open to meet Logan’s worried face and let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush.

“I’m good.” He told the younger man unconvincingly.

“We could go back-” Logan started, but Virgil shook his head.

As much as he bristled at being managed, he didn’t think Patton had been wrong to split the group.

Roman – or whatever they were calling him now– was barley recovered. He’d looked so small, propped up against the pillows without a lute or sword or smile between himself and the world.

Small and scared. And puffing himself up like a songbird trying to look big for a cat.

The four of them yelling for answers at once was only going to freak him out more. Patton had a much better chance getting information out of him one on one.

Still…

“You think we’re going got get anything useful out of this trip?” he asked Logan bluntly.

“The library of Stevenage is one of the greatest collections of written knowledge on the entire continent and in times of uncertainty, knowledge is our greatest weapon... and our greatest defence.” Logan told him, a serious look in his eye.

“Right.” Virgil nodded absently, “Do you think they’ve got a copy of ‘curse breaking for idiots?”

***

Roman woke up for the second time that day with a throbbing headache on top of his other aches and pains. He spent a few minutes cursing himself for not taking up Patton’s offer of willow tea before he’d gone back to sleep and then swung his legs out of the bed.

He needed to get up. He needed to relieve himself and wash and eat and and-

And figure out what to do next.

He needed to know if Remus was safe. If he was on the throne or locked up somewhere or worse.

Which meant going home.

Which meant getting away from his friends.

No one else was going to get hurt because of him and his petty little problems.

Nodding decisively to himself he sprung to his feet. And then swiftly sat back down as the world tilted alarmingly around him.

“Roman?” There was a polite knock at the door and Patton stuck his head in.

“Hey kiddo!” the big man smiled at him, “Are you hungry?”

Roman felt his heart rate speed up and tried to summon some of Romulus’ cool detachment. Patton knew about his curse. If anyone learned about his curse, they would try to exploit it. They would use it to hurt his family, to hurt-

Roman bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop the flow of anxiety. This was Patton.

Roman was more likely to be a burden to him then an opportunity.

Before he could manage to come up with a suitable greeting his stomach growled, loudly, making him blush and Patton laugh.

“Shall I bring something up? Or do you want to come sit at the table?”

“…Table.” Roman mumbled, keeping his eyes locked somewhere in the vicinity of Patton’s left ear. Even though he knew, in his head and in his heart, that Patton wasn’t going to hurt him - he still felt oddly vulnerable with his secret sitting between them. Attempting eye contact made something inside him twist uncomfortably.

His mother had always said Romulus was shy.

If Patton noticed his odd behaviour he didn’t mention it, nor did he insist on carrying Roman down the stairs or otherwise manhandling him. Instead he hovered at his elbow as he made his way from the room, keeping up a running commentary of the house as they descended the stairs.

The room that Roman had been staying in was the attic. Immediately outside the door was a set of stairs so steep they may as well have been a ladder. Patton must have been perched out here, Roman thought guilty, giving him space but close enough to hear him get up. At the base of these stairs was a short landing where most of the items normally stored in the attic were now haphazardly stacked.

“That’s Mama’s room.” Patton nodded at a closed door, as he gingerly ducked under a rolled-up carpet which was wedged against the wall. “And that’s the store cupboard”. At the base of the next steep flight was a hallway Roman recognised: kitchen at one end, main door at the other. There was another door opposite the stairs that he hadn’t noticed on his first visit, with a moon and stars motif painted at eye level.

“That’s her work room.” Patton told him, seeing Romans curious glance, “She’s asked us to stay out of there- it’s where she sees customers.”

Customers. Roman filed that thought away. He had almost forgotten they were in a witch’s house.

Patton took him straight through the kitchen, where a back door led into a narrow garden. The herb bed was surprisingly neat, given the haphazard nature of the house, with small labels pinned neatly next to each plant. At the far end were two wooden structures. “Storage shed.” Patton pointed, “Outhouse. Do you need help using it?”

Roman shook his head vehemently - clung to Patton’s arm briefly when the movement made him dizzy – and stomped to the outhouse to relieve himself.

After a few steps though he stopped.

Patton knew about the curse. And Patton wouldn’t hurt him so-

He could ask.

“Pat?“

“Yeah?” Patton – or at least his ear – looked concerned.

“I. um. My arm is…”

Virgil had instructed him to keep his arm still in his sling until the herbs had done their work and clearly, they hadn’t happened yet. The thing was still pinned across his chest.

Not that he couldn’t navigate the outhouse one handed if he had too. But his balance wasn’t exactly great at the moment and tripping in there was one humiliation he would have liked to avoid.

But then again, it’s not like his hand was any use. He would really just be freeing up the use of his elbow and why was even bothering Patton with something so stupid and embarrassing an-

“Roman. Hold your… hold your whole body however you like.”

He nodded jerkily as his shoulder relaxed for the first time since waking up, letting his arm drop a little lower.

He didn’t look at Patton as he made his escape to the outhouse.

***

When he returned Patton had pulled a tin bathtub from who-knows-where onto the slab of paving stone by the kitchen door and was testing the water’s temperature with his elbow.

“Virgil left us some potions.” He told Roman as he approached – “This is another one to help healing and this-” he held up a red tinted bottle “-should give us bubbles!”

Roman stared at the bath almost hungrily. Hot water was a luxury under normal circumstances and between the travel, the bath house and the fever he knew he must reek of sweat and dirt. Surely, he deserved a little pampering before the journey North?

“It’s still too hot.” Patton warned him before he could launch himself into the water. Instead, the other man gestured to a pretty wrought iron table and two chairs set against the left side fence. He produced bread and jam alongside a mug of tea, advising him to eat slowly as went to grab another bucket of water from the cauldron simmering away in Tay’s kitchen.

Although Patton had been careful not to make an order, Roman still made sure he followed his instructions carefully. He had no desire to make himself sick. Or to make more work for the other man.

He pulled his bread apart into small bites and ate them one at a time, watching Patton critically as he limped his way back to the table.

“Did you get hurt…in the bathhouse?”

“…A few bruises.” Patton told him honestly, spreading a thick layer of jam on his own bread, “Nothing too bad”

“I’m sorry.” Roman said again, pulling his remaining bread into smaller and smaller pieces.

“Ro-man!” Patton said cheerfully – “you don’t need to apologise! It was those Ornelly guys that hit me not you!”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

Roman hunched and cursed himself. Sorry sorry sorry. Couldn’t he say anything useful?

“Roman hey – can you look at me please?”

It took more effort than he would have liked, but Roman did. Patton’s eyes were big and blue and very, very kind. Roman jerked his gaze away immediately.

“None of us blame you for what happened. Okay?”

“You got hurt because of me.” Roman blurted. “Logan nearly died- “

“I told you, that was on the Ornellans, not you-“

“Who were there specifically because of me! That excuse doesn’t work Pat I-“

He cut himself off, eyes glued to the floor once more. Hadn’t he just decided he didn’t want to cause any more trouble?

“Sorry.”

He heard Patton sigh and tried not to flinch, but when the other man spoke his voice was still gentle. “How many bubbles do you want?”

***

Whenever Virgil got upset, he always wanted space. It was something Patton found difficult, as his instinct was to smother the other man with affection until he smiled again, but experience had given him the patience to wait until his friend was ready.

When Logan got upset, he always claimed he needed space – but what he really wanted was an audience. He needed to talk through the problem, often at length, and know that someone was listening, even if he didn’t always want their advice.

Roman though – Roman liked attention. Roman liked fuss and pampering and his favourite food and to know, demonstrably, that someone was worried about him.

It didn’t mean he was great at asking for it. Patton remembered vividly his insistence on hopping half a mile on a twisted ankle before Patton had all but begged him to accept a piggyback.

He also remembered a time after a poorly received show when Roman had spent the evening sulking, sighing loudly and dramatically and slumping against each of them in turn until Patton had laughingly pulled him into a hug. Oh my god Vigil had snarked were you not hugged enough as a child?

It had been funny. At the time. Sort of.

Not so much now.

Since lying back against the tub’s rim would aggravate the wounds on his back, Roman was hunched forward in the tub, his bandaged arm hanging over the edge.

“Did I ever tell you how Virgil and I met?” Patton asked, settling on his knees next to the tub.

Roman twitched. There was a tactic agreement amongst the four of them not to discuss their pasts. This was more than fine with Patton, who was much more concerned with making new, happy memories then revisiting old ones, but he didn’t blame Roman and Logan for being curious.

Whenever the pair were on watch together, conversation often turned to whispered debate over the southern pair’s origin. Whilst he felt a bit bad for pretending to be asleep, Patton quite enjoyed their speculation.

His favourite was the circus performer theory. Virgil would probably has made a good acrobat.

“It was in the war.” he continued, scooping up some of the water and wetting Roman’s hair.

“I um. I volunteered you know? All the boys in my town did. I think we thought- well I know I thought it was the right thing to do. Finaley’ed was the enemy after all, we had to keep our families safe.”

He chuckled sadly, focusing on making sure every strand of Roman’s hair was damp before gently capturing a handful of bubbles and placing them on the other man’s head.

“Made you a crown.” he giggled.

Roman turned just enough to peak at him incredulously through one eye and Patton winced.

“Right. Sorry.”

Roman turned away again but Patton though he saw him suppressing a smile. Score!

“Um anyway” – he poured a measure of oil from one of Virgil’s bottles and rubbed it between his fingers before leaning over to begin massaging Roman’s scalp – “It was okay at first. I was in a regiment with all my friends, it was a bit of an adventure honestly.”

“And then there was this Major. He came to inspect us before we got done training and he – he said I was good. That I should get a chance to really make a difference in the war.”

He dragged his fingers through Roman’s hair, gently detangling the strands.

“He put me in a new regiment. All big guys. Like me. And they- they gave us this – I’m not even sure what it was. My buddy Micha used to say it was ground up swamp frogs but I don’t know.”

He started scooping up water again, rinsing some of the bubbles and oil from Roman’s hair.

“It made us…strong. Angry. Scary. Berserk well– that was the point. I don’t. um.” Some of the water sloshed over his cupped palms and Patton realised he was shivering.

“I killed a lot of people…. I mean I definitely made a difference to them.” He finished bitterly.

“…s’not your fault.” Patton glanced up to see Roman had twisted to look at him, was doing his best to maintain eye contact despite Patton’s confession. Patton smiled at him. Roman really was a sweet kid.

“It’s what I signed up for kiddo. Just faster.”

He sighed, nudging Roman gently to turn around so that he could finish rinsing his hair. “I’m not. I’m not saying it’s the same as what you’ve gone through. I know it isn’t. Just – I get it. A little. What it’s like not having any control.”

For a moment they sat in silence, the only sound the trickle of water as Patton continued lifting handfuls to Roman’s scalp.

Then the bard let out a shuddering breath and said: “My major’s name was Julius.”

“Oh?” Patton whispered.

“He was my dad’s friend. He was supposed to find a way to break the curse, but he didn’t. Then he just…started helping me figure out how to live with it. He was helping me. He was supposed to be…”

Roman took a deep breath “He’s the reason I-ack.” He broke off, coughing. Patton reached forward to hold him up, alarmed.

“Ro?”

“I’m okay.” But he didn’t look it, red faced and scowling. “I-” he gripped Patton’s arm looking right into his eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

Patton nodded slowly, understanding. “You can’t – not because you don’t want to.”

Roman nodded.

Patton frowned. “Can I – could I order you too? I could undo what Virgil said about your arm right?”

Roman sighed shaking his head. “The curse is. It’s fickle. But words are important -if you don’t know what you’re contradicting it’s almost impossible and Julius he – he was very good at giving orders.”

“Right.” Patton frowned. “What if I guess? Like Logan figured out the curse?”

“You can try.” Roman laughed bitterly.

“Hmm okay – was he the reason you left home?”

Roman span around so quickly water splashed over the side of the tub. “Patton! How’d you know?”

“Well gee kiddo! The frog pills didn’t rattle too many cells loose!” Patton laughed tapping the side of his head. Then frowned. “Well, I hope not…”

Roman winced. “Patton I – I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“Well.” Patton smiled sadly, “Likewise Ro-Romulus.”

The other man sighed, sinking low in the tub again. “I liked being Roman.” he blurted out suddenly, a look of abject misery on his face.

“Then – why stop?” Patton whispered.

“I-” He frowned. “I would like to not be naked for this conversation.”

“That’s fair.” Patton nodded and helped him to his feet.

***

By the time Roman was up, towelled off and dressed in one of Patton’s old shirts that he had long ago claimed as a sleep shirt, he looked about ready to pass out again. Patton left him sitting at the table to finish drying in the sunshine whilst he dashed upstairs to change the sheets on the attic bed. When he returned with the laundry pile, he found that Mittens had emerged and settled himself on the bard’s– the prince’s – lap.

Roman looked up at him guilty - “Your allergies.”

“It’s easier outside.” Patton waved him off. Mittens had been the key to them finding Roman, as far as Patton on was concerned, the cat’s comfort was worth a few sneezes.

He took a seat at the table and nudged the remaining bread towards Roman, who took it hungrily, eating with much more enthusiasm than before the bath.

“So you were saying...” Patton prompted.

Roman pouted at him, cheeks stuffed with bread.

“’u first.” he swallowed, “You never got to how you met Virgil. Was he in the berserkers – in the special regiment too?”

“Oh, no.” Patton shook his head vehemently. “Virgil wasn’t like me. He was a conscript – for the other side.”

An exceptionally fat bumble bee had found Tay’s herb garden and was repeatedly bouncing off the side of some chives. Patton focused on the bewildered looking insect rather than Roman’s face and his finished the story.

“A small group of us had got separated from the rest. It was quite deep in the forest, away from the main battle. We were meant to find their camp and pick them off there, but we couldn’t find them. And then we couldn’t find the way back.”

The bee, finally free of the chives, crashed headfirst into a Rosemary bush.

“It was like… like my blood was on fire. We hadn’t been so long without it before. And then...”

“And then?”

“We stumbled on a group of them. Of Finaley’ii soldiers. And there was a fight.” Patton closed his eyes. Screams and sobs and blood on his sword and in his eyes and Micha gasping uselessly around the arrow in his throat “I don’t remember it much. But when it was over it was like I…woke up.”

He smiled.

“And there he was. Virgil. Pointing s crossbow right at my face.”

“He what!” Roman yelped and Patton laughed.

“Well, we were on opposite sides kiddo and I had just…well. The thing was, it was only us left then. No one was ordering to kill each other and so we just…didn’t. Neither of us was in any big rush to find our armies again so….”

“Virgil asked me to help him find his mom, so we headed east. We couldn’t find her, so he said he’d help me find my town and we went west. That was gone too.”

“The whole town?” Roman as looking at him with sorrowful eyes.

“That’s the problems with wars kiddo – they don’t stay in one place.”

“What about your family?”

Patton shrugged. Mittens hopped down from Roman’s lap and began to stalk the errant bee.

“Maybe they got away. I hope so.” He glanced at Roman again. “Virgil was the one who suggested we keep going west. Get away entirely, see if we could find any refugees, look for our families.” He smiled fondly. “He’s always been the brave one, not me.”

“And – and did you?” Roman asked. He was bent forward, eyes fixed on Patton’s own.

“No.” Patton sighed. “I like to think they’re safe and sound somewhere. Set up a new house, found new people to care for. Like I did. But… “

He trailed off. But most likely they were dead. Like Patton should be.

“What if…if you knew where they were.” Roman said quietly, “Would you go see them- check on them?”

Patton rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the multitude of scars that littered the right side. “I don’t know.” He told Roman honestly. “I would like to know if they were okay but…I don’t know if they’d want to see me.”

Roman nodded.

On the other side of the garden, there was a sudden yowling from the rosemary bush. Mittens came charging towards them with his tail fluffed up and circled Roman’s chair twice before leaping onto the fence.

Patton giggled – “Well that’s what you get for trying to fight a bee you silly cat!”

“I think my brothers in danger.” Roman said in a rush.

Patton blinked.

“Your brother?”

He was back to staring down. Both fists clenched tightly together. “I left him. Back home. I thought I-” he coughed again. “I thought he would be safe but now I’m not sure.”

“In danger from what kiddo?”

“From Julius.” Roman breathed. “I saw him. Or. Or I think I did.”

Slowly, haltingly, Roman told him about meeting the Marquis. About the bathhouse basement and the northern soldiers and the figure he called the grey man who had slipped in and out of Julius’ face.

Patton did his best to keep his own face clam as Roman casually described being forced to hurt himself, even as his own knuckles turned white from his grip on the chairs’ arm.

“He said he had sent Lucius to the inn after some – some escaped prisoner? And he found me. But Lucius knew about the curse and he never did before so- “

“Roman?” Patton interrupted. “Sorry - can I give you a hug?”

“Oh!” Roman blinked at him, blushing slightly, “If you – if you want to?”

“I really do.” Patton scrambled to his feet, wrapping the younger man in his arms and feeling Roman sag against him. He resisted the urge to squeeze, mindful of his injuries. “You’re safe now.” He whispered. “I gottcha.”

Roman giggled wetly against his chest. “Julius. He said he’d assumed I’d died.” He mumbled. “But now that he knows I’m around? He’ll try again Pat I know he will. I- “

He drew back, looking up at Patton with tear filled eyes. “I can’t risk you all getting hurt because of me.”

“That’s not your decision to make Roman.” Patton told him softly. “We think you’re worth the risk.”

“But I’m not Roman.” He whimpered. He hadn’t relinquished his grip on Patton, who began to run his hand soothingly up and down the prince’s back.

“Well, if we’re being technical, I’m not Patton.” Patton rested his head on top of Roman’s own. “Me and Vigil picked new names after we left the war and I – I like being Patton.”

There was a pause. Roman squeezed a little tighter.

“I like Patton too.”

Patton laughed; some tension he hadn’t realised he was holding draining away. When Roman drew back this time, he had a shaky smile on his face.

“So.” He stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I need to…go back north. Check on my brother. Avoid Julius and Lucius and anyone connected with Romulus. You sure that’s worth the risk?”

“Yep!” Patton said instantly. “And we need to break the curse!”

“I guess.” Roman shrugged. “I really do think it’s impossible Pat’.”

“Eh.” Patton waved a hand dismissively “That’s never stopped Logan before.”

When Roman laughed then, he almost sounded like himself.

If you enjoyed this chapter please hit ~ reblog ~

#roman sanders #patton sanders #royality #sanders sides fic #virgil sanders #logan sanders #creativitwins #sanders sides #ts: fall of Romulus #this chapter ended up ENORMOUS #i had to cut it in two #rip analogical library times we will get to you next week.#sidespart writes

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invisibleanonymousmonsters · 4 years

Text

no grave can hold my body down – 2/2

Character: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Summary: It took time to get Jason Todd away from the darkness. Sometimes it felt like he was always standing at a tipping point, at risk of completely losing himself. But not when he was with her. She made him better and she would continue to make him better.

Word Count: 9,000

A/N: I know there are a lot of contradicting opinions on Jason Todd’s height. But for my own wish fulfillment, he is 6′3/6′4ish in this fic.

Part 1

Y/N had fallen asleep after getting home from work. She had a long day and was so exhausted that she passed out as soon as she sat down on the couch. Jason had to take off her heels and drape a blanket over her.

Now he was dressed in his armored undershirt, cargo pants, leather jacket, and tactical boots. His red helmet was tucked under his arm, but he was already wearing a domino mask. If Bruce had taught him anything, it was to be prepared to a point of paranoia.

He crouched down to his knees.

Ever so gently, he brushed Y/N’s cheek.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

She stirred and winced a bit when she opened her eyes, the glare of the quiet television was suddenly harsh.

“What’s going on?” She asked, still half asleep.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving to go on patrol.”

“Mhmm. OK.” She hummed. “Be careful, J.”

If Y/N ever found out how un-careful the Red Hood was, she would never sleep and she’d probably beg Jason to quit his vigilantism.

“I love you,” he told her before kissing her on the forehead.

“Love you, too,” she said back so dreamily that it sounded like she was talking in her sleep.

Jason slipped out of the window. He purposely chose this apartment due to the direction the windows faced, the distance from approximate apartments, and the darkness that would prevent any wandering eyes from the neighbors.

He’d been patrolling for a few hours. It was oddly a quiet night. He assumed it had to do with how cold it was outside. Sometimes criminals were weak in the most obvious ways.

Jason was standing on a rooftop, taking a breather when he felt someone drop behind him. He knew his family all too well and could differentiate all of their footsteps. Which was why he didn’t immediately shoot Dick when he thought he’d try and surprise him.

“So, Y/N was quite the hit…” Dick said without giving Jason a proper greeting first.

“What are you still doing in town?” Jason answered.

Dick sighed. “B still needs a little help on the case.”

Jason nodded, not actually caring why Dick was still in Gotham.

Then an awkward silence washed over them. Well, Dick thought it was awkward. Jason couldn’t care less.

“Why won’t you talk about her with us?” Dick’s teasing was gone and his tone serious now.

Jason turned his head away from the city view and finally acknowledged his brother. “You don’t need to know anything about her,” his helmet distorted his words to make them sound even harsher than they already were.

“Doesn’t seem like she completely shares that view.”

Jason didn’t respond. He didn’t appreciate Dick speaking on Y/N’s behalf.

“Bruce seems to like her,” Dick added.

Jason’s head snapped to him. “As if I give a fuck,” he snapped.

Dick had the audacity to laugh. “How did the two of you meet anyway? She was living in New York City when the two of you first met, right?”

“Jesus,” Jason growled. “Did all of you run a background check on her?”

Dick shrugged. “What did you expect?”

————

Y/N didn’t have any idea where she was going. With the sun having already set, she couldn’t even figure out what direction she was headed.

But she had typed the address to her hotel into the Uber app and trusted it from there. She was also too preoccupied still answering the dozens of work emails on her phone.

“Hey lady, we’re here,” the driver said rudely after she didn’t realize they had stopped.

“Oh, sorry!” She said, writing the last few words of a sentence before pressing send.

She jumped out of the car and yelled a thanks before slamming the door shut.

To her surprise, the car raced off without a second’s hesitation.

But when Y/N turned around, she realized she was definitely not in the right place. And for the first time throughout the drive, she realized she was definitely in a bad area.

Y/N heard all of the terrible things about Gotham. Sometimes she wondered if the things about all of the crime were exaggerated by the news or if the city was really rotting from the inside like everyone said. What she definitely didn’t believe in was all the vigilantes that seemed to be protecting the city. No one could ever offer up any proof, even with every single human having a video camera in their hands at all times.

But now she wishing she’d taken people’s warnings a little bit more seriously.

This was definitely not Gotham Heights, where her nice hotel was located.

“Fuck,” she muttered as she whipped out her phone and instantly tried to call another Uber. But the app was being finicky and she was getting a loading screen for far too long.

Then she heard a group of men whistle at her. The streets were filled with literal dumpster fires. There were countless inoperable cars with broken windshields and without wheels. The only women she spotted looked like they were working the streets.

‘Walk, Y/N. Just walk. Act like you know where you’re going.’ Her brain was screaming at her.

So she did while remaining on high alert.

No matter how much she pretended to blend in, she was obviously out of place and sticking out like a sore thumb.

Her heart was racing and she tried to walk as fast as she could without fully running. She just hoped to get to a main street soon and try to catch a yellow cab, since apparently all her car-service apps decided not to work.

But suddenly, a man stepped onto the sidewalk, blocking Y/N’s path forward.

“You lost, sweetheart?” He cooed.

Y/N stopped and started backing away. But when she turned around, she saw that two men were waiting behind her.

“No need to be scared,” the same men said behind her, closer this time. “We just want to talk.”

‘Fuck this,’ Y/N thought before she decided to make a run for it.

But one of them grabbed her and shoved her to the side, pushing her into the alleyway she hadn’t realized they were right next to.

It was so dark that she could hardly make out the silhouettes of her attackers. But that wasn’t going to stop her from fighting. She immediately tried to shove past anyone in her vicinity and hit whoever was grabbing her.

“Get the fuck away from me!” She screamed, hoping that there was someone in this poisoned city that would try and help her.

Except she was outnumbered by three men, which ended in her getting shoved up the brick wall that lined the alley.

“I don’t have any money,” she gasped as a last ditch effort to save herself.

“Who said we wanted your money?” One of them chuckled darkly.

Before their words could hearten Y/N to try another defensive attack and escape, there was a strange zipping sound that echoed down into the alley.

Next thing Y/N knew, the man that was pressed up against her and pinning her to wall was flung off.

Y/N gasped and tried to get her eyes to adjust to the darkness enough so she could actually see what the hell was happening.

“It’s the hood!” One of the men yelled to his friends before making a run for it.

Then a gun was fired off – two shots.

Y/N yelped at the noise and covered her ears.

But when she looked back up, the man who had tried to escape was now on the ground, screaming in pain as he looked down at both of his knee caps that had been shot.

When Y/N turned her attention to the other two men, she finally saw who had interrupted their assault.

It was a man – if that was even what he was – dressed in military gear of some sort. But what really caught her attention was the red helmet that was reflecting the night light and allowing her to actually follow what was happening.

Y/N watched as he punched the daylights out of one of her attackers. She saw the man’s face get more and more covered with blood with each punch.

If Y/N was scared before, she was now terrified.

Without hesitating any longer, she too made a run for it, hoping she wouldn’t be shot like the other runaway.

She sprinted around the corner. But she only got a few yards before the same behemoth landed in front of her.

He was tall, and had to be at least 6’3. Men were confusingly short in New York, so Y/N was still trying to wrap her mind around having to tilt her head slightly up. But then she realized it wasn’t even his height that was jarring; it was how utterly hulking he was. His shoulders were so wide and his chest was massive. His thighs seemed to be the same width has her entire torso.

