#in english they slide right off me in french i suddenly hear them its really weird | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yelenasdog · 3 years

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il un a visage gentil (prof!gwilym lee x prof! gn reader)

genre: fluff

summary: who knew the attractive english lit professor also happened to speak french? not his new coworker, that’s for sure.

words: 1.7k

warnings: reader embarassing herself a lil bit, that’s it :)

a/n: hi!! first of all, no pronouns are used as this is from readers pov, so anyone can read. second of all, so i typically don’t write for gwil, but i had this idea in french the other day when my french teacher (sweet old french man who deserves better LMAODSJO) was going over some assignment that for some reason had il un a visage gentil in it LOLOL. that being said, i obvi don’t speak fluent french and this is all fictional! love u, hope u enjoy!!

。·☔︎◎❦·。·

“Hello everyone, and welcome to your first day. I’m Dr Gwilym Lee, and I am the head of the English Literature Department here at Oxford University. Feel free to call me Gwil, it’s what all my students do.”

I slanted my eyes from my position at the door, gripping the frame just a tad tighter than I had been before hearing his voice. I continued to listen to the doctor talk as I made my way behind the last row of seats in the lecture room, trying not to make any noise. My heels were thankfully mute against the carpet, not drawing any attention towards me, the professor keeping complete focus on his students.

“One of the first things I wanted to kind of, um, touch on, is that I will be quite flexible. I understand that you have lives, as do I. As long as I can see an honest effort being put into my class, I will hold no repercussions for late work or being physically late to class.”

With that, he looked up to where I had just sat down, quirking a brow. The eye contact was momentary, only lasting what seemed to be a second, if that.

I cleared my throat, looking to my feet.

“We at the english department are quite proud of our status, ranking 4th in english programs overall in the UK. Now I won’t continue to bore you with the statistics, but-“

I made a scan of the room, seeing how only 1 or 2 pupils were actually listening, the rest either slumped over looking at their phones, or pretending to take notes on a laptop while really watching netflix. (More than one student was watching gossip girl, oddly enough.)

Considering it was only 5 minutes into the hour long lecture, I was confused, as he was holding my attention, at least, quite well.

After about 30 minutes, I realized that my own “first day lecture” was in 15 minutes, which assured that I most definitely had to leave. I was saddened by this (even though I had only even planned on staying in Gwil’s room for a small while.

I sighed quietly, picking myself up from the surprisingly comfortable seats and making my way towards the door. Just as I was about to go, I felt eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I turned, realizing Gwilym to be the perp. I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again, quickly walking out and down the hallway to my own room.

I made it in, hurrying down the many stairs, past where a few students were waiting.

“Hi, everyone, I’ll just be a few moments, just waiting for the rest of your new classmates to arrive.”

I smiled briefly, before slamming my office door audibly, chest heaving with my back against the shaded window. I closed my eyes, unaware of why I had been so panicked by the brief interaction, not to mention the butterflies it hatched in my stomach.

After giving myself some time to decompress, I exhaled, smoothing out the skirt of my dress and rotating. I placed a hand on the handle, preparing myself for the fresh faced freshman.

As I opened the door, I heard half a knock, before whoever was behind the door (poor soul) essentially fell on top of me.

Expecting to see a red faced pupil who had just made a very interesting first impression, I looked up, suddenly becoming the one with a warm and itchy wave of embarrassment making its way up my neck.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” He stood up, reaching out a hand. I hesitated before reaching forward and gripping tightly, allowing him to tug me up.

“It’s alright, Gwil, really.”

He opened his mouth (not that I was paying any mind to his lips), presumably to ask my name. Before he got the chance, I beat him to it, blurting out my full title, unfortunately in a quite awkward way.

The students that had gathered had mostly turned their attention elsewhere by now, only a few of them still watching the live disaster that was my interaction with the incredibly attractive man in front of me.

He spoke up as I tried to maneuver my way around him to the podium positioned in the front of the room where my laptop was waiting.

“Well, I had assumed you were a student who was trying to sneak off early, but I stand corrected, then.” He looked around my slowly filling space, a slight amusement hiding in his gaze.

“Yes, sorry, I had caught you at a bad time, I was hoping to introduce myself, you know, trying to make a good impression. Feels like the first day of school all over again.” I laughed, bringing a hand up to brush away a stray strand that had somehow managed to escape my bun.

“It’s alright, don’t stress about it. And trust me, I get it. New jobs are scary.”

I huffed, looking out at the sea of judgmental young people that I now would have to face after that fiasco. Lovely.

“You could say that again.”

We sat in a comfortable silence for a short amount of time, the clock striking 2:30 being what woke me from my trance.

“That’s my queue.” I gave a small wave as he walked off, a smile spreading across his face at the motion.

I turned to my teaching assistant, fully believing he was out of earshot.

“Il un a visage gentil, eh?”

She only laughed, nodding her head and plugging in my macbook, allowing the screen to come alive with a flurry of colors in my powerpoint.

“Hi guys! Or should I say bonjour!” I paused, receiving a few chuckles in the crowd.

“I’m sorry for getting us started so late, I had a small mishap. I’m Dr Y/n Y/l/n, and I am your professor this year in the French undergraduate course, where you will have the opportunity to study medieval literature, modern day linguistics, and much more, which I will get into later on.

We here at Oxford have the single largest French department in Britain, which we have come to have extreme pride in. We also have a french cultural center, where you will find a large selection of programmes and literature to choose from. If you haven’t yet checked it out yet,” I briefly looked up, seeing Gwilym still stood at the top of the stairs. He gave me another small smile, crossing his arms.

