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kalaluchi · 3 years

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chapter 06: anime

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“Hey, nice wings!”

“Sorry, what?”

Marinette suddenly wanted to bury herself in a hole from embarrassment.

The moment Adrien walked in that morning, she’d noticed the telltale Wings of Freedom keychain hanging from his bag. And, sure, they’d been talking on end for nearly a month now. But still she’d spent the whole day just working up the courage to approach him and mention the keychain, thinking maybe, finally, they’d have something more to talk about other than school work and the occasional small talk, because mostly he talked about things she already knew from stalking him… not like she was going to tell him that, though.

And yet… yet he stood there, obvious confusion in his gorgeous green eyes, with a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised, like he had no idea what in the world she meant. Like the silver item was absolutely not hanging from the strap of his bag. Even though it so was.

Hence-- the want to bury herself in a hole. Ever the brave heroine, Marinette instead swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Hanging on your bag. It’s Wings of Freedom from Attack on Titan. I thought you having it meant you’d watched AOT. I guess not? You should though, it’s one of my favorite shows. Uh, I mean, not that you have to, you know, of course, I mean, who am I to force you to watch something, I just meant--”

Adrien cut her off with a chuckle. “Oh! I forgot I left that hanging there. I actually have watched it though. I remember binging it one summer a few years back.” His smile to himself, probably remembering simpler times.

Marinette relaxed, and grinned. “I know what you mean. My parents used to get mad at me for sneaking down at midnight to watch episodes as soon as they were released. Uh, so are there any other animes you like, or is it just that one…?”

“I used to watch a lot, but that was back when I had a lot of time, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair nonchalantly. (How did he do that so effortlessly…)

“Mhm!” Marinette nodded emphatically, mesmerized. “Me too! Uh, hey! Why don’t we, uh, watch something… together? There’s an anime I’ve been wanting to watch, but I haven’t… had a solid enough reason to. Although, of course, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added hastily. “I-I just thought it’d be fun, you know, since we both hadn’t watched in a while--”

“Sounds fun!”

“I mean, I don’t expect you to agree, I-- what did you say?”

Adrien chuckled. “I said, ‘sounds fun.’ What did you want to watch?”

“Uh.” Still reeling from the shock that he’d agreed so quickly, Marinette pulled out her phone. “I forgot the name, but I’m pretty sure I had it on a list, lemme check.” She unlocked it and scrolled through her notes.

Once she found it, she grinned triumphantly, feeling lucky that she’d managed to get this far in the conversation. “Here, it’s called, uh… ah.”

Marinette suddenly felt shy, her luck all gone. It seemed like cruel fate that this particular anime was next on her list, for her and Adrien to watch together. She cleared her throat. “It’s, uhm, called Kaguya-sama: Love is War. You might not like the genre, though, so it’s okay if you wanna watch something else…” Please let him want to watch something else. I won’t be able to take this internal torture, Marinette pleaded to the skies silently.

Instead, Adrien’s eyes shone excitedly. “Oh, I’ve heard of that! The one where the guy and the girl like each other, but neither wants to lower their pride and admit it, right? So they come up with situations to force the other one to confess? They’re so funny-- it's adorable!”

“More like relatable,” Marinette coughed to herself.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that…?”

Marinette forced a laugh. “I said, ‘yup! Adorable.’”

“So, when should we start watching? You free Saturday night?”

“Sure,” she said immediately, not one to turn down a possible? date with her crush.

Then her brain caught up with her heart, and she groaned. Saturday nights were movie-night-with-Alya nights… she was sure the brunette would not let a boy overrule movie nights. Even if that boy were radiant… carefree… dreamy… Adrien.

But what if… she merged movie night and anime night? Anyway, it was her turn to host movie night and choose what to watch. She had a feeling Alya would enjoy watching Kaguya-sama, especially knowing its summary… Marinette really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Alya’s schemes yet again, but if it made it possible to watch with Adrien and Alya… she supposed it would be worth it just this once.

“Something wrong?”Adrien’s voice cut in, his brow creased. “If you’re not free Saturday night, it’s cool we can resched.”

“No! We’re good, I’m good, you’re handsome-- I mean, it’s… awesome.” She cringed inwardly. “I can definitely do Sat, no prob-o. But, uh… is it okay if I invite Alya? I mean, the more the merrier, right?”

She almost thought Adrien looked disappointed at this, but if he were, he hid it well. “Cool, I love Alya,” he said easily, grinning. (Marinette chose to ignore the pang that hit her at this. Why just Alya? How about an ‘I love Marinette’ as well? She fought the urge to sigh.) “We can invite Nino as well so it’s… even more fun I guess?”

“Mhm, sounds like a plan. I’ll tell Alya, and you tell Nino?”

“Okay,” he said, waving goodbye and heading to his seat as the bell rang for class.

‘I’ll tell Alya,’ huh? A lot easier said than done, Marinette thought, unsure how to break the news to her best friend.

“Alya,” Marinette started an hour later, after planning out an entire speech and writing down bullet points to rebut any arguments her best friend might have.

It all went out the window when the latter held up a hand, giving the ravenette a knowing smile.

“No need to explain, I know.”

“Wha--”

“Considering we sit beside each other, you pass on information pretty slowly. It’s been, like, 2 periods…”

Marinette spluttered, “I-- how-- who-- what.”

Alya held up her phone and waved it around. “Hello? These exist? Nino texted me the second our break ended… (Though why he didn’t just… tell me outright… I have no idea.) We’ve been texting back and forth, planning.”

Marinette practically sagged in relief. “Oh, thank goodness.” She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Alya, you are absolutely the bestest friend ever, I don’t deserve you--”

“Hold your horses, don’t get all sappy on me yet,” Alya interrupted, holding up a finger. “You’re not cleared yet. One: I never thought you’d be the type of girl to ditch her best friend as soon as she got a boyfriend--”

“He’s not--!”

“--but,” Alya continued, ignoring Marinette’s profuse protests, “I completely forgive you, because I know you, and I know your heart often speaks before your brain can, and I know that you would never ditch me on purpose, especially when our agreement came first.”

Marinette gave the brunette the best puppy-dog eyes she could manage. “Alyaaaaa, you know I love you, right?”

Alya rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, girl, I know. Now put that expression away, it's creeping me out,” she laughed. “And I know you’re going to ask, so yes, there is a way to make it up to me, and that is: you have to invite Adrien to watch with you… like physically. Not over video call like we sometimes do. I want there to be popcorn and blankets and everything. If you two end up cuddling, even better.”

“Cuddling?!” Marinette whisper-shouted, beet red. “Wh-why would we--! I don’t want to--! mean, yes, it would be nice, but we are just friends. Okay?”

The brunette laughed at her best friend’s reaction. “You got it. But do we have a deal? You invite your boy over, I’ll come up with an excuse not to go, you bring me two packs of my favorite candy for our next movie night-- and I do not dwell over the fact that you forgot me, your best friend forever, when making plans with Adrien, the love of your life.”

Marinette wisely opted to ignore that last bit Alya said, and nodded firmly, shaking the latter’s outstretched hand.

“Deal.”

Adrien was packing his bag when Marinette walked up to him at the end of the day.

“Hey, Adrien, about our anime thing on Saturday--”

“Anime?” a voice interrupted snarkily. Marinette turned and found none other than Chloe Bourgeois standing behind her, one hand on her hip. “You seriously still watch that stuff? Isn’t it, like, for kids or something?” She let out a laugh. “Although I don’t know why I expected any different from you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette was about to shoot back a retort when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Chloe,” Adrien said patiently, “we’ve talked about this. Anime isn’t just for kids. Remember how our parents wouldn’t let us watch Attack on Titan when we were 9 because it was scary? Anime can actually have different genres and all, and I think that’s pretty neat. I’m pretty excited actually to start a new one with Marinette.” (Marinette thought she’d faint at this. But she managed to keep her cool.)

“Oh, Adrikins, I totally agree!” Chloe said sweetly, batting her eyelashes. (Marinette fought the urge to throw up.) “I was only joking with Marinette, of course! Ha ha! Like friends do! I love anime! So, about this new show-- maybe I could watch it with you, hmm?”

“That okay with you, Marinette?”

Hell no. “Sure thing!”

This was going to be a disaster.

Adrien and Chloe showed up at her place 7pm that Saturday.

The plan was to binge as many episodes as they could. Marinette had set up her room with tons of pillows, so they could be comfortable watching from the floor. (Well… her and Adrien anyway. She was 99% sure Chloe would get just bored immediately and end up scrolling through social media, but whatever.)

They made their way up to her room after they’d greeted her parents. (Marinette did her best to ignore the raised eyebrows her parents gave her, silently asking about Chloe’s presence. She herself honestly had no idea what to say about it.) Chloe flopped onto the couch in the middle of the room, crossing her legs as she unlocked her phone. Typical. But Marinette really hadn’t expected anything else, so she ignored the blonde.

She set up the TV and brought bowls of popcorn to the piles of pillows where Adrien sat. She shyly took a seat beside him, grinning as she hit the play button.

They both settled in as the first episode began playing, starting with a speech likening love to war, wherein the person who falls in love first loses.

Marinette frowned at that. She wanted to disagree, but she kept her mouth shut when she saw the way Adrien was engrossed in watching. She noted the way his lips turned up at every joke and mouthed the words to the theme song.

She felt her heart squeeze at the sight. The opening speech be damned, she’d never feel like she was on the losing side if she got the chance to fall in love with this precious boy.

Marinette looked at his hand on the floor, and tentatively reached out to put her own on top of his. So close--

She froze when she felt Chloe plop down beside her, ready to hear the blonde call her out on what she was trying to do. Instead, Chloe had her eyes glued to the TV, watching Kaguya and Shirogane’s antics with rapt interest. Marinette nearly jumped when the other girl burst out in laughter at Shirogane’s attempts to give love advice.

She still wanted to figuratively strangle Chloe for ruining her almost-moment, but as she watched both her companions drink in the show she’d put on, Marinette thought that this might not turn out to be so bad, after all.

“So, what did you think, Chloe?” Adrien asked as the three of them stood outside the bakery, waiting for Adrien’s and Chloe’s cars to pick them up.

“It was… okay,” she scoffed, going for a nonchalant tone. “Nothing special, I guess.”

(Chloe actually absolutely loved it, Marinette could tell, but of course the blonde would never for the life of her admit it.)

“But maybe they were kinda cute. I don’t see why people would flock to that kind of thing, though. I mean… where would you even download it, you know?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Not like I really want to know, duh. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Up to you if you want to answer, but I really couldn’t care less.”

Behind her back, Adrien and Marinette shared a smile and a fist bump. Marinette made it a point to loudly mention the name of the site they’d watched on, adding, “I mean, I’m sharing that just as a random fact, of course.”

Chloe typed something on her phone quickly, and huffed as her car pulled into the driveway. “Whatever, loser. Bye, Adrikins!” she said instead, getting in the backseat.

“Sorry about inviting Chloe,” Adrien immediately apologized once it was just the two of them. “I really didn’t know Alya wouldn’t be coming, and Nino only told me right before that he wouldn’t be able to make it. Sorry for ruining your night.”

“No worries,” she said lightly. And surprisingly, she meant it. Not only did she get to spend hours with her crush, she also got to see a different side of Chloe Bourgeois, a side that made her think maybe the blonde was human after all. “It was surprisingly fun even with her around. And I really enjoyed watching Kaguya. I… learned a lot.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Really? What did you learn? Do enlighten me.”

“Your ride’s here,” she only said, pointing behind him.

He laughed. “What perfect timing, gave you an excuse to avoid my question. You must be hiding something.”

“I really don’t know what you mean,” she replied, grinning.

“Good night, Marinette,” he said, turning to leave.

“Good night, Adrien,” she echoed, stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets and watching the car drive away.

She looked up at the stars, remembering one of the episodes they’d just watched, and wondered what she’d do if she’d been in Kaguya’s shoes. She wanted to say she’d have been more firm about her feelings… but she had a feeling when the time came, she might find herself frozen in shock as well.

But one thing was for sure. There was no way she was going to deny her feelings any more. She most definitely liked Adrien Agreste as more than a friend, whether or not he liked her back. (Though of course she hoped it was the former.)

She was absolutely determined to make active decisions to get to know this blond-haired green-eyed boy more. No scheming and coming up with mind games to force him to confess. She’d confess if she had to, on her own terms.

And hopefully, hopefully, the day would come when she could say she’d won the war that they call love, and when she could say, without a doubt, that he was hers.

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#adrinette april 2021 #adrinette #miraculous ladybug #idk what im doing sorry #ml #mlb #mlbcn #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #mlb fics #adrinetteapril2021 #kaguya-sama love is war #day 6: anime

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songsofloretto · 3 years

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Kieran gave me this earlier. I like writing for Kieran. He's a nasty bastard trying to turn his life around which makes him multi-faceted but as a character giving direction he's easy to 'feel'. Kieran never does third person perspective. His stories are always first person and written like a commentary.

Kieran, Nicky, Rory and Matthew

Sainsbury's, May 2021

"Uncle Kieran can I have these water pistols?"

It's been 30 years since I last took a child grocery shopping. It was bad enough in the 1980s with the kids wanting the sweets at the end of the checkout and all that. Fast forward to the 21st century and the problem has absolutely mushroomed, along with the size of supermarkets in general. Before I went to prison supermarkets only sold food. These days they sell everything from sun-dried tomatoes to fecking funeral plans. Nothing is sacred from these corporate giants. There are whole sections devoted to toys so there's no avoiding the inevitable pleas from children presented with their every wildest dream every time you call in for a pint of milk. Our Matthew's grandson is no different. The little lad is only four years old and to him this toy section is like every Christmas morning he's ever dreamed of all rolled in to one.

"Eh?" I say.

Rory lifts a box of four water pistols from the shelf and almost topples over under the weight of them. I grab it quick and steady him before he smacks his head off the corner of a shelf.

"Woah," I say to him, "steady on, our kid."

"I want these water pistols," Rory says emphatically, "there's four altogether. You, me, Uncle Nicky and Grandad can all play with them in the garden."

I look at the box. The pistols are nothing special. I've seen more power in a carrot. But the kid is right. It's a boiling hot day and perhaps an hour in the garden shooting each other up is exactly what this fecked up family needs to bond.

And who can say no to little Rory, who hasn't seen his daddy in over a year. Deaglan has been stuck in New York over this bloody pandemic, unable to get home to his son, missing out on all the drama we have going on here. The kid, innocently caught in the middle of it all, deserves a little joy in his life. I take a pistol out of the box and work my finger over the trigger, pretending to shoot, while Rory laughs and crouches down low.

"Aye you can have them," I tell him, and ruffle his hair with my fingers.

Right on cue the ever uptight Nicky slides up to us, almost falling over himself in his desperation to spoil any fun. He's swaggering about in his police uniform with a stick up his arse as usual. No tie or epaulettes but you can still tell he's an off-duty police officer. The cunt.

"I don't think so," he says rather efficiently as he plucks the box and the pistols out of my hands.

"What the f...Nicky!" I say, and pull the box back from him, "what's wrong with you?"

"I don't think it's appropriate for children to play with guns," Nicky says matter-of-factly.

"Aww!" Rory whines, "please, Uncle Nicky!"

His face creases and I can't bear to see him look sad. I know from experience that arguing with Nicky isn't easy. He's a jumped-up, self-important and arrogant little prick. In fact he's just like me when I was his age. It amuses me somewhat. I know that he'll get wound up like a clock if I challenge his decision - and I'm really trying to make friends with him, honest - but I've got to try and change his mind, for the little lad's sake.

"Well they're only water pistols," I say with a little shrug, "not gonna do much damage with them, eh, Nick auld fella?"

Nicky pulls a straight-laced expression and looks down his nose at me like a seasoned bloodhound would look at a yapping pup. He thinks I'm scum, I realise as we face each other off. He'll always look down on me like this, because in his bright, British eyes I'll always represent the dirty side of Ireland. I feel the vein on my temple flicker. I have to take a deep breath to keep my cool.

"It's not about any potential risk of damage," Nicky breaks the tension between us with a belittling little sniff, "it's about the psychology. Teaching children that guns are good fun and can't hurt anyone is a slippery slip. Before we know it he'll be twelve years old and shooting up his gym class."

"Fuck off Nicky, this is England, not America," I try to laugh off his point but he just keeps staring.

"And I don't think you, of all people, Kieran O'Driscoll, are in any position at all to be encouraging my nephew to take an interest in firearms," Nicky looks down his nose at me again.