Everything about him was intimidating and imposing.

“I gotta give you credit for being that fast while wearing heels,” he said to her as he glanced down at her shoes.

It wasn’t exactly comforting that his voice seemed to also be distorted by the helmet.

Y/N was frozen in fear, truly not knowing what he was capable of or even what he wanted.

“You can relax. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he told her with his hands raised. His guns were no longer in his grip, but in their holsters at his thighs.

“You just killed three men,” Y/N told him with a shaky voice as she took a step back.

“I didn’t kill them. But if you want me to, I’d be happy to go back there and finish the job.”

“What? No!” Y/N cried out.

He had the audacity to chuckle at her reaction.

“Where exactly did you think you were going?” He asked her.

“This whole damsel-in-distress thing is new for me. But I thought it made sense to run away from the guy who was shooting people,” she told him quickly.

Jason was grateful that his mask hid all his emotions and facial expressions, because he was smiling at her sass.

He looked her up and down, taking in her outfit and just her overall look. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What gave me away?”

He shrugged, ignoring the question. “What the hell are you doing in The Bowery? This is the most dangerous neighborhood in Gotham.”

“My Uber dropped me off here. I thought I was at my hotel and by the time I figured out I wasn’t, my driver had already sped away and left me for dead.”

He took a step toward her. “What’s a gal like you doing in Gotham?”

“I work for an art gallery in New York. But there was an event that I had to attend. I’ve been here all weekend.”

Why was she telling him any of this?

Jason nodded in understanding. “Come on,” he told her.

“W-What?” She asked nervously.

“You’re not gonna get a car in this area. You should report the driver who brought you here in the first place. He knew better.”

He walked past her.

Y/N looked around her, trying to figure out if she even had any other option. She knew he was right about a car, which was probably why she’d gotten a loading screen for all of them when it realized her location.

Yes, he was technically a masked criminal. But he did just save her life, no matter how terrifying it was to watch.

Y/N decided she didn’t have much of a choice.

Before she could move, a motorcycle was being pulled up alongside her.

Y/N eyed it for a moment.

“What’s your name?” She asked him, as if it would make the situation any safer.

“Red Hood,” he told her.

Y/N nodded, not surprised that it didn’t make her feel any better. She realized she was in no position to ask for his real identity. She knew enough about vigilantes to understand that they only survived from hiding their true selves from the criminals they fought and the law enforcement who thought what they were doing was wrong.

“Where are you staying?” He asked her.

“Crest Hill Hotel,” she told him.

“Fancy,” he teased. “Hop on.”

Y/N hesitated before following his instructions. She sat awkwardly on the back of the motorcycle, unsure of what to do.

“You’re gonna want to hold on, beautiful.” He told her over his shoulder as he revved the engine.

Y/N tried to ignore the heat that rushed to her face as he called her ‘beautiful,’ and then she tried to ignore how wide and strong his torso felt as she reached to hold on.

It took 20 minutes to get to her hotel, proving that the Uber driver really hadn’t given a crap about how incorrect her original address had been.

Jason had decided to drop her off in the back entrance to avoid a scene of the infamous Red Hood dropping off an average citizen. He didn’t need that type of attention and Y/N shouldn’t be tied to him in any way.

Y/N got off the motorcycle with a surprising grace and turned to him.

“Thank you for…saving me,” she told him gently.

“It was nothing,” he told her.

Y/N just watched him for a moment, wondering what he looked like under that red helmet and without all the armor.

“What’s your name?” He surprised her by asking.

“Y/N. Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

She didn’t know why she felt comfortable giving her surname. But it just came out.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. Though, I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

Y/N suddenly dug into her purse, making sure she still had her phone and even just the key to her hotel room.

“Fuck,” she muttered without realizing it.

“What is it?” Jason asked.

“Nothing. I just…it sounds stupid, but I have a little notebook to write down ideas for – well, for my artwork. But it must’ve fallen out back in that alleyway when those guys shoved me against the wall.”

When she looked up at him, it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

“Anyways, thank you again.” She turned to finally walk away.

“Y/N?”

She shouldn’t love how much she loved the sound of him saying her name.

Y/N turned around.

“Stay close to the hotel. Gotham is different than New York City.”

She nodded.

————————

“So, when did you see her again?” Dick questioned after he listened to Jason’s retelling.

“I was helping out a friend with a job in NYC. Things got ugly. I may or may not have been shot when I showed up at her window. Her apartment was in the area and I needed a place to lay low.”

Dick laughed. “Uh huh. Sure you did.”

Jason ignored him. “Anyways, I’d gone back to the alley that night and found that notebook she was talking about, and gave it to her to make up for bleeding all over her couch.”

“Always the romantic,” Dick teased.

Their conversation came to a halt. Instead of talking, they both listened to the city noises that Gotham brought.

“Listen, Jason, I know I did a poor job of being there for you and actually acting like a brother. And I also know you haven’t always been my biggest fan.”

Jason stayed quiet.

“But you deserve to be happy. And we both know Y/N does that.” Dick sighed. “But you don’t talk about her with us and you kept her from even just meeting us after years of you two dating. If we weren’t all noisy and paranoid, we wouldn’t know a thing about her.”

“What’s your point, Dick?” Jason asked roughly.

“No one ever wants to acknowledge this, especially you…but you’re more like Bruce than any of us. And you’ve seen how he pushes people away, keeping them at a distance. Y/N wants to be a part of your life, your whole life. And that includes all of us – whether you like it or not. So, what I’m saying is you don’t have to hide her from us.”

Dick knew not to expect a response from Jason. So he left him where he found him and gave him his space once again.

Jason didn’t have anything to say anyway.

Dick’s words made him angry more than anything. Because he knew they were true. Yes, he saw how Bruce behaved with women. It was promiscuous and casual, because anything else was too close for comfort. Bruce’s priority would always be Batman. And Bruce knew that no significant other deserved his lack of commitment – no matter how much they might love each other.

—————

Y/N was doing her nightly routine and applying moisturizer to her face when she heard it. She could be acting paranoid, but her instincts were telling her something was off.

No, someone was here.

Jason made a point of being loud and immediately announcing when he got home as to not scare her. So, it couldn’t be him.

As quietly as possible, Y/N tiptoed out of the bathroom and to her side of the bed where she kept a titanium baseball bat. Jason had offered her multiple times to teach her how to shoot a gun. But Y/N wanted nothing to do with them.

With the bat in hand, Y/N snuck her way to the living room where she heard the sound.

She had turned off all the lights, making it hard for her to see clearly.

But she did see a large mass standing in the middle of her living room. With just a bit of hesitation, Y/N swung the bat. But the intruder caught the bat, stopping her attack.

They stepped into the moonlight, finally allowing Y/N to see that it was Batman in his full uniform, cowl still on.

“What the fuck. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Y/N snapped at him.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce defended.

But Y/N was still irritated. “Jason isn’t here.”

“I know. I came to talk to you.”

She froze. “Me?”

“I need a favor.”

Y/N narrowed her gaze. “I highly doubt I could do anything to help you.”

“You’re wrong. This has to do with your job. You work at The Drago House.”

Y/N tilted her head and crossed her arms. “Yes.”

“It’s owned by the Ibanescu family. They use it as a front for human trafficking.”

Y/N shook her head. “That can’t be possible…”

“Don’t underestimate the crime families of Gotham, Y/N.”

“So, why do you need me?”

“There are files and codecs that would decipher who their buyers are and where they hold auctions around the world. Nothings digital. They’re old school. With that information, we could shut done their operation forever.”

Y/N’s face was serious now. “What do you need me to do?”

“You have always had access to all the information. You just never knew it. All I need is for you to scan the files.”

She now looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t they say you're the world’s greatest detective? I find it hard to believe that you’d have problems breaking into the gallery after hours to get them for yourself…”

“It’s only completely lockdown as soon as it closes every night. Their security system is high-end and resets every 24 hours. Could we get into it eventually? Yes. But we’ve already been at it for weeks. And we’ve received word that there’s a big…” He hesitated. “…shipment happening any day. We don’t have time to waste.”

Y/N thought about what he was telling her.

“Why didn’t you go to Jason?” She finally asked.

“You said Jason doesn’t tell you what to do.”

Y/N glared at him for using her own words against her.

The apartment went quiet again.

Then Y/N nodded slowly. “There’s an opening tomorrow night. I can get them then.”

—————

Dick’s words haunted Jason for the rest of the night. He wanted to cut patrolling early and just get back to Y/N.

Now he swiftly moved into his apartment from the fire escape and immediately took off his helmet and domino mask underneath.

But Jason froze when he saw Y/N’s bat in the middle of the living room.

His heart raced at the immediate assumption that something happened to her. The furniture was untouched and there were no other signs of trouble, but he still rushed towards the bedroom anyway.

“Y/N?” He called out, despite it being nearly 4AM.

He let out a sigh of relief when he found Y/N slowly waking up from their bed.

“J?” She murmured, half asleep.

“Y/N, why is the bat in the living room?” Jason asked as he rubbed his face and then sat on the edge of the bed near her. Without even thinking, he cupped her cheek.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up more. “I thought I heard something and freaked myself out. But it was nothing.”

“Y/N, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me when shit like that happens.”

“But it was nothing,” she repeated. “What?” She added with a sigh when he was giving her that disapproving look.

“I don’t care if it ends up being nothing. If you’re scared, then I’m going to be here. OK?” Then he finalized his point with a quick kiss to her lips.

She nodded. “OK.”

Then she looked him up and down, realizing that he was still completely in his Red Hood gear, only without his helmet.

“You OK?” She asked in a whisper. Her eyes already scanning his body for any obvious injuries.

“I’m fine,” Jason sighed. “I was just worried about you when I saw the bat. I thought something…”

Y/N quickly sat up in bed. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m fine. I’m OK. I was just being paranoid. I should’ve put the bat back. I’m sorry.”

A comfortable and reassuring silence settled between them.

“Why don’t you take a shower and come to bed?” Y/N offered softly.

Jason nodded and kissed her again.

As soon as he was out of the room, Y/N ran a hand over her face.

She hated lying to Jason. He didn’t deserve it. But she also knew he wouldn’t let her anywhere near an operation that Bruce was trying to pull off. This had to be the same thing that Tim had pulled Jason aside for at the gala.

But Bruce made one thing clear: he needed her help. And he wouldn’t do so if he wasn’t desperate.

———————-

The next night, Y/N couldn’t stop sweating and her heart rate was out of control. She tried to act like this was just another day of work, greeting customers, explaining the pieces, and answering questions.

But the need to get into the back offices when everyone else was gone would not stop nagging her.

With shaky hands, she tapped her ID on the scanner. Usually at this point in an event, all of her colleagues were either on the floor or had called it the end of their work day and headed home.

By some miracle, that was exactly the case.

Y/N locked the door behind her, never having seen a purpose for doing so any other day of working at the gallery.

“OK. OK. OK. Breathe,” she muttered to herself as her eyes scanned the room.

She knew where all the files were in the room. And Bruce had given her the keys to knowing what to look for. Now it was just a matter of putting the two together.

Y/N instantly went to work and started shuffling through papers, finding what was needed.

Bruce had given her a special pen that would scan every file within a second no matter what angle it was pointed at, so Y/N wouldn’t have any suspicious photos on her cellphone.

Y/N was almost done, covered in sweat and with shaking hands, when the door started jiggling.

She swore her heart was about to burst out of her chest.

With pure adrenaline, Y/N quickly put back the files that were in her hand.

But the person on the other side of the door was clearly getting impatient quickly and continued to mess with the doorknob.

Y/N jumped when it was finally kicked open. She whipped around to stare at a man who was nearly the size of Jason, but looked far deadlier. She’d never seen him at the gallery before, which meant he was definitely part of Ibanescu’s gang.

“Can I help you?” She snapped rudely, trying to use her authority to hide her fear.

“What are you doing in here?” He accused.

“I work here. Who the hell are you?”

He ignored her question. “Why was the door locked?”

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Y/N shot back.

And with that, she straightened her posture and started walking past him. But this man wasn’t as stupid as he looked. Just as she thought she’d slipped away, the man grabbed her by the arm.

“Excuse me,” Y/N hissed.

But he ignored her and started dragging her into the back storage area of the gallery and further away from the crowd.

Y/N tried to rip her arm from his grasp but his grip was vice-like and didn’t even seem fazed by her efforts to escape.

This was not good.

While Y/N was still hopeful that she could possibly talk her way out, she was also realistic.

Which is why she hit a button on her watch.

Jason had gifted it to her very early on in their relationship. It was a classic chronograph watch. But he had installed a panic button onto it.

“If something ever happens – even if you think you’re being overly cautious – you push this and it will send out a signal that I can track. I’ll be there before you know it.” That’s what he had told her when he gifted it, and she’d worn it every day since.

A few seconds later, Y/N was being shoved through the door that led to the back alley.

There was a group of men, just as large and intimidating as the one who still had a grip on her arm.

It was pouring rain and freezing outside. But the slight overhand of the building into the alley protected them slightly.

“What the fuck is this?” One of them asked.

“I found her snooping around in the offices,” he announced.

“I’m one of the directors of this gallery!” Y/N bit back. “I was checking the price points on pieces for a potential customer.”

“The door was locked,” the man added.

They all seemed to be looking at each other.

Y/N was frozen, trying to wait for the perfect moment to make a run for it.

But then she saw one of the men, who appeared to be in charge, eye the pen that was clipped to the pocket of her pants. She prayed that he was too stupid to think it was anything more than just a writing utensil.

But then he slowly walked up to her. He grabbed the pen from her pocket and inspected it.

Y/N swore time froze. She couldn’t hear anything. She couldn’t feel the tight grip on her arm that was surely going to bruise her.

Then the man’s gaze shifted from the pen to her eyes.

“Get her in the car,” he told the group.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

Without hesitating, she immediately started to fight the man holding her. With a swift motion, she kneed him hard in the groin, making him let out a growl and keel over. But he dropped his grip on her arm.

Despite wearing heels, she made a run for it. She didn’t get far, but she got far enough into the rain that she was already drenched.

Another man grabbed her, shoving her against the building and clenching her throat to a point of suffocation.

“You stupid bitch,” her original captor spat as he backhanded her across the face.

Y/N blinked as a ringing started in her ears and her face stung with pain.

“Get her in the car before you make a fuckin’ scene,” the leader warned.

But before they could respond to the command, the street lights went out, causing a surge of darkness to blind all of them.

Y/N tried to step away from her attackers as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. But she couldn’t see a damn thing. The pouring rain was only making it more impossible.

It wasn’t until one of the men cried out in pain and guns started firing that she could see anything. Except it was too fast for her to make out a clear picture. Every so often, a lightning strike or a muzzle flash would give her a short glimpse.

Lo and behold, Batman was taking out the men one by one. But every time Y/N’s eyes focused on his tall silhouette, he’d disappear. She couldn’t keep track of his movements. And apparently neither could any of Ibanescu’s men.

“Shoot the girl!” One of the men yelled.

Y/N’s eyes widened when two of the men turned their guns on her.

But just before they fired off their rounds, a small force tackled her to the side and behind the safety of a giant dumpster.

Y/N looked up to see a young boy shielding her with his own body.

Damian.

Things were so chaotic that she hadn’t even registered he was there, too.

Before she could say anything to him, there was another presence that dropped down beside her. The next second, she was being grabbed and pulled into the sky.

From the feel of his arms alone, Y/N immediately recognized it as Jason.

His grappling gun had brought them to the roof of the building.

Once their feet were grounded onto the roof, Jason barely stepped away and grabbed her shoulders.

Y/N couldn’t read his face from his helmet. But the subtle movements of his head made it clear that he was scanning her body to see if she’d been hit. It only took a few seconds to be convinced that she was clear.

Then he was grasping her face. “Stay here,” he told her before he used his grappling gun to vault back down into the alleyway.

Y/N ran to the edge of the room to look down.

When Jason returned to the fight below, he was ruthless.

Damian had seen the Red Hood with a vengeance many a time. But this… this was something different.

No bone was left unbroken.

Jason wasn’t just neutralizing these men…he was out for blood and pain.

The leader of the little gang was on his knees, covered in his own blood, when he looked up at Jason, who had a gun pointed just centimeters from his head.

“Red Hood, no!” Bruce growled as he threw a batarang, knocking Jason’s gun away from its almost-victim.

Jason whipped his head around. “They were going to kill her!”

“I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Bruce countered.

While they talked, Damian knocked out the man Jason almost murdered. By now, all of them were knocked unconscious or so injured that they couldn’t even open their eyes.

Jason’s entire body froze, realizing what had really happened. Bruce and Damian didn’t just happen to be there to save his girlfriend. This was their doing. They were the ones who had put her in this dangerous situation to begin with.

“What the fuck did you do?” Jason thundered.

Just as a flash of lightening struck, he turned to face Bruce, finding his new prey.

“She had an in and I asked her to use it,” Bruce explained evenly. “She agreed.”

“Of course she fucking agreed!” Jason yelled over the rain. “She’d never say no to helping! And you knew that, and you took advantage of it!”

Then he raised his gun, pointing it at Bruce.

“Put the gun down, Red Hood.”

“Fuck you,” Jason hissed.

The next thing Y/N knew, Jason shot a bullet towards Bruce, causing her to let out a yell from above. In her heart she knew he hadn’t aimed to kill, but Bruce dodged the shot anyway.

Now the two men were fully fighting each other. Bruce seemed to be pulling his punches and just trying to remain on the defense. But Jason wanted revenge. Yes, Bruce and him had a dark history. But putting Y/N in danger erupted something inside Jason that made him see red in a way he never had before.

Just as Y/N was going to call out for Jason to stop, she heard someone drop beside her on the roof.

Dick stood a few feet away, standing tall in his Nightwing uniform.

“Dick, do something!” She begged.

“I can stop Bats, but I can’t stop him,” he told her.

“Then get me the fuck down there! Use your zip-line thingy!”

“Zip-line thingy?” Dick repeated, clearly offended. “This is a grappling–”

“Dick!” Y/N cut him off.

“Right, sorry.” He grabbed her, held her body tight to him, and lowered them down back to the alley.

When Y/N looked up, Bruce was on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

But Jason wasn’t done with him.

“You made it clear that you don’t give a shit about me. But putting the one person I love in danger just for you to solve a case? You’ve reached a new low,” Jason yelled as he slowly started to walk towards Bruce.

But before Jason could reach him, Y/N blocked his path.

She was soaking wet and shivering from both the cold rain and the shock.

Jason could already see the bruises covering her neck and face. He also didn’t miss the small line of blood that had trickled down her nose.

“Jason,” she whimpered. “That’s enough.”

He froze.

Y/N walked to him. “Please, just take me home,” she whispered.

Just seeing her made Jason’s entire body relax. But he was also reminded that she was the priority, not Bruce.

Noticing her shivering, he took off his leather jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Bruce, Dick, and Damian were barely able to see the short, loving moment before Jason flung a smoke capsule onto the ground, covering him and Y/N as he brought her into his arms.

By the time the smoke disappeared, Jason and Y/N were gone.

—————-

When Jason and Y/N got back to their apartment, Jason when into autopilot mode of nursing Y/N. He pulled her into their bathroom and immediately started helping her out of her wet clothes. Y/N couldn’t stop shaking, and he noticed.

Jason only left her side for the split moment when he turned to start the shower, making sure to make it extra hot.

Then he was right back at her side, taking off his uniform and matching her nudity.

When he gently tugged her into their abnormally large shower, there was nothing sexual about it.

Now that Y/N’s skin was bare to him, he looked at all the injuries she had.

There were a few scrapes that would heal in a week or so. But Jason’s gaze went dark every time they lingered on the bruises across her throat, face, and bicep. He should’ve killed all of those bastards.

Y/N leaned into Jason’s chest. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Because she knew that’s what this was. Jason wasn’t mad at her – at least, not yet. That could very much come later. But no, right now, he was scared. He put so much energy into keeping Y/N away from his other life, only for her to be thrown right into the center of it. And it wasn’t even his doing; it was Bruce’s.

“I know,” he bent down to whisper in her ear as he wrapped his arms around her.

Y/N didn’t know how long they stayed in the shower. But eventually Jason turned off the water and wrapped Y/N around in a fluffy white towel. She looked so young and innocent.

He moved her to their bedroom and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

Y/N watched him as he moved about the room, getting each of them clothes – all from his own closet.

“Are you hungry?” He asked her carefully as he handed her a pair of his sweatpants and one of his hoodies.

She shook her head.

Jason wasn’t surprised. One of the side effects of trauma and shock was a loss of appetite. But he made her drink a huge glass of water before he let her get in bed. And he made a mental note to make a big breakfast tomorrow when her body recovered and realized how starving it was.

When they were both finally under the covers, Jason didn’t hesitate to pull Y/N completely in his arms, smothering her with his giant frame. She welcomed his touch and warmth, burying her face into his chest.

Neither of them knew who needed this closeness more.

Tonight had been scary. Y/N knew Jason’s anger was bound to show up at some point. But right now, both of them were just grateful they were okay.

————————-

To Y/N’s surprise, she woke up in bed alone.

But her concern didn’t last long as she heard Jason moving around in the kitchen and she could hear soft music was playing if she listened hard enough.

When Y/N moved to get out of bed, she felt all the soreness that came from being grabbed and thrown around like she was last night. She winced, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. But she made a mental note to hide any signs that she was in pain from Jason.

Over their time together, Y/N and Jason got disturbingly good at reading one another. So, when Y/N walked into the kitchen to find Jason making breakfast, she immediately sensed things were not good. It wasn’t the cooking that tipped her off. His naked back was to her and she could somehow see the tension in his shoulders – in his whole body.

Y/N knows he heard her as soon as she walked into the kitchen.

“There’s coffee,” he says without turning around from the stove. He’s making pancakes. Chocolate chip pancakes, to be precise.

Y/N pours herself some coffee and sits at the table, watching him.

A few minutes pass before she’s had enough of the tension.

“If you’re gonna yell at me, then yell at me,” she told him.

Jason froze for a moment, but then quickly looked at her over his shoulder. “When have I ever yelled at you?”

He had a point.

Yes, Jason was once filled with only rage. There was a reason some feared Red Hood more than the Batman. He was ruthless. Fueled by vengeance, his temper, and his disappointment in the evil that plagued the world. He fought his enemies, but he also fought with his friends and family.

But Jason Todd was none of those things with Y/N. He never lost his temper with her. He never projected his rage and hardships from what he saw as Red Hood onto her. He’d never even raised his voice with her.

“I know,” Y/N admitted. “But I also know you’re still angry.”

Jason sighed, turning off the stove and bringing a giant plate of pancakes to the table.

But Y/N couldn’t eat while having this discussion.

Jason leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You wouldn’t have let me do it,” Y/N countered.

“Yeah, and for good reason.”

“He used you, Y/N.” Jason tried to explain. “You’re untrained… with no exposure to this world. He knew not to involve you and he went behind my back to do it anyway.”

Y/N lowered her head in shame. There was a part of her that felt useless. She couldn’t jump around rooftops and save those who needed it. She was just…normal.

“I just wanted to help,” she mumbled.

Jason leaned forward from seeing her upset. “Y/N, come here.” He reached for her hand and baited her towards him.

She took his offer and moved from her chair to straddle his lap.

Jason held her waist tightly as he pressed his forehead to her’s. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“You’re not going to,” she reassured him.

“Please, I’m begging you, don’t ever do something like that again.”

Y/N’s heart hurt at how desperate he sounded. She had realized far too quickly that Jason wasn’t scared of death. He was only scared of her death.

“I promise,” she told him.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me, Y/N.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Jason accepted her apology with a kiss. But it didn’t end quickly. In fact, it got more heated and hungrier. His grip got firmer on her waist.

Y/N knew where this was going, especially as he thumbed the hem of her hoodie and sweatpants. But they both needed this.

“The pancakes, Jason.” She warned him.

Jason smiled as he pulled away from her lips. “Fuck the pancakes,” he told her in between kisses. “I’m takin’ you back to bed.”

—————————

A few weeks had passed since the incident. Y/N tried to get her relationship with Jason back to normal. He still insisted on keeping his vigilante life away from her. But there was more of an understanding for why now.

However, tension had risen again a couple days after the attack, when they received an interesting gift in the mail. They had opened a rather large envelope addressed to the both of them.

Inside were two first-class plane tickets to Paris with their names on them and an open reservation at Hotel Le Royal Monceau.

Y/N had stared at them with more of an understanding than Jason.

She’d looked up at Jason. “I…I told him I’ve always wanted to go to Paris when I first met him at the gala.”

He’d glared at the gift. “Typical Bruce. If he can’t punch his way out of an issue, he’ll try and buy it.”

Neither of them had said anything about actually using tickets and reservation. It just collected dust on one of their end tables.

Now Y/N sat in their apartment alone, reading another one of Jason’s books, when her cell started ringing.

It was a number she didn’t know, but she decided to answer it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Y/L/N, it’s Alfred Pennyworth,” a charming voice answered back.

Y/N couldn’t help, but smile. As if she knew more than one Alfred in the world. “Hi, Alfred.”

“I thought it would be a good time to give you that lesson you asked for. Are you free today?”

Y/N looked around her apartment. All of her plans for today had consisted of laying around, drinking coffee, doing a bit of reading.

“Yes, today would be great.”

—————

Y/N wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and had given Jason the heads up on her change of plans.

Seeing as Jason had no issue with Alfred, he didn’t seem too bothered bit it all. But he did still tell her to be careful and ended the call with a sincere, “I love you.”

It was strange going back to Wayne Manor when there wasn’t a gala being held there.