“Sorry, lost my place. Where was I?”

After class, I walked up to where the tall man had now moved to the side, allowing students to flood right by him.

“Gwil, hi!”

“Hi to yourself.”

I blushed, the feeling of fuzzy-ness once again flooding my entire system at just the brief statement. Odd. Extremely odd.

“That was very nice, I have a feeling this class will be quite popular in the coming years.”

I smiled and nodded my head. “Thank you, I appreciate it, truly. Although, I must say that I can tell everyone is racing to get a spot in Professor Gwilym Lee’s class 100% percent.”

He cocked his head, slimming his eyes.

“Really, you think so?”

We continued to walk down the long hallway, neither of us quite aware of where we happened to be going.

“Oh for sure, I can imagine you’re especially popular with a certain demographic, too.”

His confusion seemed to only grow, stormy blue eyes seemingly lost.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” His voice slightly raised an octave at the end, earning a chuckle from me.

“Look, all I’m saying is that with looks like that, I bet your roster was full in seconds.”

I paused, the flow of conversation stopping as I came to terms with what I had just accidentally said. Out loud. In front of my new coworker, who happens to be incredibly gorgeous. A wonderful first day I’m having.

We resumed walking, a blanket of complete silence falling upon us all the way until we reached the entrance to the facility.

The chilly December air hit my face immediately, as well as droplets of rain that were falling so hard it felt like small bullets were grazing my nose, which I could barely feel after just a few moments outside.

“Here.” Gwil muttered, pulling out a bright red umbrella and using it to shield us both from the angry pellets sent from above.

“Ah, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Then it was quiet again between us both, minus the sounds of chattering students and the rain hitting and then sliding off of our cover, coming in contact with the ground with a final splat.

“You know,” Gwilym began, always the one to break the silence.

I hummed, turning my head in his direction.

“I speak a little bit of French, as well. And I think you also have a nice face.” He nudged my elbow and laughed, while I closed my eyes and sighed, hanging my head.

“So there really isn’t any other way I could possibly embarrass myself right now, is there?”

He only shrugged, scratching the back of his head. “Actually, now that I think of it, there might be one more thing I can think of?”

“What would that be?”

“Saying no to a cup of coffee?”

It was like I froze over completely, my mind suddenly growing blank when I needed it mostt.

“With me?” I asked, the question more aimed towards myself, a miniscule act of reassurance and affirmation.

Gwilym smiled brightly as he shook his head, and I swear, I had never seen anything more amazing.

“Yes, Y/n, with you.”

I stuttered, embarrassed for what seemed like the millionth time that day, specifically at my lack of verbal skills.

“Yes, yes of course, that sounds amazing.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

He offered me an arm which I gladly took, and we started walking to the quaint campus cafe just across the street from our building.

It was the same cafe where (not that we knew it yet) the both of us would make many late night coffee runs together during midterms week, the stressful time growing to become one of our favorites as it was now filled with giggles and caffeine.

Usually it would end up with one of us, that one of us usually being me, leaving a ring of coffee on the other’s ungraded assignments. Or even better, spilling an entire drink on the paper, only a “sorry!” written in Gwil’s rushed handwriting at the top of the curiously scented paper as explanation.

But as I said, we didn’t know that yet.

。·☔︎◎❦·。·

kinda gross but whatevs, like and rb if u did indeed enjoy it. mwah, go eat some protein, take an electronics break and drink some water. love u

xx hj

#prof!gwil #professor!gwilym #gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym imagine #gwilym x reader #gwilym!brian #gwilym lee fanfic #gwilym lee fluff #gwilym lee x you #gwilym lee x yn #gwilym lee x y/n #gwilym lee x fem reader #gwilym lee x gn reader

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cultureaddictconfessions · 4 years

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Reporting for Romance ~ EXO’s Lay x Reader

{{Since it’s our sweet healing unicorn’s birthday today, I wanted to write a short fic centered around him. Being a very stylish ambassador-around-the-world, Lay shows up at a variety of fashion-related events, so this setting is where the reader (Y/N and Y/F/LN) is a fashion journalist who catches his eye at a show.}}

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It was still surreal to be covering the Valentino show for S/S this year, but when you queued up with your press pass, it became a more concrete happenstance. Your editor in chief would be sitting toward the front row, of course, while you were deposited elsewhere. Your phone was fully charged and at the ready for any recording purposes, and your notebook and pen were stashed in the purse precariously dangling off your shoulder. You nervously presented the badge and allowed security to rifle through your bag before crossing into the hallway.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and you could see the bright, verdant hedges wrapping around outside the glass walls of the atrium that was playing runway for the day. Seats were set out around the room on the hardwood floors. The walls were in elegant white French style, and complementary to the mirrors and chandeliers that dotted the décor. Despite how uncomplicated and traditional everything looked, you felt overwhelmed. You’d attended fashion shows before, but you’d bought your ticket with your own money so you could write up a piece to try to make a name for yourself and score a job.

Now that you had, you were choking on imposter syndrome. You stood for a moment in the hallway, tugging at the hem of your dress, which suddenly felt too short despite getting the seal of approval from your boss. You crossed the floor to a mirror to check that you were just having a minor identity crisis and not that you were styled incorrectly. You brushed over your clothes with your fingers to smooth anything that felt out of place and did the same to your hair. You pouted as you looked at yourself, still unconvinced at your reflection. Another face blurred in the corner of your periphery as you were tapping at your lipstick.