I've been trying hard to handle his snooty arrogance for weeks. I really have. But something inside me snaps.

"Why?" I ask, squaring up to him, "because I was in the IRA? Is that it?"

I don't know what I'm doing. I'm 79 years old. Nicky is 45. I haven't got a chance against him in a fight, especially not with all his police training, but it's my pride that pushes me on. I have to stand up for myself, be a man about it. Teach this little arsehole a lesson.

"Yes," Nicky nods his head, "because you dealt firearms for terrorist organisation. And I don't want you playing with any sort of gun, imitation or otherwise, in front of my brother's son."

Deaglan is Nicky's own twin brother. They've never met. They were seperated at birth. Deaglan stayed in Ireland with Matthew, Nicky went to England with Kate. And now he fancies himself as the big Englishman, the creme de la creme of Britishness, superior above each and all other nationalities. And he spent his whole life loathing the Irish for putting his mother in a wheelchair. She was was a British soldier, victim of an IRA bomb, Newry police station, 1975. Sad story.

It was a terrible shock to poor Nicholas Jamie Hawley when he discovered that his father was not, as his mother always told him, a dead British soldier who died for his country in a halo of bullets. His father Matthew is in fact a proud Ulsterman who is very much alive and even did time for murder. Nicky's brain must have exploded inside his skull when it tried to digest this information. When he realised that half of him bled for Ireland it nearly knocked him sick.

But he had to get used to the idea because this pandemic threw us all together under the same roof, forcing us to learn to love and live with each other. And so here we are, factions of a long-estranged family trying to find common ground, and about to start fighting over water pistols in Sainsbury's.

"You'll never forgive me for being ex-IRA, will you?" I ask him.

"Never," Nicky lifts his chin, "once a terrorist, always a terrorist in my book."

"I did my time, Nicholas," I tell him, "27 years in a hell-hole of a prison. Oh Lord I suffered. And I'm deeply sorry for my transgressions as a younger man."

"Sorry will never be enough," Nicky whispers, "what your sort did to my mother..."

I close my eyes. I don't like think of it. And all over some water pistols to make the little lad happy!

The Voice of Reason enters stage left. Here is Matthew O'Driscoll, everyone's favourite peace-keeping fence-sitter. He spent an age parking the car and has only just joined us. He's as Irish as I am but everyone loves him, even Nicky, because...well because he's Matthew. Need I say more?

Matthew is astute. He studies the body language between me and his long-lost son and folds his arms, awaiting explanation.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"The wee bairn wanted a few water pistols to play with," I said, "and PC Gobshite over here has got an issue with it."

Matthew looks at Nicky who blushes a little as if he suddenly feels rather foolish.

"I didn't think it was ok," he says. His mouth is suddenly dry and he swallows, "to promote guns to a child. I'm in Loco Parentis for Rory. Deaglan has trusted me to look after him. I don't want to fuck it up and send the kid back to his dad thinking guns are ok. Because they're not. What would Deaglan think of me?"

He gives Matthew a slow look. Matthew nods his head. He is trying to understand Nicky's perspective. The man is nervous about all this family stuff. He's still reeling from the shock of discovering he has a family he never knew, that the family is Irish, that there is a man out there in the world who shares his face. Appearance and reputation is key right now. Nicky has never been a parent and suddenly, thanks to the pandemic, he's stepping in to care for his twin brother's son. He wants to do a good job. Of course he does.

It's interesting that Nicky never gives Matthew any stick about being Irish. Let's not forget that Matthew did prison time too. In 1994 he shot his own best mate in the head to stop the IRA from kidnapping and torturing him. We've never spoken about the fact it was me who ordered Brophy's kidnapping in the first place. If I'd have got my hands on Donnachadh Brophy all those years I'd have cut his balls off, fried them in Crisp N Dry oil, added little salt and pepper to taste and made the cunt eat them. But not now. I've mellowed out now. I'm not like that any more. I wouldn't hurt a hair on Brophy's head if he were alive today. And I don't deal in guns. Except water pistols because...well they're water pistols for feck's sake.

"You mean you've taken offence to Kieran handling a gun because he's Irish, is it that it?" Matthew asks.

"Not because he's Irish, per se," Nicky says, "but because of...it's because he has previous."

Matthew nods. The simple action brings calm to the situation. Nicky is feeling heard. He relaxes a little.

"I know you still suffer the fear of the IRA," Matthew says to him softly, "I know as a kid they haunted your dreams. You grew up thinking you had to protect your Mammy from them. But it's all in the past, Nicky. Wether we like it or not we're all together now and there are things we have to forgive each other for if we're going to survive this virus. And survive as a family. Because that's all any of us ever longed for, isn't it? It's time to let go, son."

Matthew takes the pistol from Nicky's grip. The police officer tightens but then releases his hold, surrendering control to the father he never knew he had, and letting go of the toy gun. It's very poignant, metaphorical moment. Makes the man in me uncomfortable so I try to inject some humour to make it bearable.

"Fecking hell," I scoff, "who do you think you are Matty eh? A walking example of the Good Friday Agreement?"

Matthew doesn't take his eyes from Nicky's face. A silent agreement is passing between them.

"Shut up, Ki," Matthew says without looking at me, "it's all right, Nicky. We're going to take these pistols home, fill them up with water and have a big old laugh together. Three generations shooting cold water at each other. And it will be safe, it will be ok. Because it's what families do together all the time."

"Ok," Nicky starts scratching at his arms in that way he has when needs to self-soothe with a wash, "we'll have a water fight. Together. But I'll need to get a shower first."

"If it makes you feel better," Matthew nodded.

He understands Nicky's need to be clean better than I do. I've never known a man so obsessed with washing his skin, changing his clothes, marinating in aftershave because unfamiliar smells upset him. As soon as you walk into the house we all share his first question is 'have you washed your hands?' He won't let you touch anything until you wash your own hands at the kitchen sink. Which by the way is a Belfast model. That little detail is lost on Nicky. It brings me a private sort of amusement.

Nicky's scratching intensifies. We'll have to hurry up with the shopping now because he has it in his head that he needs a wash and a preen. If he doesn't get to a shower soon he'll start getting all upset with himself. There's no time to argue now.

Matthew hands the pistol to the four-year-old whose innocence is responsible for bringing us all together. And then we all walk on, four abreast, to find the pint of milk we all came in looking for in the first place.

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countryshitposts · 4 years

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You’re Shooting Your Bullet The Wrong Way

Pain, I Let The Bullets Fly Oh Let Them Rain

Trigger Warnings: Rape

Also whoever gets the symbolism i made TELL ME

AO3 Link

Name Guide:

Sulian- Soviet Union

Choson Inmin- North Korea

Renmin/Jung-gug- China

Minguo- Republic of China

Nippon Koku- Japan

Nippon Teikoku- Japan Empire

New Zealand thrusts a newspaper underneath America’s nose at seven in the morning, rudely interrupting her morning coffee and general mood for the day. She can already feel an incoming headache, resonating deep inside her as her blue eyes skim the pages, resting on the featured headline. Normally she would not care for headlines and news stories, believing that she’s updated herself every so often, on cold lonely nights with a mug of steaming tea in her hands, looking down from her balcony and into the wild, breeze flowing down at her hair as she checks her phone for new inquiries and to see if there is anything that can potentially be useful to her; either for entertainment or for her job.

She furrows her brows as she reads the headlines again and again, clutching the smooth surface of the newspaper, acting like it has done something wrong to her when in reality, she was the one missing-in-action, out of the game, because she was busily fixing that god-awful broken television that kept bugging her due to the fact she could not watch all of her weekly shows last night in a bathrobe.

“What do you think of this?”, New Zealand asks his sister, quirking a brow at her direction, like she was the boss and everyone has to follow her orders.

(Technically, she is the boss- from taking care of this whole department while the others had gone to their free periods and such, or to the point where her hair is in a bun and looking over at the files in alphabetical order, hoping for the morning to go easy on her.)

“I don’t know; how do you think I should react?”, she replies to her brother, who shrugs a little.

“This might be our one chance on getting into Teikoku’s lair once and for all”, New Zealand replies, and he points at the picture of a man in his late thirties, dark brown eyes staring at the camera, smooth dark hair shining from the light. Manchukuo, it read. “This guy was one of his bodyguards, and now he’s got a vacant position that one of us can occupy.”

“You can take care of this; I’ll be watching.” She leans back onto her swivel chair, legs on the reception desk, boredly looking at the lights blinkering above her, the ceiling plain white and she reminds herself to actually paint this whole dull station to look more entertaining than the pieces of paper scattered around her office day and night.

“You’re going to participate in this”, Canada speaks up from where he was sitting, Vietnam in front of him, possibly talking about something important. “We need you on this case, America. Because I feel like this Teikoku case will spiral out of control due to the diabolical plans he has up his sleeve.”

America groans- Canada was using his ‘older brother’ voice (despite the fact America is older than the bastard by a few years); at times Australia would mimick his tone of voice whenever they were alone to make Kiwi and America better, but now she handles the lamp on her desk, feeling its metal surface underneath her warm palms, wanting to throw the object right at Canada’s face, wanting to hear him shout in surprise as the lamp will collide with his face. She doesn’t, though; she’ll have fun torturing him during practice.

The front door opens and like fishes swimming their way to where the food is, they turn their heads towards the swinging doors, to reveal Philip (two hours late, like he always is), with an even more eyebrow-raising surprise; he was holding a vase full of white orchids, its petals flowing softly in the rising sun before he rudely closes the doors, his face looking utterly exhausted like he’s ran a marathon, dark circles over taking the space under his eyes like it was a cosmic deity of space and his hands were trembling, perhaps forcing them to work to death and in excruciating pain, leaving them immobile as he tries to carry the light-weight vase with visible difficulty. His hair was messy and standing on ends, like he had just woken up from the soft and sweet tendrils of sleep just this morning, put on his shoddy attire (it doesn’t even look ironed; the ruffled creases is obvious) and walked from hell to work.

But everyone’s eyes weren’t on Philip looking the slightest bit ghastly or sleep-deprived despite drinking down three cups of coffee based on how rushed and fast he walks, no; their eyes were on the pale white orchids, the wind inside of the room making them bow down obedient and willing to listen to their master. The colors were ghostly, touched by a spirit from another realm, like someone had just died.

The silence was broken by Philip, who, in his coffee-blazed haze, glares at everyone. “What?”

Canada was the first to recover, a smirk playin on his lips, light eyes staring at the orchids. “So, who is it?”

“Whose what?”, Philip snaps, walking towards his desk and harshly placing the vase on the table- America sees the orchids bounce, its only fluid movement of life before becoming silent once again.

“Uh, ya know”, Aussie eyes the vase again, “the orchids.”

Philip glances at the orchids, like it was the first time he acknowledges their presence as he raises a brow. “These? A friend gave them to me this morning.”

Canada’s smirk grows wider, his brows wiggling. “A ’friend’, hm? Or perhaps… a secret admirer?”

Philip rolls his eyes, sighing. “Look, it’s not like that okay? Just… drop it.”

America blinks at the tone of curtness Philip had in his voice, especially when he starts to curse the god above to why the coffee machine is empty and who wasted the favorite flavor of his, mumbling something incomprehensible before resolving to go outside, away from the eyes, to go buy somewhere.

As he opens the door to the outside world again, the sun and electrical lights made America catch on to something she did not notice a while ago.

There was a golden ring on Philip’s finger, a pattern of small words deciphered into it, its golden gleam and glow reflective throughout the sun.

“America, we really need your help in this case”, Canada pleads with her again, voice soft and literally like a small boy, but she scoffs.

“Ya’ll can do that on your own”, she replies, examining her gleaming and polished nails in the light. “I’m going to be here. Watching.”

“We need you more than as a watcher”, Canada argues back, his voice becoming impatient as his strings of kindness start to loosen. “We need you on our team, to spy on enemy eyes.”

“What makes Teikoku so special anyways? He kidnap a boy’s mother- big deal. Does that make him different from other mobs that also kidnap people?”

“Well, no, not really-”

“Well you have my answer. I’m not helping, you’re on your own.”

“Will this change your mind, then?”, Philip intervenes from the end of the table, holding up a small slip of paper. He walks up to America, giving her the brittle piece of evidence to why she’d volunteer onto this crazy cuckoo quest her brother had just started because he’s too compassionate to a child. She reads and rereads it, the messy and garbled writing surely belonging to Teikoku, due to his harsh lettering and vocabulary. She could just imagine him writing this message with a small smirk on his face, loving the way he would toy at the people he would crush under his shoes when the time comes.

Her eyes tell the story all by itself. Absolute boredom once she starts reading the words and language written in the letter, slowly widening in surprise and panic, the words and letters slowly murdering her on the inside, one hand letting go of the letter to hold on to her throat, as if the words are latching onto her, suffocating her with a pillow. America’s eyes of terror stare from Canada’s concerned expression to Philip’s furrowed brow.

“Where did you find this?”, America asks the one who gave her the letter, him fiddling with his pen.

“I decided to look into someone else’s files for the Teikoku case”, he says, eye averting from the audience, expression unreadable, lines clearly well-rehearsed like he has heard this question one thousand and one nights and his mouth of silver would answer words golden, words of promises, showering jewelry onto the person he is speaking to. “Tokyo, his brother.”

“He wrote his plans to his brother? Then how did it end up in Tokyo’s file?” Canada asks with a suspicious look on his face.

Philip sighs, “Look, sometimes I can hack into others’ documents; Tokyo’s letter history wasn’t secure at all, which is how I got the letter.”

“Philip asks full permission to search out the files for Teikoku’s family”, Aussie intervenes, raising his hand.

“Apparently Teikoku’s letter to Tokyo was hidden beneath another sheet of paper to the point we haven’t even noticed it”, Kiwi adds.

Philip was distractedly playing with the ring on his finger, eyes full of longing… before turning back to America. “So- are you in this or not?”

America looks back at her audience, eyes expectant, monitoring and watching her evert move. It was a choice of a lifetime; to stop Teikoku’s evil deeds before the seeds of malevolence he had planted grow over night, into a tree deep in the gardens, standung still, swaying to the beat of the winds and its leaves will become darker, shaping the forbidden fruit that Adam and Eve had eaten due to a snake’s evil treachery. America looks at the tables, its metallic state replicating her face but more distorted and highly surreal, everyone’s eyes are now melded into one being. She sighs, defeated.

“Fine, I’ll join.”

Koku stands outside of Teikoku’s office, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms at the same time carressing his bruise. He winces once his fingers brush the wound on his forearm, once a gash from last night now bandaged but he can still see the traces of crimson blood when he dares look at it. He’d bit his lip during the whole process of tending to his wound, trying not to glance at it because he knows that it is quite a gruesome sight, clenching his eyes closed, feeling the nurse’s hands near the wound and even above it, making him wince ever so slightly. Teikoku was there, encouraging him that everything will be fine, it was just a gash he had earned from the shattered chandelier glass.

It was obsessively itchy in the bandages, and he tries to resist scratching his forearm because goddamn it the whole bandage was itchy, like hands trying hard to find his sensitive spot but ultimately failing because he is both angry and irritated. It was much better than the obliterating pain he felt when he realizes he actually has a wound on his arm.

Koku inhales and exhales; whatever the reason, he dislikes the sight of blood.

He hears his brother in his office, talking to someone on the phone in a hushed voice, always knowing when someone is at the door. Koku decides to spend his time waiting for Teikoku by rehearsing his words, clouds of words and letters forming in his head like precipitation is going to drown them all. He tries to pick his words carefully, walking on a tightrope that once he looks down he sees a dark abyss opening its mouth to engulf him wholly. He forms a coherent sentence in his mind, a cloud to his clear-headedness; he hears the squeak of a door and Koku snaps out from his thoughts.

“Koku”, comes the voice of the elder, actually tinged with surprise as he finds his younger brother, “what brings you to my room?”

Koku bites his lower lip, opening his mouth and trying to remind his brain not to stutter. “W-well, Manchukuo’s dead.”

Teikoku’s face clouds over, but instead of white cotton clouds blocking out the sun his whole face looks like a thunderstorm is brewing. “I am aware of it.”

“He has three children”, Koku continues, “I believe that they need to be notified of their father’s…”, he swallows down bile and the word ‘dead’, “passing.”

Teikoku nods, his face still settled into a deep frown. “Is that all you wish to talk to me, brother?”