Y/N thought it would seem more like a home this time around, but it still felt like a museum to her. And yet, she still had imposter syndrome as she walked through the threshold.

Alfred gave her a warm smile as he opened the door. “It is lovely to see you again, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“Alfred, please, it’s just Y/N.”

He nodded. Then he gestured for her to follow him. “Come. I have a station set up in the cave.”

Y/N stuttered to a stop. “Cave? As in the Bat Cave?”

Alfred seemed amused with her hesitation and concern. “Of course.”

“Should I be – Is that even OK?” Y/N fumbled through her question.

“Well, I don’t see the point of hiding it from you. It’s not like you don’t know all the family secrets already, dear.”

Y/N blinked at that and finally continued following him.

Alfred led her through the secret passage way as if he was taking her to the dining room. She tried to control her reactions and not come off too interested in the details of it all. But it was rather hard.

Just like Alfred told her, there was a little medical station set up in a brighter lit area of the dark and dingy cave.

Y/N half expected him to bring up the recent drama that she’d caused. But ever the gentleman, Alfred didn’t so much as mention it.

He also did as he promised, going through everything she could ever need to know while tending to Jason. He even had little models to practice sewing stitches on. He was a good teacher and Y/N was soaking it all up like a sponge.

She couldn’t imagine her going to med school at any point. But knowing these skills were going to be used to help Jason made it easier to retain.

After hours of teaching, the cave awoke as a carport opened and the batmobile sped in.

Y/N internally swore. She’d hoped not to run into Bruce with this visit. He never seemed to be home, so the odds had seemed low. But clearly she’d messed that up.

Bruce stepped out of the car, taking in the two of them.

“Any injuries, Master Wayne?” Alfred asked politely.

Bruce was about to lie, but he glanced down at his abdomen where it was quite obvious he was bleeding.

“Perfect. My pupil can practice on you,” Alfred announced.

Y/N’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh! That’s definitely a bad idea…”

“Nonsense. Best way to learn is under pressure,” he winked. “I shall go off and start dinner. Let me know if you’re near death, Master Wayne.”

Y/N watched him leave, regretting ever having come here.

When she turned back around, Bruce was removing his cowl.

“He’s right,” Bruce admitted. “Best way to learn is under pressure.” Then he moved to sit in the medical chair.

Y/N swallowed, realizing how dry her mouth was. “Right.”

Her hands shook as she tried to remember everything Alfred had been through. But she knew in the back of her mind that Bruce was fully capable of stitching himself up. So, as much as this was a set up from Alfred, Bruce wasn’t running away from it like she had tried to.

Y/N hadn’t said a word as she cleaned his wound, only apologizing when she thought was necessary – even though he never made a sound of pain or even so much as winced.

Bruce seemed to be following her lead, not wanting to force her to talk if she didn’t want to.

But after 20 minutes or so of silence, Y/N couldn’t take it any longer.

“You know, you can’t buy his forgiveness,” she said as she focused on her stitches.

“I wasn’t only looking for his forgiveness…”

Her eyes flickered to meet his awaiting gaze. “You can’t buy mine either.”

“I owe you an apology,” Bruce began to her surprise. “I should have never involved you. It was dangerous, despite how in control of situation I thought I was.”

“I agreed to it,” Y/N offered. Then she looked at him again. “But I accept your apology.”

A moment passed before Y/N asked, “Are you going to say that to him, too?”

“I would if he would even consider talking to me.”

With that comment, Y/N put down her tools for a second and straightened her posture. “I may not know you very well, Bruce. But I do know that you and Jason are more alike than either of you care to admit.”

She hesitated on continuing. Did Bruce even deserve advice from her?

“He was hurt. And he showed all of you that hurt by being angry, because he didn’t know how else to tell you. He doesn’t feel heard and he doesn’t feel seen. He was lost. And it’s hard for him to just forget how you all handled it.” She took in a deep breath. “But I know he still sees all of you as his family. And you’re the closest thing he’s ever had to a real father.”

Then she quickly grabbed her tools again and cleared her throat. “So, get over yourself, and just talk to him. And I mean actually talk to him – not as Batman and Red Hood, but as Jason and Bruce.”

The cave went quiet.

Y/N couldn’t help herself and looked up at Bruce. Either she was losing her mind or he was giving her a very shy smirk.

“What?” She blurted out.

But before he could answer, a motorcycle sped into the cave.

Y/N would recognize Jason’s bike anywhere. But he wasn’t in uniform. Instead, opting for his black leather jacket and a normal tinted motorcycle helmet.

After he took it off, he eyed the two of them, trying to read the room.

“Hey,” Y/N said shyly.

“Figured I’d come and pick you up,” Jason answered her unasked question, ignoring Bruce.

Y/N looked down at Bruce’s injury. “Actually, I’m all done here.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said sincerely as Y/N covered the wound with a bandage. “You’ll be a better nurse than Alfred in no time.”

Y/N grinned and took off her gloves.

But then she met Jason’s unsure gaze. They had a silent conversation.

“I’m gonna go say goodbye to Alfred,” she quickly told Jason, but really she was telling both of them. “Meet me out front when you’re ready?”

Jason hesitated, but nodded.

Y/N walked to him and gave him a quick kiss for comfort and encouragement.

And then she was off, leaving the two men alone.

Jason shifted his weight, not knowing where to start.

“You’re lucky to have her,” Bruce finally spoke.

Jason winced even though it was a compliment. “I don’t deserve her.”

Bruce stood up. “That’s not true.”

“You of all people know I’m not a good man, Bruce.”

He shook his head. “We may have different views on how to save this city. But we both want the same thing. That doesn’t mean you’re not a good man, Jason.”

Jason blinked at his statement.

“I owe you an apology for... a lot,” Bruce began. “The first is putting that girl in danger.” He paused. “The second was not protecting you – before and after everything that happened.”

“You mean before and after I died?” Jason wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

Bruce’s jaw clenched at that.

“Anything else you want to apologize for?” Jason challenged.

“Yes,” Bruce confirmed. “But I get the feeling that you don’t want to hear it all right now.”

There was a pause.

“You’ll always be my son, Jason. Even if you no longer see me as your father.”

Jason’s eyes filled with tears at Bruce’s words. But he held them back. He couldn’t break down. He couldn’t be weak. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

He couldn’t take any more of this discussion. But he knew this was what he’d been wanting to hear from Bruce for so long.

“I’ll see you around, Bruce.” He told him before putting his helmet back on.

But Bruce had one last thing to say. “Keep her close. Don’t be like me, Jason.”

‘Don’t push people who love you away and make this darkness be your only life,’ was what Bruce would never actually have the courage to say.

Jason now had the cover of his helmet to hide his expressions. But he gave Bruce one last glance before tearing out of the cave.

—————

As Jason pulled his motorcycle up to the front of the manor to pick of Y/N, Damian was playing out front with Titus on the gravel drive.

“Hey, Demon Spawn,” Jason greeted after taking off his helmet.

“Todd,” the boy replied coldly.

To his surprise, Jason got off his bike and walked to him with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

Damian eyed him.

“I saw what you did that night. You saved her life,” Jason said.

Damian waited.

Jason held out his hand. “I just wanted to thank you.”

The boy hesitated before finally shaking it.

Jason didn’t expect Damian to say anything. But he did know talking to him like an adult, instead of a kid, was the only way to get through to him.

Then Y/N was walking out to them with Alfred lingering in the doorway.

“Hi, Damian,” she greeted sweetly before greeting his dog as well.

“Hi, Y/N.”

Jason was surprised he even remembered her name.

“Ready to go?” He asked Y/N.

She nodded. But then reached up to touch the white in his hair. She seemed to have a fondness for it. And Jason didn’t seem to mind.

“You OK?” She asked.

He nodded. “Better.”

She gave him a shy but encouraging look. “I’m glad.”

“I love you, you know,” Jason breathed.

“I know,” she smiled.

---------------------------------

Oh lordy. That took way longer than I was expecting. But kept my mind off of this dumpster fire of a country. And I hope reading it did the same for you ❤️

#jason todd #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader #jason todd reader insert #jason todd angst #jason todd fluff #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood fic #red hood reader insert #dick grayson #damian wayne #bruce wayne #batman #batfam #batman universe

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vaguely-concerned · 3 years

Text

TF x Graves, 2500 words, complete and utter fluff

Stifling another yawn against the back of my hand I glance over at the window, which shows only the flat dark of a moonless night outside, before turning my eyes back to the line of T.F.’s naked back.

I’m already undressed and perched on the side of the bed, watching as T.F. is still in the middle of his nightly ritual of hanging or folding his fine clothes up all properly and neatly, lest they, I don’t know, unduly crease somewhere they ain’t meant to or somethin’. Listen, I keep my clothes in a pile on the floor by the side of the bed, right next to the shotgun, both within easy reach in the case of a middle-of-the-night emergency skipping of town. Our priorities in these matters don’t really intersect much, but to each his own and so on.

I don’t know why I’m waiting for him to come to bed to lie down myself, exactly — my eyes are already making a spirited attempt at staying shut on me whenever I blink, I’m pretty sure I’d be out and snoring in about three seconds once I got settled — but my skin has that thin restless thrum all through it that I know from experience won’t be satisfied until he’s settled into place against me and besides, the view is nothin’ to sneeze at in the meantime. He stands there shirtless, belt unbuckled and hanging loose around his narrow hips, though the fastenings of his trousers are still done up. In the light of the oil lamp across the room he’s in a rare state of relaxed unselfconscious disarray, his hair grown out long enough again that it spills over his shoulders and down his back while he fastidiously fastens the cufflinks back into place on the empty shirt so they’ll be easy to find in the morning. As he finishes up with the cufflinks he sings to himself under his breath, a good-natured jaunty little tune I vaguely remember the Brick would sometimes break out once you got a couple of drinks in him.

The hum under my skin grows higher and keener.

Stretching an arm out I hook my fingers into one of his belt loops and gently pull him in by it towards the side of the bed, until he’s standing between my legs. It prompts a half-bemused noise from him, but he goes along easily — when I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my forehead against his belly he seems to catch on, though, a sound of amusement vibrating through his chest.

He slides his hand to the back of my neck, twining his fingers into the short hair there, thumb trailing back and forth along the hairline.

T.F.’s too damned scrawny to have much in the way of padding anywhere, but there’s the warm body softness to him here nevertheless, the sweet yield and shift of a living thing whose pliancy belies the supple strength beneath. I rest my cheek against the flat of his stomach and sigh, moving my hand at the small of his back in slow caressing circles.

“Come to bed already,” I murmur, too sleep-softened along the edges to worry overmuch about makin’ sense.

He chuckles, fingers stroking through my hair. “Well, I was on my way, but then I was waylaid by some deplorable fellow in the process. Hell of a thing.”

I grin and turn my face up to him, so that my chin is resting against his belly and my lips brush his skin when I talk. “Huh. Sounds like a real shady character. You want a trustworthy sorta guy to escort you safely the rest of the way?”

“With such dangerous reprobates skulking around in the area, that’s probably for the best,” T.F. nods somberly, fond amusement deepening his voice. He runs his thumb down the bridge of my nose. “Could I afford to hire the services of a strapping upstanding gentleman like yourself, though?”

I make a nonchalant sound in my nose, squeezing him closer against me for a moment. “Eh, don’t worry ‘bout it, this one’s on the house.”

His thumb drifts down to rest at the upturned corner of my mouth as he grins back at me. “Hey, looks like it’s my lucky day.”

I kiss his stomach and lean back enough so I can start in on the fastenings of his trousers — not with any sort of heat behind it, there’s no hint of sex in the air, but in a weird way this is equally satisfying, the everyday-textured contentment of being close without any particular purpose, being the one to slowly render him naked in front of me for no other reason than that he lets me, his hands still smoothing patiently through my hair while I work.

Once I’ve got all the buttons sorted I run my thumb along the sharp edge of his hip bone until I can tuck it into the waist of his trousers and use it to tug them down. We get them about half-way down his thighs like that before we have to pause for him to shimmy out of them the rest of the way on his own, his hand resting on my shoulder for balance as he does the traditional one-legged hop to extricate his foot. Serves him right for only ever wearing pants that might as well have been painted onto him. I mean, not that I’m complainin’, mind.

“Whoa!” he says, laughing as he almost overbalances at the last hurdle, but my hand shoots out to steady him by the hip before too much disaster can be wrought. “Well, not the smoothest strip tease I’ve ever pulled off, sorry about the inconvenience.”

I nose at the newly revealed crease of his hip over the edge of his underwear. “Eh, that’s okay, if I actually wanted a proper show I’d just suggest a round of strip poker again and sit back and watch while you lose.”

“Oh, that’s a strange yet beautiful dream world you’ve made up for yourself there, Malcolm. It’s touching, really, the things the mind will do to protect itself from the truth. Positively — aah!”

T.F. jumps as I draw some of the skin of his hip between my lips and use them to nip sharply at it. His startled yelp turns into a snigger as I let go, possibly ruining the castigating effects somewhat when I brush my lips soothingly over that spot right after.

“Let that be a lesson to ya,” I say sternly.

“A lesson on what, that your mom was apparently half turtle?”

I grunt, still trailing soft kisses over his skin. “That judge in Piltover was right back then, you are an incorrigible menace to all decent and right-thinking people everywhere.”

“First of all, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Malcolm, thank you. Two, including yourself among the ‘decent and right-thinking’ feels like the invention of some fresh new form of fraud by way of imposture unfolding before my eyes, and it’s an honour. And third, that seems to me to be some very selective memory you have there, considering His Honour Judge Highton had some even more colourful words for you after you blew up the entire north wall of the court building breakin’ me out.”

“He might’ve been given to wearing a damn silly mop on his head, but you couldn’t fault him on his vocabulary,” I concede. Before that whole incident I’d honestly thought the wigs were some sort of practical joke the Pilties would play on gullible outsiders, but as it turns out no, if you get sent to jail in the twin cities they add the indignity of makin’ someone wearing a dead badger on their head break the bad news to you. It’s a strange ol’ world out there, alright. In Bilgewater, where people are much more sensible, the justice system basically boils down to the bounty board, or — if you’ve really managed to make a nuisance of yourself — a bunch of captains may call a temporary ceasefire with each other and go get your ass together. I’ve found that the risk of getting on the bad end of an unfair trial is about the same in both places, though of course the Bilgewater one tends to be harder to come back from if carried out to its fullest. I consider myself a bit of an expert in these things.

T.F. makes a thoughtful sound. “To be fair I don’t think anyone had ever given him cause or inspiration for profanity like you did.”

“Aw. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He leans down and kisses the top of my head before he straightens for long enough to work his second foot free as well, standing there in just the sleek silky underpants he somehow seems to have an endless fresh supply of wherever we go. (My money’s on some sinister underground ring of lingerie-oriented tailors across south-eastern Valoran, for the record; when it comes to secret societies the Noxians just can’t help themselves.)

“I do my best. Hang on just one moment, I’ll be right back,” he says and ruffles my hair before he turns around, which I would complain about except that the view is, as previously mentioned, impeccable, and I’m sleepy enough to be magnanimous.

After meticulously folding his trousers and leaving them with the rest of his clothes, T.F. moves over to the table across the room and extinguishes the oil lamp, then whistles under his breath as he produces a card from somewhere — he does this, seemingly from thin air and no matter how little he’s wearing; I prefer not to speculate too much about how, exactly — and lets a little magic into it so it gives off a low glow, only enough to light his way the short walk back across the room, ‘cause in T.F.’s world the stubbing of toes and smacking of shins against unexpected furniture in the dark is somethin’ that happens to other people. That probably says some things about him I’m not ready to go puzzlin’ out at this time of night, and that he wouldn’t want to have anyone go puzzlin’ about too hard in the first place anyway.

When I hold out my hand for him in the dark he smiles and takes it, twining our fingers together, and I use the hold to tug him in and deposit him, in a neat controlled wrestler’s roll held close against me as I lay down, to his side of the bed. He laughs again at that, a surprised delighted sound that edges dangerously close to a giggle but hey, I ain’t no snitch, so who’s gonna testify against him, huh?

The card ends up on the far side of his pillow after the tumble, still giving off a glow, enough to illuminate the bed and lend the shadows around it some warmth. It makes the bed seem a small cozy island, the rest of the world rendered a not-unfriendly ocean of darkness around it.

T.F. looks at me like the world’s most contented castaway, bourgeoning crow’s feet punctuating his smile on either side and fingers still linked with mine. His hair is mussed from the meandering fall onto the bed. If I were only fractionally less about five seconds away from fallin’ asleep, my body might start to get ideas about it. Well, tomorrow is always another day.

With the back of my free hand I brush some of his hair away from his brow, and he cranes into it like a well-pleased cat. Even with the blankets tangled around our feet and the not-quite-right positions we’ve ended up in, having tumbled into place rather than settled ourselves with purpose, everything feels warm and loose and comfortable, like I could fall asleep like this even with the decidedly odd angle my arm is at.

As if sensing that the drowsiness is about to claim me for real, T.F. brings our linked hands up to his face so he can press his lips to my scarred knuckles before he lets go, then reaches to pull the covers over us, taking a moment to tuck the blanket around my shoulder properly before snuggling under it himself, hooking his leg over my thigh as he settles into place. I shift until we fit together, the familiarity of how to rest against each other just right comfortable like an old and well-loved piece of clothing. On a sigh he rests our foreheads together, craning forward the tiny amount needed to brush our mouths together and humming contentedly when I meet him there. It’s a slow kiss, but it lingers, a dry sweet press of lips like one last spark sending the day off down into the gently drifting murk of sleep that’s about to claim me for a few hours.

When it ends — I don’t think either of us was really the first to pull back, at some point the kiss simply, in the way of snowflakes on tongues, melted into something different and less defined with the warmth — there’s a moment when my eyes can still fight against slipping shut. It’s weird, the way you can look at someone every day for years and still not feel like you’ve had your fill. T.F.’s sharp narrow face, his high pointy little cheekbones and mouth still curved with a smile as he watches me back — there’s something to knowing I’m gonna see all that again tomorrow morning that all the damn money on Runeterra couldn’t get you. And take it from me, from what I’ve seen of the world there ain’t a lot of things in this life enough money won’t buy. Stumbling across one of them long before we even knew what we had, by a stroke of little more’n dumb fucking luck… sometimes it feels like the biggest heist we ever pulled.

“Hey, Tobias?” I say, brushing the tip of my nose against his as my eyelids finally give up both the battle and the war and slide closed.

“Hmmm?” he says, cheerfully drowsy as well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I murmur, because I can’t think of any damn happier thing in the world to say to him.

He wraps his arms around me, his hand stroking meanderingly up and down the scar-crossed span of my back, fingers trailing over my skin with the perfect amount of firmness because he’s taken the time to learn exactly how much pressure it takes to make it comforting. As sleep starts pulling me under to calmer depths I tuck my head under his chin, so my face is pressed to the line of his throat and to his chest. He smells so nice, all warmly real and well-known like my own breathing.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees on a yawn, nuzzling at the top of my head and tightening his arms around me, just for a moment.

I've been trying to write stuff -- literally just anything, no matter how meandering and nonsensical -- to try to break out of a writer's block; it's not really working so far but at least I've got SOMETHING tangible to show for it at the end of the day, so, you know, uh... partial success I guess?? haha

The idea of T.F. having a judge somewhere out there who considers him the One True Nemesis of his career, J. Jonah Jameson style, even though T.F. barely even remembers his name, came from a wonderful conversation with @inversway, and the idea makes me laugh so hard every time I think about it.

ETA: Also put this on AO3, so I have somewhere to put these ficlets that isn't just tumblr! I'm grimly clinging on to this blue hellsite like a obstinate barnacle to the hull of the Titanic, but I do realize it's not the best place to archive uh anything lol

#tf x graves #twistedgraves #league of legends #my writing #been trying to live the philosophy 'it doesn't have to be good; it just has to be SOMETHING'#and from that I have at least learned that I don't necessarily think perfectionism was the main problem anyway lol #every little insight helps I suppose

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starksweasley · 4 years

Text

the art of being afraid

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader, pogues x platonic!reader

summary: the three times jj told you he loved you, and the one time you said it back.

note: this was inspired by the song “she’s not afraid” by one direction! also, send requests/messages/criticism/anything to my inbox; i’m open to pretty much anything :)

warning: angst, swearing, tears, underaged drinking, fluff

word count: 4.9k+

The full moon illuminated your room as you rushed to get ready for tonight’s rooftop party. You hummed as your hands delicately brushed blush onto the apples of your cheeks. Under the moonlight, you could have been mistaken for a greek goddess. You were swiping on a layer of dark red lipstick when the sound of a knock against your window startled you. You whipped around to see a golden-haired boy with a cheeky grin plastered onto his face as he balanced his body over the edge of your balcony.

“JJ!” In your haste, you struggled to unlatch the lock on the window. The moment it was open, JJ hopped into your room with his hands behind his back. “Hey, baby,” he greeted as you hurried to close your bedroom window before anyone in Figure Eight noticed something strange and decided to spread rumors about you.

“How the hell did you get up here? My room’s on the third floor!” You exclaimed.

JJ shrugged. “I climbed. Easy.”

You stood with your mouth open and a hundred scenarios ran through your head, all revolving around what could have happened if he had fallen from the third story of your house. JJ, well versed with the look in your eye, immediately decided to change the subject. He brought out his hands from behind his back and showed you a singular rose that looked like it had been plucked from your yard. “I came to give this to you.”

You gently plucked the flower from his hand. A thorn pricked your thumb but you didn’t mind. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know. It reminded me of you,” JJ responded without missing a beat, causing heat to creep up your neck. The boy’s hands lingered near yours and you leaned closer, desperately wanting to feel his skin against yours.

“Would you zip up my dress?” The black dress you were wearing hugged your body exquisitely. The top was cut a little low, just enough to tease the golden-haired boy beside you. You turned so JJ could pull up the zipper you couldn’t reach no matter how much you stretched. The boy sharply inhaled when he saw your bare back. His fingers danced on your soft skin and a shiver ran through your body, causing JJ to chuckle. “I didn’t know I had that effect on you, L/N.”

You huffed. “Shut up and pull the zipper, Maybank.” Your words came out annoyed but they didn’t phase JJ in the slightest. He simply pulled up your zipper and moved his hands so they rested on your hips. You hummed at the contact.

JJ began to slowly sway and you followed, your hands shooting up to hold his to your body. The two of you blissfully danced to the music in your heads and you closed your eyes, letting your body feel every small movement. JJ’s lips pressed a kiss under your ear. “You know,” he whispered, “we could dance like this all night at the party if we told everyone about us.”

Your body froze under his hands. “J, you know we can’t do that.” You turned just in time to see your favorite boy’s face drop at your words. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight.

JJ’s hands dropped from your hips and your body felt cold without his touch. His gaze fixed itself on your neck, refusing to meet your face. With a sigh, you brought your hands up to gently cup his cheeks. “Baby, look at me.”

JJ’s cerulean eyes finally met your Y/E/C ones. “I want to tell people, J, you know I do. But if the wrong people find out, we wouldn’t be able to be us anymore. You understand that, don’t you?” JJ nodded but his eyes had left yours again. “Well, uh, I gotta go,” JJ muttered before removing himself from your grasp. “See you at the party?”

He was already climbing out the window when you answered, “I’ll be there in ten.” The golden-haired boy sent you one last smile before disappearing into the night. You stared at the spot you had last seen him and couldn’t help but think his smile had been a little less bright than usual. After a moment, you decided that you were probably just imagining it. You hurried to put on your heels and check your appearance in the mirror one last time before noticing the rose that lay forgotten on your bed. On impulse, you picked it up and tenderly tucked it into your hair.

You snuck past the service entrance at the back of your house and moments later, your feet were padding through the warm night sand next to the pool. The party was down the street on the terrace of Sarah Cameron’s house and you walked absentmindedly, the route to her house engraved in your brain because of the hundreds of times you had gone there over the years.

Sarah was a Kook princess, but you were the Kook princess. You never meant to draw attention to yourself, it just seemed to naturally fall upon you. The Kook lifestyle was everything to you until you met JJ Maybank. He was wild and so beautifully chaotic: everything you ever yearned to be. The golden-haired boy had pulled you into his world and before you knew it, the galas and the boats didn’t matter so much anymore. You had a foot in both worlds, longing to jump into the deep end with the Pogues but unable to break the chains of Kook pressure.

The moment you stepped onto the terrace, you felt every eye in the room trace your movements. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary so you simply tilted your chin up higher and looked for a familiar mop of blonde hair. You spotted the Pogues in a corner with Sarah and smiled with relief, about to head their way when a hand closed around your arm. You looked behind you to see Rafe Cameron grinning down at you and suppressed the urge to roll your eyes.

“You look gorgeous tonight, darling.”

You yanked your arm from the tall boy’s grip and took a couple of steps back for good measure. “I don’t want any coke, Rafe,” you seethed through clenched teeth. “I suggest you go find a touron to hassle and leave me alone.”

You turned away, thinking he would leave you alone but Rafe Cameron was no quitter. “C’mon, darling,” he urged, “Don’t be like that. Just one drink.”

“I said no.”

Rafe was getting irritated now. “What, are you fucking some dirty pogue down at The Cut? You know I could make you feel so much better.” His hands were on your arms again and you felt your heartbeat speed up. His grip tightened and you were about the scream to cause a scene when an arm wrapped around you from behind and wrenched you away from the Cameron boy.

“She said no, Cameron.” JJ’s sea breeze scent invaded your senses and you immediately relaxed with his touch. Rafe’s eyes moved from your face to the point where JJ’s body was linked with your own and something shifted behind his eyes. “Maybank? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Y/N.”