“You’re putting the mirror to good use, but you already looked nice when you came over.” Your face flushed a shade that matched the tube perched between your fingers. You turned to identify the man speaking to you and felt your heart do a somersault in your chest. He was strikingly handsome, to say the least, draped in a long, graphic coat punctuated by crisp white sneakers. His golden skin was smooth, and he didn’t have a hair out of place. But the thing that wrung your heart was his warm, dimpled smile. You sucked in your lip as you tried to remember how to breathe. Finally, you managed a chuckle that was at a higher pitch than normal.

“You can never be too careful at these types of events. One shoe unbuckled and the internet will crucify you,” you tucked your hair shyly behind your ear and let a smile pull up your lips, “thank you though. That makes me feel a little better. I just don’t want to embarrass my boss and have her banish me to the fashion closet again.” The young man laughed, and you felt some of the tension drop off your shoulders. “Are you a magazine reporter then?” “I am! This is my first time covering a show for my publication. I think that’s why I’m on-edge. I want to work hard and prove my worth so I can come back again, you know?” His eyes widened at this, but he nodded as the dimpled resurfaced. “Wow, first time! So exciting! I hope you will really enjoy it. I love to see all the beautiful clothes, so it is nice to get an invitation. I’m Lay Zhang, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

Your companion held out his hand for you to shake, and you took it gently with a sheepish grin. “I, uh… I know, actually. I’ve heard your music. You’re very talented!” his whole face brightened at your admission, but there was an expectancy lingering before you remembered yourself, “oh right! I’m Y/F/LN. It’s lovely to meet you too. That coat looks so sharp on you!” “Thank you so much. I liked the tiger because it reminds me of China, and I like animals,” he hadn’t dropped your hand but continued talking, although he seemed to be a little restrained with his speech, perhaps because English wasn’t his first language, “I’m surprised you’ve heard my work, but I’m happy to hear that you like it! I always want to work very hard and do my best, so I understand how you feel. I’m sure your writing will be great. You speak nicely.”

You had to turn your face away a little to hide the blush creeping back across it. Reluctantly, you let your hand slide out of Lay’s as you fiddled with the zipper of your bag. “I listen to a fair amount of KPop actually, so I found you through that. I can tell you really pour your effort into everything you do, and I hope that more people can see its beauty like I do,” you flashed your teeth at him, happy to direct the conversation onto him for the moment, “I’m sure the show will be amazing, but we shall see if I can do it justice. If you see it, you can tell me what you think. Criticism is encouraged.” You laughed softly.

Lay’s perfect mouth shaped into an O and he took a minute to process everything you said. “Ah, do you like EXO? I miss my members… it’s nice to get to make music in my home country, though, so I can represent it well. It would be really nice to share my music with the world. Your wish is very kind; I wish for it, too,” there was a wistfulness in his tone, but he also seemed very heartfelt, which only made you like him more, “when I read it, I will think of you and send you a message of praise, Y/N! You should believe in yourself more.” “Yes, I love you guys! Awww that’s hard. There are pros and cons to everything I suppose. I think you’re doing a really great job balancing everything. And now you’re here as a brand ambassador too, right? I’m sure China and your members are really proud of you. You should be proud of everything you’re doing and have done… and will do! If I have to be confident, then you do, too,” you leaned forward and bumped his shoulder with your own, giggling, “I would love to hear from you no matter what you think. You can message me whenever.”

Before Lay could answer, a few people swept by and noticed him, calling out greetings. He frowned to you for a moment before turning and waving congenially. It seemed like everyone was migrating into the main hall. When the passersby had dissipated, he looked back at you. “I would like to talk to you more, but I don’t think we’re sitting so close to each other and my English takes a little longer to express what I really want to say. Will you go to the party afterwards? I don’t know if you’re busy and will continue working…” It was your turn to gape at him, but you quickly schooled it into a neutral expression.

“Ummm I think I am? I have to double-check with my boss, actually. Can I tell you my answer after the show or are they going to rush you off to start mingling?” You dragged your foot in front of you on the floor, feeling a little bit like a silly schoolgirl. “I will come find you, but let’s exchange contacts now just in case it’s difficult to coordinate.” He slid his mobile smoothly out of his pocket and went to pull up a VCard, but he paused as he looked at the screen for a second. He shut off the screen and held his hand out to you, which had you puzzled until you realized he was asking for your phone. You dipped into your purse and mimicked the steps he’d just taken before placing it in his palm, fingers brushing. He tapped away in concentration before handing it gently back to you and smiling.

“I thought this would be easier because I don’t know if you read Chinese. Please send me a message and tell me it’s you so I can save your information to my phone! We can talk about things… and maybe you can help me practice my English?” It was quite a sight to see Lay beginning to blush, and you wished you could replicate that expression many times over. “You’re so thoughtful. Xièxiè. I’ll send it before I sit down, okay,” you reached out and squeezed his shoulder affectionately, positively beaming, “your English is great, but I’d definitely be happy to help with whatever you need, so no worries! Tell me whatever you can think of and then I won’t focus on feeling so awkward being here where I don’t belong.” You snorted, shaking your head. The glow returned to his face when you thanked him in Mandarin and made your promises, but he looked a little concerned at the end. It was his turn to reach out, placing a hand on your arm to command your attention. Your eyes glazed a little bit.