Koku shivers a little, like Teikoku’s stare is stabbing into him, and he has never felt this feeling before, like the whole surrounding is now covered in ice, freezing him until he cannot move, eyes searching for a way of warmth before dying in fiery cold.

“No”, Koku fixes his hair awkwardly as a way to compose himself, “since Manchukuo is… dead, I feel like what he left - aside from his children - is a vacant position for a job.”

Teikoku lifts a brow, suddenly intrigued. “A job.”

Koku nods, “For um… as a bodyguard for the family.”

Teikoku’s frown transforms to a thoughtful look, seemingly considering what Koku says, before looking back at his brother with a small smile on his face. “I’ll consider it; but you do the job interviews, hm?”

Koku’s face lights up, ultimately nodding- he had never received a serious responsibility before, and he now feels eager to do as his brother says. “I will, not to worry Teikoku.” Before he turns to leave, however, he looks back at him. “Where was Palau, during the dinner?”

Teikoku smiles mysteriously, hiding a secret, the snake inside of him trying to jump out. “She had a dinner date in another restaurant; she didn’t want us to disturb them, so I didn’t invite her to eat dinner with us.”

(Palau had been thoroughly as shaken as Koku was when she comes out of her car, pale as a ghost, shielding her body from her father, eyes swivelling from he to Koku. She doesn’t look like she even ate, as thin as she had once was, no joy in her body and replaced by fear clawing at her alive.

Koku had asked what happened to her date, and, her eyes flinging to Teikoku, she smiles a little before saying, “I enjoyed it.”)

Koku nods, telling his brother he will see him later during lunch, walking away from his brother and his room, hearing the door close behind him. As if the cost was clear, as if his third eye tells him that the threat has now long gone, his smile fades and turns into a small frown. His fingers linger on his wound before the little pinch of pain becomes too much for him to handle, his pacing becoming faster, shuffling his feet across the smooth tiles of floors like he is now being lifted by an angel with wings. His train of thought goes from his request to his brother to what happened last night.

Koku thinks about the catastrophe that was last night: how an unruly gang knew Teikoku’s name and wants his blood; how Manchukuo seemed to recognize one of the members; how that man was seen dragging away another boy away from Teikoku; he doesn’t get why that gang targetted his brother, of all people. Perhaps of his money, he assumes, because they are one of the richest families in the city, and Teikoku’s charming grin while handling his well-tailored suit can tell him that they wish to smear his blood on his own fortune, to claim it as their own. But there was something else- the way the boy with the eye-patch tries to aim his pistol on Teikoku, wishing vengeance as he tries to shoot the bullet ready to kill him. The way Teikoku did not flinch nor look casual when he sees Manchukuo’s body, blood dripping from the hole in his head, like he expected this outcome and expected his death.

Maybe there is more to Teikoku and he is only scratching the surface.

America sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, tying her hair up in a bun, looking at her reflection in the bathroom’s mirror. When she tells them she actually wanted to join this wild case against Teikoku, they give her a job where she wouldn’t sit back and watch this whole disaster play out. At the very least, she isn’t going to disguise herself as a prostitute to seduce her clients, like what Canada is doing now. She takes out her compact mirror to try add a little splendor to her face, then dabbing herself with perfume to somewhat impress her brand new 'boss’, as Australia so elegantly put it.

(“Looks like you’re the one being ordered around now”, Australia snickers as he gives her a bunch of uniforms to sort out through to see which suits her the best.

America gives her brother a glare before picking out one from the pile, “I’ll have fun removing your lunch time privilages.”

Australia goes pale.)

America looks back at her reflection again, cerulean eyes making contact with its duplicate, steeling herself for what was about to come, rehearsing the words in her head and trying hard not to let Teikoku get the best of her. Of course, she reminds herself to never be nervous of Teikoku, that he is the worst of them all, a single demon escaping from hell to create an all new spawn of monsters lurking around every dark corner, a shadow to one’s eye. She takes a deep and sharp breath, applying lip balm on her lips and she gives herself a small smile, to look like nothing is wrong and everything is fine, and that she isn’t infiltrating a bastard’s home every time he isn’t looking.

America replays her role in her head, trying to clear her mind.

Be hired as one of Teikoku’s bodyguards.

Find evidence in his files.

Arrest him.

Sounds like an easy enough plan, America thinks to herself, the problem is whether Teikoku is smart enough to see through her.

Another reason why she did not join this whole goose chase in the first place: she indisputably is aware that Teikoku is a conniving and perceptive man- one wrong move he’ll put a bullet through her skull or do something much worse than a quick and painless death. She had met him, once; during a party by one of the highest officials in the city, intent to become allies with the richest of businessman and highest of officials.

Teikoku was the least talkative out of everyone she has ever interacted, crossing his arms and never inviting anyone to his personal space unless he is called by someone else, putting on anelegant and charming smile that wins the entire population, disregsrding his eyes; grey orbs that swirl with absolute evil and lust for power, his hands conjoining as he looks towards the surroundings with intent and ambition painted across his face, waiting for the right moment to strike like he was a lion waiting for the prey to be surrounded to jump out from their hiding and tear its food apart, piece by piece, grinding its teeth to their flesh as they squeal and scream and kick but the grip is firm, until their screams die and their hearts will stop, knowing that this was the end of their existence.

America refuses to remember the way he looked at her, the way he looked at the other women from a distance, smiling wickedly ever so slightly, a smirk on his face, glass of wine in his palms, studying its contents.

America looks back at the mirror, giving herself another confident smile, before stalking out from the bathroom and into the fatal situation that she has gotten herself into, with no way back unless it’s through Teikoku’s head.

Canada has never been to a brothel before.

(Well, if he counts those times his father tried to get him to loosen up a bit and lose his virginity to strangers unknown to him. He declined his father’s offers, knowing that he should save his virtue for someone special, but later that night he made the mistake of letting someone into their house in a drunken haze, his room smelling of honey and lemon for days.)

He opens his phone to send Aussie and Kiwi a message, that he was already in front of Teikoku’s very own brothel and house for prostitution, ’The Comfort Zone’, as he so elegantly put it.

(He can see why it is called like that; providing comfort and sweet sweet lust to the clients paying for a cheap fuck or two, but for the prostitutes being forced to work in this place they are stuck in the deepest pits of hell, forcefully playing the game of lust with their customers, knowing they don’t enjoy it, and never will.)

Canada takes his time pacing at the entrace, trying to make himself look unrecognizable and obscure from the cameras littering around the place, covering himself, trying to look unrecognizable through the blur of the mobitoring and predating cameras littered around the whole place, fixing his hair, making himself look less more of an officer and more as an awkward and newcomer looking for a quick fuck like their stored lust has now been unleashed.

But for the first time in his life, he isn’t looking forward to get laid.

He needed answers and evidence to destroy Teikoku and his family once and for all, ridding the world once more of life that taints blood with inklings of darkness, first small drops like a rain before the storm hits, before the thunder claps and the lightning flashes and strikes across the sky, until it becomes a downpour but instead of drying once their old enemy the sun is shining ever so brightly and radiantly, they dry until nothing is left but their ghosts.

Taking a deep breath, he walks in.

Renmin wakes up feeling warm, either from the sun escaping through the barriers that is the windows and curtains, the soft blanket covering his waist down, or Sulian’s warm arms wrapping around him. He can feel Sulian’s breath on his neck, the way his lover’s chest rises and falls like the beat of his heart, eyes closed and lips parted, as if expecting a kiss from the deepest tendrils of sleep, waiting for someone, anyone, to wake him up with a touch on the lips. Renmin just smiles, of course; nothing had ruined his peaceful morning with Sulian, their night ecstatic and amazing, each of their kisses giving them more and more warmth until it burnt on their skin and lips like forging the flames of a dying sun. He carefully carresses the man in front of him, his lover, on the cheek, feeling the softness of the skin from a hardenned man, always in for battles, but never displaying affection.

Except for him.

The warm arms enveloping him pushes his bare body, only flesh and no clothing, closer to Sulian’s chest, shirt ruffled and tattered from last night’s latest game for naught. Renmin sighs once again, putting his arms around Sulian’s much larger and bulkier body, cuddling himself closer in his chest.

They can stay like this forever; time standing still, stopping them from doing anything, no one disturbing them, an unbreakable glass dome around the couple, serene and sturdy, letting them rest until they grow old and die, thus ending their small string of love, cut by fate.

Of course, nothing can last forever- he hears Sulian groan, a sign he has roughly been disrupted from his peaceful sleep and is brought back to the nightmare that is his life, and his dream that is Renmin, smiling back at him. He opens his amber eye, taking in his surroundings like he was in an unfamiliar setting with no way back, until his eyes find Renmin’s, body entangled in a mass of blankets and his arms, smiling a little back at him. Sulian smiles as well, feeling his day become better just by looking at the star near him, brightening like a damned solar flare, until burning out and becoming mortal like the rest of the universe.

Renmin feels a kiss on top of his forehead, a kiss of love burning through his head like the bullet he embedded on his own brother’s forehead, no sense of remorse, and no time for such rushed reunions.

All he needed was Sulian, and that is the objective that makes his heart melt.

“Zaoshang hao”, he greets, as he feels the arms around him stretch and Sulian yawning. He feels another kiss on his forehead, then on his lips, short but brilliant, making him feel at home.

“Morning, lyubov”, Soviet greets back, still entranced from sleep. Renmin chuckles as Sulian once again puts his arms around him, bringing him closer. “I have been dreaming about you.”

Renmin smells the sweat and blood on his shirt, sighing a little. “As you should.”

They stay like this once again, the entire world against their union and against their love for one another, but they too, hate what the world has given them and wish to correct the perspective given to them. Minguo had made the same mistake, trying to tear them apart to keep his younger brother loyal, but in the end he lost one ally to another.

He can feel old grudges rising inside of him, remembering Minguo’s red face once he says he was in an alliance with Sulian’s gang, remembering the way his older brother’s hands were up on his throat, choking and suffocating him, depriving the boy of needed air to sustain himself and one hand crawling up until it reaches his eye, and as Renmin cries and screams and kicks and pleads with Minguo, begging for forgiveness, but like a doctor’s scalpel digging into one’s flesh to draw out blood, the fingers plunging into his sockets and ripping his eye out like it was nothing but a toy stuck and wedged into the wall, the hands stubbornly never giving up on its onslaught until at last they finally meet their goal. A hand unconsciously comes towards the wounded eye, a raw flavor on what those wars have done to him.

A sigh comes from Sulian- not one of disappointment but a pitying one. “Thinking about Minguo again?”

Renmin snuggles a little more into him, “Well, sort of. It’s been a decade and I still haven’t found him.”

Amber eyes melt into gold. “Is it because of your meeting with Manchukuo last night?”

Renmin fixes his hair, staring at the ceiling. “Well, yes; we’re all aware that he works for that bastard man now, but to see him again… it just made me feel strange.”

“Perhaps from the fact I murdered your own blood?”

Renmin snorts, “Oh please- I’d care less about family who’s rejected me lying down in front of me dead.” He kisses Sulian again, feeling a hand on his back to elongate and deepen their passion, until seconds later Sulian lets him go, light in his eyes.

“Let’s go eat breakfast, then”, Sulian says, getting up, his waist below covered by the covers until he stands, looking for his clothes, leaving Renmin to monitor his back, feeling his skin prick with more passion.

They were late for breakfast, of course; breathless and messy hair, clothes absolutely falling down like they had a small quick fuck (of course they did) before walking out of the hall and in absolute bliss, the members of their small mob knowing what they’d just done but never commenting, preferring to be as silent as the lambs than scarring themselves with what the couple does in bed. Breakfast, like all other periods of feeding members, were quiet, hushed voices the only one trying to tap on the window of silence, as everyone clinks on their plates, eating in small and rhythmic bites to savor their meals and their energy for another day. Some were not eating and instead having a conversation with their friends; some were smoking outside with a cup of coffee as their meal; and some - like Inmin - were busily scheming silently.

Inmin was one of their youngest members- recruited at the mere age of thirteen just to find his mother in the darkest corners, going through desperate measures to find her. He was a young and naïve boy, once upon a time; a small smile on his face, amber eyes full of fractured innocence, ready to be used for one’s advantage, to be played with until his innocence shatters. He had lived happily with his family from beyond, but his desperation to find his mother made him and his twin drift apart, a single dust speck in the winds. Madness came to him like a swift wind dealing with a tree trying to stand during a storm- an explosion had racked the boy’s nerves one day, and a shard had scarred him for life, maming contact with his eye. When he wakes up from his slumber, he was hysterical, blaming his family and everything for what has happened to him.

Inmin remains silent but at the same time vocal to this day.

Sulian tells Renmin that he was going to get them breakfast, and Renmin swivels around towards Inmin’s table, only one person sitting on it, never eating, thin but able, holding a newspaper, and, judging by his face, once again exercising himself to read the printed words. Once he senses Renmin near him, however, he stops trying to read.

“Joh-eun achim, Jung-gug”, Inmin says with a small voice, hoarse from last nights shouting and screaming and crying about how they were close, so close to getting Teikoku. He turns back to the newspaper. “I’ve reread the same page over and over but the only thing I can understand is - well - your brother’s death.”

Renmin nods, taking the newspaper from Inmin’s hands and reading the section of Manchukuo’s death. His eyes skim the page, paragraph by paragraph, until he freezes, his eyes flying wide as his entire blood runs cold. If Sulian had given him a cup of coffee earlier, he would’ve spat out the bitter and hot liquid before dropping it on to the floor.

Inmin seems to sense his discomfort, and he blinks and asks, “Are you alright?”

Renmin does not reply, looking at the last paragraph about Manchukuo’s death, the photo of his dead older half-brother haunting him, like he came back just to mock Renmin.

The death of Manchukuo was hard for his boss, Teikoku, who says that Manchukuo was a loyal friend in the end, and to his three children, Heilongjiang, Jilin and Liaoning, who were waiting for their father to come home until Teikoku breaks the news to the three orphaned kids.

“He had children”, he says in a small voice, barely a whisper. He can feel the whole world once again laughing at him, noticing his horrible decision when he let Sulian go in for the kill. Of his brother. Of a father. A father of three small children, oblivious to the matters of death and are now paying their father’s price.

“Do you feel guilty of the fact that I murdered someone with three children on his shoulders?”, Sulian asks from behind, making Renmin jolt from surprise as he turns and faces Sulian, two pairs of plates with meals and two cups of coffee, juggling them in each hand. His eyes were on the printed words, while Renmin’s were on his shoes, feeling ugly guilt churning inside of him, a feeling he had not felt ever since he sees Nanjing being dragged by Teikoku but never doing anything about it, because that was Minguo’s responsibility but he did not see him look for his wife, having disappeared to thin air. His hand shakes a little, like the whole world had gone cold, creeping up from the wake of the warmth of the fireplace until it catches him by surprise, freezing him alive. A little sprinkle of sadness, then of guilt, was enough for him to suffocate of his deeds.

But he sucks that up; he did not have any time to cry or mourn Manchukuo’s death, knowing he is nothing but a hindrance now gone from his life. He looks at Sulian straight in the eye, who was trying to test his composure, wanting to see him cry.

There is less time for humility and more time for pride.

He smiles pleasantly, “No, not even a bit.”

America makes her way through Teikoku’s halls, being escorted by his half-brother - Koku, she reminds herself - who was waiting for a flood of people coming to their home for a new job but only she arrives. She remembers the way Koku was fidgeting in the entrance, pacing back and forth, rehearsing speeches to himself all the while fixing his hair to look nice in front of an audience. The way he smiled at her as she approaches, was like the sun had become brighter and stronger, flares scorching from his veins but instead of malevolence the smile is genuine and happy, unlike Teikoku’s. The way he shook her hand, like he was eager to meet her, as if he has been closed off from the world and has only ever interacted with his family.

(According to his records, Koku was home-schooled by Teikoku; maybe that is why he seemed so happy yet awkward to interact with someone outside his family.)

The halls were lit by small lamps on the walls, giving the white paint a sort of radiant yet looming energy, a candle dancing with the flames on its head to give their surroundings a better light. She looks at the floors, patterned tiles sounding as she steps on them with her heels, looking at Koku who was humming to himself as he busily stares ahead. She keeps her head low, but looking at the long halls until they reach the intersection where the halls end into dozens of rooms, railways of patterns around them.

“Just continue following me, we’re almost there”, Koku tells her, and she looks back at him, dark hair smoothed out, gray eyes sparkling and glinting.