You sharply inhaled at Rafe’s accusation. If he knew, it was only a matter of time before everyone else connected the dots. You swiftly untangled yourself from JJ’s arms and lightly shoved him away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The moment those words left your lips, you hurried away from the pair and immersed yourself in the mess of party-goers dancing in the middle of the terrace.

No matter how many tequila shots you drowned, the dejected look on JJ’s face from when you pushed him away in front of Rafe continuously popped up in your head. The alcohol in your bloodstream slowly unraveled the tension on your mind and you found yourself swaying your hips with a bottle of cold beer clutched in your hand. In the middle of the crowd, you felt hands all over your figure but you really couldn’t care less. The feeling of sweaty bodies pressing against yours in the dark only exaggerated your intoxicated state and you began to lose yourself in the music. However, your bliss only lasted for a few minutes before the bottle of beer in your hands was suddenly snatched away.

“Hey!” You slurred. A scowl formed on your lips when you noticed JJ frowning down at you with the nearly empty bottle in his hands. You quickly reached for it but he moved faster, downing the last bit of alcohol in it and tossing the bottle into the nearest trash can.

“That was mine, asshole!” You drunkenly exclaimed but JJ ignored you. “Shut up and dance with me.”

JJ’s hands comfortably found your waist and you interlocked your hands behind his neck. Even in the blackness of the night sky, looking into his striking eyes was like being splashed with a bucket of cold water. Suddenly, you didn’t feel so drunk anymore. Your hands began to loosen from around his neck but the boy tugged you even closer to him.

“J, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered. “Not here.”

“We’re just dancing, baby. People dance at parties,” he calmly responded but you shook your head. “Someone’s going to notice something. We can’t risk it. Not now; not after everything we’ve been through.”

JJ’s eyes turned stormy as his heart wrenched in his chest. “All these other guys, they can’t tear their eyes away from you, Y/N!” The frustration in his tone almost made you flinch. “Why don’t you want everyone to know that I’m the only one that gets to take you home?”

It was too dark to see if anyone was watching but only a few inches away from JJ’s face, you noticed a single tear roll down his flushed cheeks. Your hands gently cupped the golden boy’s face for the second time that night. “I want to tell everyone, J. I swear I do. I just can’t. But baby, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” You paused, waiting for him to respond but he stood with his lips pursed tightly. Your hands dropped to your sides. “JJ, if my parents found out- fuck, my life would be over. And the rest of the Kooks, they wouldn’t take to us lightly either. You saw how Rafe acted tonight-and he didn’t even know anything!”

JJ had heard enough. “Why do you care what they think?” His hands furiously tugged through his golden locks as he found the right words to voice. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone on this damn island says about us Y/N, because I love you.”

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat. Before you could even think about his words, JJ’s mouth was crushed on yours. Shrouded by the darkness of the night, you felt your stomach twist into knots at the feeling of his soft lips on your own. The urge to draw his body impossibly close to yours filled your muscles; you wanted to hold your boy there and never let him go but you couldn’t. He had said that he loved you. Someone in this screwed up world loved you. For some reason, you couldn’t wrap your mind around the thought. It wasn’t real. Something in your heart told you it couldn’t be real. The realization hit you like a flash of lightning and you suddenly pushed away from the boy in front of you.

JJ’s lipstick-stained lips pouted in a frown and his hair was unruly from where you had run your fingers through it. You desperately wanted to push the stray locks from his forehead but you couldn’t bring yourself to touch him again. “I-I have to go,” you stuttered.

“What? Y/N, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong, baby-”

“I said I have to go, JJ!” You roughly pushed away the hand he had reached out to you and turned on your heel. JJ’s voice echoed after you, calling out your name, but you couldn’t bear to turn around. Seeing his face might have convinced you to actually believe him.

That’s how you left him that night: lips swollen, mascara smudged, and heart racing in a million different directions.

. . .

The Pogues could tell something was wrong. You and JJ were usually attached at the hip and the whole town knew it, but now you seemed to be avoiding JJ like the plague. If the blonde boy was going to be somewhere, you refused to go. Your friend circle had grown limited over the years, and avoiding the only people you could call family wasn’t good for your health. Every time Kie and John B. showed up at your doorstep to haul you to the beach, they found you with an (almost always) empty bottle of tequila clutched to your chest.

JJ wasn’t much better off. He still surfed daily and showed up for his shift at work with Pope, but the light behind his eyes was dimmed. No matter how much Kie pestered JJ to tell her what had happened or Pope tried to pull you out of your bed, neither of you relented.

Although the pogues couldn’t pull you out of your head, Sarah Cameron had other plans. On a hot Thursday night, she barged into your room with an enormous bowl of popcorn and Kie in tow. “Y/N!”

You were laying in bed with your eyes closed and music blaring into your ears. Rolling her eyes, Sarah yanked out your headphones. Your eyes widened at the sudden intrusion. “Sarah, what the-” But Sarah wasn’t having any of it. “You can get up yourself or I’m going to haul your ass up. Your choice.”

You looked at Kie with a “is she kidding right now” look but Kiara simply shrugged; everyone knew the Cameron girl wasn’t accustomed to the word “no.” It must run in the family.

With a heavy sigh, you sat up and made room for the other two on your bed. They settled in on either side of you and Sarah plopped the popcorn on your lap. You greedily scooped a handful in your hands; you couldn’t remember the last time you had eaten a full meal. Kie uncomfortably cleared her throat. “Y/N, what happened between you and JJ?”

You didn’t answer, licking butter off your fingers and flipping through your favorite movies on Netflix. Kie exchanged a concerned glance with Sarah and the two proceeded to frown at you. “JJ hasn’t been, well, JJ this week,” Kiara cautiously continued. “He smiles but his laughs sound hollow. His eyes don’t shine anymore, Y/N. He needs you.”

You didn’t realize you had been crying until you felt the moisture on your cheeks. You hastily wiped it away. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Can we just watch the movie now?”

The minutes passed by slowly. You tried to focus on the movie playing on your TV but all you could see were your friends’ concerned faces. You were just about to kick them out and call it a night when a frantic knock on your window drew you out of your haze.

“What the hell?” Kie and Sarah chorused together. “Who’s at your window?” Your chest tightened. You didn’t need to open the window to know who was behind the glass. You slowly undid the latch on the window to reveal JJ, his face covered in the moon’s shadow. The two of you stared at each other. Your mouth opened but immediately snapped shut when you realized you didn’t know what to say to the boy in front of you.

Sarah peered around your shoulder and a slight gasp escaped her lips. “Oh.” She backed away from you, grabbing Kiara’s hand and leading her out of the room. “Let’s go, Kie. We have to, uh-” She tripped over her words but her voice had already drifted out of your mind. The only thing you could hear was the heavy rise and fall of JJ’s breath, slightly out of rhythm after the three-story climb to your room.

“Can I come in?” JJ’s voice sounded small, almost broken. You didn’t respond, simply opening the window wider. The golden-haired boy hopped into your room and you thought you heard him utter a small groan when his feet slammed onto the floor. When JJ moved into the light, you sharply inhaled. Dark bruises scattered his face and neck. Even though it looked like it was cleaned, the cut on his lip burned a bright red. JJ’s lip trembled and you didn’t stop to ask questions before throwing your arms around him. You tried to be gentle so as to not hurt him but his grip on you tightened, leaving not even an inch between your bodies.

Warm tears fell down JJ’s cheeks and onto your shoulder. “My dad, he-he-damn it I can’t Y/N-” The golden boy sniffled and you felt tears pool in your own eyes. JJ always crashed at your place or the Chateau on nights the whole gang kept John B company. You never asked why but you knew something at home bothered him. Now you knew. It was his dad. His dad abused him. The whole time you had known JJ, you wanted nothing more than to protect him and now you felt like you had failed miserably. If JJ had been at your place, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Maybe he would have been just a little less broken.

JJ’s sobs grew louder and tears were shamelessly falling down your cheeks. You softly pressed your lips under his ear. “Shhh, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” JJ nodded against your neck as you soothingly combed through his hair. “C’mon, J, let’s go to bed.” You supported the boy’s weight as he stumbled over his feet and landed on the bed with a quiet thump. You furiously wiped away the wetness on your cheeks before he noticed.

JJ rested his head on your pillow, breathing in your scent and sighing in content. You delicately immersed yourself in the covers next to him, careful not to irritate any of the boy’s wounds any further. The two of you laid like that in silence while JJ’s breathing returned to normal. His hand slowly itched towards yours and the slightest brush of fingertips sent sparks flying up your body.

“Y/N?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you hold me?” JJ’s voice broke.

You turned your head to look at the defeated boy. “I don’t want to hurt you, J.”

“You could never hurt me.”

“Ok.” Your voice was almost as small as his. You gently pulled his head onto your chest and wrapped an arm around his middle. One hand lightly pulled at his hair and the other traced shapes on his abdomen under his grey tank. He didn’t say anything for a couple minutes so you assumed he had fallen asleep, but his head shifted on your chest. “Y/N?”

“Yeah, JJ?”

He retreated back to silence. You weren’t sure if he really had dozed off this time or he just didn’t want to say what he was about to say. After several moments, the golden-haired boy took in a rattling breath and a small smile graced his features. “I love you.”

For reasons you couldn’t quite put your finger on, you felt your heart begin to sink cowardly. JJ wanted to love. He wanted to be loved. But he couldn’t love you. You had never been loved by anyone. How could this perfect boy change that? You gently shook your head against the smushed pillow. “It’s not real, JJ.”

JJ’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s not real?”

“You don’t love me. You just think you love me because you want someone to love. It’s not real. It can’t be,” you whispered in the dark.

JJ wanted to argue. He wanted to grab your shoulders and shake you until you realized how damn much his heartbeat for you. Hell, sometimes he thought it beat only for you. But the night’s events had taken a toll on his mind and body and he couldn’t do anything but softly hum, “You’re wrong, Y/N. You’re just scared. Why are you so afraid to fall in love?”

Perhaps JJ had fallen asleep that instant, or maybe he waited as long as he could to hear your answer. Eventually, he succumbed to his fatigue. Still, as you held the sleeping boy in your arms, no answer appeared in your mind. You spent the whole night trying to find it, but the sun came up and you were still as oblivious to your heart as you had been under the light of the moon.

. . .

As far as the Pogues could tell, everything was back to normal. You inserted yourself back into your social life, regularly surfing with the boys and crashing Kook parties with Kie and Sarah. JJ wore long sleeve shirts in an effort to cover up the battle scars only you’d seen, but the twinkle behind his eyes was back. On the outside, it seemed as if you and JJ had mended whatever it was you had broken in the first place. On the HMS Pogue, he laid his head on your lap like he always did. During late nights at the Chateau, you two shared a can of beer while your legs intertwined on the recliner as they always did.

But you knew that nothing was the same. JJ stopped coming to your house. The sheets on your bed felt cold and uninviting without the golden-haired boy’s saltwater scent all over them. At night, you longed for his sweet kisses but when you turned you were met with nothing more than an empty pillow. He hadn’t come out and said it, but you could tell that he didn’t want to do it anymore. JJ was always around you, but you weren’t Y/N and JJ anymore. You were just Y/N, and he was just JJ. Nevertheless, the ache in your heart dulled as you learned to push it away from your mind. For now, ignoring the problem felt like the best way to face it.

The summer sky boasted a brilliant orange and a calm breeze settled over the coast for the night. You found yourself laying against JJ’s chest on a hammock as the sun slowly descended into the ground. Sarah was sprawled over John B and Kie held Pope’s head on her stomach as their hammock rocked back and forth in the wind. No one said a word; it was hard to rip your eyes away from the changing colors of the clouds.

As the sun sunk down and the stars emerged, the Pogues one by one made their way back into the Chateau, leaving only you and JJ gently swinging in the breeze. His hand was tangled in your hair and you intertwined your fingers with his, wanting to sustain his warmth against your skin. You signed in content. “I miss you,” you whispered.

JJ sharply inhaled. In a flash, his hands left your body and he was ungracefully pulling himself from the hammock. “Hey! Where are you going?” You questioned as you hauled yourself up into a sitting position. The boy's hands hastily ran through his hair, something you noticed he did when he was upset. “I can’t do this anymore, Y/N!”

Your stomach dropped at his confession. You knew what was coming but you couldn’t help but ask, “Do what, J?”

His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe you were asking the question. “This, Y/N. Us! I can’t keep pretending like we aren’t broken, like everything’s fine.”

“We are fine,” your voice cracked but you don’t think JJ noticed. He stepped forward so aggressively you flinched, but all he did was bring his palms up to hold your face. “Do you know what I’m doing right now?” His thumbs swept over your cheekbones. “I’m holding my entire world in my hands. You. That’s it. That’s all I need because I love you.”

Your lip trembled. “JJ-” You softly started but he wasn’t finished yet.

“But I can’t go on like this anymore, Y/N. I can’t keep holding you like this, no matter how bad I want to, if you don’t tell me how you feel.” He paused and took a deep breath, as if it was physically hurting him to say these words. “You keep saying it’s not real, and maybe it’s not. I’ve already learned throughout my life that I’m not capable of love. But you’re just as messed up as I am.” JJ’s hands tightened around your face. “You’re not afraid of scary movies, and you’re not afraid of all the attention. You’re not afraid of running wild with me, but you’re so damn afraid of being who you’re meant to be in this world. You’re afraid of falling in love.”

You wanted to open your mouth to argue. To yell at him for causing the pit in your stomach to widen. But you couldn’t, because you knew he was right. A whimper escaped your lips at the realization. “JJ, I don’t want to be broken,” you breathed.

A small smile appeared on JJ’s lips. “It’s ok to be a little screwed up, baby, because who isn’t?” The boy in front of you took a deep breath as his smile faltered. “But I can’t be with you. Not like this. It hurts a little too much.” His hands dropped from your face and your skin tingled from the loss of warmth. “Goodbye, Y/N.” JJ pressed a kiss on your forehead that was so light you barely felt it. And then he was gone.

You sat in shock for several seconds. You knew this was coming, so why did it hurt so much when it finally hit you? “JJ?” But the blonde wasn’t anywhere in sight. That’s when your throat wrenched out a sob, a sound so absolutely heartbreaking you could practically feel a piece of you wither and die. You regretted it. All of it. How could you ever feel the same way again?

JJ’s blue eyes were the only ones with oceans deep enough to captivate you for hours on end. Every time his fingers found your skin, it felt like tiny fires erupted in every place he touched. When his lips pressed on yours, the whole world stopped spinning and god, you could have stayed that way forever. And his heart. Oh, his ever fragile heart. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever gotten to know on this planet. And now it wasn’t yours anymore. Fuck. You had screwed up big time.

You thought about what the blonde boy had said before he left. You were scared. Scratch that, you were fucking terrified. Terrified to admit how your heart had grown to beat in rhythm with another’s. You and JJ were both broken pieces that fit together magnificently; that’s how the universe had willed it to be. In that moment, you knew exactly how you felt.

You leaped off the cold hammock and ran. Where would JJ be? His house? No, he wouldn’t have gone to face his father. The Chateau? No, he would want to be alone. The beach. He had to be at the beach. You sprinted until your feet were on fire and even when your muscles burst into flames, you kept going. Your feet whistled through the sand until you saw him. His back was to you, and he was watching the reckless waves with a beer can in his hands. You were sprinting but you couldn’t get there fast enough. “JJ!” Your breathless voice carried in the wind and JJ’s head jerked around. “Y/N?” His eyes were red. Had he been crying?

He stood up and your feet flew past the last couple yards before you slammed into him. A small grunt left his lips but he didn’t complain. Instead, his arms wrapped around your shaking form tighter than they had ever held you before. Your arms wound around his torso and you pulled away slightly to see his face. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was red but he looked like the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. One of your hands flew to cup his jaw and the other wound itself in his unkempt golden locks. You looked right into his cerulean eyes before whispering, “I love you.”

JJ’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

“JJ Maybank, you are capable of love. You know how I know that?” You laughed as he shook his head. “Because I fucking love you. And-” But JJ’s lips crashed against yours and the words immediately died on your tongue. You moved against his body, holding him as close as humanly possible as a million butterflies exploded in your stomach. JJ tasted like saltwater and strawberries from the tears that covered both your faces and the flavor of your chapstick.

The golden boy pulled away, lips swollen but curved into a breathtaking grin. His arms were still wrapped snugly around you and you leaned closer, kissing away the tears that lingered on his cheeks. “Let’s tell everyone, J. I’m not afraid of what they might say anymore. When it comes to us, you’re the only thing that matters.” JJ softly breathed in; he wasn’t used to someone loving him this way. He gently grabbed your chin and pulled your face up so his eyes were on yours once again. “This is all I ever wanted. I’m holding the entire world in my arms.”

You smiled and JJ swore your face was brighter than every star in the sky. “Well, I’m holding the entire universe. And I’m never letting it go.”

985 notes · View notes

queen-scribbles · 3 years

Text

The Long Burning Torch ch 3

Oh, look, another chapter for the 20s AU I started for the @shepherds-of-haven Summer Event, which has taken on a life of its own. In this chapter: A couple new (but familiar!) faces, and the plot thickens.

----

Five minutes into Ashtown proper, Xaeryn was exceedingly grateful for the directions Mr. Syndran had provided. He hadn’t been wrong comparing the place to a warren.

“You look lost, doll.”

Her head snapped up from the paper in her hand to meet the gaze of a lanky man lounging against a wall, a soft cap slouched down over his forehead. His--very familiar--green eyes were much more vivid in person than they had been in her scry.

Xaeryn arched a brow coolly. “And what led you to that conclusion?”

He smirked and pushed away from the wall. “The way you keep checking that paper for one, Sunshine.” His hands slid in his pockets. “Also, we don’t get dames that look like you here all that often. Anything I can help you find?”

“You’re awfully helpful,” Xaeryn said, resisting the urge to run a hand down her outfit.

He doffed his cap and sketched an exaggerated bow, giving her a wink when he righted. “Consider me the Ashtown welcoming committee.”

“And what a charming first impression you make.” Xaeryn regarded him for a moment or two more, then decided to see how things would play out. “I’m trying to find Chase Trinaeste.”

The man’s eyes twinkled, bright as the scarf tossed ‘round his neck. “I think I can help with that. Right this was, Sunshine,” he said blithely, as if he wasn’t the aforementioned Trinaeste himself.

A large part of Mr. Syndran’s adamant belief Thieves guild had been involved in the theft rode on Trinaeste’s presence in her scryed vision. “He trusts his lieutenants with the vast majority of their... jobs,” Mr. Syndran had explained, nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. “His being there shows it was a heist of high importance to their gang, fitting the theft of an artefact.”

Xaeryn had no reason to doubt his logic. But she’d be a fool to show all the cards she held at the outset.

“My name is not ‘sunshine’,” she said briskly instead.

“Well, then, doll, what am I calling ya?” Trinaeste asked, unruffled by her tone.

“Miss Shrike will do for now, I think. And what do I call you?”

“Who says you need to call me anything?” he returned as he led her down several new streets in quick succession.

“It might come in handy if I want to commend your hospitality to Mr. Trinaeste,” she countered, trying her best to memorize their route. Left, left, right...

“I’ll get by, Miss Shrike,” Trinaeste said with a light laugh.

He was very good at dodging, she did have to give him that. “For politeness’ sake, then. Perhaps I’d feel better about following you into the depths of Ashtown if I at least knew your name.”

He laughed again, pausing by a wall decorated with a... creative interpretation of a cat’s head. “Well, then. I have a confession to make, in that case.”

“Oh?” Xaeryn marked the two brunos nearby--one down an alley, the other lounging by a door--despite their affected nonchalance. “And what would that be?”

“Chase Trinaeste at your service.” He skipped the exaggerated bow this time, instead shoving his hands in his pockets, elbows akimbo, and grinning at her cheekily. “Now that you’ve found me, what do you plan to do with me?”

“First thing that comes to mind is ask why we couldn’t have the introductions back where we first spoke?”

“Let’s say I feel safer on home turf, doll. Just in case your reason for wanting me is less fun than I’m hoping.”

She glanced significantly at one of the toughs. “And if this arrangement doesn’t thrill me?”

“You can leave,” Trinaeste said with a shrug. “We ain’t going to stop you.” His grin widened, cat-like. “But you seem the type who doesn’t like leaving empty-handed, Miss Shrike.” He gestured toward the door next to one member of their small audience. “Whatever it is you’re after, I think we’ll be more comfortable in my office, don’t you?”

She doubted he cared between the two locations as strongly as she doubted it was an actual office, but Xaeryn did have to admit some privacy for this conversation would be a good thing. “Do I strike you as the type to just follow strange men into unfamiliar buildings, Mr. Trinaeste?”

He laughed. “A dangerous question, doll. You strike strike me as the type who enjoys a good mystery.”

(Or even a bad one, Xaeryn finished wryly to herself.)

Trinaeste raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “On my honor as head of the guild, I promise you will leave in the same condition and carrying the same things as when you got here, so long as you don’t threaten me or mine.”

“A fair deal,” she said in assent, and nodded toward the door. “After you.”

Red would have a heart attack if he knew what she was doing. She swallowed a laugh at the thought; less than a week reconnected and his reaction was one of the first things to cross her mind. Her gut said it would be a worthwhile risk. While Trinaeste was indisputably a dangerous man, there was a clear sense of ‘only when necessary’ to his skill that gave her confidence she would be fine.

“One more condition,” Trinaeste said as he led the way into the building. “Call me Chase. No idea who ‘Mr. Trinaeste’ is, but he sounds too high-class to be me.”

He’d kowtowed to her chosen address easily enough, and she did want him amenable to talking. She could grin and bear the informality for one conversation. “Very well.”

They didn’t go far from the outer door before Chase swung to the side through another doorway. Xaeryn almost tripped over the abruptness as she followed. There was no desk, or any other typical office furniture save chairs. There were five of those; loosely grouped on one side of the room. Opposite them a stack of shipping crates were shoved against a tapestry-hung wall. It was eclectic and flamboyant and (she’d just bet) full of secrets. A perfect match for the man now flopped in one of the fairly-comfortable looking chairs and grinning at her again.

“So, Miss Shrike, what did you want from me?”

(From the way his eyes twinkled, that phrasing was very much on purpose.)

Xaeryn chose her seat and her reply with equal care; the former so she could see both her host and the door, the latter to convey intent without accusing. Yet. “I’m investigating a theft and have reason to believe you may have seen something helpful.”

Chase laughed. “You think I did it.”

“You do helm the Thieves guild, Chase,” she said lightly, crossing her legs and flicking dust off her hem. So much for trying to be subtle.

“Fair point,” he conceded with another laugh, before leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms with still-twinkling eyes. “So, what is it you think we stole?”

“An artefact.”

She was interrupted before giving a description as Chase’s grin went cat-like gain and the twinkle in his eyes shifted to a hard glitter. “Syndran set you on us, didn’t he? What did he lose?”

“Mr. Syndran didn’t lose anything. Transit is a possibility for when a piece was stolen,” Xaeryn said primly. “And while, yes, he may have pointed me in your direction as an avenue of investigation, I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I followed accusations that lacked supporting evidence.”

“Ah, you’re a private dick,” Chase smirked, eyes once again twinkling in amusement. “Tell you what, Miss Shrike, since you bein’ here is bountiful evidence Riel’s people not only dropped the ball, but bad enough he doesn’t want to involve the cops, I’ll tell you whatever you need to help. That being the best news I’ve had this week and all.”

She arched a brow. “Whatever I need?”

He spread his hands. “I’m an open book, doll.”

“Chase!” a new voice scolded. The owner, a slender brunette, paused in the doorway to scowl along with her critique. “You know better than to offer open season on guild secrets like that!”

“Calm down, Ari.” Chase slouched back, waving one hand in Xaeryn’s direction. “Our guest seems a smart enough dame to not ask for more than she needs.” That glimpse of danger was back under the last word.

“I’m not after your secrets,” Xaeryn promised. “Just trying to find a missing artefact.”

“And what artefact would that be?” Ari asked, still wary, and still poised in the doorway. Xaeryn noted but didn’t comment on the jangling stack of bracelets that sheathed a good three inches of the other woman’s wrist.

“A pendent, this big.” she indicated the size. “Black stone and bronze.”

“Wasn’t us,” Chase said easily.

“You were witnessed along the transport caravan’ route.”

“Oh, we were casing it,” he acknowledged with a wink.

“Chase!”

He just grinned at Ari’s beratement. “We didn’t steal anything, though. Couldn’t get a good shot at what we were supposed to nick.”

“Supposed to?” Xaeryn interjected. “So this is something you were contracted to steal rather than...” She waffled a moment over word choice, “...personal?”

“Yeah. Like I said, though, we didn’t get anything.” Chase shrugged. “Just as well; our butter and egg man never showed his face after.”

“Hm.” Xaeryn made a mental note to look into how popular a target the caravan had become. “Did you notice anyone else who seemed to be casing it? Aside from your people?”

“N-” Chase’s brow furrowed and he stopped mid-negative reply. “There was that one mug Kato saw right before the trucks made the museum lot. Don’t have anything more than ‘foreign-looking’ and green hair, and he didn’t see where he went, just was a little too casual in his loitering, gave Kato an odd impression.”

It wasn’t a lead solid enough for her to really follow, but it did seem confirmation multiple parties were interested in the caravan. “I see. And what was your... client after?”

“That’s not something you need to know,” Ari said firmly.

“Knowing what else was and might yet be targeted will help my investigation, so I would have to disagree,” Xaeryn said just as firmly. “I’m not going to rat you out, in fact I plan to tell Mr. Syndran you were not responsible. But this information could be useful. Please.”