“Don’t say that, Y/N. You are a fashion reporter! Your company wanted you to be here. You are meant to be here. Don’t doubt yourself. Do your best and don’t forget to enjoy yourself. I will be cheering for you in my heart. Keep smiling and everything will be okay… okay?” Lay spoke without any frills, so sincere that it made you want to believe him. You had to bite back the urge to cry because he was so sweet and encouraging. Your heart was melting. “Okay. I’m just going to trust that you’re right and that I can do this. I’m really happy you came over and talked to me, Lay. It’s made me feel so much better. I’m really grateful.” Lay let his hand trail down your arm before returning to his side. You felt the warmth radiating off of him, and he seemed very pleased at your turnaround. He pouted his lips for a moment. “I’m happy too. I think we should go in now, though. Can I walk you to your seat?” “Oh! You don’t have to do that, you’re like, an actual important person! It seems like a lot of people wanted to chat with you. I feel bad that I stole you away from them for so long.” “I’m sure I will get to talk to them at some point, maybe during the show or the party. I just want to make sure you find your way and don’t feel so nervous. Come on, let’s go.”

Lay turned and placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you forward at his side. You matched his pace as you crossed under an archway and headed past the scattering of other attendees. You peeked sideways to get a glimpse of Lay in profile, not quite believing your luck. Once you neared the seats, he helped you locate your company tag. It took a few minutes. “You’re some kind of special, Lay Zhang. I’m gonna text you right now, and then we’ll see each other after, okay? You just go and look pretty! I have to turn on my ace reporter mode now!” You brandished your fists, psyching yourself up. Lay laughed, bumping a fist against yours in agreement. “I look nice because of my team, Y/N, it’s nothing,” his other hand finally slipped away from your back, a little to your chagrin, “I will look forward to it. Work hard, Miss Reporter! Then we can have fun together at the party… I hope your boss will let you come!” You covered your cheeks with your hands and grinned at him, shaking your head in amusement. “You’re too modest. Enjoy the show and we’ll catch up in a little while!” You clasped your hands together and bowed your head to him. He returned it and then walked off with a bright smile. You dropped down into your seat after you watched his retreating back, grabbing your phone. You sent off two messages—one informing your editor that you’d arrived, and the second to Lay, for him to save your contact.

[[From: Y/F/LN To: Zhang “Lay” Yixing

Ni-hao, Lay! It’s Y/F/LN, the ace reporter. Tell me afterwards which outfit you like the most, and I’ll finagle a party invitation from Kristen. ;)

Sent 2:00PM]]

You tucked your phone into your purse after silencing it and turned to face the center. Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the scenery and all the beautiful people and beautiful clothes. You were about to write a note in your notebook until you caught sight of a very handsome young Chinese man looking at you and waving. Lay smiled and gave you a thumbs up. All you could do was grin stupidly and wave back. You were somewhat glad he wasn’t sitting anywhere near you because you wouldn’t have been able to concentrate if he had been. Another beautiful person came over to him and struck up a conversation, so you turned back to your paper and began writing what you saw.

The show was a confectionary of dreamy designs in vibrant colors and sumptuous materials. You noted some people were near tears. It was probably the highlight of your life thus far, besides your earlier meeting with Lay, of course. As people began to disperse, you slipped out your phone. Your editor, Kristen, had responded to your message and had you nearly hopping in glee. You looked across the panorama of the room but didn’t spot your prince of China. Collecting your things, you slowly made your way toward the entrance, although you got caught up quite a few times by writers and photographers from other publications. Kristen told you to meet her outside so you could take a car over together, but your first priority was to find Lay.

By the time you’d made it into the exiting crowd, you felt like you’d never find anyone. Just then, you felt a hand hook in the crook of your elbow. You turned and faced the stranger. “You were difficult to locate in all the people, Miss Reporter! You’re tinier than all the tall guys, you know? But here you are, I’m glad.” Lay was smiling again, and you joined him easily. “I couldn’t find you either and you’re not short! Hey, guess what,” you paused as the two of you wriggled past the other people, Lay’s hand still on your arm so you wouldn’t get separated, “Kristen said we’re going to the after party, so we get to hang out more!! Yay!!” You bobbed your head with excitement. Lay looked like a fish as he exclaimed his satisfaction. “That’s great, Y/N! I will meet you there then. Go safely and I’ll see you soon.”

When you spotted Kristen, you took Lay’s hands and squeezed them between yours, the joy written all over your face. You didn’t think today could be topped; you felt really lucky. “You too, Lay. Text me and I’ll come find you this time!” He nodded and you parted with full hearts, vibrating with anticipation for your reunion. You ambled over to Kristen, who raised an eyebrow when you appeared at her side. “Who was that good-looking man you were talking to, Y/N? He seemed very fond of you.” “Ah! He’s a Chinese musician who’s in a Kpop group. He’s a Valentino brand ambassador, too, actually! He’s really sweet. He asked me to practice English with him since he’s going to be at the party as well.” You covered your mouth to downplay your smile, but Kristen saw everything. She chuckled softly, patting you on the shoulder. “Well, regardless of all of that he is, he was clearly taken with you. Behave yourself… but don’t forget to take advantage of the moment. Who knows… you might be able to continue helping with his English after today.” Kristen winked at you and your face bloomed red as a nervous chuckle escaped. Shaking your head, you nodded to her to lead the way to the car. Your brain was struggling to absorb what she’d just said, so you’d have to take the car ride over to cool down before you got to see your new companion again. And so the magic continued…

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{{I hope you liked this scenario; please leave a comment or reblog if you did! Watching interviews with Lay for research and he is just so humble and precious; it made me so happy to do a fic with him. Don’t forget to support his solo stuff as well as his work with EXO because he’s doubly-amazing and so hardworking! Happy 29th birthday you beautiful soul—I’m wishing that your dream to be on stage at the Grammy’s for your music comes true! Saranghae <3 <3 EXOXO}}

#lay x reader #exo lay #zhang yixing #happy lay day #exo fanfic #exo imagines #I was imagining Valentino SS19 #but honestly you can sub in whatever you want lol paint your fantasy!#lay zhang #my writing #user: cultureaddictconfessions #reporting for romance #yixing x reader

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weclassygirl · 4 years

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𝐓𝐮𝐮𝐦 𝐞𝐬𝐭

Word count: +5.8k

Pairing: santino d’antonio x f!reader

Summary: “You’ll fit right in, I promise.”