She thinks that, despite the fact they are half-brothers, their resemblance is uncanny, and not even Tokyo can be compared to how similar they both are. Perhaps the only difference is the air around them; Teikoku presents himself as a meteor that is slowly looming closer out of the naked eye until its impact cannot be stopped and it shakes the entire world, while Koku was a small comet, passing by in a wink of an eye.

Even his voice enchants her a little, just a little- she reminds herself he is just like his brother, his innocent demeanor a ruse to let her guard down until he leaves her to rot in a hole.

She is wary of how unusually calm and somewhat bright behavior is odd for someone who was caught in a crossfire last night. She eyes the bandaged wound on his forearm, a red crimson hue surrounding the gauze. She and Koku go through the dark hallways again, seeing the entire house so… huge yet monochrome, blank walls as if eyes can escape through its blank stare, looking at her suspiciously, knowing of her intentions of goal. Koku stops at a large door, mahogany penetrated for patterns as he unlocks it and ushers her in.

Like the walls from the hallways, this was painted a lonely white, sorrow surrounding her, eating her whole slowly but surely, and she turns back to her guide who was busily arranging some things out of the way.

“Sorry about this room, it’s the only vacant one in the house”, he finally says after a while of arranging chairs. He looks back at her, tilting his head, “well, if you accept or get this job, you can have this room.”

America shakes her head, plastering a small smile, “No, I’d rather stay with my family.”

Koku nods, no malice or grudge hidden in his eyes. “I’d understand; I wouldn’t want to be separated from my family as well.”

With a content smile on his face, he asks, “What’s your name and do you have any family members?”

“My name’s America”, she replies coolly, leaning back on her chair like it’s the end of the world, “my father was England, I don’t know my mother, and I have three brothers.” Her eyes turn from the windows featuring the blue skies to Koku’s thoughtful face, magnetized by how the creases of his brow fade whenever he raises his eyebrows, the tongue sticking from the edge of his lip like a small child trying to make something out of his own sweat and tears, determined to impress their parent.

Koku’s gray eyes meet hers and he gives her a small smile and her cheeks color, heart beating just a little faster than it was before. She shakes herself out of it, playing on a strand of her hair, averting her gaze from Koku like a dazed school girl. Her mind reminds her smitten heart that he is a mission, bait for her demise, knowing he’s only pretending to be her companion until she makes the wrong move.

“Why do you want to apply to become a bodyguard?”

“The news last night was quite a surprise, to be honest.” She picks at her words on the platter, calmly choosing them with one finger to lead her on until she gets the job. “An experienced bodyguard, of one of the most powerful businessmen, killed by a lover of a mob boss… I don’t like mafia mobs, you see. They took my father away and they, well…” She leans closer to him, getting the boy in front of her, just a teen, invested. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, of course.”

Her cerulean eyes meet with Koku’s gray ones, her fingers lingering on his larger but smoother hands a little, playing with him, even if it means seducing him to get this job because at the very least, he is not his brother. She blinks at him, trying to look innocent, a damsel wanting to save him from the bandits who’d run his castle dry. He goes entirely red, America feeling his hands shake.

“I-I…”, he sputters, hormones raging deep inside him whilst America smiles at him, a devil in Eve’s clothes. “I a-appreciate your concern, but I don’t need protection.”

America feigns surprise and hurt, her eyes twinkling more with pure unaldurated lust and desire for Koku. “Oh? Even if you say you’re protected by Teikoku, he’ll never be always there for you, always busy and away for his work.” They are now a small distance apart, their lips almost touching if America would lean a little more, looking at Koku’s lips, entranced before going back to her job. “I would always be there.”

Koku gulps, slow and short. “I…”

America smirks a little, licking her lips, “The choice is entirely yours, of course; if you’d like me to work undeterred in your home, or you can kindly send me on my way.”

Koku hesitates; his hands fidget as his gray eyes go from her then to the window and then back to America, her legs crossed and owning a straight face, lips tingling. It was as if the entire world has gifted him a mysterious box, letting him decide whether he should open it without knowing the cost, or if he should ignore it, trying to disregard the feelings of temptation and curiosity burning up inside of him and live through another day of debating whether he should or should not open the box. America wants to laugh; Koku’s face looks like a mix of a small child and an old man facing a choice that will decide his fate, but her heart is still beating in a fast pace, but she assumes it was from hoping he’d accept her than how completely cute he was in that expression, hair covering a small side of his face.

The silence between them was a cloud of wisps, blowing ever so hard in their direction, in love with teasing the both of them, making the both of them feel antsy outside of their own comfortable space.

“My brother did say it was up to me whether or not I should hire you”, Koku finally says, making America perk up. “So… I feel like hiring you would be a good choice.”

America smirks deviously, but she turns back to him who was smiling brightly and holding out a hand. She hesitantly takes it, warmth suddenly surging up from the hand touching her hands and into every part of her body, energizing her to continue with this tomfoolery they had assigned to her. She gasps a little, like this sensation is always there, she just refuses to search the inner depths of her mind for this beautiful yet bamboozling feeling. Her mind is jumbled, playing a sweet and soft melody, her eyes seeing the stars.

But once Koku retracts his hand from her grasp, she feels the warm walls around her, making her as cozy as she is in a fireplace, crash into her with cold arms, her mind goes back to the plan.

“You’ve made the right choice”, America assures Koku, who chuckles a little, making the woman in front of him - once again - frozen in place, time standing still as she awkwardly fidgets with her hands; why is she so… awkward whenever Koku does one small move of happiness? This is normally what a lot of people do, laugh whenever there is something funny to laugh at, but for Koku, his laugh… it was like the stars were twinkling above her, showing her the way.

“You should come with me, I’ll break the news to my brother about your hiring.”

Her blood runs cold.

The whole city was cold during the night- it had just rained the afternoon before the sun’s flares had died and gave the light to the moon, now glaring down at her with its soft light, not guiding her into beyond but watching her with its eyes, the craters all seemingly moving like they are irises. She breathes in a little, shivering from the cold, and how horribly revealing her clothes are for this temperature. She shudders as another gust of wind blows out of nowhere, like a kiss on her skin growing to become prickly thorns. Her heels were worn from walking around the city too much, holding the satchel the stranger had given to her tightly before she was freed from the infernal pits of hell, the room more like a prison cell despite the fact that it looks more like a suite than anything she has seen in her entire life.

She can still remember the arms, searching her, roaming on her small figure as they try and take what they want from her, pinning her to the soft matress of the bed, becoming her worst enemy, back flat against its soft yet sharp underneath her. She used to kick and scream, trying to get them away from her, that this wasn’t the job she wanted and that she used to be so much more, so much valuable than being one prostitute on Street Number Sixty-Three. Shanghai recalled those disgustingly fake sweet voices, calling her petnames as they touched her, their voices lingering before disintegrating; she has been called those and hated every single one of it.

But that was before.

Before she decided to play their game, become Teikoku’s sweet little seductress, meek and submissive while retaining her seduction, charm and wit, easily making her a fan favorite.

Shanghai did not want this, nor did she care becoming a different person from who she was, but Teikoku made her like this. He broke her apart, piece by piece, putting out the only shards that he liked on her. He broke her, bones and mirrors and all.

She huddles around the jacket the stranger had given her once more, as she fusses with the satchel, feeling the rolls of money he gave to her, the canned goods enough to last her a week or two if she rationed it just enough. The jacket was her only layer of clothing from the cold and protecting her body due to only wearing lingerie once he ushers her out from her window and into the bustling city she had not touched but only watched for years. Shanghai would remember sticking her head out of the windows to feel the breeze and wind of being free, having freedom she used to have before she was locked up in a cage with no return to the wilderness. She had seen - with her very own eyes - everything change, innovations and technology happening here and there, the shapes on her eyes becoming taller, wider, larger, but even then, when the entire world is on the brink of collapse, she can find solace at the fact that nothing is changing, even if they are forcing her eyes wide open to the surroundings around her.

Shanghai steps on a puddle, immediately soaking her heels much to her grimace, looking at the lamposts littered around the street, luminating small pieces of the concrete road, as if they are trying hard to battle the darkness during the night, yet they are failing because of course they are. She decides to think of where to stay, but her mind comes up blank.

The police department? Absolutely not. She had her fair share of clients boasting that they are in high-ranking positions such as catching crime and putting them in jail. How can they be good men when even they clutch the treasures of corruption, perhaps even wanting to undress her as they work with their higher-ups and telling them they can handle her, but instead they’d put her in the backseat of the car and drive her back to the brothel and take advantage of her and her body-

She shakes her head, shedding a single tear in her eye.

No to the police department, then.

Shanghai tries to remember the old house she and her old members used to share, either dead or had gone through the same fate as she did, becoming slaves for Teikoku, grovelling and begging for him to feed them, even the tiniest bit. The house must probably only be standing in their own minds now, ever since Minguo vanished into thin air one night, no news of where he went, but she knows he is a coward who never became their saving grace. He chooses to hide his wings of darkness in favor of running away, never to come back because he is now just a mortal with nothing on his shoulders.

She frowns a little, thinking about the last time she saw Minguo, exchanging fires with his own brother before she is knocked over the head.

She then feels a tap on her shoulder, and she lets out a small shriek that pierces through the whispering night, jumping and stumbling until she trips on the road; thanfully the jacket was soft enough to land on and act as her cushion.

“Oh dear; I am so sorry.” A man’s voice says from behind her, and panic rises from her chest as she knows she will now have to deal with another man being shoved into her life and for her to play games. She feels the damp road beneath her, and she gets up, slipping a little before a hand catches her wrist.

Shanghai freezes up from the sudden touch and she inches away from the newcomer and sees that it was a man, business suit and smooth dark hair, blue eyes full of concern.

(She does not know whether it is genuine or he is feigning concern- she has learned never to trust anyone again.)

“Are you lost?”

#mine #writing #you're shooting your bullet the wrong way #countryhumans #countryhumans america #countryhumans new zealand #countryhumans canada #countryhumans australia #countryhumans philippines #countryhumans china #countryhumans soviet union #countryhumans north korea #countryhumans japan #countryhumans japan empire #countryhumans kpg #tw: rape #rape tw

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pigeontheoneandonly · 4 years

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This is a little fanfic I did of @citadelsushi’s amazing long fic, Give to Pressure. It’s a fantastic enemies-to-lovers AU set in the Old West, starring her Avory Shepard and Kaidan Alenko. I cannot say enough good things about this fic. Its characterization, writing, and atmosphere are absolutely on point. And it even updates reliably! It’s a joy to read and you should all stop whatever you’re doing and go read it right now.

All those feels spilled over and I ended up writing a short fic about Nathaly set in this universe. Since no planet is big enough for two Shepards, I’ve altered her story a bit to accommodate.

* * *

Nathaly Cabrera stood at her bar, tallying up the books from last night. The sun had just crested the hills and shed long beams of pink light over the worn planks. Though well-accustomed to rising at first light, Sundays never got too easy, as folks piled into town for morning services and seemed keen to get all their sinning done the evening before. She wasn’t dressed yet herself; boots and pants and an untucked shirt, just enough to see to the yard, her uncombed hair tumbled over her shoulders in a red tangle.

Least she had the mind to knock the muck from her boots. Nathaly never cared much for scrubbing floors, and even less for scrubbing chicken shit.

The door swung open and brought with it a dry wind and the promise of another achingly hot day. Nehal stepped inside, tugging off her gloves, a picture in rose silk. She took in Nathaly with a sigh. “You get a move on. We’ll be late.”

“Perish the thought.” Neither had enough Christian in her for even the devil to recognize, but Nehal would rise from her death bed before she’d miss a lick of gossip. In a town as small as this, church was the social highlight of the week.

She was too familiar with her grumpiness to spare much concern. “I heard the train come in yesterday. So I walked down to Miller’s to see about the mail.”

Nathaly took the envelope she offered, and made a face. “Mi madre.”

“ Sí.” She hiked her bustle and perched on a stool, folding her arms over the bar top. Relishing her irritation. “And how is dear Miss Hannah doing?”

The paper was creased and torn, some indication of the distance it had traveled, but she’d learned better than to guess. She slit it open and read the first few lines. “Well, she was in Peking as of two months back.”

“Peking? Why?” That was far abroad even by Hannah’s tumbleweed standards.

“Says here she joined a merchant caravan out of Persia, heading east.” Her frown deepened. Her mother’s wandering feet took her all over the world as a child, putting down roots just to have them ripped back out of the ground, tender and smarting. Age hadn’t slowed her a mite.

Nehal reached over and rested her hand on her forearm. Comforting. “Sulk if it pleases you, but you’ve got more than a touch of her blood, and you know it.”

Nathaly muttered. Nehal’s smiled widened, teasing. “Following that same wind blew you all the way to East India.”

A pressing need to get out of town had blown her to India, fleeing a city a long ways from here, where the fastest way out was to sign on with a ship’s crew. But Nehal was right. She let Hannah dig too far under her skin. Instead, she picked up her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. “Your siren song spread across the seas.”

“Such a charming liar.” Her laugh faded. “But that’s not all that came in on the train.”

After seven years and two continents, Nehal was an open book. She knew her thoughts by her look like she knew her whiskeys by their scent. “Not more of those yellow-sashed bastards.”

At her nod, Nathaly cursed, and reached behind the bar. Her eyebrows rose, mildly. “Don’t tell me you mean to leave with liquor on your breath.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not entitled, between my mother and this.” She poured out a finger and took a sip. “Damn it. I have half a mind—”

“We should head south for a spell.” Switching topics like the weather turning, inexorable and without a care for anyone’s agenda. “It’s been nigh on two years since we visited your father. Your nephew will be taller than me.”

Nathaly wasn’t having it. “Leave papá out of this.”

“Sure as starlight, three weeks in you’ll hear talk of trouble somewhere, or go looking for it.” She folded her hands. Nathaly couldn’t escape her level stare. “And you’ll come home with the sun, covered in bandito blood and lookin’ to cap off the evening with exertions of a different sort.”

“You’ve never not obliged,” she harrumphed.

Her mouth turned up in a wicked little smile. “Never said I minded.”

It was an opening worth seizing. “Do we have to go to church?”

“The point,” said Nehal, as Nathaly sighed and took another drink, “Is to syphon off a bit of this poison of yours, so you’ll come home with your head on straight and resist the impulse to start fights you can’t finish.”

“They already heard loud and clear their money ain’t welcome here. You best believe I’d finish it.”

“No, Nathaly, you won’t.”

That gave her pause. She’d rarely seen Nehal so sober. “You’ve heard something.”

She shook her head. “Not any one thing. But I haven’t bought a shipment of silver anything in near half a year. Silk and tea are getting scarce.”

Life under the Raj had been kinder to Nehal’s family than most, undoubtedly aided by her British grandfather. Though most of the town saw her as a pretty ornament, something Nathaly brought back like a souvenir, the truth was her import business made better money than the bar. She’d eat her hat if any of the townsfolk other than the proprietors themselves could source the sudden availability of so many hard to come by goods.

But they kept those opinions behind their teeth. No other place in town had ousted Cerberus, so any woman who could enforce a ban from the only watering hole wasn’t someone to cross. Besides, Nathaly had yet to meet a body who looked at two unmarried adults living together, sharing property, and couldn’t damn well figure it out. Nobody said anything about that, either. Though they did share the occasional quiet nod with Luther and Eddie when they rode in from their ranch every few months.

“Cerberus is controlling the supply lines, buying them directly or through coercion. And a snapping up fair amount of the goods.” Nehal looked up at her. “A single person taking on an empire is a recipe for a funeral, and I’m not ready to bury you yet.”

She held her gaze a long minute, and then let out an explosive sigh. “Fine. Boils my blood.”

“Mine, too.”

Nathaly raised an eyebrow. “You keeping safe around town?”

She moved her arm to reveal the small pearl-handled revolver at her waist. Prim as it was, Nathaly had seen her put a bullet through the eye of a man at thirty paces. So as to not get blood on the satin, she’d explained, smoothing her dress. “And I’ve told Lilybet to keep a weather eye and clear of the station.”

A fever took her parents, and while plenty of ranches would be happy to have another hand, she chose to make her own way. Or as much of a way as she could, spending more nights than not sleeping in their parlor upstairs. That was alright. She’d had it hard enough without disallowing her some dignity in illusions.

Just then, the door creaked open again. Nathaly’s hand closed on the shotgun under the bar before she was done looking up. Nobody came around for a drink on Sunday morning, and Lilybet would use the back door. Trains brought in all manner of trash.