“A necklace. Gold, rubies, opals; sounded worth a pretty lyss,” Chase said, turning to flash a grin at Ari. “She did say please.”

Ari sighed but didn’t protest.

“Alright I’ll be getting out of your hair, then.” Xaeryn stood, smoothing her skirt. “I appreciate your talking to me, It was enlightening.”

She held out a hand to shake, and Chase kissed the back of it instead, shooting her a wink as she rolled her eyes. “Not a problem, Miss Shrike. Good luck catching your bad guys.”

Xaeryn couldn’t help a small chuckle at the comment as she withdrew her hand and headed for the door. She half-expected to be blocked from exiting, but that proved unfounded. She retraced the route to the edge of the Ashtown district, then headed for her office to call Mr. Syndran just as it started to rain.

---

Her call to update Mr. Syndran went about as well as it could; he was disappointed Thieves guild hadn’t panned out as a lead--Xaeryn detected some personal disappointment as well as professional they weren’t responsible. “Do you have anything beyond their word they didn’t do it?”

“No,” Xaeryn said, leaning forward over her desk to skim her notes as they talked. “Well... their word and a gut feeling they were being level.” Which is all I really have that you aren’t responsible. She was polite--and wise--enough to not make the comparison. “They were hardly going to let me search their warehouse.”

“So what’s your next step? There’s not long until the exhibit opens, and I dislike the number of dead ends you’ve encountered.”

“Oh, I’m not happy about them, either, believe me.” Xaeryn pursed her lips and fought to keep a sharp note out of her voice at his implied censure. “Next is talking to the curator at the Hall. They may have seen this green-haired foreigner Thieves guild mentioned, or something else suspicious that didn’t show when I scryed. Either way, I can get more information about the exhibit and the pendent’s owner.”

Mr. Syndran sighed. “I highly doubt this convenient and vague ‘foreigner’ exists as anything other than a red herring to lead you away from the Thieves guild, but your other goals are sound. Let me know what you learn, if anything.”

“Of course.” They exchanged farewells and hung up. Rain still pattered against the window, and a quiet growl from her stomach reminded Xaeryn she was overdue for lunch, so she bumped back calling the Hall in favor of a quick bite to eat.

And it was quick; she loved mysteries but hated being stymied at every turn like this case had done. She wanted a workable lead. While she agreed with Mr. Syndran the ‘foreigner’ was too vague to pursue on his own, green hair was far from common in Haven, even in the Mage community. If someone else made mention or he was spotted later, it wouldn’t be hard to connect the sightings. For now, she’d call the museum, speak to the curator. Hopefully that would get her somewhere.

The secretary who answered her call sounded both bored and frazzled, which Xaeryn found impressive. “Haven Hall of History and Culture, how may I help you?”

“My name’s Xaeryn Shrike, I wanted to speak to the curator about-”

“Ms. Acquell is very busy,” the receptionist cut her off. “We have an exhibit opening in just over a week, she doesn’t have time for meetings with random curiosity seekers or history aficionados right now.”

Xaeryn let a bit of edge color her voice. “I’m a private detective Mr. Syndran hired in regard to the artefact caravan.”

A long pause, the line crackling with silence, then, “Can you be here in half an hour? I’m sure she can clear some space in her schedule, though there may be bit of a wait.”

I thought you might say that. “I can. Thank you.”

“Very well.” The secretary hung up.

Xaeryn arched a brow at the receiver before she placed it back in the cradle. “See you shortly,” she muttered. Wonderful attitude for someone in such a socially involved position. She glanced out the window and was gratified to find the rain slacking off. She’d still drive, of course, but it would be less of a headache.

Xaeryn cleaned up from her lunch, gave her outfit a quick check to ensure it was still presentable after her visit to Ashtown and the Merchants Guild garage, and tucked her notepad back in her handbag before tugging on a hat and heading out the door.

The drive to the museum was uneventful aside from a couple pot holes and a pedestrian chasing his umbrella into the street with nary a regard for traffic. Still, Xaeryn did arrive in one piece. A determined breeze tugged at her as she made her way up the steps, and she almost dropped her handbag in her instinctive grab to hold her hat on.

It’s pinned, you silly goose, she chided herself ruefully, and brushed drizzle off her clothes as she stepped inside. She exchanged a brief conversation--light on pleasantries--with the receptionist,and was waved toward one of the long cultural wings to wait for when Curator Acquell found a moment to speak with her. She perched on a bench that sat between a statue of the first High Augar and a glass case displaying a map of the known world at the time. At this hour and with this weather, there weren’t many other people, and the gallery was mostly quiet.

Ample opportunity for Xaeryn to ruminate on the irony her chosen seat appeared to be smack in the middle of an exhibit on the Castigation, or one of the uprisings that followed. At least, if the painting across from her was anything to go by; a group of determined Norms gripping pistols as they surrounded a cluster of bloodied but unyielding Hunters whose hands glowed with grace as they clung to their weapons...

Xaeryn shook her head and very deliberately focused on reading her notes.

---

It took half an hour--closer to three-quarters--and Xaeryn had switched to roaming the gallery to take in the sights before a short, bespectacled blonde approached.

She hesitated briefly but noticeably before clearing her throat. “Are you... Miss Shrike?”

Xaeryn nodded and held out a hand to shake. “And you would be the curator?”

The blonde bobbed her head as she shook her hand. “Shery Acquell. I’m so very sorry about the wait.” She smoothed a hand down her rumpled brown and pink dress. “We’re terribly busy trying to get the new exhibit together.” She bit her lip. “Or, as together as we can get it, at least.”

“That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about,” Xaeryn said. “But I think it’s something better discussed away from potential prying eyes and ears.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Miss Acquell briefly clasped her hands in front of her and bit her lip. “This way.” She gestured to a door. “We can speak in the Cultures of Blest wing if you don’t mind dodging crates and museum staff?”

“Not at all,” Xaeryn said as she followed the other woman through the indicated door. Getting to see behind the scenes of a museum exhibit was the opposite of an inconvenience, to her mind.

“It’s not terribly exciting, I’m afraid; lots of boxes and dust and swapping things around until you find the right arrangement. But I think we can find somewhere to talk. My office is a mess right now, or we could just go there.”

“It’s fine,” Xaeryn assured her. “A little dust won’t kill me. I dress practical for that very reason; no telling where an investigation will take me.”

“OH, that’s... smart.” Miss Acquell fiddled with her glasses and inclined her head toward an empty display pedestal. “That’s where the pendent will go, assuming it’s back before the exhibit opens.” Her face went red and she winced apologetically. “N-Not that I doubt your skill as a detective, Miss Shrike, it just seems to have vanished into thin air, and, well....” She half shrugged and let the words trail off.

“I’ve definitely hit enough dead ends for the comparison to be apt,” Xaeryn said, swallowing the spike of defensiveness to keep her tone level as she peeked at the other artefacts in the case. A belt with a snake-head buckle, a silver circlet set with a single moonstone, an ornately carved hair comb, a silver ring that resembled a basilisk eating its own tail. At least one item hummed quietly with magic of some kind, but enchantment and binding weren’t her forte, so Xaeryn couldn’t tell which. “So, to confirm, how long did the shipment sit before you and your staff started opening crates?”

“Oh, an hour?” Miss Acquell bit her lip. “Maybe two, at most? There was a... small kerfuffle in the art wing; some unruly children, and we didn’t get to the crates until that was settled. But there was a watchman outside and one in the museum, neither of them reported seeing anyone.” She played with her necklace. “As well as a Whitestone Couriers representative. Pink-haired young lady, very irate by the time I spoke to her, though that is understandable, with how long we kept her waiting.”

“Did you not have enough staff for someone to take care of the artefacts while others handled the... disturbance?”

“Normally we would have.” Miss Acquell stepped into a small alcove to move their conversation out of the way for the six or so staffers busily yet carefully removing things from crates to arrange in various displays. “But it was a lightly staffed day--Thursdays are usually slow--and I had a couple people who didn’t come in. We weren’t able to find anyone who could cover their shifts, so we were running a bit short.”

With Ms. Aerin keeping an eye on the artefacts once they reached the museum, it was no wonder Mr. Syndran was so convinced a potential theft would have occurred during transit. “What do you know about the pendent, Solimer’s torch? I’ve learn some things of its history, but what of more recent years? The last century or so?”

“A little,” Miss Acquell said, flicking a nervous glance to the side as a pair of workers fumbled the statue they were shifting. “The last century is a bit... muddy for that pendent. It’s changed hands several times, several people have made claims, few have been able to back them up. The current owner, Ms. Aescar, has the strongest claim. She can trace ancestry to the last known owner of the pendent.”

“Prior to the cheiftain of debated identity with whom it was rediscovered?”

She nodded. “Yes. The others who have tried to stake ownership claim ties to the debated chieftain, or the original tribe, or the first to conquer them, but none have ever clearly proven a connection like Ms. Aescar. And if they could, it turns into a debate predicated largely on the intricacies of right of conquest for who has the strongest claim.” She hesitated, wrung her hands. “There are some in the historical community--niche as this piece may be--who... feel it would almost be better if no further claims are validated. I-If someone can contest Ms. Aescar’s ownership, the pendent has to go in a vault until true provenance can be determined. Which means no one can display it....”

“And that process can take a very long time,” Xaeryn finished for her. It was an issue she’d run into a couple times during her years at Solhadur; an artefact she was researching was hard to get clear information about because three people had equally strong claims and it was tied up in the arbitration.

“Yes, it can.” Miss Acquell pursed her lips and looked back at the intended display. “For now, though, Ms. Aescar has a very open policy for lending it out. Far fewer requested protective measures than most. It’s as if...” she paused, brow furrowing for a moment, “as if she doesn’t really care what happens to it.”

Interesting. “Do you have her contact information? I’d like to speak with her if I could,”

“I do.” Miss Acquell nodded vigorously. “It’s in my office, so I’ll need a minute to dig it out.”

“No hurry,” Xaeryn said. “Are those watchmen here today by any chance? Accommodating as your staff has been with my other earlier inquiries, I haven’t gotten to talk to them yet.”

The curator, who had started for a nearby hall, paused and bit her lip again as she thought. “Theo is,” she finally said. “He was watching the outside lot that day. Today I think he’s in the exhibit on Norm innovation? But I can’t remember for sure. The schedule’s also in my office, I can check while I’m getting Ms. Aescar’s information.”

“Alright, I can wait.”

“Feel free to look around.” Miss Acquell waved a hand toward the progressing displays. “Just don’t touch anything? Some things would survive, but others are too fragile.”

“I generally avoid disturbing museum exhibits,” Xaeryn assured her. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

With a final nod and small nervous smile, Miss Acquell scurried off down the hall. From the way she’d talked about her office, Xaeryn gathered this might take more than a few minutes. She wandered through the half-assembled exhibits and display cases, careful to keep enough distance she didn’t disturb the staff or risk damaging anything.

A small smile curved her lips when she caught sight of a necklace--complete with matching cuff bracelets and a diadem--that fit the description of what Chase claimed his guild had been hired to steal. That backed his story up, at least. There was a placard declaring they had belonged to a Queen-Consort from Karzai once upon a time.

Xaeryn was engrossed in reading a Kettish tablet when Miss Acquell returned, and it took a moment to register her presence. In fact, it wasn’t until the curator cleared her throat timidly that Xaeryn’s focus was broken and she swung around.

“Sorry. This sort of thing is a passion of mine,” she explained. “Very easy to slip off to my own little world when I get a chance to indulge.”

“I understand,” Miss Acquell said with a faint smile. “I can be the same, when I get lost in my work. Here’s Ms. Aescar’s information” --she held out a small piece of note paper--”though I should warn you it’s for her estate out near the Jalis desert and she’s apparently not home much? Bit of an adventuress, away for weeks at a time without word of how long she’ll be gone. I’m honestly not sure if we’ve managed to contact her yet to tell her the pendent’s missing.”

“Thanks for the warning, both of them.” Xaeryn slipped the paper in her handbag after checking the legibility. “I’ll keep them in mind.”

“Theo is up in the innovations exhibit, if you want to speak with him.”

“Oh, I very much do. And if something comes up and I need to talk to you again, do you have daily office hours?”

Miss Acquell nodded, then blushed. “Oh, except... except Sunday,” she amended. “I-I have church.”

“Won’t be a problem, so do I.” Normally not a detail Xaeryn shared with strangers, but the woman seemed braced for blowback to the statement.

Her face lit up with the revelation, so it was apparently a good call. “Oh, really? Where do you go?”

“The Whitestone Cathedral,” Xaeryn said. She liked the crowds, the ability to simply sit in the back, worship, and slip out before too many people even noticed she was there and tried to be chummy.

“Oh, that one’s too big for me,” Miss Acquell blurted with a bashful laugh. “I go to the chapel over by the docks.”

“I know it,” Xaeryn said with a nod. She’d had a couple cases over that way. “Thank you very much for all your help, Miss Acquell. This visit has been very informative.”

“I’m glad to have been of help, and you can just call me Shery.” She held out a hand to shake farewell.

“Goodbye, then, Shery. And good luck setting up your exhibit.” Xaeryn shook her hand then headed off following signage toward the exhibit where this guard Theo was posted. She had some rather burning questions to ask him.

---

Her conversation with Theo held mixed success. His memory was fuzzy, which Xaeryn had expected after the time that had passed. He did remember some loiterers, but they were all far enough away from the lot he couldn’t discern features. One or two may have come across as “too casual” with hindsight, but he hadn’t clocked them as suspicious and thus hadn’t paid much mind in the moment. No accounting for street hooligans and how they spent their time, right? One might have had green hair, but they were wearing hats, and “like I said, I wasn’t payin’ much heed, Miss Lady Detective,” so he couldn’t swear by it.

With that tenuous connection possibly made slightly less tenuous, and a much-increased desire to speak with the elusive Ms. Aescar, Xaeryn wandered the museum a bit--might as well; she was here and it would help her think--before heading back out to her car.

“Ladies first,” a dark haired gentleman said, holding the front door open for her and allowing her to precede him down the steps.

Xaeryn nodded and flashed a brief smile of courteous thanks for his chivalry, noting he headed for a gleaming, high-end motorcar, black with red accents, that made hers look dingy. Bet it’s a nightmare to keep that fancy, she thought, paying the man no further mind. She started her car and flicked on the headlights to counter the settling dim of evening as she pulled away.

With her thoughts split between the road and mulling over the case, it took a few turns for her to notice a pair of headlights that appeared to be following the same route she was. That wasn’t terribly unusual, but the fact they were deliberately keeping back was. Tricky as surreptitious glances in a motorcar could be, Xaeryn managed one the next time she had to stop for traffic. Just as her... friend passed under a streetlight.

Black car, with red accents.

Gooseflesh prickled up her arms, and she shifted her planned route home to one with sparse enough traffic covert pursuit would be impossible. Two turns into the new path, her tail must have picked up on her plan and lammed off down a side street. Xaeryn wondered if he thought he was being subtle, and kept a careful eye out the rest of the way back. Despite not seeing any further tails, she remained on guard until she turned the key in her office door, slipped in, and locked it behind her.

“Intriguing development,” she murmured to the empty room as she unpinned her hat. And an interesting end to a very full day. Xaeryn sat wearily at her desk and kicked off her shoes. Even choosing comfort over style, her feet were sore from all the walking. Merchants’ Guild, Ashtown, the Hall... and barely a chance to sit all day. She returned her notepad to the desk drawer and locked it again, but left the stiletto blade in her handbag. She’d likely need it tomorrow anyway. Particularly if it was anywhere near as busy as today.

Busy enough to have missed any telephone calls that came while I was gadding about. Normally while already on a case, that would bother her less, but Red had said he’d call if he learned anything new. She’d hate to be missing information that could help the case, she mused, flicking a glance from the telephone to the clock on her wall. Hopefully this wasn’t too late for her to call him. She dug her notepad back out and flipped through the pages until she reached the section in Red’s sprawling shorthand. There, on the back of a previous page, tucked in the corner like a random doodle, was his office telephone number. Xaeryn smiled at the close resemblance of his eights and zeroes, but knew her own ones and sevens weren’t much better.

After only a brief moment of further hesitation, she pulled the telephone closer and started dialing. It wasn’t that late.

It was answered on the third ring, a slightly breathless, “Hello?”

“Liefred?”

“Xaeryn.” There was a note of surprise in his voice.

“Got it in one, smart man.” But I knew that.

He laughed. “Not that hard; you’re just about the only one who insists on calling me that, even if you don’t need to.” There was a small creak that conjured mental images of him leaning against the desk or slouched in his chair. “Everything alright? Did you need something?”

“Other way ‘round, actually.” Xaeryn fiddled with her notepad. “I’ve had a busy day and it occurred I wasn’t here much if you’d called, so I thought I’d check.”

“There are these people called secretaries, Xaeryn,” Red teased. “You might look into hiring one of them.”

“I know, I know.” She snorted softly. “Especially since most people don’t have your genial reaction to me missing their calls...”

“Most people haven’t known you since you were a gangly fourteen year old trying to cram yourself in the library loft to read in peace, either,” he said warmly. “I know how focused you get. And nothing new, I’m afraid. I got stuck lecturing first-years all day.”

“And you survived,” Xaeryn laughed, curling her toes in and out when they started to cramp.

“Barely,” Red said with a rueful laugh(she’d bet he was running a hand through his hair). “And that despite their best efforts.”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to stick around,” she said, only half-joking.

“Smart woman,” he deadpanned. “But I knew that already.”

Flatterer. It sounded coy and thus stayed in her head, replaced with an equally joking, “I won’t guest lecture, before you ask.”

“Damn,” he said lightly, “At any rate, I’m sorry I don’t have more yet-”

“Don’t apologize,” she cut him off. “I wasn’t expecting anything. Only checking. Just in case. Your responsibilities come first and they kept you busy today. I had plenty of other leads to chase today.”

“Where did they take you?” Red asked. “You mentioned being busy...”

“Merchants’ Guild to start. Then Ashtown-”

“Xaeryn.” His voice was already bristling worry.

“--to talk to Thieves’ guild.”

“Alone?! Ryn-” Red huffed a sigh of exasperated, retroactive concern and she bit back a laugh at how well she’d pegged his reaction. “Do you... take risks like that often?”

“Only when I need to,” she said carefully. Wouldn’t be mentioning the tail on her way home, then. “I know how to handle myself, Liefred. I was polite, we talked, I left. It was fine.”

A long moment of silence. “If you say so.” He didn’t sound completely convinced. (She decided not to tell him her office-apartment sat right by the boundary between Astown and Smoketown) “What else?”

“Just the Hall of History and Culture to speak with the curator.” She shifted in her chair. “That one took a while, but I got some good information to follow up tomorrow.”

“Best of luck with that, and... be careful?”

Xaeryn smiled fondly, unsure whether or not to hope it carried into her voice. “As I can be.” A beat, then she added lightly, “I’d hate to wind up a cautionary tale in one of your lectures, Headmaster.”

“Xaeryn.” She could practically see him trying to glower at her(and failing; Red couldn’t be that mean) through the telephone. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” And I appreciate it. She sobered her tone to match his. “But my line of work comes with risks sometimes.The best I can do is promise not to exacerbate them.”

“I’ll take it,” Red said softly, then was quiet a long moment. “I should let you go; it sounds like you have another busy day tomorrow?”

“I do.” She’d still stay up til midnight talking to him in a heartbeat, but, “and you probably need to recover from this one.”

“Mm. I get to do it again tomorrow, too,” he said glibly.

Xaeryn laughed. “I’ll keep you in my thoughts,” she said with mock solemnity “Good luck to you, as well, in that case.”

“Thank you, I’ll need it,” Red chuckled softly. “Goodnight, Xaeryn.”

“Goodnight, Liefred.”

She stared at the telephone a long moment after hanging up, smile curling her lips, before pushing out of the chair. After a day like this, she needed dinner, a hot bath, and a good night’s sleep. In that order.

She still double checked the door was locked before turning in.

----

(what you don’t see, bc I stuck with Ryn POV, is Pan was in Red’s office with him when she called. :3 Cue Pan promptly batting his eyelashes, making exaggerated lovestruck faces, and generally being a little shit bc He Knows, while Red’s gesturing for Pan to GET OUT of his office. and trying to get him to listen without actually talking so Ryn doesn’t know someone’s there(he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want her knowing that, he just doesn’t). Pan finally relents but hangs in the hallway til they’re done and comes back in with the biggest shit-eating grin “You’re still stuck on her, aren’t you?” Red, groaning and burying his face in his hands: “Pan, close your head, PLEASE. yes”)

#queens fic #shoh #xaeryn shrike #red antiqua #chase trinaeste #shery acquell #tlbt #ryn/red

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captainpikeachu · 3 years

Text

So having recently rewatch the first Cap movie for my MCU rewatch, I have so much feels about the ways many things about Steve in this film actually echoes John’s story in TFATWS.

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Steve: Bucky, come on! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me. Bucky: Right. Cause you got nothing to prove.

In a way, Steve did have something to prove, to prove that he could do his part for the war effort and not be left behind, forgotten, considered worthless, and not given a chance. He fights to have the chance to prove himself. In this way so did John. John comes into the story with a chip on his shoulder, to prove that he could live up to the legacy and the mythology set by Steve. His chance to prove that he could do the right thing and help people.

The thing is though, Erskine did give Steve a chance to prove himself, he believed in Steve and had faith. John never really had someone who would fight for him and believe in him on his behalf to others.

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Phillips: Hodge passed every test we gave him. He’s big, he’s fast, he obeys orders. He’s a soldier. Erskine: He’s a bully. Phillips: You don’t win wars with niceness, doctor. You win war with guts.

I know that everyone consistently compares John to Hodge, that John is what Erskine was afraid of happening and what would have been if Hodge had been given the serum. But that surface level comparison is misleading at best, because when Phillips throws that fake grenade to test everyone’s guts, Hodge runs away. John would have jumped on the grenade just like Steve did. John wouldn’t have hesitated. Hodge was a bully who purposefully tried to mess with Steve in training and mocking him. John didn’t purposefully try to mess around with anyone, he only ever just wanted to do his duty just like Steve did. In fact, John has far more in common with Steve than he ever does with Hodge.

Phillips said that you win war with guts, and Steve jumping on that grenade showed that he had guts, this links directly to John's comments while doing that GMA interview, he specifically brings up that he may not have flashy gadgets or super-strength but that he has guts and that’s what Captain America always had and needed. And John does have guts, nobody earns 3 Medals of Honor without having guts.

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Erskine: The serum amplifies everything that is inside. So, good becomes great. Bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen. Because a strong man, who has known power all his life, will lose respect for that power. But a weak man knows the value of strength, and knows compassion.

This comment from Erskine is often used by fandom to show why John is the wrong choice as opposed to Steve. He’s the bad that becomes worse or the strong man who has had power all his life. But that interpretation is only there if you take everything Erskine says to be a binary choice of good and bad. It’s this automatic assumption that because John is not Steve, then he has to be the bad. Except John is really the middle ground. He has light and darkness within him, it’s a constant civil war, the serum didn’t just amplified everything bad to become worse, it also amplified the good in him to become great. The interpretation that John is a representation of only “bad becomes worse” plainly ignores John’s decision in Episode 6 to let go of revenge to save people. This choice was made AFTER he got the serum, if he is only bad that becomes worse, then he wouldn’t have saved those people. By saving those people, John shows that the serum doesn’t simply work on a binary standard, just like people aren’t binary of only good and only bad. John’s story deepens what the first Cap movie set up about how the serum works, and shows a story progression that is very much like how in real life as kids, we are first taught those fairy tale stories of good versus evil, but we grow up and learn the world is more complex and that people aren’t just one thing or another.

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Senator Brandt: With all due respect to the Colonel, I think we may be missing the point. I’ve seen you in action, Steve. More importantly, the country’s seen it. Paper. The enlistment lines have been around the block since your picture hit the newsstands. You don’t take a soldier, a symbol like that, and hide him in a lab. Son, do you want to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war? Steve: Sir, that’s all I want. Senator Brandt: Then, congratulations. You just got promoted.

---

Steve: I don’t know if I can do this. Brandt’s Aide: Nothing to it. Sell off a few bonds, bonds buy bullets, bullets kills Nazi’s. Bing bang boom. You’re an American hero. Steve: It’s just not how I pictured getting there.

---

Peggy: I understand you’re "America’s New Hope"? Steve: Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit. Peggy: Is that Senator Brandt I hear? Steve: At least he’s got me doin’ this. Phillips would have had be stuck in lab. Peggy: And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know?

Steve’s desire for service and duty being manipulated by politicians to sell bonds is the exact same scenario as John’s desire for service and duty being manipulated by politicians to make him the new Captain America. It’s even echoed by Val’s continued manipulations in using John’s loyalty to service and country into getting him to do what she wants.

Steve was nervous, reluctant, and unsure of going on stage to perform. We saw the same concerns that John had in that locker room before his big interview. Neither Steve nor John wanted the fame and pageantry, they just wanted to do the job, they just wanted to help, but both having to accept that the “dancing monkey” aspect came with the job description.

But Steve breaks free of the confines of others’ demands of him because Peggy not only points out that he has other options, but also because it was in that moment he discovered that Bucky was either missing or dead and he could do something about it. If Steve wasn’t having that conversation with Peggy, if Steve hadn’t heard that Bucky was missing, then he might have just stayed with the USO tours and been a dancing monkey his whole life. Circumstances arose in Steve’s favor, and he had people who believed in him helping him to get to the goals that he wanted. John on the other hand lost the one person who did have faith in him and there was no way to bring Lemar back, and Val swooped in at the exact right time to give a lost and in-mourning person the opportunity to feel like not everything had been lost.