Warnings: none i think, triggering? (if i got it wrong please tell me! i don't want to offend anyone)

Author’s note: hello, i’m back! as mentioned above if i got something wrong, please tell me! as always give me your most brutal honest opinion so i can improve. english is not my first language so beware.

dulce periculum series: 01 / 02 / ... / 04

Gif credits (x)

You wake up with a gasp, your hand immediately rising up to your neck, holding it gently. Another nightmare. Your whole body is shaking lightly, your hand releases your neck slowly and drops onto your lap.

It's sunrise. The faint light of the morning raises up directly in front of you but you see some dark clouds forming in the distance. You wonder what time it is and look towards the nightstand. The clock reads 7:30 am. You sigh, running your hands through your hair. You rub your eyes in means to wake up when you hear a distant voice coming from the hallway.

You get out of the bed and grab the white robe you left laying on the couches under the windows. You reach the door knob and turn it slowly as to not make much of a noise.

The voice that you've heard is beginning to grow more louder with every step you make. You stop by the kitchen and hear Santino talking on the phone in Italian.

You're not really surprised, it's his mother language after all, but you can hear him switch to French every now and then. Probably talking to more than one person. You hear him speaking more quietly, in a harsh tone.

You peak your head slightly from behind the wall and see him turned away from you, he paces back and forth, his hair adorned by a few curly strands that hang above his forehead.

"I think you forget your place here. You answer to me now and when I say that you have to comply to my order than you do so without hesitation, is that clear?" he says in Italian. "I am aware of what happened last night, I was there, no? Sooner or later people all over the world will take an interest in her, don't you think that-" he stops mid sentence noticing you in the doorway. You can't really read his expression, you see him showing surprise and that hint of seriousness disappears from his face.

"We'll talk about it when I'm back." he ends the call before the person on the other side can respond. Santino's gaze is focused on you.

"Good morning, slept well?" he asks as he moves towards on of the cabinets, pulling out two mugs and placing them under the coffee machine.

You move closer and sit at the chair beside the marble island. "Like a baby." you lie. You haven't slept all night due to the nightmares, it's always the same, it's always that same basement, nothing really changes in it. You move in your seat and feel pain growing up your body. You hang your head down and grit your teeth.

Santino’s expression softens but you don’t see it. He knows that there isn't much that he could do to help you ease your pain. Instead he places a cup of fresh coffee in front of you. You took some of the painkillers the doctor gave you but they still haven’t kicked in. You wrap your hands the mug and immediately take a sip of the warm liquid. Santino does the same. The morning sun has already rose up and is now casting a gold light in the kitchen. You look up from your mug at the man in front of you.

He's wearing only a dark gray shirt without a tie. His Camorra ring gleams in the golden light.

"News travel fast in this world, don't they?" you point out suddenly. You sip on your coffee, the liquid warming you up inside.

"It would appear so. The events of last night are spreading worldwide, people know who you are, where you've came from. Some choose not to believe it."

"Do you believe it?" you asks with curiosity.

"Call me crazy, but I guess I do." he puts his finished coffee back on the table and plays with his ring. Your eyes snap to it. It's golden with a red ruby inside of it.

You chuckle under your breath. "You are crazy, you called a contract on John Wick."

"Which you made me call off."

"You're welcome, by the way. If it weren't for me you'd be lying cold in the Continental's basement." you say a matter of factly. You saw it with your own eyes… well through a screen. Him laying on the metal table while the Adjudicator leans over him and examining the damage that John caused.

The cuts on his face seem to be fading away. Yours do to. The bruises are still there but not nearly as visible as before.

"What happens now?" you wonder out loud. " I heard your conversation and I'm guessing it was someone from Camorra. Do I have some kind of bounty on my head?"

His eyebrows draw in confusion. "Bounty? Why would you think that, bella?"

"I don't know.” you shrug. You can feel a sensation of anxiety building up in your body. “Maybe… maybe Winston told the High Table of what happened at the Continental and now they've decided that it would be easier to eliminate the threat." you feel yourself slightly starting to panic. "I know what happened after your death” you point to him “what if some of the events won't change?"

It's hasn't been even 24 hours and the reality of the situation finally starts to get to you. You are not entirely safe here, Santino could grant you protection, but will it be enough? One wrong move and you could be as good as dead.

Santino notices your uneasiness and stands up. "Hey, look at me." he says softly, which is surprising to hear from him. You do as he asks, staring at his emerald eyes, the sunlight falling into them from the side. "Winston will not tell the High Table of what happened there, he doesn't have any reason to. No blood was shed on its grounds." he tries to calm you down, your breathing slowly becomes more uneven. You feel like you can't breathe.

Santino sees that movement and you move away from him, your back hitting the cabinets behind you. You slide down on the floor. Your breathing is even more rapid now and you feel tears starting to gather in your eyes. You try to calm down but nothing works. You don't hear Santino sitting beside you, his arm stretched out, palm face up. You look at it, consider taking it, to ground yourself somehow.

You carefully place your shaky hand in his. He doesn't say anything just runs his thumb over your knuckles. It's a soothing gesture and you feel your heart rate calm down as you hear him speak.