She aimed it forward and scrutinized the silhouette darkening her porch. Then she exhaled, set it down, and picked up the glass. “Oh. It’s you.”

#mass effect #give to pressure AU #citadelsushi #nathaly shepard #fanfic

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theateared · 4 years

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Don’t Look at me Like That... ❜

Summary: Sometimes, the only way to deal with the law is to play bad cop.

For most sensible people, Kuro Braav was not a man to be crossed. Not only was he built like a mountain, he was the Sheriff of Huron, meaning that he had a lot of power at his disposal. He was ever-so-smart, equipped with a silver tongue and a healthy trigger finger - and that was precisely why Edgar had decided to approach him directly.

“Do forgive me, Officer Rigsby,” he said with a growing smile, amusement lighting up his eyes as he stared down at the smaller man. He has the muscle but no backbone. He’s just another kid with a head full of dreams. “But I think it would be best if I surpassed the Sheriff’s lackeys and spoke to him directly.”

“He’s busy…!” The man called as Edgar skirted around him with ease, coat flapping behind him as he all but slid to a stop in front of the man’s office.

“Believe me, agent, he is not too busy for me.”

He gave only a brief knock to signal his arrival before he pushed open the door himself. He was immediately greeted by the sight of the Sheriff stood in a peculiar web of photographs and notes; red string had been woven around his space, secured to cork boards and walls with pushpins, and case file details were strung along them like clothes on a washing line. Despite the fact that Edgar couldn’t for the life of him determine where the cluster of information began or ended, Kuro seemed undisturbed by the chaos.

This is a fellow smarty-pants at work. This is who I should be speaking to.

“What have I told y’about waitin’ fer me t’open the door?” Kuro asked without turning around.

Edgar allowed a moment's pause before he closed the door behind him, clicking his tongue. “My apologies, Sheriff.” He watched the subtle shift of the other man’s body language; his shoulders rising ever so slightly as he realised that he wasn’t speaking to an associate. Slowly, he turned around, blank face disturbed only by a slight crease of frustration in his brow. “I have much to discuss with you.”

“Then make a call.”

“Calls do not suit me. Nor do appointments.” He allowed the firm statement to settle like dust between them before he cracked a smile, clapping his hands together as if to celebrate something. “Don’t be so terse, Sheriff! This matter is urgent.”

The huro ducked beneath the strings he had hung, dipping low in an effort to not get his horns tangled in them, before folding his arms over his broad chest. “A murder is urgent, Edgar. Yer little mind games take a backseat t’that.” He pointed to one of the nearest photographs, noting the lack of a response as the lye set his gaze on the image of a girl who had been torn apart. “Y’take a backseat t’her.”

“Yes, that’s very touching,” Edgar replied with a sniff, gaze shifting low to inspect one of his claws with disinterest. “But I’m afraid your civil service is of no use to me, so your sentiment is void.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a heavy sigh being released into the air. Even before Kuro had spoken, he knew that he had won.

“Y’have ten minutes. That’s all.”

Though he didn’t appreciate being told what was what, Edgar allowed himself to nod. “Very well. For the sake of diplomacy.” His body came to lean against the door, arms folded behind his back as he watched the other man sit behind his desk, retrieving his cup of coffee. “I’ll be blunt. I wish to discuss the possibility of my creed and I having some sort of place here in Huron.”

Kuro’s sip was interrupted by a splutter. After a moment to collect himself, he raised an eyebrow at him slowly. “Yer jokin’, right?

Edgar smiled, far too sweetly. “Am I laughing?”

“Y’oughta be,” Kuro said with a grunt. “D’y’know how much shit I’d get into if it was found that I was out here makin’ deals with lyes? I care about my integrity as an officer. Also the paperwork. Think’a the fuckin’ paperwork, Edgar.”

“Your concern is a signature…?”

“My concern,” Kuro started, irritated now. His dead eyes matched the derisive curl of his lips all too well. Had he been a huro, Edgar may very well have found himself intimidated by this man’s air of confidence. “ -- is people losin’ faith in their police force because they’re makin’ sketchy decisions behind their backs. Whether it interests y’or not, there’s tension between Huron ‘n’ Vide for this exact reason: the Vide task-force is shit. Since it’s been brought t’light, people are abandonin’ it. I don’t want t’follow in those same depressin’ footsteps. Try t’put yerself in my position-- I know it’s difficult to envision yerself with a conscience but just try--”

“I have a conscience, it’s just incredibly dusty.”

“ -- just. Try. T’envision how scared it’s gonna make people if they find lyes in their backyards. Give me one good reason why I would subject huros t’that kinda fear. Just one. I’ll fuckin’ wait.”

Silence befell the room. It was disturbed only by the Alpha clicking his tongue, crossing one ankle over the other as he leaned more firmly against the door. He hadn’t come here with the intention of declaring war on the Sheriff, but if he was going to be difficult then he didn’t see what else he could do. In truth, he was very well-prepared.

“Al-right. Since you seem intent on forcing my hand.” He moved until he was standing in front of the desk, hands pressed flat against it until he was leaning over the other man. To his credit, Kuro didn’t flinch; his eyes were unrelenting and stern despite the fact that a lye loomed over him like an oncoming storm. “Think about how scared people will be having a lye at their doorstep. Think about how terrified people will be when they learn that lyes are going to come into Huron freely, with no place to settle, and rob the meek of assets until their needs are satisfied. Think about how disillusioned with the police people will become when they learn that they can do nothing about it, because they have limited guns, and limited bullets, and Mister Lye has a whole battalion of willing, hungry animals at his disposal.” He cocked his head to the side, sharp teeth shown as he cracked his signature grin. “Is that a good enough reason for you, Sheriff?”

Kuro leaned forward in his seat. “Yer really threatenin’ me while askin’ fer a favour?”

The hybrid tilted his head from side to side, making a show of ‘thinking’ about it, before he nodded. “Absolutely. I find fear is a stupendous motivator. Of course, if the safety of Huron isn’t enough to motivate you then… I wonder if the safety of your best friend is?” He tapped his chin in an almost playful manner, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he continued to consider it. “I’d hate to use Aléjandro as a betting chip after all the kindness he’s spared me, but I suppose I know what makes him tick.”

The quiet returned full force, and he had to admit, Kuro’s silence was making him slightly worried. The fact that he wasn’t cowering with fear made him wonder just how strong the Sheriff was. Though he had no doubt that he wouldn’t have much trouble overpowering a mere huro, the fact was that his opponent was armed. With the threat to his dearest friend’s life thrown into the mix, Edgar imagined that he was feeling a tad angry at this point.

“Why the sudden interest in Huron?” He asked suddenly, reaching into the drawer beside him for a notepad. His pen was retrieved from his breast pocket, cap flipped off. It made an unceremonious clup against the wooden floorboards before rolling away. Though his eyes had been drawn to the impromptu projectile, Edgar found Kuro’s eyes a moment later. Are you even looking at me? It feels like you’re looking at my neck.

“Aww. Don’t look at me like that, like you’re afraid of me.” The lye straightened out, watching as Kuro paused in order to light a peculiar looking stick. Smoke ascended from it slowly. He could already tell that the Sheriff was irritated. “ … listen, Kuro. If there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that I take the safety of my creed very seriously. I’m not actually interested in a war with Huron. Huron can help me. Like you made peace with the Viders, there can be peace between you and lyes too. It’s just business.”

“So y’heard about the Crossover.”

“Word travels fast.”

He watched with some interest as Kuro scribbled something down on the piece of paper. They were quiet as the lines steadily began to fill with words. After some time, Edgar continued.

“I’m not asking for somewhere free. We will give you something in return. Aside from not killing everybody in the town, of course.” Kuro paused in his writing, looking up at him with an arched brow. Edgar huffed. “It was a joke. My word, you’re a depressing soul.”

“So…” With his attention redirected to his page, Kuro began to tap his pen against the desk “What exactly are y’askin’ fer?”

“Just one building. Wherever is most convenient for you. Think of it as a… safehouse, kind of deal. My idea was to have it built as an establishment of some sort; business on the bottom and a simple living space upstairs. That way, we lyes can at least work to earn our keep while we use this space. Like I said, I’m not asking for somewhere free.” He gestured to himself, steepled fingers resting against his chest. “I’m a civilised creature, Kuro, I believe in compromise wherever possible. It isn’t of any use to me to make more enemies. If I go around constantly forging bad blood between me and others, where can I turn when they all decide to rally against me? I am but one lye, and my creed is but one group. I am interested in peace.”

It wasn’t an easy request for him to make. He was far too used to doing everything by himself. Though he was no stranger to making agreements with people for the sake of avoiding fights, the truth was that he was far more accustomed to doing as he wished. Whether people believed him or not, killing others wasn’t at the top of his agenda. He would do it without restraint if necessary-- he believed in discipline, despite his calm, collected facade-- but if he could avoid behaving in such a manner then he would. Eliciting fear through implication was much more inspiring to him anyhow.

Kuro paused in his writing, fingers pressed to his mouth as he thought. This man is intelligent, Edgar thought as he watched the gears turn. I can see that much in his eyes. We’re alike; we’re thinkers.

“ … alright. I’ll talk t’the High Court about the possibility’a buildin’ somethin’. Come back t’ask about it after a week or so.” He paused, inhaling from his smoke before exhaling heftily. In a controlled voice: “You’d best make good on yer word. I can have it built, I can also have it taken down again. Rest assured, y’start unsettlin’ the people here, I’ll put a bullet in yer fuckin’ head. I don’t give a shit about my life; y’kill me, I’m fine with that. I’d sooner turn in my badge than let y’run feral in this district.”

“Ohh… you’re actually somewhat threatening. That’s good. Don’t let the higher-ups flatten that out of you.”

It was good to know that somebody with as much influence as the district’s Sheriff wasn’t a snivelling doormat. Though he had expected compliance from the beginning after he’d made his threats, he was surprised by how much resilience this man possessed. If there was one thing he was certain of at this point, it was that Kuro Braav would make a formidable enemy; for that reason, it was best to stay on his good side if possible.

After a moment of consideration, the lye dipped a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving an old-looking pocket watch. Its face was protected by a thin sheet of metal, a peculiar symbol etched into the weathered silver. If one cared to look, they would find that it matched the mysterious symbol that formed his bolo tie.

Edgar snapped his fingers, smile wide. “Well, would you look at that! Nine minutes is all it took. You’re very efficient. You can go back to your slice-and-dice now. It was a pleasure working with you.”

He left just in time to cut off a begrudging “fuck off”.

#☆ — tell me how you hate me. ❜ ( ooc. )#drabble *#/ VERY DIALOGUE HEAVY I ADMIT BUT IN MY OPINION IT'S A JOY TO READ #BECAUSE IT'S TWO POWERFUL MEN JUST LOWKEY ARGUING BUT ALSO NOT LMAO #idk i like the chemistry between him and edgar; i have more drabbles in mind for them in the future #i like writing threatening!edgar yessiree

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paladin-lynx · 5 years

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Human SQUIPtober 2019, Day 7: Michael

Human SQUIPtober 2019 Day 7: Michael

Ships Involved: None

Setting: Post-musical AU where the SQUIP somehow returned as a human and was redeemed/rehabilitated by Jeremy (with the help of the rest of the squad), and lives with him having had nowhere else to go. He looks pretty similar to how he looked in Jeremy’s head, and physically he looks to be around college age.

Trigger/Content Warnings: None

Author’s Notes: (Late again, RIP me.) I’m going to be busy the next day or two, so I may not get to cover the prompts for the next few days. Or maybe I will. Who knows? I hope you enjoy this one! Apologies if any of my facts are inaccurate when Squip is rattling off information. I did my best to research. This one was really fun to write!

“Okay okay, um…Oh! When were the first headphones made?”

“1881, technically,” Squip responded without missing a beat, not even looking away from the screen as he guided his character to dodge a fireball. “They were used by telephone operators, but only had one earpiece and weighed over ten pounds. The first headphones that resemble what you know today were made in 1910 by a man named Nathaniel Baldwin. He made them in his kitchen and then sold them to the Navy.”

Michael let out a whistle, although when he looked out of the corner of his eye, Squip could see the slight crease in Michael’s brow from the fact that he had probably thought, yet again, that he could stump Squip. “Damn. So he’s the one I have to thank for my precious set?”

Squip huffed. “I suppose. Although he never patented them, since he considered them trivial.”

“Even though the Navy used them?”

“He patented certain parts of them, but not the way they were assembled. So yes, even though the Navy used them and told him he should get a patent. He may have just been an idiot with a few strokes of good luck.”

Michael laughed, having to pause the game to give himself a moment to recover. Squip couldn’t help breaking into a smile, setting down his controller to wait. He and Michael had become a very unlikely pair, considering all of the grief Squip had caused Michael when he was still in Jeremy’s head. Michael of course had taken a while to warm up to him despite Jeremy’s assurances that Squip had very intently turned over a new leaf, and Squip would have accepted it, albeit dejectedly, if Michael had chosen to avoid him at all costs.

But perhaps it was the fact that Jeremy was spending a lot more time with Christine that had drawn Michael and Squip, who both clung a bit too tightly to his companionship, together and had them warming up more to one another with each passing day.

Nowadays it was common, when Jeremy was off with Christine and Rich was up to only God knew what, for Michael to ask Squip if he wanted to hang out. Michael was usually the one to initiate since Squip didn’t want to impose – sticking to his manners as he tended to – but he had gotten better at every now and then asking Michael if he was free and if he could come over. They usually ended up just playing video games – as Squip seemed to have inherited a slightly tamer version of Jeremy’s obsession – and just chatting. Occasionally they’d watch a movie instead and Michael would wheeze in laughter as Squip felt the need to comment on everything happening on screen. Squip had become pretty at home in Michael’s house, even if it did often have a lingering smell of weed in the air. Michael’s mothers already fussed over him like he was another son, just as they did with the rest of Michael’s friends. It was nice, even if sometimes it was a little flustering.

But no matter what they were doing, the one constant was that Michael would always try to think up random, obscure questions to ask Squip in an attempt to find something Squip didn’t know. Even if he was no longer a supercomputer with extensive databases on everything known to man, Squip had retained a decent amount of his knowledge. Sometimes he needed to take a moment to wrack his brain for a specific fact, but thus far, Michael had yet to flummox him. Although he sometimes wondered if Michael would even know if he didn’t have an answer to one of his more random questions. Squip could make up a decently believable answer and Michael may very well buy it, although he felt that he would want Michael to have his victory should it ever come to pass. Even if Michael proceeded to gloat about it for the next ten years.

Today, they were playing Contra, since Michael as always preferred his older games. They did have their charm. He’d poked fun at Squip as he’d entered the Konami Code to grant them thirty lives, remembering when Jeremy had told him that a SQUIP’s way of syncing with other SQUIPs was with a play on the old cheat code. There had been some banter back and forth about Squip being able to take over Michael’s NES before they’d dove in, with Michael occasionally piping up with a question. Squip would never be Michael’s Player Two, as that revered title was reserved for Jeremy and Jeremy alone, but he liked to think he was relatively skilled. Video games were all about timing and strategy, after all. He’d settle for instead being the boys’ Player Three – sometimes even Player Four if they convinced Christine to give it a shot.

Michael finally sucked in a deep breath and calmed down, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch before he started up the game again, the pair of them easily jumping back into the 8-bit action. Their characters stuck close together, working in tandem to traverse through the oncoming bullets and leaping enemies. Squip knew that, unlike Apocalypse of the Damned, Michael and Jeremy had beaten Contra plenty of times, but it was such a classic that when they needed something to do, it was one of the games they fell back on.

“Ooh! I’ve got another one for you!” Michael chirped as they had to slow down, skirting past laser-beams. “What’s ‘I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight’ from?”

Squip blinked, brow furrowing at the screen as he took a minute to think. As the seconds ticked by without him giving a response, he could practically feel Michael squirming next to him in excitement. But then it dawned on Squip and he chuckled. “The Devil Wears Prada? 2006, directed by David Frankel?”

Michael groaned, sinking back into the couch cushions. “How do you remember all this stuff? Are you sure you don’t still have a computer stored away somewhere in your head?”

“Pretty certain.”

“Then how in the hell?”

To be completely honest, Squip wasn’t really sure himself. He seemed to be just as human as everyone else, at least in terms of appearance and capability, but he did have an exceptional memory with a lot of the information he’d had as a SQUIP stowed away in there. Of course, the brain had its limits and he couldn’t store absolutely everything, so it was inevitable that eventually Michael would find one of the handful of things he was fuzzy on. Until then, though, he continued to soar ahead in this little game of theirs.