----------------

Senator Brandt: I am honored to present this medal for valor to my personal friend, Captain America!

This is an interesting moment because I don’t know if this “medal for valor” is a Medal of Honor or not, but if it was, then it makes Steve’s story and John’s story even more of a similar parallel.

-----------------

Private Lorraine: I read about what you did. Steve: Oh! The…yeah! Well, that’s you know? Just doin’ what needed to be done. Private Lorraine: Sounded like more than that. You saved nearly four hundred men.

When Natalie Dormer’s character comments on how Steve was able to save nearly 400 men and get them back alive, all I could think about was Lemar’s line to John in Episode 4, “think of all the lives we could have saved that day if we had that serum.”

If John and Lemar had the serum on the day of the event that gotten John his Medals of Honor, maybe everyone could have made it back alive, maybe it wouldn’t have been the worst day of John’s life, maybe he wouldn’t have looked at those medals like badges of failure because he couldn’t save everyone.

And it also reminded me of comments from Wyatt Russell during an interview where he mentions that John was in the service while Steve was still operating as Captain America and going around to save the day, but Captain America never saved the day for John. In a way, there is almost a sense of resentment, that Captain America could save the day for everyone else, but John still had to fight through the horrors of war and find a way to survive on his own and protect his men, all without the serum, without Captain America’s help.

--------------------

Peggy: He damn well must have thought you were worth it.

Peggy’s comments to Steve about how Bucky must have thought Steve was worth dying for just reminds me of how Lemar jumped in to tackle Karli and stop her from killing John, all knowing of the risks to his own life, because Lemar definitely thought that John was worth dying for.

--------------------

Anyways, these were just some of the moments that really jumped out at me in regards to how Cap 1 laid a very interesting foundation for what would be John’s story in TFATWS. This is why I love doing occasional rewatches, it really makes you look at the story in new ways when there’s new information that recontextualizes the film.

#john walker #steve rogers #lemar hoskins #wyatt russell #the falcon and the winter soldier #captain america the first avenger #marvel #mcu #tfatws #tfatws meta #marvel meta #mcu meta

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twstoric · 4 years

Text

shrouded in ambers

Jamil Viper Birthday Special!

𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: jamil viper x f!reader

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: when you’re always crawling to be on the good graces of the al-asim family, there’s only one obstacle standing in your way—the loyal servant directly under the first prince himself

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘(𝕤): hate-sex?, non consensual touching (minor), slightly dub-con, cunnilingus, high sexual tension, semi-public sex, enemies to..?, servant!reader, slight au!

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 2.7k

𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: grrr going feral for birthday boy jamil is great <3 and i apologise for any mistakes/typing erros—i was too lazy to proofread whoops-

Having a smile plastered on your face is a custom in the life you live. Many people warm up much quicker to a seemingly kinder face than a gruff feature—you’re not sure of the detail but you get better responses from doing the former.

You have a kind smile, you’re told often followed with your usual response of I just enjoy what I do, is all. That kindness of yours has taken you to great heights.

You’re adored by the Al-Asim family; trusted with tending to the younger family members and adjusting their troubles. You’ve climbed up the ranks in a silent hierarchy of servants through years of patience and endurance—you’re not going to allow yourself to fall into a life of poverty just because of a minor slip up.

Then again, becoming a trusted maidservant of the Al-Asim family, one so close to the royal family themselves and not just for cleaning services, can be a difficult feat to acquire. Especially if you’re not from a line of family that’s been in service to them for generations. No, you were taken in from the slums and going back isn’t an option you’d want to make.

You want a much higher pedestal. Somewhere you know they wouldn’t be able to get rid of you so easily if you slipped up just a bit because acting perfect on a day to day basis can be so tiring. It’s taken off more years in your life than any disease you know of.

The plan is simple: appeal to the higher ranking family members and you’re fine. The only problem is that the job you desire is already occupied—by someone you might as well consider as the devil incarnate.

“I see you still have the tendency to daydream,” Jamil’s voice is soft when he speaks, the meaning behind his words contrasting to the smooth timbre of his vocals and you have to hold back a glare when turning to him.

The smile you offer comes naturally to you—trained to stretch on your lips at any given moment as you give the long-haired male a small bow. “Mister Viper. What a surprise.. are you not tending to the First Prince?” Your fingers are clasped together over your maids outfit, then thin material worn out from years of daily use but you take pride in maintaining the smooth white colour the dress comes in.

Jamil’s face remains neutral, staring at you as if looking for your inner demons before he turns around. “I shall take my leave,” he utters, never losing the cool edge to his voice and you keep the smile on your face until his footsteps are no longer heard.

When the silence once again envelops your surroundings, you can’t help the quiet huff you let out. Unbelievable, you think. Who does he think he is? He’s never liked you since the day you came and you’re not even sure why! Trying to befriend him is useless and acting polite towards him because he’s higher ranked than you gives you headaches. It’s almost too cruel how the irony of your desires is blocked by the single entity that makes your blood boil.

Coming yourself with another hiff, you straighten your back, fingers smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress before you take the tray of tea in your hands. Time to go back to work.

‎ﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌﻌ

In life, too many complaints won’t get you anywhere—you know at least this much but again, for the umpetenth time, you can’t help the growing feeling of annoyance brewing up inside you whenever you’re called up to do something in ungodly hours.

You’ve never had the best personality behind closed doors, afterall. So you’ll quietly complain whenever it's necessary (in your mind, of course. The risk of being overheard makes you paranoid).

The kitchen of the royal palace is spacious, stretching wide to accommodate the source of all the luxurious meals always prepared during occasions formal or not. It’s located in the further areas of the palace as any kitchen normally so as to make sure the smell of cooking food wouldn't stink up the area too much.

Because of its location, you find yourself walking quite the distance from your chambers and into an already dark kitchen. You can’t turn on the lights pass curfew so a small candle is your company as you prepare to boil water for the tea requested.

The day had been much more hectic than usual. You can’t remember all the details when you’re one of the servants running around the palace to get everything done. It’s preparation for another event. That much you’re sure of but what type you don’t think you really care for the details.

Fatigue and lack of sleep seems to be catching up to you. You find it difficult to keep your eyes open, resorting to pinching your arms to make sure the slight pain can keep you up and about. Too deep in your sense of tiredness, it takes a second for you to realise that the candle you’ve lit is already blown out—the fire from the stove your only source of lighting.

“Wh-? Ahh, shit, shit,” curses flow out of your mouth profusely, hurriedly reaching inside your dress pocket for a lighter. You’re not sure if it’s because of your fatigue, the chilly air, or even because of how dark it is but you’re fumbling with the match box, struggling to even open it in your panicked state.

Just before you could properly light the match, the candle burns again with a new fire; the small flame used to light it aflame disappears with a shake of the hand. You stare unblinkingly at your newly lit candle, and as if slow motion, you trail up the hand near the small fire to find the familiar face of the First Prince’s personal servant.

“Mister.. Viper,” you greet, unsettled by his sudden appearance. You don’t think you even heard him come in let alone get so close to you like this. Were you so out of it that you weren’t able to hear anything…?

“What’re you doing in the kitchen so late at night?” Jamil gets to the point, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head questioningly.

Your mouth opens and closes in response, mind blanking on how you should reply. “Um.. I was requested to make tea for..” Somehow, Jamil is moving closer to you, your vision going blurry before it only fills with the sight of him. “What- what’re you doing?”

Your breath hitches, the small of your back already pressing against the edge of the counter and Jamil places his hands behind you, trapping you between his arms. He leans closer.

“There’s an intruder trying to break into the castle,” he whispers, lips brushing against your ears and your face burns. Jamil does nothing after that. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t speak another word—his lips faintly brushes against your ears each time you breathe, your senses only filled with the warmth of Jamil’s body and how you can smell the strong scent of spices pressed so close to him like this.

“I don’t… Why are you telling me this?” All you can do is question back, lost on what he’s implying ang you tense when feeling his hand settling on your hip, pressing you harder against the counter.

There’s something so… primal and raw in the way Jamil is touching you. His fingers hold your firmly in a soft pressure that if you weren’t so hyper aware of where his hands are, you wouldn’t notice that he’s already touching you.

Jamil moves back enough to look at you, his other hand lifting from the counter to grasp your chin so you’re forced to look at him properly. “I believe that intruder is already inside,” he murmurs and you see something glinting in his eyes. Suddenly, his grip on you tightens, pulling your chin roughly towards him and his voice is firmer, “What’re you doing in the kitchen?”

You feel a sudden anger flaring in your chest. “Are you accusing me, Mister Viper?” You can’t help but spit out, glaring at him openly. “I already told you- I’m making tea.”

Jamil smirks in response, uncaring of your sudden attitude as he lets you go. The male turns off the stove, your protest ignored as he turns to you again, leaning against the table from across you. “On whose orders are you making it for?”

“That’s-” the bite in your throat suddenly disappears. You blink in irritation before an unsettling feeling brews in your stomach. From who.. that’s... Of course it would be from one of the younger children, wouldn’t it..? But for them to stay up this late then.. the First Prince? But that would be Jamil’s responsibility—not yours.

You bite your lip, brows furrowing for a different reason now; confusion. “It was from a note,” your voice is quiet when you say this, gaze darting to the floor to avoid the smug look on the other’s face at your confession. How could you have not realised..?

Jamil takes quick strides over to you and before you know it, he’s turning you around and roughly pushing you down on the counter. You yelp, hands shooting out to soften the impact as Jamil presses his chest over your back. “Aren’t you too trusting… or maybe.. You’re an accomplice of this intruder?”

What.

“That’s- that’s-! Of course not!” You feel the shudder raking down your spine at the low hum Jamil makes from your words. Your face burns with humiliation, tears springing up to your eyes for a reason beyond you; you’re cursing Jamil to hell for all this.

“Why should I trust you? I’ve always found your sudden climb in ranks to be a little odd,” he sighs and the snarky remark you had disappears when you feel something hard pressing against your behind. The outline of Jamil’s growing erection presses against the thin material of your dress, slow languid rolls of his hips makes your body burn.

You’re quiet now; distracted by the way the brunet is rutting against you. Jamil is a difficult person for you to tolerate but you can’t deny how attractive he is. “So quiet suddenly?” And you want to curse the skies why he was given such an attractive voice.

His hold on you eases before there’s no longer any pressure holding you down. You get up slowly, pushing yourself up by the elbows and turning your head to see that Jamil has already moved some distance away from you. The neutral look he normally has is back.

You think your heart might explode. He can’t just- do that and act like nothing happened..! There’s no words you can think of—verbal communication suddenly beyond you. All you can do is clutch at your dress weakly, your pussy feeling so empty and uncomfortably wet.

“I can…” you gulp, voice hoarse and Jamil raises a brow in question. “I can help.. find the real intruder.” Your chest feels so fucking heavy now, the bruning heat in your body clouding all common sense. “To prove my innocence.” You add quickly as an afterthought, because you’re not doing this for him.

A small laugh leaves the latter’s mouth in response and you feel your brow twitch. “You’re a difficult person to deal with.”

Wha..?

Jamil pushes himself off the table, once again trapping you between his arms but you feel much calmer than before. The candle burning as your only source of light seems to emphasise the brunet’s features. Eyes slanted and shaped like a predator stares at you hungrily and feels natural for you to draw closer to him when Jamil leans over. “Always having a smile on your face when you’re clearly annoyed. Why are you so insistent on putting up a mask?”

His breath ghosts over your lips, body pressing close to you as if you weren’t close enough. You look into his eyes; searching for something and smiling when you find it. “Should I say the same to you?”

The simple questions snaps whatever tension you’re in and Jamil crashes his lips to yours, prying your mouth open with his tongue and slithering in when you give him access. His hands wrap around your back, trailing down over your ass and squeezing you with greedy hands.

You moan in response, pulling him closer by wrapping your hands around his neck and rolling your hips against the hard tent in his pants. Jamil groans softly, breaking the kiss to trail kisses down your jaw to your neck. His fingers tug the front of your dress down, the cotton tearing slightly from his rough ministrations but you don’t care about that when his lips reaches the skin above your breasts, marking you with love bites and easing the pain with the slow drag of his tongue.

Much to your disappointment, Jamil doesn’t pull your dress any further down, instead, he’s the one getting on his knees; his hands trailing up your legs and hiking your dress along with it. Your dress settles over your hips, held by his hands as Jamil nudges your legs apart to trail kisses up your inner thigh.

You’re clenching around nothing, small gasps leaving your lips at every mark Jamil leaves with every inch closer to your aching core. “Please,” you can’t help but whine, tangling your hands in his hair. You feel Jamil smirk against your skin.

He pushes your undergarment to the side and your vision goes white from the first slow drag of Jamil’s tongue against your weeping cunt. The taste of you on his tongue makes Jamil feral—harsh strokes of his tongue against your outer lips before his mouth sucks and he’s eating you out like an animal.

You’re struggling to keep your moans in, legs shaking with every suction of Jamil’s mouth on your core, greedily tasting every inch you can offer him. His hold on your thighs are brutal; not allowing you to close your legs. Your dress is no longer held up by his hands and falls over the male’s head, hiding him from view.

You’re biting at your hands to keep your sounds in. It’s already so late at night and despite your location being in the further areas of the palace, if anyone were to walk in the kitchen then the first thing they’ll see is you, writhing and crying from a reason beyond them, Jamil hidden away behind a table and under your dress.

“A- ah-!” The yelp you let out echoes in the kitchen. You’re mortified by the sound but it’s only a second later that you're moaning again. Jamil’s fingers curl once again, dragging against your walls deliciously. His touch is gently, easily finding all the right buttons to push without too much prying as his mouth focuses on your clit.

You whisper his name quietly, the only thing you can think of saying and it seems to spur the brunet to fuck his finger’s into you, easily finding your good spots and you’re coming with a strangled shout.

You don’t get to register how Jamil greedily sucks off your juices, throwing you into the edge of overstimulation before he finally pulls away; pushing your dress over his head. The blood rushes to your face, gaping at the way Jamil swiped his tongue over his lips as if to collect your juices and your squeak when the male suddenly pulls you into a kiss.

When you break away, Jamil is smirking at you handsomely, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Should we get started then?” You nod absentmindedly, blinking at the satisfied smile Jamil gives you. “Then we’ll start with the main entrance. I think that’s most likely where they entered from because of the hectic preparations.”

“What?” You can’t help but ask dumbly.

The laugh Jamil lets out makes you feel both warm and irritated. His eyes narrow when he looks at you but the smile on his face is still present. “I see.. Did you want to continue?” You can’t answer. Jamil smirks.

He takes your wrist and you’re frozen in his stare as Jamil guides your hand to his erection. The hardness in your palm makes your mouth water and thighs clench uselessly as Jamil blinks his eyes slowly. “Don’t worry,” he reassures, pressing your hand harder against his clothed dick and groaning at the pressure. “Should we be able to catch the intruder then I’ll be sure to reward you.”

#jamil viper #scarabia #jamil x reader #twst x reader #twst n/sfw #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twisted wonderland #f!reader #specially brewed

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imagine-turtles · 3 years

Note

What are your thoughts on serious moments between the bayverse guys and their s/o’s? Everyone talks about the romantic aspects but I wanna know what goes down in an argument, how each one of them handles those typical spousal fights but of course How in the end they make up and come around to one another.

OH this is a good one. Love the cut of your jib, chief, hope you enjoy!

A common source of conflict with Leonardo is his overbearing attitude, stemming from a lifetime of leadership. He’s always been responsible for making sure his brothers are working towards their full potential and steering them towards their best selves--or what he thinks is their best selves, anyways. This will absolutely bleed into his relationships.

An S/O familiar with Leonardo’s modus operandi knows he acts the way he does out of love; he only wants to make their life better, which they could definitely have if they just did things his way! He can get frustrated when he doesn’t understand why they’re not on the same page, and he can sound downright insulting when he’s too worked up to think about how to phrase his argument delicately, but he’s always ready with an apology when he sticks his foot in his mouth.

Leonardo knows he can get caught up in the heat of a debate and come across as harsh, so his apologies are usually neatly written out and delivered with a peace offering. He’s still trying to adjust to a new, lateral type of relationship, but most arguments can be resolved with a boatload of patience and the gentle reminder that he doesn’t need to completely understand his partner’s feelings to acknowledge their validity.

Rest under the cut:

~~~

Raphael’s main conflict is his bad habit of making wildly inaccurate assumptions based on nothing but his own insecurity. Hanging out with friends? They must be tired of him. Needs to reschedule a date? They’re going to break up with him. Raphael can get so wrapped up in his own head that he’ll start putting words in his partner’s mouth, and end up starting an argument over nothing.

Like Leonardo, Raphael needs a significant other willing to be patient with him during a conflict. Ideally, this would be someone who can keep a calm tone without sounding condescending, who understands when he’s thought himself into a panic and freaked himself out over nothing. He might even try to verbally--never physically--push his partner away in the hopes that they drop him before he gets too attached.

(He’s already far too attached.)

Making up would likely occur after an argument, far enough out that Raphael has had time to calm down and remind himself to trust his S/O. Their life doesn’t revolve around him, and if he’s scared of losing them, maybe he should just do something about it instead of sabotaging himself. He’s typically pretty considerate of his partner’s needs, but he cranks it into overdrive post-argument. Raphael apologizes with little gifts and acts of service while still giving them space: notes, treats, stuff around their home mysteriously fixed or replaced entirely, the works.

~~~

Arguing with Donatello is typically a short-lived experience, because he’d really rather just agree to disagree and call it a day. Anything that causes a legitimate conflict would have to be something he’s unwilling to compromise on, or a complete misunderstanding. His poor sense of time might lead to friction--sure, he’s been working on the truck for a few days, but it feels like he just talked to his S/O yesterday! It’s not that he doesn’t miss them when they’re gone, it’s just that he compartmentalizes to the point of returning to the exact mental state he was in before he fell into a week-long hyperfixation.

Unlike some of his brothers, there’s typically no time between an argument and an apology unless his partner needs time alone to cool down. Donatello’s main strategy is to immediately identify/brainstorm/solve problems, but this isn’t to say he won’t back off and let his S/O sort themselves out before initiating a conversation.

Donatello’s apologies are by-the-book. Acknowledgment of the issue, clarification of intent, meaningful “I’m sorry,” and how he proposes avoiding the problem in the future, in that order. It’s not that he’s trying to be emotionally distant or say what he thinks they want to hear to get it over with, he just wants his S/O to know that he’s taking this seriously.

~~~

Michelangelo wants serious arguments to be over before they even begin. Sure, he’ll fake a divorce over a particularly vicious round of Cards Against Humanity, but that’s pretend beef. He’s much more likely to just roll over in an actual conflict than risk losing his significant other, even at the expense of his own comfort; not that it comes up particularly often. He’s never trying to purposely hurt them, and he has absolute faith that they’re not trying to hurt him either--he wouldn’t be dating them if they were!

Sometimes he can be a little too hasty in trying to solve a problem, and he can come across as overbearing if his S/O needs a little time alone to process what’s bothering them. Michelangelo is fairly good at knowing if something is wrong, but sometimes it’s difficult for him to know exactly what that is without flat-out asking. He’s been living in an enclosed space with the same few people, same few problems, so it’ll take a little time for him to adjust to a new person with new problems.

Most situations can be resolved by calmly talking it out, because yeah they do love having him over, but leaving his shit all over their room really, really stresses them out. Michelangelo’s apologies are typically short, sweet, and followed by an earnest effort to avoid a repeat and get back to their usual shenanigans.

~~~

I’m now realizing that I’m not the best person to ask about this, lol, wifey and I have never really had a serious argument. Gave it my best shot though!

#struggled a lil bit on this one can y'all tell LMAO #tmnt imagines #tmnt bayverse #leonardo #raphael #donatello #michelangelo #tmnt

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mandoinevarro · 4 years

Text

Red Steam

Words: 2.5k

Rating: E

Warnings: Masturbation, mentions of violence

Part II here because i’m not that mean

The Twi’lek healing baths aren’t exactly a brothel.

Although “healing baths” is definitely a euphemism used to deviate the attention from some of the obscure services offered inside the tall building in the outskirts of Nevarro, its name very literally delivers on its premise. There are actual healing baths inside, along with other relaxation chambers, and the most erotic service you can get from an employee is probably just an oiled massage, but you’re not stupid enough to think that the droopy-eyed visitors you saw leaving through the front door had those drowsy smiles permanently glued on their faces from a particularly satisfying massage.

Still, it’s not a brothel. At least not the section you’re in.

The steaming chamber is a manmade cave completely crafted from some smooth black mineral that you’ve never seen before. Unlike other rocks, its surface exudes the opposite temperature of its surroundings, so the one you’re sitting on right now is frosty against the backs of your legs. Apart from a long bench made with the same material that surrounds all four walls and a tall rectangular table in the middle of the room, there isn’t much of a decoration inside. There’s one door, no windows, and a single grating on the floor from which more sweetly scented steam gushes out when the old one starts dissipating. The only source of light is bright red; it dyes the vapor floating around and your dripping skin crimson.

Some of the women around you are chatting quietly, but most of them sleep with the light fabric everyone was given beforehand covering their naked bodies.

You sigh. You really needed this.

Mando’s bounty is apparently hiding somewhere in the maze of steam and pools and mysterious rooms that make up the healing baths. It’s supposed to be an easy enough job: The son of a wealthy Rebel official had…dishonored a high society girl who was already engaged and skipped town. His own family put the bounty on him. All Mando has to do is shake him up a little to teach him a lesson and deliver him to his father. It isn’t the kind of job he’d usually take, but the money’s good and the risk low, and he can’t really afford to reject sources of income with an extra mouth to feed.

A woman walks out of the steaming cave, and most of the vapor streams out of the room, which lowers the temperature of the chamber but increases the one under your fingertips.

You tagged along because you figured some rich brat lounging in the more questionable corners of the local business wouldn’t be too dangerous. Plus, you’re sick of the Razor Crest’s shower, whose only temperatures are cold and fucking freezing.

You honestly can’t remember the last time you were allowed to relax for such a long time.

The steam rises again, and you swear it’s a little thicker than before. You’re sweating more. Your skin tingles.

To your left, a female Togruta and a woman are talking on a corner, a little too close to each other. The Togruta is murmuring on the other woman’s ear and brings a hand down to caress her knee. You only catch a word: “upstairs”. She nods slowly and takes her companion’s hand. They stand up and leave the room, the vapor following them out.

You haven’t even been here that long. The grating has only emitted new vapor three or four times, but your mind is already slipping. The mist is heavy on your shoulders and its odor lovelier every time you inhale. You could swear it started smelling of wild flowers, yet now it reminds you of burnt wood and rain. Of metal. Of him.

Fuck.

You throw your head back, bumping it against the cold stone.

You’ve been torturing yourself with daydreams of the Mandalorian for months now. They were gentle at first, only innocent musings about him that you entertained because they made you feel giddy and naive. Could he ever see you as anything more than an employee? Could it ever develop into something more intimate? You started wondering how he’d move his lips against yours; how he’d hold your face in his large palm.

It was all still chaste enough, but that didn’t last very long. You see him every day, hear his every breath, grunt, and dramatic sigh. You study the way he moves, his powerful build, the carefulness of his arms when he cradles his son and his violence when manhandling his prisoners. It all got crammed inside you and, soon enough, your fantasies turned darker. Could he ever see you as a woman? Would he claim you, if given the opportunity?

You usually weed these fantasies before they can take root. You’re painfully aware that you can’t have him. He’s a serious person—consumed entirely by his child, his Creed, and his work. More importantly, he’s a good man who’s always been courteous to you and doesn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your filthy yearnings.

And yet, right now…right here, where the women’s mumbling sounds like whispered confessions and his scent is crowding you and you have to work for every single breath you take and your better judgement stayed at the Crest…right now, you don’t stop them from coming. And, fuck, you know he’s here somewhere, hunting for his prey. What if he found you? What would you be willing to—

A loud crash and a man’s shriek interrupt your train of thought.

The remaining women in the chamber exchange panicked stares and, as if bouncing on springs, suddenly sprint out of the room, taking most of the steam with them. The screaming continues, along with a few grunts and some bangs. A couple of doors slam shut.

You melt further into your seat. It’s Mando. He’s found the quarry.

The brat’s apparently putting up a fight, because the sounds of chaos keep coming from different parts of the building. You feel completely relaxed.

An exhalation of the lattice makes up for the lost mist. Droplets condense on your flesh and mix with your sweat. You raise your wrist to your nose and—sure enough—his smell is there, but now it’s mingled with yours, and the blend creates an addictive aroma. Is this what it would smell like, if you two ever had an encounter? Would he be willing to bare his skin to you and allow the moisture of your bodies to blend into one? Or would he fuck you clothed and urgently, barricaded by his armor?

A blaster goes off, and something plummets into the floor, but you’re a lot more focused on the way the flimsy cloth you were provided with is sticking to your chest. It’s soaked at this point and doing very little to cover you, so you lift a heavy arm to work it off your body. Your bare ass is warm when in presses back down on the bench, which makes the stone cooler. You try to imagine it’s beskar.

You know you’re losing it when you start feeling sorry for the quarry. He’s probably just some rich idiot who was looking for a quick fuck with a sense of danger, but what if he isn’t? What if he and the girl truly wanted each other and could no longer hold back? If someone knows what it’s like to want someone out of your reach, it’s you. If someone knows that agonizing desire…

It takes you a little too long to put a finger on the third smell that’s mixing in the room. It’s been weeks—probably months—since you last touched yourself. With your responsibilities on the Crest, you barely have time to sleep and shower, let alone take care of your other, more primal needs. So, you don’t immediately recognize the pungent odor of your own arousal. Once you do, though, you know it won’t relent.