"I can't even imagine how you feel. Being trapped in this world." you can tell that this isn't a thing he is used to doing. Comforting someone, a complete stranger at that. But he tries and you're grateful. "When my father told me of who I will become in the future I was terrified. I was always aware of this world, but when he said it, it felt like a new door has been opened. My sister and I were always here, but we never had a choice in it. She always wanted the seat and so did I. But the only reason she got it was because my father favored her more than me." your breathing starts to calm down as you listen to his story.

"To be able to take up one of the seats at the High Table is a great honor. Camorra is one of the most powerful at that table. One of us taking that seat was a big deal, no one knew who it would be and even we didn't know it." your eyes move to him, he keeps his vision on your entangled hands. Still running soft circles over your knuckles. "No one expected our father's decision, especially me." he sighs and brings his eyes up to yours. "But that's just the course of life, isn't it, bella?" he smiles sadly. You grip his hand a little tighter.

"If- if I can be honest, your father was kind of a dick." you say softly, still trying to calm your beating heart. Santino grins. "Yes, well, he wasn't particularly liked by people. They always saw him as someone that should be respected but mostly feared."

You look at the window, the sun has already risen up. The day has officially started. You begin to slowly stand up from the floor, Santino follows your lead. Your hand still hold his and you release it from his grip.

"There are clothes prepared for you in your room." he informs you. Clothes? You don't remember seeing them in the room. You draw your eyebrows together.

You exit the kitchen area and head towards your temporary bedroom to see a fresh set of clothes and shoes sitting on the couch beneath the window. You take them in your hands.

A classic black jeans, dark blue shirt and a pair of semi high boots. It's casual but also an elegant set. There's also a black coat next to the neat pile. It reaches your calves, the material of it is soft, firm and flexible. You quickly get dressed and look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. The clothes lay perfectly on you and you wonder if maybe Santino somehow found out your measurements throughout the night.

You step out of the bedroom and go straight to the living room. Santino is not in it but you see him from the corner of your eye, standing on the small terrace connected to the room. You gently open the door and stand beside him.

New York is beautiful at this time of day. You can hear honks of the cars from here, see people walking by in the far distance. Where are they going? Do they know of this hidden world?

"So… what now?" you lean against the railing.

"We’re going to Italy." he responds shortly still looking ahead.

Italy. His country. The place where his family rules with an iron hand. Or ruled, you have no idea how it functions now with his father and sister dead.

"Before you ask, let me explain few things." he offers, in exchange you nod your head. "Your appearance here is noticeable and it's starts to turn a lot of heads. You under Camorra's protection is the only good option for you now. I suggest you take it." he narrows his eyes at you and you quickly draw your eyebrows.

"And if I don't?" you lift your chin up and raise your eyebrow at him. He grins. "Then you end up dead in some of the alleys of this city." he confesses with a seriousness drawing on his face. You press your lips together in a thin line.

You consider his option. You already agreed to go with him so what's the difference? He may use you to his advantage but who says that it can't be used against him. You don't have to comply with whatever he would want. You just need to survive here, that's all. And if that happens because of him and his offer, you might as well take it.

"Fine. When do we leave?" you ask.

His lips draw upwards. "In 2 hours, but we need stop somewhere first." He says and turns to leave the terrace. You look one last time at the skyline of the city. Thinking it may be your last time. "There's a package waiting for me on the other side of the city."

"What is it?" you question.

"Now that would be unwise for me to tell you, no?"

"Well seeing as you would be taking me with you then I might as well know."

"It's something my father left." he says after a beat.

You don't question further. If it's from his father then it must be important, even if he wasn't the favorite child. But for him to leave Santino something and receiving it after his death… you can only guess what it is.

Both of you quickly ride down the elevator to the lobby. Santino returns the keys to the concierge and you head towards the car waiting outside.

"Don't you think that it would be faster to get your package by metro?" you turn to him. He raises his eyebrow at you as if you've just told the most ridiculous idea. "What? I might have never been in New York, but I know that the metro is the fastest way to go around. You rather just sit in traffic? Like yesterday?"

Last night the drive from the Continental to the penthouse took over 30 minutes. The distance from the hotel to the penthouse was short, but the traffic made it seem too long.

You can feel the tiny drops of rain falling onto your face and look up, the bright sun has began to hide behind gray clouds.

The Italian considers your option. "Very well." Both of you start walking towards the nearest subway and Santino takes out the metro card from his wallet and presses it to the scanner.

You're surprised that he even has one. You stand at the station, awaiting for your train when you notice something from the corner of your eye. A homeless man in baggy clothes. There isn't many people around, only few on the other side of the station.

"I think we have a company." you say looking up at Santino. His face expresses confusion. "What makes you say that, cara?" he questions.

"The guy in the corner has been watching us since we got here… and I know who he is." you glance towards the homeless man as he stands up, definitely hearing your last sentence. He starts walking towards you and Santino starts to gently place you behind him, but you stop him before he can finish that action.

He looks down on you, questions filling his head. But as soon as the man comes closer, Santino realizes who he might be and for who he works.

"The Bowery King wants to talk with you." he says in a scruffy voice. His clothes are dirty and worn out but you catch a glimpse of a shiny watch on his wrist.

The three of you hear an announcement of the train coming from the speakers and feel the rush of air behind you as the train passes by and stops. People slowly start to exit the train, the three of you don’t move. The Bowery King himself wants to speak with you. You shouldn’t be surprised, after all he has every eye in the city, or at least he would be one of the people that do.

“We’ll go with you.” you respond.

“He wants to speak with you alone.” he insists, glancing towards Santino and throwing him a dirty look. You look between both men and smile mischievously.