He offered a shrug. “Natural talent? I am pretty amazing, even as a plain old human.”

“Narcissist,” Michael accused playfully, nudging his shoulder against Squip’s. “We all know that under that ego, you’re just a big softie.”

Squip snorted, rolling his eyes. “I am not.”

“You so are! You’re all squishy underneath that hard shell.”

Squip grimaced at the description. “Technically, all humans are exactly that.”

Michael blinked at him, like a startled cat, before he stuck out his tongue in a fake gag. “Gross, dude.”

Squip laughed, pulling his controller closer as he almost accidentally ran his character right into an enemy. “You started it.”

“Not really!” But Squip could hear the suppressed giggle in Michael’s voice.

After a little more laughter, they once again fell into comfortable silence as they focused on the game. Michael and Jeremy had a habit of moving this way and that along with the characters on the screen, and while Squip tended to sit rather still, every now and then he found himself wincing to one side to match what was happening in the game. The squad liked to point out all of the ways Squip and Jeremy had rubbed off on one another, which they tended to deny, not unlike the timeless sibling argument that no, they did not look alike. However, the similarities hadn’t gone completely unnoticed between them, although not all of them were positive. Squip may have gained Jeremy’s sense of humor and Jeremy may have suddenly become more interested in learning how to code, but at the same time Squip found himself having emotional slumps whilst Jeremy felt intense guilt about everything that had happened leading up to and during A Midsummer Nightmare. Everything was always a double-edged sword. Such was life, Squip supposed.

“…What would happen if you drank Mountain Dew Red like this?”

The question caught Squip off guard to the point where he turned his head to look at Michael, only to realize that he’d led his Contra character right off a platform to his doom. Not that it mattered, he had more than twenty lives left. But he still paused the game to properly address the inquiry, unsure if he’d heard it correctly. “I’m sorry?”

Michael shrunk into himself somewhat now that he didn’t have the game as a distraction, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should have even asked. Finally, though, he repeated himself, speaking more slowly: “What would…what would happen if you drank Mountain Dew Red now? You know, as a human?”

Squip set his controller in his lap so he could mull over the question. Ever since he’d come back as a human, he’d been avoiding Mountain Dew in all its forms, even the regular kind that would simply activate a SQUIP. Perhaps it was just an instinct ingrained in him from his programming, since, as human as he was now, he still had moments when he fell back into habits from when he’d been in Jeremy’s head. It was in his nature, after all.

In theory, since he no longer had any machine parts left in him – as far as he could tell – then no soft drink should have any effects on him that were different from what the Average Joe would experience. Squip had tried drinking alcohol a handful of times, upon the squad’s insistence, and even if he was a terrible lightweight, he’d reacted rather normally other than slipping into Japanese a few times. SQUIPs only had as much information on themselves as was necessary to function, so Squip had no idea if another SQUIP had become human before – were the others from the play out there, too? – and thus he really had no idea how anything would affect him in this new form. He had been playing it by ear from pretty much the second he’d awoken as a human.

So assuming he was, as he had called himself, a ‘plain old human,’ then there should be nothing negative that would happen to him should he drink Mountain Dew Red. But there was still that instinct deeply ingrained in his now-biological code that screamed at him to avoid the discontinued soda at all costs. It was too risky. But was it really?

Was it worth trying to find out?

Squip finally let out a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “To be completely honest, I’m not sure. One would guess that nothing unusual would happen, but…well, my existence in itself defies logic, so it could still have some strange effect on me. Anything from a mild allergic reaction to…” He trailed off, feeling a shudder run down his spine as unpleasant memories resurfaced.

SQUIPs didn’t really feel, in either the physical or emotional sense of the word. That was what made them machines. But Squip was sure that what he had experienced as his world had crumbled around him and his connections to all of the students – and worst of all, to Jeremy – had frayed and ultimately snapped, energy forcefully blasting through all of his circuits, had been pain and fear and betrayal. To this day, he still wasn’t sure if his weak pleas for Jeremy to save him were genuine or just yet another manipulation tactic. He didn’t like to think about it, any of it. He wasn’t that thing anymore anyway. No longer a SQUIP, just Squip.

“…I’d have to drink it to know for certain,” Squip continued quietly, opening his eyes and wringing his fingers together as he stared at his lap. “But…I’m sure you can understand the risk of that.”

Michael nodded softly. “Yeah, I get it, so let’s, er…not do that. I don’t have much left of it, anyway.”

Squip raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the boy. “…Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking it. It was fated to be discontinued even without the SQUIPs’ interference, you know.”

“It’s not that bad! And Rich has drank it, too…”

Squip smiled a bit, picking up his controller again. “Naturally…Come on. We’re almost to the last stage.”

Michael nodded again, more eagerly, and turned back to the screen. “Right!”

And just like that, they fell back into their concentration, and Squip let the painful memories fade away, tucked back into the depths of his mind. It was silent up until they were just about to the final alien boss of the entire game.

“I just realized!” Michael suddenly exclaimed.

Squip turned to him curiously. “What’s that?”

He found Michael grinning at him, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “I found a question you couldn’t answer.”

Squip blinked once, twice, five times, before he broke into a warm, incredulous laugh and dropped his controller. He slung an arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugged the boy over, tousling up his hair as Michael squirmed and yelped in protest. “That was cheating and you know it.”

“There were never any rules and you know it!”

They devolved into laughter there on the couch, Contra all but forgotten as they continued to playfully bicker and shove at one another. It was at times like this that Squip couldn’t believe that just a few months ago, Michael could barely stand to look at him.

Now here they were, Players One and Three, every day becoming a stronger team.

#Human Squiptober 2019 #Be More Chill #BMC SQUIP #BMC Michael #i was so close to getting this done on time but then i had to freaking proofread and found so many awkward sentences lol #but these two are fun to write as friends #they just nerd out together #Michael Mell #writing #mine #BMC #SQUIPtober #lynx tales

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second-hand-heaven · 6 years

Note

For the prompt request, how about 99 with MidPollo?? I love your stuff and I hope you never stop writing

thank you so much @free-wondrous-astronomer for the prompt! this was a lot of fun! i’m titling this fic “Midnighter and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Date.” hope you enjoy this, G!

39 “don’t you ever change” midpollo

M stands in front of the mirror and sighs. Blue or black? He holds each shirt up to his chest, the soft fabric rustling against his bare chest. Blue. Or. Black. Or maybe the burgundy? It draws out the red tones in his hair, but also the purple of the bruise across his brow. Maybe not the burgundy. He tosses the shirt and coat hanger onto the bed behind him. So now he’s back to the other two shirts. Black or blue?

God, it’s like his first date all over again. His fingers leave a sheen of sweat against the coat hanger hooks. Why is he so nervous? It’s Apollo, the man who’s seen him at his absolute worst, why does it matter what colour shirt he wears? He looks down and sees a purple stain across the collar of the blue shirt. Well, black it is then. He slides the shirt across his shoulders, fiddling with the buttons. The shirt is done, tucked into his black slacks, now to work on the next task: the tie.

His hands shake as he fumbles with the slippy fabric of the silk tie. Is it over, then under? Or does it cross underneath first? Shit. Maybe he should invest in a clip-on tie? But he’s never had this trouble before. Apollo knew how to tie them, he’d be the one fixing M’s mistakes with nimble fingers and a laugh that made M feel a little less incompetent. But no, he can’t do that this time. M needs to show Apollo that he’s better, that they can be together again seriously. And besides, he’s a grown man, surely he can tie a goddamn tie?

After his fifth attempt at knotting the tie he gives up, balling the fabric in his fist and tossing onto the bed with all the other discarded clothes. He should clean up, but he’s already running late. With a sigh he heads through the rest of the apartment, grabbing his coat and the bundle of flowers he had sitting in the kitchen sink, and calls a door.

He lands in the hallway just outside Andrew’s apartment, willing his hands not to shake. Flowers held behind his back, he takes a deep breath and heads down the hall. He’s about to knock on the door when Apollo opens it, looking like an absolute dream. White shirt, with the first three buttons undone, his hair glowing as it cascades down to his shoulders. “Hey.”

“You look good,” M says, allowing himself a small grin. “I got you these.” He pulls the bouquet from behind his back and hands them over, and is thanked with a sharp sneeze from Apollo. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” M mutters, running a hand across his face. Stupid. How could he forget?

Apollo laughs, sneezes, and laughs some more. “Come on,” he says, stepping out of the apartment and locking the door, “let’s go.” A doorway glows ready at the end of the hall.

They land on the sidewalk outside the Italian restaurant M made reservations at. The restaurant is dark, the neon sign out front no longer it’s raucous red and green self. That’s not a great start.

“It says here they’re closed.” Apollo points to the window to the left. “Health and safety infringement? I guess we dodged a bullet.”

Shit. His mind races for a solution. Maybe an alternative? Good, he can do that, he can adapt. His night hasn’t quite gone to shit yet, it’s okay. “Okay, let’s go somewhere else.”

“There’s a nice Thai place a few blocks down,” Apollo says, taking M’s arm, “let’s try there instead.” M lets himself be led away, ignoring the niggling sting of embarrassment. They walk down the street, arm in arm, and the tension from that earlier hiccup starts to melt away at the warmth of Apollo’s touch. In just the space of a few blocks, M begins to feel lighter than he has in a long while.

They make it to the restaurant Apollo suggested in no time. “Ah, Andrew,” the maitre de welcomes them as they enter, coming out from behind her desk to properly greet him with a kiss on the cheek. She eyes M up and down, and does little to hide her disapproval. “Where is Roger?”

M looks sharply at Apollo, who pales at the woman’s words. Roger? Who the fuck is Roger? “Erm, Roger and I aren’t together anymore. This is M.”

M feels heat rise to his cheeks. He wishes he was wearing that stupid tie right now, anything to make him look that little bit better than whoever that ridiculous Roger is. “Evening, ma’am,” M says and holds out his hand. The woman turns up her nose, though she does return the handshake. Hard. M smiles down at her with gritted teeth, a litany of curses just waiting to fall from his tongue.

M waits until they’re seated before he ‘casually’ asks, “Roger?” with his eyes firm on the wines list in his white-knuckle grip.

Tired, Apollo replies, “We weren’t together then, M. Leave it alone.”

And M tries, he really tries, but whoever this fucking Roger is, he evidently left a lasting impression on the restaurant staff. Three waiters and two kitchen hands come out to greet Apollo over the course of their meal, each sending dirty looks of varying degrees in M’s direction. He tries not to sulk over his meal, but Apollo keeps shooting him questioning glances. Of all the restaurants they had to end up at, it had to be this one. Perfect fucking Roger and his people skills; how is M meant to compete with that?

They’re just about to order dessert when M gets a call, a tip-off about some arms deal. He scrubs a hand across his face; he can’t ignore it, as much as he would like to. Criminals have the worst goddamn timing.

“What is it?” Apollo says, a small crease in his brow.

M sighs. “Some extraterrestrials got their hands on some God Garden tech in Prague.”

There’s a low chuckle from across the table. “I guess you never get a night off.”

“I guess not. I-” he wants to apologise for running off like this, but a thought strikes him mid sentence. “Want to come with?”

Apollo shrugs, “Sure.” It’s not the most enthusiastic partner he’s had on a mission, but at least he didn’t have to kidnap this one. Apollo calls a waiter over and M insists on paying the bill. Through grit teeth, he adds a decent tip, but he can still feel their disapproving gaze as they leave.

M calls a door once they make it into the back alleyway, and they step into an old warehouse that could do with some bleaching. It’s a dirty fight, but it’s quick. They fight well together, always have, and it feels good to have Apollo at his back again. There are only a few goons on either side of the deal, humans and aliens, and together Apollo and he make quick work of them

It’s going well, until one assailant catches Apollo unaware. M sees it before it happens, panic washing over him. “Apollo!” M yells, throwing a rod of rebar like a spear directly at the alien, piercing through its chest. Green goo splatters across Apollo’s aghast face, dripping from his glowing locks. The alien slumps to the ground at Apollo’s feet, twitching for a few seconds before growing still. M sighs in relief.

Apollo groans, a hand coming up to touch his face. “The hair? Why does it have to be be in my hair?”

M opens his mouth to apologise, and instead finds himself laughing. He slaps a hand across his lips, but it does little to stifle his laughter. Apollo will chew him out for it, but he can’t stop, it’s just too funny.

“It’s not funny,” Apollo tries, but he’s losing the battle against the grin that tries to spread across his lips. “Okay, maybe a little.” He crosses the floor, floating over bodies, until he’s right in front of M. Even splatter in an unsightly shade of green, Apollo still looks like an utter dream.

“C’mere.” M tugs at Andrew’s belt loops, pulling him forward until they’re pressed hip to hip, chest to chest. “Hey you.”

Apollo wrinkles his nose. “I’m gross and covered in alien guts.”

But Midnighter just grins, “I don’t care,” his breath ghosting across Apollo’s lips. He waits there for a moment, rigidly still, and surely enough, Apollo bridges the gap between them, bringing their lips together. M’s hands slide around Apollo’s hips to slide up and down the blond man’s back. A warm hand cups his chin, and M melts into Apollo’s tender touch. This is what he wanted, this is what feels like home.

Midnighter calls a door, hand sliding further and further down Apollo’s back. They land in M’s bedroom just as his hands reach Apollo’s waistband. Apollo quirks an eyebrow at their location, but doesn’t say anything, just leans in for another kiss. It’s perfect, it’s amazing, it’s so fucking hot.

M tosses Apollo lightly onto the bed, a cheeky grin stretching across his features. He crawls on top of Apollo, not caring about the green slime smearing across the pillows. M drops his weight further onto Apollo, who suddenly yelps in pain, twisting out of M’s arms and off the bed.

“What the-” The offending weapon, a coat hanger, lies on the covers, unrepentant.

Apollo scowls. “Could you at least clean up before you have company?”

Truth be told, Midnighter didn’t think he’d get this far tonight, and now, it looks like he won’t get the chance again. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. M calls a door, utterly defeated and wanting to be anywhere other than near Apollo’s sad smile, the one he’ll wear when he tells M that no, they can’t do this anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, raking a hand through his hair, “I keep fucking up. See you around, I guess.”

He takes another step to the door, feeling like his boots are full of lead. Apollo calls out, “M, you don’t have to leave,” and Midnighter turns, hopeful, until Apollo adds, “it’s your place after all.”

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. M closes the distance between them, eyes wide and desperate. “I’m sorry, Andrew. Fuck. I just wanted tonight to be like how it used to be. I can do better, Andrew,” M pleas, taking both Apollo’s hands in his. “I can be better.”

Apollo laughs and shakes his head. “I love you, just like this, okay? Don’t you ever change.” And with that, he pulls M closer and into a searing kiss.

FIN

#midpollo #midnighter #apollo #dc #fic #my fic #prompt fills #ask #nova speaks

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imaginetonyandbucky · 6 years

Note

shifter verse au + wolf!bucky + human!tony. when tony realizes that he is attracted to bucky, he does what he knows best -- research everything about wolf shifters, then tests out the knowledge on bucky. does bucky love the casual touches tony starts handing out everytime he sees him? does tony use submissive body language around the winter soldier? how long does it take tony to realize which combination of words n touches will tease bucky? how long until bucky realizes tony means it?

Shifter Shifter

A/N: I’m on vacation and school’s out and I FINALLY have time to write. Hope you like it!

“Okay JARVIS. Hit me with it.”

JARVIS pulled up page after page of research, and Tony’s head spun. There was so much information - and misinformation - about wolf shifters. He knew some, of course. He lived with two, but being roommates with a shifter was entirely different from... dating one. Or trying to date one.

“Okay... cull out the obvious bullshit.”

That still left him with a staggering amount of information to review. Well, he decided. He had become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics overnight, he could do this too.

“Let’s start from the top.”

“While most shifters, as a whole, are very tactile, felines shifters prefer to initiate contact except in the case of mates. In contrast, canine shifters are less preferential about who initiates contact, however, initiating extended contact with a canine shifter shows trust and affection for the shifter.”

-Shifter Traits, 1987, University of New York

“We’re watching Jurassic Park and that’s that,” Natasha announced. No one was willing to argue with her, and really, there was no argument against Jurassic Park.

Popcorn was made, soda cans were opened, candy was passed out. Seats were chosen. Natasha and Clint chose an armchair, as usual. Thor sat in the other. Steve sat on one end of the couch, and Bucky sat on the other. Tony’s usual spot was in the middle, and he sat there, sort of. Instead of sticking to the middle cushion, he leaned over into Bucky’s cushion. “You mind?” He asked quietly.