And, even though the feverish fog filling the room more by the second is entering your ears and scrambling your resolve, you still find some moral righteousness in you that judges your desire to pleasure yourself to the thought of the Mandalorian. Because he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like that. Because he doesn’t think of you like that.

But your hair clings to your damp face and neck, the mineral presses icy against your backside, and beads of sweat and moisture drop from your slippery nipples. And maybe…maybe if you only feel yourself. Not explicitly masturbate, but maybe if you just rub your body a little some of the ache will go away.

You place your hand on your left knee, because it’s only a knee and nothing bad has ever happened from touching one’s knee. You draw circles around it with a finger, then your entire palm. You try to stretch your leg and support it on the table in the middle of the deserted room, but it’s too far back for your foot to reach, so you bend your leg towards you and rest your heel on the bench. By the time your hand slides lower to your calf, gathers the moisture there, and rubs it on your ankle, the raucous sounds outside are almost completely muffled by the ringing of your ears. The red steam grows denser, and you have to open your mouth to breathe in as much oxygen as you can, which is why your exhale sounds like a moan. That’s what you tell yourself.

Hands sliding against your sides and drawing lazy patterns around your ribs, you wonder how he’d touch you. He could be gentle and take his time exploring you, trying to enjoy the rare instance of feeling someone else’s bare skin come to life under his touch. Your hands scoop your breasts and test their weight. Or, perhaps, he’d be in a hurry, drunk on the sensation and unable to control himself at the first caress of your soft curves. It’s difficult to know which one you want more.

Both of your hands sail down aimlessly to your belly and press there. How big is he? You’d like to be able to feel him between your legs afterwards, after he’d go back to being the Mandalorian, as a reminder that he let himself be something else with you. Ten digits land on your thigh and massage there, slowly gliding together up, up, up, until they’re almost where you most want them most. They stop. You’re panting and you swallow hard.

“Maker,” you mumble to yourself. You’re obviously more worked up than before, so you can either stop right there and keep your moral high ground, or…or—

The answer comes from somewhere outside the cave, when you hear the thump of something substantial hitting the door, followed by a low, unequivocal groan. The modulated baritone sends a flood between your legs.

And, just like that, you give up.

You spread your legs and lean your hips forward, pressing your open cunt against the gelid surface; it’s so cold it burns into you. A ragged whimper pushes past your mouth, but your ears don’t register it, since you’ve started rocking back and forth against the black ore, finally throwing wood into the fire that started burning months before. You picture cold beskar instead, thrusting back and forth between your folds to bring you to your release, strong thighs moving lively beneath you.

You’re suffocating. The first time your clit brushes the edge of the bench, you throw your head back, bring your right hand to your breast, and hold on to it for dear life. Your small fingers knead the fat there, but it feels better if you imagine coarse leather doing it instead. Fuck, would he be as quiet and stoic as he always is? Or would he let you hear every moan and grunt? Would he whisper every dirty thing he wants to do to you or would he let you guess? The pace of your back and forth rutting quickens and your guts knot tighter.

“M-mando…” You try to be quiet; if you can hear him outside he can probably hear you too. You limit yourself to a few tortured sobs, but the blood-red vapor is making it harder to breathe, sweat covers every inch of your skin, and all openings of your body feel horribly empty.

Your scoot back on your seat, open your legs wider, and sink your right index and middle fingers inside your pulsing hole. Two fingers of your left hand go inside your mouth. A loud, long moan of relief pushes through your fingers and lips. You’re too far gone to care.

The digits inside your pussy stretch you open, swirl in circles, move in any way that will cure the awful ache you’ve been fighting for fucking months. What about the helmet, would he leave it on? Blindfold you? Maybe he’d take it off, but get you down on all fours and grab your hair to prevent you from looking back.

Your eyelids drop. A fat droplet drags down your spine and into the crack of your ass. Your tongue licks your own skin eagerly, tasting their salty sweat and fantasizing about your Mandalorian’s fluids. It’s not enough; it can’t be when you can still hear him outside the door, when all you want is to have him inside you, anywhere inside you.

Your fingers will have to make do, so you curl them and hit something that makes your legs cramp. The five-letter nickname everyone calls him bubbles past your throat in an exhausted gasp. You drag your digits out and smear the thick cum they gathered around your inner lips and walls. Your mind races with endless possibilities: Would he demand you cum or forbid it? How many times would he take you? Where would he touch you? Where would he cum? What does he taste like? Is he patient or demanding? You shut your eyes tightly. Something that feels like a tide is steadily climbing to your chest, making your every muscle rigid.

The fog recedes a little. You’re dizzy with pleasure and every fiber of your body is pulling tighter by the second. Your tongue is still sucking at your fingers—picturing pulsing veins and velvety skin—when you start drawing quick circles around your clit. The stone under your ass grows a little warmer. Drool spills out of your mouth.

You’re close. You’re so fucking close. Your panting turns erratic, your hips buck forward, one of your leg stretches, and your toes brush the cold material of the table.

“S-stars, Mando…!”

You’re right there, right there, and—

Wait.

Your toes are brushing the chamber’s table. The same table you couldn’t reach earlier. You stop grinding and remove your fingers. New vapor spouts out of the gratings.

The table moves.

Sweat stings your eyes when you try to open them, hesitantly, not really wanting to see what’s in front of you.

You blink a few times and see an opaque silver mirror where your disheveled appearance stares back. One of your hands reaches forward unprompted and brushes the cloudy layer of condensed water on the mirror’s surface. It’s beskar. It’s Mando’s beskar cuisse.

You lift your face and see a T-visor floating in crimson fog, staring down at you. Panic and adrenaline pump in your veins, but you both stay like that for half a second, almost drinking each other in. Waiting.

Until his hand starts moving, so slowly, towards your body.

It’s hard to tell where it’s heading.

#the mandolarian #the mandolorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x you #pedro pascal #mando #mando x reader #smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #star wars #star wars smut #watch me pretty much ignore baby yoda's existence #baby yoda

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navigatrixnarrations · 3 years

Text

Sometimes Always, Part 5: Thief In the Night

Catch up here

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language

Word Count: 2841

The night is moonless and the road is blocked by branches and debris. From out of the gloom, a rasping voice rumbles “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” The coachman’s lamp reveals a broad-shouldered man standing beside the makeshift barricade before the stopped carriage, completely swathed in dark clothing, face hidden, a cutlass at his waist, aiming a pistol.

The adrenaline sings in Charles Vane’s blood; he’s missed the thrill of the plunder. This promises to be a rich prize, one that will assist in repairing the Adventure. One that may make Margaret see him as a partner rather than a burden, an obligation, or worst of all, an object of pity.

The coachman is older, with a soldier’s bearing, but seems disinclined to put up any resistance. In the coach, a man made rich off the blood and toil of those he claimed to own. His shaking hands are trying to load a pistol, which Vane snatches from his hand. To think this sniveling, scared weakling who would call him a scoundrel had the confidence to travel unguarded with this amount of coin — there’s the difference between those who dwell on land and those whose home is the sea, he supposes. The ocean is unforgiving and even wealthy men cannot stay sheltered in its domain.

Vane hoists the sack of coin over his shoulder. A pistol shot rings out, but misses, and despite the snow on the ground, he’s into the trees and out of sight before the coachman or the mark could reload. By the time he pushes his skiff from the riverbank, he almost feels like a proper pirate again.

The night is bone-achingly cold, even more so on the water. If he hadn’t botched things so terribly, he’d be warm in the West Indies. He’d be known and feared, not a thief in the night with his face and name hidden. He’d have a crew, and he’d be sailing under the black with Margaret at his side...

Can he pinpoint it, the moment he started to trust her? Perhaps it was when he awoke aboard the Revenge and she told him he was free.

“What kind of weapon made that?” She pointed at the brand on his chest.

“Hot iron.”

“Why?”

“So the person who owned me” -- he felt his face twist as he said it -- “could tell I was his slave. Find me and take me back there.”

“I won’t let him,” she said with a ferocious scowl, her voice surprisingly dark for one so young. “I won’t let anyone.” And he believed her. He was right to believe her.

He shakes himself from his reverie. He’s got to focus on the task at hand. There’s little traffic in the harbor tonight, but still enough for him to blend in as he sails around the horn of the Battery and makes his way back to the garret. With his hair tied back, a woolen cap pulled low and his laborer’s clothes, with the sack of coin slung over his shoulder he looks like any other longshoreman coming home from a long shift of loading and unloading cargo.

He imagines the look on Margaret’s face when he shows her what he’s robbed, and smiles as he climbs the stairs.

His smile fades as the door handle is jerked right out of his hand by her, her expression one of worry and anger. “Thought you’d have been back hours ago. Was out looking for you.”

“I told you I’d be back.”

“I was afraid someone recognized you! I was afraid you’d been captured or killed!” Her chest heaves under her coat, and he feels his body warm more than the small fire in the hearth should have allowed.

“Well, I wasn’t. And look what I’ve brought us.” She was worried? About him? He drops the sack on the table and opens it. “Coin, Magpie, more than enough to complete the repairs to the Adventure.” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats “It’s coin. We won’t even need to fence it.”

Margaret sits down heavily and wrestles her temper. “Where the fuck did you get all this?”

“A bit of highway robbery.”

“Charles. Next time, if there is a next time, take me with you.”

“Didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She narrows her eyes and her lower lip juts out stubbornly. “Says the man whose life I’ve saved how many times now?”

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I’ve got things to do besides make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” she informs him. And then, more quietly, so quiet as to be nigh inaudible, “I lost Sully. I can’t lose you too, not again.”

“You won’t.”

The table is between them, and he’s about to upend it, coins and all, just to get it out of the way, when Margaret gets up to stoke the fire. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Charles. But you’ve a recent history of getting yourself nearly killed to help friends.” She pauses. “They’d never say so, but Anne and Jack are beside themselves with guilt about what happened.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Idelle told me.” Margaret fixes Vane with a fierce stare as she returns to her seat across the table. “She loves you dearly, you know.”

“Idelle is a good woman.” He’d sensed sometimes that she did, and not only because she didn’t always charge him in full for her services, though at the time he’d mostly put that down to being one of the few who took care to make sure she enjoyed herself as well. And he respected her directness and sharp mind -- traits she shared with Margaret. Yes, there was the rub.

“She almost broke when you shook your head no from the gallows.”

Vane doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to give up, regardless of your pretty speech about fearing death being a choice.” He can almost hear in her accusatory tone the words Margaret once cried out: I thought I knew you, Charles! More fool me.

“Didn’t want to risk more of us getting killed trying to save me. Thought my death would drive a rebellion.”

“It wasn’t at all because some part of you no longer wanted to live?”

Sometimes he swears the blasted woman has the ability to see into his mind. Though if that was the case, perhaps things between them would have taken a different path. “I was worth more dead than alive. Had to leave Nassau. Fucked over your father a second time to help Flint fight England. And…” he trails off and stares into the middle distance.

“And?”

“The woman I was in love with loved another.” Vane’s voice is low, confessional, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

“The woman you were in love with loved only power. Control. Wrapping her soft, weak little hands around whatever bits of influence she could grasp,” Margaret says waspishly.

Vane’s thin lips curl back, baring his teeth. “I’m not talking about Eleanor.”

“No?”

“No!” Vane slams the palm of his hand into the table for emphasis. Fucking hell, why can’t she understand what he’s telling her? He’d stopped loving Eleanor well before her final betrayal, well before she battered his face in his cell as he awaited hanging, well before he saw the sickening, smug look on her face as he stood at the gallows, though that certainly drove the point home.

His arm tremors, and from the slight furrowing of Margaret’s brow, she noticed. He wonders if she takes any satisfaction in seeing him like this, broken and brought low. He can’t say he would blame her if she did. But her lips part in concern, and her eyes are worried. She wraps a hand, callused and graceful, around his forearm.

“I need you to know that I took the shot the moment I was able; I didn’t delay or let you hang any longer than necessary.”

“I never doubted that, Magpie.” And he didn’t. Margaret never struck him in anger, never lied or broke her word to him. The scar on his brow is his own fault for startling her when she was holding a marlinspike; as for the scars on his heart, well, perhaps those are his own fault too.

It was barely dawn when Sully staggered shirtless out of Margaret’s tent, reeking of drink. Vane, up all night on watch duty in the Revenge camp, wanted to gut him. How dare he go to her drunk like that? Vane felt sick to his stomach, as though he’d been sucker-punched while nauseous. Hearing him approach, Sully turned to him with a grin. “Morning Charles…” His smile turned to a look of surprise when Vane shoved him, knocking him over backward into the sand, his long plait flying over his shoulder as he fell.

“Charles!” Margaret yanked on his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was fully clothed, though she looked like she just woke up, and she was livid. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You’ve a right to fuck any man you wish to, Magpie, but you at least deserve one who isn’t stumbling drunk.”

“Charles.” Margaret’s voice was patient, as though speaking to an idiot or a recalcitrant child, “I didn’t fuck Sully. I’ve never fucked anyone, of any state of sobriety. I’m likely the only virgin in Nassau.”

He didn’t smell sex on either of them, it was true, and Margaret didn’t even smell of rum. But even so. “What was I to think, when he stayed the night in your tent?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he decided to drink on an empty stomach, and I dragged him in there to sleep it off.”

Sully hauled himself to his feet. “I was a perfect gent to our Maggie-Pie, I was,” he announced. “And I’ll knife anyone who isn’t.”

Margaret whirled on him. “If you call me Maggie-Pie, I’m going to call you Mick.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Sully said cheerily. “Look sharp, here comes Hands.” The three of them straightened their postures; it was important to present a united front before that bastard.

******

The first year after Sully was killed passed in a haze of agony. The second year, Margaret was mostly numb. By the third year, the grief had become sneakier, creeping up to knife her when she least expected it. She could go days feeling what now passed for fine, and then something -- the scent of the tobacco he’d favored, a snippet of a song he’d liked -- would rip open the wound.

What a fool I am, thinking Charles might care for me, Margaret berates herself. Her flirtations the night of the skiff race went uncommented-on, unacted-on. Of course she should have expected that: the moment there was a girl fawning over him whose body was unscarred by blades and musket balls, whose hands weren’t roughened by rope and salt, whose face wasn’t bronzed by the sun, he’d stopped paying her any attention, hadn’t he.

He’s finally asleep, and she can weep. Quietly. She forces herself to stay silent despite the sobs wracking her body. Then a hand, Vane’s hand, reaches for her in the dark, finds her own, and holds it. She glances at him, crouched beside her bed so as not to loom over her. She hadn’t even heard him come into her room.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he says. She sits up, and he sits beside her, using his free hand to wipe her tears. Margaret tries to affect a steely dignity, but his voice, honey over gravel, cuts through. “You held my hand in the dark. I was a fool to have let myself ignore that. A man should never forget who held his hand in the dark.” She lets him gather her in his arms; it’s been so long since the last time she’d been held. She feels the stubble of his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his long hair hanging over her arm, the deep inhale he takes. She allows herself to lean into him, to nestle her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and inhale the smoky scent of him. “Now,” he continues, “do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Of course I fucking don’t.”

One of Vane’s hands is stroking her hair while the other rests between her shoulder blades, heavy and warm and anchoring. “I recall,” he says, his voice a purr reverberating through her torso, “a smart girl once telling me that there is nothing wrong with accepting help from people who care for me. That I’m not alone in the world.”

Margaret raises her head and looks at him sharply. Did he just say he cares for her? She had been telling herself that she’d laugh in Vane’s face if he showed any signs of being sweet on her. But here, in this moment, in his arms, she can’t bring herself to be cruel to him on purpose, not when his gaze is so gentle, so uncharacteristically unguarded. God knows they’d caused each other enough pain already, however inadvertently. “And turnabout is fair play, Charles?”

The strong shoulder that her cheek was just resting upon lifts in a shrug. “You ought to take your own advice.”

She leads him into the main room, where it’s warmer. Brings out the rum bottle. Vane is leaning toward her, letting her have her silence, but his own silence has a questioning quality to it.

“I’m thinking of the nature of promises. How to keep them. What it means to keep them.” Vane is simply watching her, waiting for her to continue. She takes a swig of rum; she wants liquid courage for what she’s about to tell him. “When Sully got killed, I threw everything he owned overboard. Any reminder of him was too much to bear.” She’d been certain she’d lose her mind with grief if she saw a shirt of his on someone else. She sees Vane trying to connect what she’s saying. “He once made me promise if he should die first, that I wouldn’t spend my life in mourning. That I’d find a way to be happy again.” And someone to be happy with, Sully had emphasized, though she’s not ready to tell Vane that part. “But I can’t see a way forward.”

“You were happy, though. With him.” He isn’t asking a question.

“Yes.”

Vane nods to himself and stares down at the coin he’s rolling back and forth between his fingers. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Magpie. For you to be happy.”

For a moment, Margaret is afraid she’s going to burst into tears again, and she forces her expression into one of stoicism. “Were you happy? With her?”

The coin ceases its glittering dance across Vane’s knuckles. “I thought I was, for a time.”

“Do tell.”

He raises his face with a scowl to meet Margaret’s eyes, but his expression softens when he sees the real curiosity there. “In the beginning, she pursued me hard, lavished me with what I thought was love. Then she’d withdraw her affection, and I’d try to regain it. I see now that was her strategy.”

“To hear Idelle and some of the others tell it, Eleanor had you dancing like a puppet on a string.” Vane recoils as though she’d slapped him, and Margaret wonders if she pushed him too far, twisted a knife in him that she hadn't meant to insert, truly she hadn’t. “Charles, I…”

He cuts her off. “I assure you that I’ve got long-overdue clarity about the manner of woman she is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and sags slightly in his chair. He huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “She’s a shit and everything you told me was correct.”

Margaret stands with an unstifled yawn. Damnation, but she’s exhausted. She considers telling him it took him long enough to figure out what she and Sully saw from the start, but what purpose would that serve? “I’ve got to be up early. Tide’s coming in about five, and the Adventure should be coming out of drydock with it. Got to move her to a proper slip.” Vane rises as well and they stand for a moment, looking at each other with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to step towards her, so she simply says “Good night, Charles.” In response, he reaches out to squeeze her hand, ever so briefly.

As she settles herself back into bed, she smells him brewing coffee; he’s gotten in the habit of fixing a pot of it so that it would be ready when they woke, something she appreciates. If she could see through the door, she’d note him sitting before the fire, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, staring into the flames, a man lost in thought.

Tag List: @whenimaunicorn @n3rdybird

#sometimes always fic #charles vane x margaret teach #charles vane x ofc #charles vane x oc #charles vane fic #charles vane #black sails fic

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Victor’s R&S - Paradise on Earth (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (“世间桃源”) will not be released in EN or any server as it’s one of the cancelled R&S which came with the Dream Heart Lake gacha event!🍒

This is a full translation, so it’s highly recommended that you follow along with the narrator (i.e. our beloved Mr Mills) :>

Summary: This is Victor’s paradise on earth. It has delicacies, good wine, and stories.

Cancelled Victor R&S:

> flashback

> six out of seventeen

> so-called disparity

[ Chapter 1 ]

People of my generation believe in fate.

Whether I was led into the restaurant by the fragrance of wine while passing by along the street, or meeting the manager of Souvenir and becoming a part of it - these were likely destined to happen.

After retiring, I would frequently carry a set of keys with me and head out for a stroll. Sometimes, I’d look at what’s new in the shopping mall, and sometimes I’d do so purely because the weather was good - perhaps I was someone who just couldn’t remain idle.

It was also because of this reason that I walked into Souvenir that day. At first, I was enticed by the fragrance of wine; afterwards, it was because of my surprise towards the manager’s capriciousness.

Finally, it was because of the culmination of years of experience that I could remain here.

At this age, I never expected to meet a friend with such an interesting personality that gelled with mine despite our age differences.

I still remember when I walked in back then, following the fragrance of wine. I had even questioned if the restaurant was open to begin with. The entire restaurant was empty, and a man stood in the half-exposed kitchen, buried in work, looking as though he had just got a footing in life. Apart from the sound of wine being poured, the only things that could be heard in the empty area were my own footsteps. There were even echoes resounding because of the space.

Usually, I would turn around and leave if the staff didn’t attend to me, preventing me from embarrassing myself. However, on that day, such a thought didn’t cross my mind: Since I had already followed the scent of wine, I wouldn’t be satisfied until I enquired about it.

Hence, even to this day, I can still remember the first words I said to the manager.

[ Chapter 2 ]

Back then, I asked him this:

“Mister, how much is the wine?”

His answer naturally left a deep impression on me:

“An exorbitant price.”

He didn’t even lift his head when he said this, and his act of sealing the bottle didn't cease. If it were somebody else, they could have gotten angry in response to his arrogant attitude - it’s human nature.

However, I found this young man very interesting. If I were to put it in the popular lingo, I’d say that I saw the aura of an “artisan” in him. As such, I smiled and continued with another question:

“In that case, what is the asking price for this exorbitance?”

Hearing this, the man finally lifted up his head from his work.

He looked even younger than I imagined. His features were defined and regular. His expressionless face looked majestic and proud.

As compared to a restaurant, he’s more suited for politics or in the business world - Such an impression was evoked the moment one laid eyes on him, especially since he was wearing a well-fitted suit underneath his apron that day.

“That will depend...” after a short pause, the young manager changed his term of address, “it will depend on your worth.”

[Note] This part doesn’t translate well to English, but Victor basically starts off by addressing Mr Mills as “你” (which is used when talking to peers/someone younger), then changes it to “您” (used when talking to an elder/someone you respected). Both mean “you”, but they are of different formality :>

Even though he used a more respectful term of address, his face still lacked the signature smile frequently seen on service staff. The contrast of the young man piqued my interest, and a certain gut feeling surfaced - getting to know him wouldn’t be a bad thing.

And because of this gut feeling, I made a decision I never, ever regretted.

[ Chapter 3 ]

After working here for half a year, I still couldn’t make sense of the way this business was run. The opening hours depended on the boss’ mood. The “daily menu” depended on the ingredients that day, and the contents on the bill were plucked from the air.

When customers walk in, there was a 50% chance that they would get chased out, a 30% chance that the bill would leave them unpleased, and out of the remaining 20%, only 10% would become returning guests - and this percentage wasn’t guaranteed either.

I was uncertain if it was a coincidence or an inevitability, but out of the recurring customers, most of them were celebrities from various industries. Some looked familiar, especially that well-received celebrity who appeared frequently on television. Some of them I didn’t recognise.

What differed from my imagination was that the manager didn’t concern himself with celebrities like in other businesses. In contrast, he disliked those who came simply because they were celebrities... hmm, how should I put it? Those kinds of people who came here to take pictures more than to partake in delicacies. Because of this, he specially imposed a “no photography equipment allowed” rule.

I talked to the boss about this before.

“The ladies just wanted to record beautiful things in life - it shouldn’t count as breaking the rules, right?”

At that time, this was what the manager said while he was busy in the kitchen:

“They can go elsewhere to record the ‘beautiful things in life’. Souvenir doesn’t need their meagre contributions.”

When he spoke, the manager didn’t have a look of unhappiness or disdain. What I heard was him purely stating a truth, but I knew that in his heart, he didn’t like those customers. If such customers came to the door, he would rather close his restaurant.

“But, Manager, you also take pictures sometimes.”

Exactly because I had a sufficient understanding of the manager, I knew clearly that he wouldn’t lose his temper. This was why I’d take a risk sometimes - either challenging his authority as the manager, or deliberately putting him on the spot in the capacity of an elder. I just couldn’t help wanting to know what went through the mind of this young man, who was riddled with contradictions.

For someone my age, it was largely me being overly curious.

“...I take photos for the purposes of creating new dishes and adjusting the taste. As customers, all they need to do is eat.” The manager had always been taciturn, but his mind moved incredibly quickly. This is one point of him that I admired a lot.

Our interactions were mostly intended for exploring different approaches, so there were always circumstances where we would dispute or disagree.

“Honestly speaking, I also think the dishes are presented very well, so I can understand their feelings.” Most of the dishes in Souvenir have a certain optimal period when they are best tasting - that’s what the manager was most upset about. “If they eat immediately after taking photos, it shouldn't affect the tasting experience, right?”

“Real customers... cough.” As though he thought about something funny, the manager released a dry cough to conceal his sudden laughter. “Will feel regret after finishing their food, because they realise that they haven’t taken a picture. I hope Souvenir can leave behind such happy regret.”

Now that I think about it, it’s probably because we always uphold the same standard for delicacies, that the manager employed me.

After all, whether before or after I came, I never saw hiring notices pasted in the restaurant.

[ Chapter 4 ]

After working here for two years, I still couldn’t make sense of the way this business was run. However, the good thing was that I had become completely used to it.

Whether it was the way the manager and I interacted, or the circumstances of work - even though I was a service staff, the scope of my work was mostly that of an assistant. After all, the restaurant had very little business.

It was probably because the boss did whatever he wanted. No matter how good his cooking was, the business of the restaurant remained subpar, and it was a good thing he wasn’t concerned about the accounts. Whenever I gave him quarterly reports of the deficit accounts, he always looked well aware of the situation.

He would occasionally nod his head as a sign of acknowledgement. Sometimes, he would divert the topic to a new dish, and he would sometimes talk about an even more complex issue. For example, the definition of “winning and losing”, and what it meant to have an objective.

Whenever we talk about these matters, he would never put himself on a pedestal as a manager. No, it’s more like, when there are no customers around, he is never like a boss - or a big chef who is passionate about delicacies, or a modest member from the younger generation.

“This is what I think about the matter. I would like to hear your opinion.” When he said this, he furrowed his brows slightly out of habit, his gaze sincere and persistent.