“No,” you step closer to the man “either we both go or you can just go back to your boss and tell him to fuck off.” the homeless man stares at you with wide eyes.

"He won't accept this, people don't refuse him."

"Well, first time for everything right?" you say raising an eyebrow. "Either we both go or none of us do."

The little morning breakdown is now sitting deep in the back of your mind, you can't afford being seen as a vulnerable girl from another world. Santino stands beside you, his lips twitching to smile.

The man looks between you too and considers taking the option at hand. "Follow me." he says through gritted teeth.

You miss the train and Santino doesn't gather his package in time.

Both of you arrive at the Bowery King's domain. People scattered all around the shelter, wearing dirty and worn out clothes. A facade. You know that all of this is just a cover up for the whole industry inside. Money flows here as well as it flows in the hands of rich people.

You walk down the rusty, metal staircase with a torn umbrella over your head, Santino trailing behind you and the King's man ahead, leading you to his boss.

The boss himself is standing on an open platform almost beneath the Manhattan Bridge. He’s holding one of the pigeons in his hands, petting it carefully. The New York air hits you with chilly wind. Your coat flatters lightly from it. Santino stands beside you, his shoulders tense. None of you know why the Bowery King would want to speak with you.

"As I live and breath, miss Jade." exclaims the dark skinned man. "I must admit it is an honor to meet you and you" he turns his sight to Santino "the man who offered 7 million dollars for the life of John Wick. Spare pocket change perhaps? We would gladly accept it." the Bowery King grins at Earl who’s standing behind you alongside four other men.

"What do you want?" you ask with an icy cold voice.

"Ah, straight to the point, I like it." he puts the bird gently back in his cage and turns to you, a transparent red umbrella over above his head and spreading his arms lightly. "You are the talk of the city. The girl who stopped the Boogeyman. To save him?" he glances in Santino's way. "And for what?"

You side eye the Italian, he doesn't say a word, only silently watches your conversation with the King.

"You’re all seeing and all knowing, shouldn’t you know that by now?" you squint your eyes at him, the left of the morning sun hitting you in the face, you hear raindrops bouncing off your umbrella.

"Hmm, your right," he hums, deep in thought. "I assume you’ve told him your explanation in a more private setting.” the King smiles, it's a pleasant smile but it holds that cold attitude. “But you know a lot too, don't you?" he steps in closer, Santino moves a bit closer to you too. "You are from a world where all of this is a movie." he gestures around himself. "A movie, Earl! Can you believe it? We are stars."

The New York traffic on the bridge is starting to get louder with every passing minute. You and Santino stand close to each other, listening, awaiting for the Bowery King's next move. The Italian decides to speak up.

"You might want to speed up your little speech, we have more important things to do than talk with rodents like you." he comments and the King grins.

"Well, no one likes to waste time, but on you," he turns to you with a mischief in his eyes "everyone in this damn city would do so in a blink of an eye."

The word does travel fast in this world. Maybe Winston did inform the High Table. You look towards the stairs from where you came from, expecting an Adjudicator to come in at any second. You feel relieved when that doesn't happen.

"Why? How many people know? No one was at the lounge yesterday." you slide your eyesight to the King.

"Well you do seem to be missing those few guests that were there before you interrupted their lovely night."

The guests. There were a few of them before you crashed into the railing of the stairs at the Continental. Few heads turned your way, and all of them left the venue when Winston told them to. What if one of them stayed in the shadows?

"Let me guess, one of them was working for you." you acknowledge.

"Indeed she was." the man says it slowly with a smile playing on his lips. "Quite a scene you've made, placing yourself in front of a gun, shielding the Camorra prince. You have some guts on you, baby." he directs his eye on the Italian beside you.

"And to answer your rude request Mr. D'Antonio, I am here to offer a deal to your lovely saviour."

You furrow your eyebrows as the Camorra head places his arm on the low of your back.

"No, we're going." Santino says coldly.

Both of you turn to walk back but before you can do that the Bowery's men stop right in front of you, hands placed on the guns hidden inside their torn jackets.

You hear a small chuckle from the King. "So quick to refuse when you haven't even heard my offer." you keep your eyes on Earl and a few other men before you turn your sight to the man standing behind you.

"Work for me." he simply says. You look towards Santino, looking for his reaction. "You supposedly considered going here in the first place, why not making it true?" your eyes slide from Santino's and go in the direction of the Bowery King.

"I'm afraid that I have already beaten you to it, she's going with me." the Italian cuts in, his eyes still focused on your frame before they move to the man.

The King stares at the prince with hooded eyes, his gaze piercing into Italian's. One leader versus another.

"I was speaking to our guest and not you, Mr. D'Antonio. So what do you say?" he takes slow steps in your direction "We could teach you everything you need to know about this world, teach you how to blend in with shadows, be unnoticeable."

You think about it and feel conflicted. On one hand staying with the Bowery could help you blend in this world, on the other you could go with Santino and see where that leads you. He owes you, that much you know, you did save him. You could use that favor in the future.

"Thanks for the offer, but... I think that going with Santino will be somewhat a better option."

The Italian stares at you in disbelief, he thought that you might take up on the man's offer.

"Call me surprised," he says slowly "do tell me one thing before we depart. Why do you think you're safer with him than with us?"

You look towards the man in question, right into his emerald eyes. The sun is not hitting them anymore, hiding behind the clouds but they still hold that bright look in them, his hair wave slightly at the feeling of the wind flowing on the platform. The birds faintly chirp in the background.

"He's Camorra and a member of the High Table. I saw how easily it is to take your bowery down. Your people, even trained , don't stand a chance against professional killers." you step closer to the King and you hear shuffling of feet behind you and soft clicks of guns.