Bucky looked surprised, but shook his head, gesturing and shrugging at the same time to indicate that he didn't mind.

Tony curled up, leaning against Bucky’s side casualty

He could feel four pairs of eyes on him - Thor was too entranced by the movie to pay attention - but he ignored them all to focus on velociraptor kill the poor loading crew leader.

Eventually, everyone's attention returned to the movie, and Bucky relaxed. He put an arm around Tony’s shoulders.

Smiling to himself, he leaned in even more, just as the unsuspecting Doctors Grant and Sattler saw the dinosaurs for the first time.

(Watch out for the break!)

Repeated contact leads to an exchange of scent that takes over a month to fade. This exchange tells the hindbrain of a shifter that the other person is pack. Pack is the second most important thing to a shifter, where mates and children are the most important.

-Shifter Traits, 1997, University of New York

Tony quickly noticed that Bucky was probably touch-starved, the way he reacted after Tony began his campaign to casually touch Bucky more often. Slinging an arm over Bucky’s shoulder at dinner, idly running his fingers through Bucky’s hair during movie nights, offering hugs, and of course, curling up nearly on top of Bucky on movie nights. Bucky practically melted into him.

And while Tony couldn't smell himself, unless he had accidentally made things go boom in Bruce’s lab (again) he noticed Bucky subtly sniffing him and looking pleased more and more often.

Eventually, occasionally, rarely, Bucky initiated contact, though he looked like Tony might rip away at any second, then looked ecstatic when Tony didn't reject him and in fact encouraged him.

When a shifter is upset, the quickest way to calm them is by offering a gesture of submission. A traditional gesture is the baring of the neck. The best way to do this is to tilt one’s head to one side, rather than lift one’s head backwards, which is seen more as a dominance challenge. It is suggest that this gesture is only performed by someone who is already considered one of the shifters pack, for the safety of all involved.

-Moods of Canine Shifters, 2007, Oxford University

Tony was known for making... irrational decisions sometimes. This was definitely one of the more insane ones.

Bucky was teetering on the edge of the abyss that was The Winter Soldier. He only reverted to that mind-set when he was very stressed or very angry.

Right now, he was both. It had been an absolute clusterfuck of a mission. Steve was injured to the point that he was spending the night in Medical. Natasha had broken her leg. Tony had broken two ribs and was severely concussed. Clint’s hearing was temporarily entirely gone, and his fingers were bandaged. Bucky himself was bleeding from three gunshots.

Tony did the only thing he could think of, which would either get him killed or bring Bucky back from the brink. He offered his neck.

Bucky froze, staring at Tony. Tony tried to relax and look as unthreatening as possible.

Bucky came closer, scenting the air. Whatever he smelled obviously pleased him because he no longer looked like he was going to go on a murder-spree. He came closer to sniff Tony’s neck.

Not daring to move, Tony concentrated on staying relaxed and open.

Bucky relaxed entirely, then scrambled backwards. “What the hell, Tony?”

Ah, there he was. Tony stood upright. “You were about to snap, Buck-a-roo.”

“I could have killed you!”

“You wouldn't have. I trust you.”

Nonplussed, Bucky stared at Tony.

“What?”

Tony shrugged. “I trust you.” There wasn't much else to say.

“Why?”

“You make great grilled cheese. You took a bullet for me without thinking. Sometimes things are simple.”

Bucky clearly didn't know what to say.

Tony carefully put an arm around Bucky’s waist. His rib throbbed. “Let's go check on Spangles, then our resident spies, okay?”

Seeing a shifter in their shifted form during a full moon is a sign of trust from the shifter. They are helpless to the shift, and while they are certainly not helpless, since they are unable to shift back they prefer to stay alone or with other shifters. Seeing a shifter at any other time is much more common.

-Shifting Shifters, 2010, University of New Mexico

Everyone had seen Bucky’s shifted form. It had been a fantastic weapon during battles, and occasionally Bucky preferred to curl up in shifted form, and liked being petted.

But only Steve and the Howling Commandos. Not even HYDRA had seen him in shifted form, since they preferred to freeze him during the full moon instead of letting a wolf run wild. And The Asset didn't remember he was a shifter.

“Sir?”

Tony looked up from his project. “Yeah J?”

JARVIS hesitated. “Sergeant Barnes is outside your door.”

Startled, Tony looked reflexively at his workshop door. It was in blackout mode, so he couldn't see out, but he didn't doubt JARVIS. “But- isn't it the full moon?” He had every moon marked in his calendar, and had JARVIS remind him every month.

“Yes, Sir. Sergeant Barnes is in wolf form.”

Confused now, and a little worried, Tony pushed away from his work table. “End the blackout. Is he okay? Where’s Steve?”

“Captain Rogers is on the couch in the common room, watching cooking shows. Sergeant Barnes is fine.” The blackout ended, leaving clear glass.

Bucky was sitting at the door, looking at Tony with sad puppy dog eyes, begging to come in.

His eyebrows creasing, Tony opened the door. Bucky shot in, and went straight for the couch. He laid down, then thumped his tail several times, as if in invitation.

“Bucky?”

The wolf huffed, and pointedly shuffled over to make more room.

Feeling a little out of sorts, Tony sat. “What's going on?”

In answer, Bucky laid his head on Tony’s lap and promptly fell asleep.

The next morning, Bucky was back to being human-shaped. He was also very naked. Tony stretched, feeling his bones pop back into place, and studiously avoided looking at anything but Bucky’s face.

“So.”

Bucky flushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at his lap.

Cocking his head, Tony furrowed his brow. “For what?”

“For imposing on you.” Bucky seemed oblivious to the fact that he was naked - most shifters didn't care one way or another.

Rolling his eyes, Tony wondered why he liked such an idiot. “You weren't imposing. I was just wondering-” He paused. “You’ve never been here before on a full moon. You hang out with Steve,” he finished lamely.

Bucky shrugged. “I hate cooking shows.”

Tony laughed. “So that's the only reason you came down here?”

Looking uncharacteristically soft and open, Bucky shook his head. “I just wanted to be around you, I guess. You're good people. I-” He stopped for a second. “I trust you, you know?”

Tony’s stomach flipped over. “Oh.”

Looking a little miserable, Bucky started to stand. “Sorry I'll just go.”

Tony’s hand was clamped around Bucky’s wrist before his brain caught up with his actions. “Wait, no.”

Looking back, Bucky looked hopeful.

“I-” He let go of Bucky’s hand to twist his together. “Doyouwanttogoonadate?”

Bucky slowly sounded out the sentence before brightening. “Really? With me?”

“Of course with you!”

Sitting back down, Bucky grinned. “You don't mind that I get furry or murder-y?”

Shaking his head, Tony felt less like he was going to puke and more like he was going to float away. “Tomorrow night, since tonight is still the full moon? Pizza?”

“It's a date.”

Shifter’s mating habits are more similar to their shifted forms than not. For example, wolves tend to mate for life.

-Reproduction Habits of Shifters, 1999, Trinity College

Two Years, One Day Later

It was their anniversary. Bucky had asked if he could plan it, and Tony had agreed, willing to be surprised.

They were out at the same pizza place that they had come to for their first date. It was sentimental and wonderful.

Tony had already given Bucky his gift, a gift card to the Manhattan Fruit Exchange and a basketful of specialty candies that he was fond of. Well, the rest of the gift would be later, in bed.

Bucky pulled out his gift. It was wrapped in Iron Man wrapping paper.

Tearing into it, he found another box with a different type of Iron Man wrapping paper. And again, and again, until-

He looked up at Bucky, barely able to breathe. “Is this?”

“Open it and find out,” Bucky suggested, but his face was filled with nerves.

Tony did. It was exactly what he thought.

Bucky drew his attention by going down on one knee. “You’re the one who went out of their way to learn about shifters, and make me feel comfortable in this century. You’re my home, and my mate. Will you make it official?”

Tony couldn't speak for a second, so he nodded enthusiastically and pushed the box at Bucky. “Put it on me, honey.”

Bucky did, and the whole restaurant burst into cheers, startling both of them.

Smiling, Tony kissed Bucky.

“I love you,” he said against Bucky’s lips.

“I love you, too.”

~Marie

#winteriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #werewolf bucky #werewolves #prompts #mariesbookblog #Anonymous

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jumpingjackets · 7 years

Text

He Blew You Away (Philip Hamilton x Reader)

Request:

Anonymous said: 2,3,12 with Philip please💙 base on “blow us all away ”

Word Count: 2091

A/N: I’m so pumped for this one, I’ve always wanted to write from these lists. Hope you like it! (I may have gone a lil overboard with this, sue me)

from this prompt list

2. “You are not going without me.”

3.“I can’t believe you!”

12.“You can’t die. Please don’t die.”

You were happy.

Walking hand and hand with your boyfriend through town, it felt like the world could be burning down but you would be okay, because he was there. Smiling, bouncing with happiness, and overall just the beautiful person he is.

“I need to take you to that show, Y/N, I was thinking about you the whole time. You’re gonna love it.” Philip said with excitement, which you responded with fond laughter.

“Aren’t those types of plays really expensive? I don’t want you wasting so much on me.” You said, looking down with slight discomfort.

“Don’t you worry about that. My father will get them.” He said, planting a sweet kiss in your cheek.

“You’re too good to me.” You said with a beaming smile.

You walked in comfortable silence up until the heart of town, where a group seemed to be gathered at the town fountain. There was a man standing on top of a wooden crane, screaming at his audience. The people around seemed to respond in agreement.

“Isn’t that George Eacker?” You asked, standing on your tippy toes to try and see him. You recognized him mostly by his voice. Eacker shouted obscenities about a certain Hamilton that you wouldn’t dare repeat, but were clearly heard. The crowd roared.

“He’s talking about my father…” Philip whispered in apparent shock. His body seemed frozen, his fists balled up at his sides. His expression was unreadable.

“He’s a nobody, Pip. Let’s just go.” You said, tugging at his arm. His eyebrows furrowed, but eventually gave in and walked away with you. The silence between you as you reached his house wasn’t as comfortable as it was before.

When you stirred awake, it may have been well past dawn. It was still dark outside and significantly cold. You were laid on your side when you tried to reach behind you to where Philip was supposed to be, but were just met with the empty side of your bed.

You sat up, confused and tired, and looked around the room for any trace of the young boy. When nothing pointed to him still being there, you light up the candle beside your bed and walked downstairs. You had reached the bottom when the front door opened, and a fuming Philip slammed it shut. It startled you to the point where you almost dropped the lit candle.

“What were you doing out so late?” You tried to keep your voice as leveled as possible.

“That Eacker, I swear to God.” His voice was like poison, very unlike the loving and gentle Philip you’ve always known him as.

“Calm down, Pip. Tell me what happened.” You said, motioning to the nearby couch and setting the candle on the table next to it. He seemed to untense just slightly, but sat down next to you.

“After you fell asleep, me and Richard Price went to confront Eacker about the things he was saying. You know, about my father.” Philip started, fiddling with his fingers.

“Go on.” You said, leaning closer. Your mind was racing through a lot of emotions, none recognizable.

“And when we did so, he started to talk shit about us personally. Calling us rascals and scoundrels, that one was for me specifically.”

“Philip, I swear to God. You better not have done what I think you did.” You said, standing up abruptly. You turned around, back facing him, and rubbed your temples roughly.

“I challenged him to a duel. I couldn’t let him continue to talk down my father like he was. Y/N, you must understand.” Philip said desperately, his hands carefully wrapping themselves around your waist. You quickly, and rougher than you intended, pushed his hands off of you.

“I can’t believe you!” You screamed at him. You felt tears in your eyes, but your anger prevented them from falling.

“Y/N, I had to! He was disparaging my father’s legacy!”

“And to kill yourself is the way to salvage it?!” You said, turning around to stare at him directly in his eyes. Your voice started wavering, the prospect of losing Philip already overcoming you.

“I won’t let that lowlife continue dissing my family name.” Philip said quietly. He went from angry to, now, almost frightened.

“When and where is this happening, Philip?” You said firmly.

“In Jersey, tomorrow.” He said, looking down in shame. The use of his first name had an effect on him.

“Alright, I’m coming with you.” You said with a sense of finality.

“What?! Absolutely not.” You could tell Philip was terrified now.

“You are not going without me.” You said, a single tear going down your cheeks. All traces of anger or seriousness washing away.

He seemed to sense that there was no arguing with you, so he just submitted and wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace.

You stood there for a while before he guided you back to your room. It’s safe to say that you didn’t get a second of sleep after that.

“Please hide behind here.” Philip said, motioning to a dead tree close to the duel ground. You reluctantly sat at the roots, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes (from both lack of sleep and extensive crying).

“Please come back for me, Pip, okay?” You said, voice pathetically shaky. He kneeled down and pressed your foreheads together.

“I will. Don’t you worry.” He whispered, closing the distance between the both of you with a kiss.

It was strange. It wasn’t the same sweet and loving kiss you have grown used to. This kiss seemed deep, passionate, almost final.

When you pulled back, you stayed quiet for a bit before Philip looked up.

“He’s here. I need to go.” He stood up and fixed his coat. He began to walk towards the duel ground before he stopped in his tracks.

“Y/N.”

“Yes, my dear?” You asked, worry heavy in your voice.

“I love you.”

And with that, he continued his walk until you couldn’t see him anymore without making your presence known. You laid back down, your back hitting the hard trunk behind you and wrapped your arms around your bent legs in front of you.

You rocked your body back and forth softly, sending a quiet prayer to God for him to protect your Pip.

You could hear talking far behind you, but as hard as you tried, your nerves didn’t let you understand anything. You were left teary eyed, praying to God, and mumbling to yourself until the sound of a gunshot filled your ears.

It rang inside your ears for a few moments before you stood up and looked back at where Philip had walked just minutes ago.

It was like the entire world stopped. Philip was in the floor, his gun had fallen beside him, Eacker was fleeing the scene, and you could see blood pooling around his body.

You let out a heart wrenching scream before running to his side, staining your clothes completely with blood (but that was the least of your worries).

You slid your hands below the nape of his neck, carefully lifting his upper body and resting him on your knees while cradling him.

“Hey, hey, Pip, it’s okay, I got you. It’s okay.” You said, your hands hovering over his body and the bullet wound.

Philip was breathing heavily, his hands trembling as he took yours in his.

“Y/N…”

“Yes, baby. It’s me. Stay with me, okay?” You said, kissing his bloodstained hands and looking desperately at the people that had gathered around. “Someone get a doctor, please.”

“Y/N, listen to me…” Philip whispered, cupping your cheek to get your attention. Tears were now flowing out of your eyes, sobs quietly racking your whole body.

“I’m listening, Pip. I’m here.” You said, placing your hand over his.

“There’s an envelope in my coat pocket. Can you give it to my parents?” He whispered. You searched inside his coat and, surely enough, there was a folded envelope inside. “Don’t read it, you’ll find out what it says after I’m gone.”

Your eyes widened as more tears fell down your cheeks.

“Philip, no. Don’t say that. You can’t die. Please don’t die.” You gasped out, clutching his hand over your chest.

In that moment, two men were running to the scene to pick up Philip. You looked up at them, not wanting to let go of him.

“I love you, Y/N.” Philip whispered after some difficulty to sit up.

“I love you, Pip. I love you so much.” You said as you cried into his shoulder. Before you could realize it, Philip was taken from your arms and rowed across the river, probably to a hospital.

The funeral was just days after they announced his death, at his home. You had stayed in Weehawken for hours before you walked back to town, clothes stained with blood and emotionally drained. You couldn’t physically cry anymore, like if you had run out of tears to shed.

One of Philip’s sisters, Angelica Hamilton, had found you and returned you home. She was the one to deliver the news to you, and by some miracle of God, you continued to cry. She never left your side, which you greatly appreciated.

When you arrived at the Hamilton household, you instantly spotted Eliza next to her children. She was slow to look up, but she smiled softly when she realized it was you.

“My dear, I’m so glad you came.” She said, and she wrapped her arms around you gently. Her voice was sweet and kind, and it made you bury your face in the crook of her neck. “Philip was so proud of you.”

Her words made your eyes water, but you didn’t want to cry, not now.

“Your son was a good man, the best man I’ve ever met.” You said after you pulled back. She offered a grateful smile.