I understand that one’s opinions tend to be one-sided and flawed, but I was still happy to have a member of the younger generation listen to what I had to say.

If I didn’t happen to hear the manager picking up a work-related call, I would have almost ignored his “other side” completely.

In those two years, I had only witnessed him answering a call in Souvenir once. Before, he would always set his phone on airplane mode at the door of the restaurant. But that time, it was probably a work call he had no choice but to answer.

Although I just happened to hear the contents of his conversation, the spacious and empty room had the tendency to amplify the volume of a person’s voice. Moreover, from his tone, this call probably didn't bring with it good news.

I turned up the faucet, hoping the sound of running water would drown out the conversation floating from the neighbouring room.

The voice sounded stern and cold, and in keeping with the first impression he gives others. But...

It wasn’t the young man I was familiar with.

[ Chapter 5 ]

The manager I was used to was someone who would hum while peeling off the shells of prawns, would be in daze as he stared at the dessert in the oven as it gradually took shape, and would open a bottle of fine wine when there’s no business in the restaurant to attend to, and share a meal while chatting with me.

However...

Just as the manager had never asked about my family, I was not overly curious about his “other side” or even more sides of him, unless he brought it up himself. It was comparable to how took over the task of washing the dishes from me after taking the call.

“Mr Mills... sorry, I brought my work matters into the restaurant.”

In response to his sudden apology, I couldn’t react at all--

It wasn’t because of the age difference. The manager had never made such a guarantee to me, nor was there any contract or agreement written in black and white that there was such a rule.

Although he said that he didn’t care about the restaurant’s performance, I could vaguely hazard a guess. But that was the first time I realised: This young man... perhaps he’s giving himself too much stress.

“Manager, you were suddenly so stern... I even thought I was going to get fired.” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, reconcile my own emotions, and cushion the following words.

“If I get fired at this age, when the time comes and I meet my wife, she’d definitely laugh at me.”

That was the first time I brought up my own family. On that day, I saw the rare emotion called “curiosity” in the manager’s eyes. That night after work, the manager gave me a bottle of wine, and it had a packaging that I recognised.

“Does this mean... I have to sign on for another three years?” I cracked a joke, asking the manager how much this bottle of wine was “worth”.

But this young man, thirty years younger than I, had no intention of making a joke. He shook his head and told me seriously:

“Good wine accompanies good dishes. Even when alone, you have to live well.”

He said that this was not remuneration, but a suggestion.

This bottle of wine could be considered a quarterly award.

As of today, the three year contract has been fulfilled.

The last time I used that bottle of wine to ask a question, it wasn’t simply a joke.

As long as my body allows for it, I hope to welcome the next three years, and the three years after that...

Just like the name of the restaurant, every moment here is a souvenir worth cherishing.

Paradise on earth is not much.

To me, it’s like that.

Other cancelled R&S: here

Lucien’s cancelled R&S (by other user): here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc victor #cncancelled #can't believe we didn't get a frame of Victor and Mr Mills together in the anime...#but no worries photoshop is here to save the day

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babybatscreationsv2 · 3 years

Text

A King on a Leash ch10

Marvel | Starker

Tony Stark is a powerful man with a beautiful husband and a loyal crime family, but it looks like he didn’t keep his husband on a short enough leash. After turning Peter lose on a Cuban gang leader, Peter’s life is in danger. The real trouble is that Tony now realizes that Peter is the only thing in this world that he cares about and he never meant for that to happen.

Sequel to A Doll on a String

Rating: Explicit

Full Fic

A Doll on a String

Warnings under the cut*

Warnings: violence and guns

Peter’s POV

Peter sat in front of the mirror, hooking the clasp of his necklace around his neck. He admired the diamonds on his neck as they caught the morning light. If he closed his eyes, he could just remember Tony's lips on his, his back crushed against the wall, the sound of chatter in the next room, all while Tony finally claimed him out in the hall after his performance. One would think having a necklace like that, one clearly meant to represent a collar, would be constricting and scary. But that was the day Peter came alive.

His wedding ring was pretty. It was a daily reminder, a symbol to all who saw it, that Peter was taken. But the diamond necklace, few men could afford anything like it. When you saw it around Peter's neck, you know who he belonged to as sure as having his name tattooed on his throat.

Peter admired the gems with pride. He rubbed a bit of moisturizer into his face. Then he brushed off the white fur of his coat. No suit today. Today, he was Tony's prized possession more than his partner and to be clear Peter didn't mind the sort of reduction in status. Not when they were meeting with Wilson Fisk. Fisk understood Peter's value. He understood his power, his cruelty, his loyalty. Though, he couldn't deny that Fisk looked at him as he would any Boss's wife. A look that was a tad misogynistic. He perceived Peter as feminine and therefore Peter was delicate and to be protected. If nothing else, it served Tony in his endeavor to keep Peter safe from Toomes.

So today's ensemble was one of Peter's first gifts from Tony, the fur coat. He'd replaced the white ankle boots with something new he picked practically straight off the runway. Or at least, Tony did. Tony was the one who kept up with fashion. Peter was fine wearing last year's boots, but Tony would never have his husband be so disrespected by his own clothes. Leather pants and a silk shirt turned the looked into something that was either a fabric nightmare or a visionary statement. Peter was never sure. But he was wealthy enough and high profile enough these days that anything he wore ended up on someone's Pinterest board after a day spent in the gossip mags. A trophy husband if there ever was one.

He met Tony downstairs, enjoying the way his husband eyed him up. "You ready, angel?"

"Ready and willing," he winked. Tony kissed his lips. Then he walked around him to grab his jacket. Peter took it from his hands and helped him into it. He noticed that his arms felt bigger than last he'd noticed. He'd must have been working out more often. He wanted to roll his eyes. Obviously, he was still feeling insecure. Despite their talk, it would probably take time for him to shake the feeling. It would be easier for Peter to just get rid of Harry and be done with it, but staying friends with him would be more likely to help Tony in the end. Let him see that there's nothing to worry about when nothing ever happens.

Happy drove them today. He and Tony went back and forth going over security details. Peter hoped they were just being paranoid. Wilson was unlikely to be a threat, but dining at a restaurant came with risks. Though Peter wondered how well tattooed Latino gangsters would blend in anywhere that Wilson saw fit to dine. They would stick out like a sore thumb. Not that it wasn't possible that they had friends.

The security team went in first. Then someone came to escort each of them from the car and into the building.

The restaurant was full of the same upper class snobs Peter sucked up to at donor events. Well, not now that he knew who was actually keeping the lights on. They were the sort of people who wouldn't be able to describe their waiter after leaving their table because they wouldn't look twice at someone in the service industry. Then again, Tony probably wasn't that different and people probably assumed that Peter was the same. Not that it bothered him. His fur coat was worth as much as a New York penthouse so people could think whatever they liked.

They found Wilson sitting alone near the back. A half wall separated him from the rest of the diners. He stood as they entered, greeting Peter with a kiss on his hand.

"Good to see you again, Wilson." Peter offered his prettiest smile. The man smiled fondly in return.

"Nice to see you in good health," he said. Peter could sense the implication that he knew about the situation with Los Tiburones.

"How are you this morning, Wilson?" Tony asked. They all sat down and a waiter took their drink orders. Peter looked too closely at his face, anxious that he might recognize it.

"Wondering why you're the talk of the town yet again."

"I'm a popular guy."

The waiter brought drinks and took food orders. Peter caught the way everyone at the table and the guards standing around all stiffened in preparation, but nothing happened and the waiter left again.

"Toomes says you're affecting his business."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Toomes let his boys wander around where they shouldn't have been. They're lucky they walked out alive. I'm sure they'll be out of the hospital and back in business in no time."

Wilson chuckled, helping himself to one of the rolls on the table. "They have this honey butter here," he said to Peter. "It's house made and always just right. Not too sweet." He passed the rolls to Peter who took one for himself. He didn't eat a lot of bread, but he wouldn't be rude to Wilson Fisk either.

"I'm sure you're right," he said now to Tony. "Still, let's be cautious about stirring up trouble at a time like this."

"Sure, sure. What about you pissing off that cop?"

Wilson waved his hand. "A pig is a pig. And what do we do with pigs?" He winked at Peter. "We make bacon." He laughed raucously at his own joke. Peter smiled politely.

Plates of food were delivered and conversation slowed as they ate. Half way through his meal Wilson chimed in again. "How is the wedding proceeding between Pepper and your Capo?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Just waiting for your approval I'm sure."

Wilson laughed. "One thing you aren't meant to do is marry within your own family."

"They're a good match," he reasoned.

"You would know what Ms. Potts needs I'm sure." He gave Tony an amused, but no less suggestive look.

"You and Pepper?" Peter raised an eyebrow at his husband.

Tony waved the thought away. "It was more something to get out of our systems than it was a relationship. Pepper and Happy have been dancing around for formalities' sake for too long. So I told them to go for it."

Peter snorted. "You handed me two giant glasses of vodka and sent me after them. They were so sloshed they forgot they weren't the only two people in the room. It took Bucky to separate them before any more clothes came off."

Wilson laughed again, head tossed back. "Young love, eh? No, I'm happy for them. One weakness deserves another."

"Love can be more than weakness, Wilson," Peter said.

Wilson gave him a fond smile. "For you, I'm sure it's every bit strength." He took a bite of sausage. He turned back to Tony. "So, what will you do without your underboss?"

"She hasn't decided yet that she's retiring." Peter couldn't help but notice how guarded his body language was. Still and drawn in. Was it the conversation or had he noticed something in the room?

"She will," he nodded. "She'll want children, a real home, something quiet and away from the trouble."

"If that's what she decides, then I'll make sure she has it."

"And who will take up the mantle?" Wilson spared a glance at Peter.

"That hasn't been decided yet, either."

"Hm."

"Do you have a suggestion?"

Wilson cleared his throat. "I mean no offense by it, but I think it would be unwise to promote your husband to such a role."

Tony's eyes narrowed, but only for the slightest second. "And why is that?"

"Not because he isn't capable, but because it won't lead anywhere good. An underboss is meant to do the work your hands are too busy for. And the two of you live up each others asses. You'll be juggling the workload for both, not because he cannot handle his own, but because you won't be willing to let him. Sending him out to play with this lowlife gangster was risky enough."

"You wanted your diamonds and you got them."

Wilson shrugged. "I'm not unappreciative. You gave me back Vanessa's diamonds and I handled that business at the precinct. It all ended well. Save for this problem that you are having."

"It'll be over soon."

Peter saw the ambush coming at the same moment Wilson did. All three of them whipped out their guns. Peter and Tony fired on the pair in front of them. A bullet whizzed past Peter's ear nearly close enough to put a hole in him. He turned, looking around the room. Four bodies on the floor. Four men standing. He grabbed Tony's arm at the same moment Tony reached for him, but they were both okay.

"Time to go," Wilson declared.

The rest of the room stared in shock and awe as they fled the room. One of Wilson's men met them at the door and escorted them out. There was more shooting behind them. Tony wrapped his arm around Peter and pushed his head down, pulling him into his side. Peter could have killed him for it. He couldn't protect him tucked into his side like a duckling.

Tony shot a man before he could fully remove the shotgun from his coat, but otherwise the violence remained behind them. Then the door to the restaurant closed and the screams and gunfire went away.

The three of them got into Fisk's limo. The inside was decorated as extravagantly as a grand theater. The lights were shaped like diamonds and hung down the side walls. The floor was carpeted in burgundy, the seats a rich, bloody, red. To one side was a lighted display of liquors and champagnes. It was a hotel suite more than a vehicle. Not that Tony's own limo was so different, but it was understated in comparison.

"So, not your men I presume," Fisk said. One of his giant fists held a cigar while he lit it up.

Tony looked out through the back windshield. "Not mine and no one I recognize. I need to call Happy." He put his phone to his ear. Fisk turned his attention to Peter with an amused smile.

"It's almost a shame. Your man is skilled enough to run the whole city if he wanted to."

"What about you, sir?" Peter asked.

Fisk laughed. "Not these days. I'm showing signs of wear. My weakness has already been exploited and I've been slowly cracking ever since." He pressed a hand to his heart in a seemingly unconscious movement.

"I'm sorry about your wife, sir."

He smiled softly. "Vanessa will always be my heart. The only part of me that was ever any good. You would think I would have killed her for it. I never have appreciated goodness." He huffed a laugh. "I threatened to every now and then and she'd just give me this look. Stern, unafraid. And you would think that would have pissed me off, but never when it was her."

Wilson reached under his shirt and pulled out a small ring on a chain. The band was plain with one large diamond in the center. "This was her mother's. Vanessa killed her and took it off her finger. And she proposed to me with it. And of course I was bewildered and amazed by her. Blood still on the band. I put it on her finger and promised I would marry her when the time was right. Took another three years for me to give in, but she never asked again. She just waited. I supposed she knew she had my heart no matter how hard I tried to break hers."

He glanced at Tony, shouting on the phone with Happy, ignoring them both. "He's not so different. Afraid to have the things, the one, that makes him happy. Because something will always come along and threaten to take it from you. And like me, losing that person will destroy him. If you love him and you want to protect him, you'll do whatever it takes to protect yourself first.

"Vanessa," he sighed. "I failed her. I never liked the idea of a woman fighting, holding a gun. Oh, she was a killer. Real blood thirsty, no different from me, but I pushed her away from getting her hands dirty. Never be afraid to pick up a gun. But of course I hear that you don't hesitate to put a hole in a man. That's good. Don't make the mistake of hesitation."

They were quiet for a moment. "Why does there have to be five bosses? Couldn't you and Tony do it alone?"

Wilson laughed. "Eager to get rid of the others? That's smart, considering they don't like you. No, New York is a big city. It takes a lot of money and a lot of elbow grease to keep what we have from being damaged by police and politicians. Plenty of them don't like me or Tony."

"Is that why you picked Harry? He has connections with those kinds of people."

Wilson nodded. "Norman had a great deal of political friends who kept the secrets of his company quiet. They'll do the same for Harry or else I'll assist him in applying the right pressure."

Tony got off the phone. He slid it into his pocket. Peter caught his hand and tangled their fingers together. It was so natural that Tony hardly seemed to notice.

"My men are clearing the building. They'll grab anyone they find." He looked Peter over, dusting off his shoulders with his free hand.

"I'm sure the perpetrators are long gone," Wilson said. "Or long dead. Do you believe this was that Tiburones boy?"

"Most likely." Tony tisked, likely finding dirt or possibly blood on his coat. Peter knew it would be replaced by morning.

Wilson nodded. "Then I ought to assume he's brave enough to push himself into my territory. I'll have the boys on high alert, but Tony, if any of his men appear on my streets they will be killed on sight. I won't take prisoners for you."

"Noted." How disappointed they would both be if Wilson got to the guy first.

#marvel #starker #mafia au #au fic #violence #murder mention #misogyny #a king on a leash

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bigasswritingmagnet · 3 years

Text

When History Comes Calling Ch 6/14

art by @snuffes

Fandom: Mass Effect Rating: Teen Pairing: none, some background Fshep/Garrus

Summary: In 2170, Mindoir was attacked by slavers. Hundreds were taken captive, hundreds more were slaughtered. Kiryn was the only Shepard to make it out alive. For years, he buried his grief, kept his head high, and did whatever he needed to survive.He survived Mindoir and the batarians and when the Reapers came he survived them too.

But when the war ends and he escapes his batarian masters to the Citadel, the discovery that his twin sister is alive and well might just be the thing that breaks him. The Hegemony's greatest assassin will remember what it means to have something to lose.

AO3 link in notes! “How come Joker gets a whole bed and I have to sleep on a couch?”

“Because I have brittle bone disease, and you once won hand to hand combat with a krogan.”

“I have to sleep on a couch too, and I’m not complaining.”

“Because you fit on a couch, Esteban. You’re couch sized.”

“You could ask Garrus if you can bunk with him.”

“No thanks. I’ve been shot all the times I want.”

A faint pinging noise.

“Shepard says if we don’t bring breakfast in ten minutes she starts breaking windows.”

“Ah jeez. Garrus! Come on! We gotta go before Shepard pisses off the nurses again!”

“I hope they let her out soon, I don’t know how much more of her that hospital can take.”

“Well the doctor says…”

The voices faded as the speakers passed out of the bug’s range. Kiryn very nearly scowled in his frustration. This was the third time he’d missed out on information of Keris’ medical status.

He needed to get more listening devices. One for every room of that stupid, oversized cavern of an apartment. Nobody ever stayed put when they started a conversation, even an important one. He never should have wasted one in the office. Nobody spent any time in there, because it was Keris’ office, and she was in the hospital.

The kitchen had been a good call, but apparently people had conversations about highly confidential top secret Alliance projects anywhere they damn well pleased, up to and including the bathroom. Weren’t these people supposed to be professionals? One of them was the Shadow Broker for crying out loud.

The emails had been worse than disappointing. They had been concerning. Not in content, but in quantity. He had expected the bulk of his sister’s communication to be work related. But out of an entire year’s worth of correspondence, barely fifty of them had been entirely unrelated to her work. At least they had been relatively positive messages, mostly requests to spend time together in a non-combat situation. He just hoped Keris had taken them all up on that offer. She never seemed to reply to the emails she got.

Kiryn sat up, startling the man on the other bed. He wasn’t sure what to make of the man, who went by Tucker. He couldn't possibly know Kiryn's reputation - he was from a colony just outside Alliance space, and this was the farthest he'd ever been from home. He'd been a beet farmer, of all things.

Kiryn had never threatened him. In fact, Kiryn barely spoke to the man. He spent most of his time staring silently at the ceiling, listening to the conversations via his listening devices. Tucker couldn't hear anything, Kiryn had made sure, so there was no way that was worrying him.Kiryn was never rude or angry or moody; he kept up his neutral expression as he always did, showing no emotions whatsoever.

So why on earth was Tucker so afraid of him?

“Good morning,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” Tucker said, dropping the datapads he’d been trying to sort. He started to retrieve them, only to drop them again when Kiryn stood up. Kiryn stared at him, trying to think of something to say that would reassure the man. The only thing that really came to mind was “don’t worry I only kill people for money and I promise I wouldn’t take a contract on you if anyone offered it”-- and Kiryn suspected that wasn’t quite going to cut it.

“Have a nice day,” he said, finally. Tucker shrank away from him as he slipped out the door. What a strange man.

As obsessive as C-Sec was about keeping tabs on the refugees, they sure weren't doing a very good job of watching all the possible ways in and out. This had been a loading dock, which meant there were all sorts of service entrances. Sure, those doors were locked, but they used the same keycards as the open entrances. All Kiryn had had to do was get his hands on a security pass -- neatly snagged off a passing officer too busy talking on his omnitool -- and he could come and go as he pleased. There was one door that the cameras didn't quite reach, around a corner the guards didn't bother to keep an eye on.

Kiryn was becoming quite fond of C-Sec, in a condescending sort of way. Bless their little hearts, they tried so hard. If Kiryn had been interested in doing any real damage, they'd never catch him until it was far, far too late. Truly it was fortunate that everyone was too busy trying to get themselves sorted out to even think about the kinds of political maneuverings that required murder.

He found that he enjoyed exploring the Citadel. So much of it was a novelty: being able to disappear so easily into the crowd, not needing to keep constant watch for security systems or guards, to keep to his own schedule rather than that of his target, to just casually be . He could go into a store that caught his interest without a purpose, or sit on a bench and watch people go by, or even just meander aimlessly around with no destination in mind.

Perhaps this was what it meant to enjoy freedom.

He didn't even need to be efficient when he did have a goal in mind. He could go to the wards and find the quiet little shop that discreetly sold the tools of his trade, buy some more listening devices, and take himself up to the Presidium for lunch before heading back to Keris' apartment. No rush at all, so long as he got there before visiting hours ended. He'd been listening in for long enough to get a good sense of everyone's schedules. They tended to take shifts at the hospital with Keris, but they also had their own jobs to do. In general, the apartment was all but guaranteed to be empty between 10 am and 3pm.

"I'm getting a little worried about you, Garrus," said Tali'zorah vas Normandy, and Kiryn nearly choked on his noodles. Reaching out to grab a napkin, he turned the silver holder until he could see beside him. Only one seat away, three of Keris' friends were sitting down to lunch.

Of all the worst luck... He hunched his shoulders and tried to be as invisible as possible. They don't know what you look like, he tried to remind himself. For that matter, they didn't even know anyone had been in Keris' apartment. They weren't looking for anyone. But if they did figure it out, he couldn't risk someone looking at the security cameras and remembering the guy at the noodle place.

"What are you talking about? I'm fine," said Garrus Vakarian, the turian his sister was, actually, as a matter of fact, dating for real. Kiryn still hadn’t figured out what to think about that.

"No, Tali's right. You spend every minute you can in the hospital." James Vega was even bigger than he sounded.

"Where else should I be?" Vakarian snapped. Kiryn watched his reflection jab irritably at the electronic menu. "I can do my work from there just fine."

"I know," Tali’zorah said, gently, "but you don't do anything else. Or go anywhere else. At all."

"You want me to just leave her in there alone?" There were even fewer turians in batarian space than there were humans, so Kiryn wasn't as good at reading them, especially when distorted by a reflection. But even he could hear anxiety pretending to be anger when he heard it.

"C'mon, Scars, we're not saying you should never visit her. But she's not going anywhere. She's fine now, she said so herself."

"She said she was fine when she was barely out of the coma, too," Vakarian said. "After what happened last week, you still think she's fine?"

Last week? What had happened last week? Nobody had said anything last week. Unless they'd said it out of range of the listening devices. His hand tightened on his chopsticks, his ears straining to pick up every word over the bustle of the crowd.

"It was just a bad reaction to the medication. The doctors fixed it."

"And if she has a bad reaction to this stuff too? What then?"

Kiryn tried to remember to keep eating, to just blend in, be another member of the crowd. Everything suddenly tasted foul; it was hard to swallow. He agreed with Vakarian whole-heartedly. A mental image of Keris sitting small and alone in a dark hospital room, flashed across his mind. Just the thought made him feel cold. These were supposed to be her friends!

"Hey, can you pass the soy sauce?"

The voice was so unexpected Kiryn looked up. He turned away again, but the damage had been done. Vega had seen his face. Kiryn slid the bottle over, muttering something, trying to look engaged with his soup.

"Hey, do I know you? You look real familiar, man."

No. No, no, no, no.

He shook his head, his stomach twisting into knots.

"Military, right?" Shit . "I was stationed out on Arcturus Prime a few years back; were you ever out that way?"

Kiryn shook his head firmly and stood.

"No."

"But--"

Kiryn turned quickly and left, knowing this was suspicious, thinking of a thousand better ways he could have handled it... but his heart was thudding against his ribs so hard he couldn't breathe.

He should hold off on going back to Keris' apartment for a few days, until the incident had faded from their minds. He wasn't going to. The reminder of just how much information he was missing was not one he could easily put aside. What if Vakarian was right, and something did happen and Kiryn never knew about it?

He would just need to be quick, and careful.

This time he did not go in the front door, even though he knew the code. He could not risk being seen by the cameras out front. But he'd had a chance to get his hands on blueprints of Tiberius Towers and the buildings beside it. There was a parking garage beneath them. All three had access.

He walked faster than he should have. The adrenaline and something tight in his chest he couldn't understand drove him on. He found the elevator and stairwell. He took the stairs, but only two flights. There was the opening to the air vents. Unpleasant, slow, and difficult, but much, much safer. No risk of being seen. He could be absolutely sure no one was in the apartment before he entered.

The added bonus was that it forced him to slow down. He had to focus on making as little sound as possible, regulating his breathing, and counting the floors as he went. The cold air in the vent went a long way to clearing his mind. By the time he was high up enough, his heartbeat had slowed and he could think straight again, although he still couldn’t shake that tightness in his chest.

It had been an unfortunate coincidence, and he hadn’t handled it well. However, given that no one knew about the bugs, no one was on the alert for any strange behavior. As far as they knew, he was just a weird guy at the ramen place. Right? Right.

So just calm down and get a grip. Everything was fine.

There was a series of laser tripwires criss-crossing the vents leading to Keris’ apartment. Before he could pull up his omnitool and figure out how to deactivate them, they turned off. That was….weird. He checked their schematics and found that they had genetic sequence readers, just like the door. They didn’t seem to be set to track any coming and goings. The alarm was simply wired not to go off when certain people went by. And apparently the readers weren’t very advanced, if 50% was close enough to do it.

It might have been making his life more convenient, but he wasn’t any less annoyed at how slipshod Keris’ security system was. She should really know better.

Kyrin had a lot of little tools in his kit, things that weren’t necessary but made his job easier. Some were quite specialised. You couldn’t get past everything with an omnitool. Of particular use was a device that looked almost like something you’d find at a dentist’s office, which was able to unscrew things from around a corner. Like, say, the screws to a vent cover from inside the vent.

Kiryn was at the top of his field for many reasons. His physical prowess and tactical skill made him one of the best. But there were two things that made him the best: he minded the little details, and he always always managed his escape routes as he went. It was for this reason that, despite his urgency, he took the time to strip the screws and glue them into place on the vent cover, so he could come and go with ease.

This time he was not going to dawdle. In, plant the bugs, get out. He’d go to the wards and find a hotel that charged by the hour, ridiculous or not, and work on his sniper rifle. That would make him feel better. Or at least calmer.

He put a bug in every room in the apartment, every hallway. Under every couch, the poker table, the conference table, hidden in the branches of a tree, at the bottom of a painting. One in the bar, at the far back where it couldn’t be seen.

Nothing was ever going to happen to Keris that Kiryn did not know about. Not anymore.

#mass effect #commander shepard #femshep #dudeshep #twin au #alternate universe fic

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