You remembered what Philip had asked of you, and quickly fished it from your pocket. “Mrs. Hamilton. Before he…” You started, your hand now visibly shaking with the envelope. “He wanted me to give you this, for both you and Mr. Hamilton.” You finished, your hand still shaking as you offered it to Eliza.

She looked broken as she took the creased envelope from your hand, and looked back at you. “Thank you, my dear. I’ll fetch him now.” With a bow, she was out of sight.

After a moment of being alone, you searched for somewhere you could sit, spotting a chair looking out the window. You quietly made your way to it, sitting down and rubbing your hands over your face.

It was a few minutes before a teary-eyed Eliza and full-on-crying Alexander kneeled in front of you. You were confused, but sat up straighter to look at them. Alexander handed you a letter, unmistakably Philip’s writing, and a golden ring. You looked at Alexander in the eye, not wanting to read the letter nor acknowledge what it could mean, but his heavy eyes alone convinced you to do so.

My dearest, Y/N,

I am writing to you just mere hours before the duel, as a sort of will.

My inexperience, I’m afraid, will be the cause of my demise in such a brutal and sudden encounter. I am sure I will not come out of this alive, which is the reason behind this letter. If I feel that death is inevitable in the dueling grounds, I will ask of you to give this to my parents, which I do not doubt you will do, because you are such an honest woman. One of the many qualities that made me fall madly in love with you.

You are the reason this is so difficult, because I cannot bear to leave you behind. I will admit, I am a bit afraid of dying, but I am more afraid of hurting you in the slightest. Since the moment we met, I have imagined you as my wife. There have been an embarrassing number of nights that I couldn’t sleep because of the excitement I had about the possibility of one day marrying you.

When my mother and father read this letter, this is my way of asking their permission. If this finds its way back to you, it means that they are accepting you as their daughter in law. I ask, my dear Y/N, for your hand in marriage. Wear the ring, and remember me as your husband.

I love you, deeply, and will have you in my heart for all eternity,

Your Pip

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ddproductionsw77 · 7 years

Text

They are Always.

Fandom: Girl Meets World

Pairing(s): Riarkle (Mainly), Markle (Maybe is you squint? It’s really intensely platonic...?)

Characters: Riley Matthews, Farkle Minkus, Maya Hart, Topanga Matthews, Cory Matthews, Jennifer Bassett Minkus

Prompt from lucasfriarfan: Ok, how bout this, Riley, Farkle and Maya are walking home, someone tries to mug them, Farkle steps in front of the bullet, from a Maya Riley POV, as they sit in the hospital waiting to see if he will make it.

Author’s Note: So, I am still taking Riarkle/GMW prompts for short stories if you like this one... I hope you do because I was trying a new style that I don’t normally write in and I’m not sure how much I like it...

Everything has faded to gray except for the red on Riley Matthews’ hands.

It’s the same shade of scarlet as that lipstick that looks so damn good on Maya and stains her skin in almost the same way, crusting under her nails and sticking into the creases of her palms. And she knows, she really does know, that it’s not Maya’s lipstick coating her hand but she just can’t quite think about what it really is so instead she just tries to recall the name of that shade.

Russian Red, maybe?

Everything has blurred and that’s about the time she realizes that she is crying.

Of course, she’s crying, though, because she’s Riley Matthews and she's a crier. She hates that about herself but it’s the truth. Any feeling to send her over a 7 on the emotional Richter scale always had her in tears.

Clenching her hands into fists, Riley’s muscles relax ever so slightly at the bite of nail in palm. The pain is grounding, something she can actually concentrate on, so she’s thankful even as her hands shake uncontrollably in their balled up and bloodied state.

“Riley?”

She barely hears the tentative call over the pounding in her head but she does and it forces her to turn her head away from the lipstick stain colored blood.

Her mother, at some point she can’t recall, had moved to share the waiting room bench with her and she’s reaching out and caressing Riley’s face. Even though the girl can imagine what her mother’s touch must feel like, she hadn’t even noticed the hands on her until that moment. She hadn’t felt a thing.

Over Topanga’s shoulder, Riley can see her father wearing a gutted expression and just that sight makes her grow even colder. That, that she can feel actually. The cold.

Blinking, trying to pick out the words she needs from the jumble in her head, Riley’s gaze flickers back to her mother. “Mom, he- he just- It was so fast and I- I couldn’t-“

Topanga cuts her off and flings her arms around her daughter, stroking the girl’s soft curls and hushing her as she dissolves into sobs. “Shh, breathe, Sweetie. Just breathe and tell me what happened.”

Riley whimpered and shook her head into her mother’s shoulder, crying so hard it shook her whole body. She cries so hard, her throat sears and she thinks her head might just explode.

“It’s all my fault!” She moaned, struggling to catch her breath.

Riley Matthews was pretty sure that her hand belonged in Farkle Minkus’.

Despite the fact that her fingers were short and his were bony and even though her skin was as soft as satin from nightly moisturizer and his was callused from lab experiments and hours of writing too hard in pencil, they still fit like it was meant to be.

She watched with a contented smile as the boy in question played with her digits without thinking while flipping through his copy of A Brief History of Time for the twelfth reread. Slotting and intertwining their fingers between them, Farkle never once glance away from the pages of his book as the subway shot through the New York underground.

Riley was a little jealous at the way he could maintain a steady, easy balance on the train without grabbing onto anything. She held the bar and still nearly slammed face first into surrounding surfaces.

“Riles, would you please stop triggering my gag reflex?” Another voice broke through Riley’s fuzzy brain, startling her slightly.

Tightening her grip on her boyfriend’s hand, Riley turned to glare at her best friend. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Maya.”

Maya stood next to her, gripping the same bar, and playfully glaring back. “So, you weren’t just staring at Farkle like a lovesick puppy? Huh, could’ve fooled me.”

Blushing, the brunette glanced back over at her best-friend-more-recently-turned-boyfriend only to see him barely biting back a smirk behind his book.

She pouted and briefly released the bar she’d been clinging to, smacking him on the shoulder. “Don’t laugh at me!”

Farkle finally looked up from his book, acting utterly offended, “I wasn’t laughing!”

“He just still can’t believe that you wanna jump him practically every five seconds.” Maya cut in, smirking at the couple.

“Maya!” They scolded in unison, both blushing scarlet.

Honestly, this whatever-it-was between Farkle and Riley was so new and yet so long overdue that no one, not even the two of them, really knew how to react to it.

Only Maya seemed to take it in stride as if she’d expected it all along, and she loved to tease them about it endlessly. This ranged from innocently singing ‘Farkle and Riley sitting in a tree’ in the hallways at school to making thinly veiled sex jokes right in front of Riley’s father.

It was mortifying, but that was Maya…And Farkle and Riley loved Maya.

The blonde laughed at the flustered pair as the subway slowed to a stop and was the first of the three to make her way off. Riley and Farkle existed together, dropping their hands so that she could help zip his book back into his bag before they started their walk the rest of the way to the Matthews’ residence.

Watching Maya stride a few feet ahead of them, Riley hugged Farkle’s arm and leaned her head against his bicep. God, she loved that he was so much taller than her. It had originally infuriated her to be shorter back in middle school when he first shot up but now… well, now the difference was just so much more attractive.

“You smell good,” Riley commented lazily without thinking, breathing him in.

Farkle chuckled and shook his head, the tips of his ears turning red, “Uh, thanks. It’s soap and detergent.”

“Well, it’s nice.” His girlfriend reinforced, glancing up to giggle at his embarrassment.

“You always smell like sunflowers and strawberries.” Farkle blurted out.

Riley nodded, “I call it ‘favorite shampoo and mom’s perfume’. Thinking about picking up a patent. You know, branding it.”

“Very smart business decision, really. It could be incredibly profitable.” The young genius played along.

Rolling her eyes and smiling, Riley snuggled closer to Farkle’s arm, causing him to sway in his step a bit. Regaining his footing with a light laugh, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of her head. He paused for a moment to breathe in that intoxicating mixture of sunflowers and strawberries.

Ahead Maya had ducked into the alley with the stainless window that they took home every day and vanished from sight. The couple took their time following, enjoying the break from their friend’s teasing.

Finally, they turned the corner only to stop short. Riley’s expression dropped, her limbs going numb as they slipped from Farkle while her brain slowly computed the situation before her.

Maya stood, rigid as a board, with her hands raised in the universal sign for surrender and a few feet in front of her stood a man. A man with a gun aimed right at the blonde’s chest.

Riley couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, all she knew was Maya, her Maya was in danger and she had to do something. The man’s eyes had widened at Riley and Farkle’s appearance and he was looking increasingly panicked. He narrowed his gaze on the locket hanging from Maya’s neck, “Give up the gold, kid, or I’ll shoot you all!”

Slowly, the brunette took a step forward with her hands out before her, moving to Maya’s side. “Please, sir, you don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, I think I do! We can’t all be spoiled rich kids and I need the cash.” He moved the gun to point at Riley, making her falter in her step.

“Hey, calm down, man!” Farkle snapped from somewhere close behind Riley.

Quickly and erratically, the man flicked his wrist back to Maya and glared behind the girls where Riley assumed her boyfriend was standing. “Give it up!”

Maya narrowed her eyes. No one would even think she were scared if her hands weren’t shaking ever so slightly, still raised in the air. “My mother and step-father gave me this locket. It’s mine, not yours!”

“I’m not messing around!” The man yelled, waving the firearm wildly.

Without a thought, Riley stepped forward again, positioning herself between the barrel and Maya. She hurriedly pleaded, “Hey! Hey! Calm down!” while at the same time that both Farkle and Maya yelped, “Riley!”

The man tried to scramble back, as if as afraid of Human Ray of Sunshine Riley Matthews as she was of him but slammed into a dumpster. Like a caged animal, he lashed out and rocketed himself toward his closest, easiest target.

Riley.

There was a gunshot, a scream, and then Riley felt her body slam into the hard concrete of the alleyway. Her forehead connected hard with the ground and the air was knocked from her lungs by a weight that had fallen across her body.

“Riley! Farkle!” Maya’s voice screamed as Riley forced her eyes open.

She tried to mentally search her body for the pain that had to have come from being shot but all she felt was the pounding in her head. Above her, the weight shifted and a groan sounded out as Maya came running and dropped to her knees. The weight, Riley realized in a horrorstruck daze, was Farkle.

Farkle, who was now laying across her legs, clutching his side, just under his chest.

He’d pushed her aside.

Sitting up in a panic, Riley carefully shifted her boyfriend’s head into her lap. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

“What do we do?!” Maya frantically asked, leaning over the boy.

Farkle hissed and squeezed his eyes shut, biting back a scream. Breathing shallowly, he forced his mouth open, “Pre-pressure. You gotta put pre-pressure…”

He trailed off into a groan, skin quickly turning the color of paper.

Riley’s stomach turned as she ripped the scarf from around her neck and balled up the material, pressing it hard against the bloody wound and moving Farkle’s hands out of the way. The boy yelped and tried to twist away from her touch for a moment before thinking rationally once again. Blood instant soaked through the thin material, coating Riley’s fingers and making them slick.

“911!” Riley sobbed, turning her wide, fearful eyes on her blonde best friend. “Call 911!”

As Maya struggled with her cell phone, Riley maintained pressure while leaning her forehead against Farkle’s. Maybe she was imagining it or maybe she was warm from panic, but his skin already seemed chillingly cool against her own.

“Riley…” Farkle slurred, keeping his eyes closed and tilted his head up towards her touch.

“No, no, no.” She mumbled, moving to press her lips against his forehead, “You have to stay with me, okay? You said always! You said always, so you have to stay!”

Hours pass.

Topanga holds her daughter up and walks her to the bathroom where she scrubs the girl’s hands until they are raw and pink. Riley knows the blood is all gone but she can still feel the stickiness of it under her nails.

The two women sit back down to wait and wait and Riley is suddenly struck by the fact that Maya is nowhere to be seen. She can’t even remember where she lost track of the blonde in the rush to the hospital but she thought Maya had gotten in the ambulance with them…

Farkle’s mother is there but she doesn’t talk to Riley and from what she’s gathered Stuart is away and hasn’t answered his phone yet. His son is dying and he can’t be pulled from a meeting. Riley’s heart aches.

They will blame her too. They should.

Why had she stepped closer?

Why had she tried to talk the man down?

Farkle wouldn’t be in surgery, fighting for his life if it weren’t for her and her blind, idiotic optimism.

All her fault.

“Riley,” Another whisper, even shakier and more tentative than her mother’s from hours ago. Had it really been hours?

Maya stood, eyes rimmed red and puffy, her whole body shaking. Riley had seen Maya at her best and at her worst and everything in-between but in that moment the girl looked more broken than she ever had before.

“Riley,” Maya tried again, hiccuping, “I’m so sorry.”

She collapses, folds in on herself, and clings to Riley while sobbing into her lap. She continues to mutter broken apologies but all Riley can do is sit and try to riddle out why Maya is sorry when none of this is her fault. It’s Riley’s.

“I should have just given him the locket! Farkle would be fine if I hadn’t been stupid and selfish!” Maya says at some point and Riley’s heart breaks all over again for her friend and herself and most of all for Farkle.

Her pink, raw fingers move to comb through Maya’s curls and it’s not quite the fit Farkle’s hand is but it feels right.

They settle into each other and wait together.

Her hands are freezing and she knows it’s from the poor circulation on her mother’s side of the family but all she can think is that her hand is cold because it’s waiting for the warmth of Farkle’s.

But finally, finally, a doctor comes to address Mrs. Minkus and Jennifer’s eyes dart to meet Riley’s from across the room as the man speaks to her. It’s the first time she’d even acknowledged her son’s girlfriend. Riley understands.

After they are done, Farkle’s mother nods and comes to stand before the two girls she knows her son loves more than any other. While Jennifer loves her son, the deep pain of Riley Matthews and Maya Hart over him still makes her squirm.

She swallows hard, eyes flickering away from their faces. “He’s going to be okay.”

Everything becomes crisp and vibrant the moment Riley steps into Farkle’s room.

Maya clutches her arm and trails behind her. Riley barely notices her, though, and it’s one of those rare moments in her life that doesn’t focus on her best friend.

No, this moment is his. It’s Farkle’s.

Moving to his side, Riley slots and intertwines her fingers through his and instantly relaxes. Every bony ridge, every callus, every warm cell feels comforting and familiar and just right. If her eyes were closed, she would have been able to forget everything but his touch, she’s sure.

There’s a groan and Farkle shifts, his fingers tightening around hers.

“Farkle?” Riley whimpers, using her other hand to brush the hair back from his forehead. “It’s me. It’s Riley.” After a beat of her heart, “Maya’s here, too.”

“Mmm,” The boy mumbled, eyes staying sluggishly closed as the corners of his lips tick up, “You smell like sunflowers and strawberries.”

Her heart melts and a bubbly, tearful giggle bursts from her lips. “You smell more like an operation room right now than soap and detergent but I still like it.”

His electric blue eyes flutter open and quickly focus on her chocolate brown. In that moment, they are alone. They are a single point in the universe. They are Riley and Farkle and he’s going to be okay and she can breathe again.

A tired smile plays on his face before he shifts to look at Maya and lazily closes his eyes once again, “You’re both okay. Good.”

“Yeah, well, we wish we could say the same for you, dumbass!” Maya snaps, her voice thick with a little bite. “Farkle, I’m so sorry. I should have just given him the locket.”

Opening his eyes and scrunching up his forehead, Farkle shakes his head, “Don’t be sorry. I understand. You weren’t going to give up the locket. Riley was going to try and talk him down. I was going to protect you both.”

He half-heartedly shrugs, “It’s who we are. I could have told you what was going to happen the second we walked into the alley.”

Maya rolls her eyes, “Of course you could. Like when we go to the movies.”

The tiny-bit-doped-up boy sighs, “We’re predictable.”

Shortly after, the blonde excuses herself to get some water but both of her friends know that she’s really just still feeling guilty. She needs space. Riley will go to her eventually.

Stroking Farkle’s cheek with the back of her hand, Riley leans forward and gently presses a kiss to his lips. They are warm again like she’s so fond of and used to. Barely moving back she opened her eyes to see his blue gaze already on her. “You saved my life. You saved my life three times now.”

He gazes at her with an intensity that steals her breath again, only this time the burn in her lungs is pleasant. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

They are always. They are Riley and Farkle. They always have been.

So, I am still taking Riarkle/GMW prompts for short stories if you liked this one... I hope you did because I was trying a new style that I don’t normally write in and I’m not sure how much I like it...

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