"Careful now, it's dangerous saying things in that tone here, baby." he smiles widely but there is nothing sweet about it. "You've seen it? In this movie?" he wonders.

The King heads to one of the cages and you slowly walk towards him. The people behind you are still ready to attack if it comes to it. He pets on of the birds with his gloves hands.

"Yes and I also saw that you gave John seven bullets. But don't worry, I don't think that you're endangered now that I saved him." he knows you're talking about Santino, but he shows surprise at your mention of the bullets. It reminds you of the same surprise on John's face when you told him his real name.

The Bowery King sighs and closes the birdcage. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, miss Jade. Our doors are always open for you, we could really use your knowledge." your shoulder loose their build up tension just a bit. "I do hope we meet each other again."

You keep your sight on him, your eyes burning into his.

"Don't hold your breath."

He hums. "Hmm, definitely a fighter soul. I'm sure we'll hear about you again.” the man smiles and nods towards the man who brought you here. “Earl will guide you on your way out."

You turn to leave and look at Santino, his expression blank. As you head up the stairs you can hear a faint laugh of the man.

Outside there's a car waiting for you and the driver from last night. He was probably informed by Santino of your location. When he did that though, you don't know. Maybe on your way here?

Both of you enter the car and head towards the airport. The rain keeps falling onto the car and makes a tapping sound against it. You follow a single drop that slides on the window and see it connecting with the others. After a brief moment of tranquility you speak up.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Santino responds. "You've seemed to be handling the situation pretty well. You didn't need my help."

You feel a sense of pride coursing through you. You refused the Bowery King, one of the most powerful people in New York. How many refused his offers and lived to see another day? You don't ponder about it for too long.

"He's a cool character, you know," the Italian raises an eyebrow "in the movie. The actor that played him was working with Keanu on a previous massive movie trilogy."

"Keanu?" he asks with curiosity lacing his question.

"Ah, right, you don't know, that's how John's actor is called, Keanu Reeves." you quickly inform him.

"Unusual name." he says as you pass the river.

"Yeah, it is, but it falls in memory." you stare at the water, some small boats float above it, fishermans sitting on the shore. "Just like John now that I think about it." you smile at the thought.

Santino glances at you, at your shy smile. The tranquility fills up the small space of the car. You hear the faint sound of the tires, moving on the pavement, the passing cars and a quiet sound of the flowing river.

"What about your package?” you turn to him, your face filled with concern. “We wasted a lot of time there, don't you wanna know what your father left you?" you question with furrowed eyebrows.

"He's dead anyway, I don't think that it would be something useful." he only answers. You wonder what would his father leave him? What if it was something to show that he cared about him? Or maybe something to make him hurt even more?

You don’t respond to his answer, but don’t want for the silence to fill up the atmosphere again.

"So… Italy. We're going to Naples?" you question, he looks at you as if he just acknowledged your question. "Camorra exists in my world too. They're placed in Naples and have people working for them worldwide, many of them fear them and are the second most active Italian mob." you inform the Italian.

"You just described the Camorra working here." he says with an amused smile.

You say nothing, he observes you as your coat falls delicately on the car seat, your hands clasped together in front of you. Your face is turned to the direction of the window, admiring the view of the New York. You're not in the middle of the city but it doesn't stop you from marvelling at the scenery next to you.

"Would you be taking up on the bowery's offer if I weren't there?" the Italian breaks the silence with a sudden question. You answer him without even thinking about it.

"No." you tell him the truth. You wouldn't, over the course of last events you realized that maybe being in the presence of the new Head of the High Table would be more efficient than staying with the Bowery.

"Why?" he questions further. He's curious, you did propose that offer in the first place as a suggestion, but even suggestions could be your true intention. Why changing your mind then?

"You owe me," you smirk "and I could really use a decent protection. If the bowery knows about me then it would be turning a lot of heads in my direction." you say as a matter of fact.

Last night's events may have already reach some dangerous people, maybe even the High Table itself. You don't want to risk meeting face to face with one of their servants. "I know things that some don't, that's an advantage."

"It could get you killed here." he leans in closer, his whole expression flashes with softness and seriousness all in one second. You decide to lean in too, narrowing your eyes.

"That's why I stayed with you.” you exclaim as you study him. His expression doesn’t change. You slowly start to smirk. “ You're welcome... again, you may find out one thing or two from me and my knowledge of this world." you lean back in your seat and cross your arms on your chest. "And you still haven't thanked me for that." you point out. Santino says nothing but you can see from the corner of your eyes that he tries to hide a smile.

Both of you arrive at the private airport. It’s empty, the only thing standing in the center of the open space is a pearly white plane. You step out of the car and look towards the beautiful machine. The sun has already started to peak out from the clouds, giving away to the stormy weather.

"Of course it’s a private jet.” you mumble under your breath. Santino seems to have heard that cause there's a smirk on his face as he turns to you.

“Come on.” he urges you. You walk towards the stairs leading to the plane and are met with one of the Camorra guards. He's dressed in a grey three piece suit with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Welcome back boss.” he says to Santino and the man nods his head. The Italian starts to enter the plane but the guard stops you before you can do the same. Santino notices your absence by his side and turns to the guard.

“It’s alright, she’s going with us.” you hold your gaze with the guard as he still holds your arm. He releases the grip on your arm and takes a step back. You look towards Santino and he only tilts his head as if to say Come on.

The interior of the plane is simple but still shows that state of luxury that comes with everyone flying on private planes.

“Take a seat anywhere you want. The flight is over 8 hours long.” Santino tells you as he sits down in one of the comfy chairs. You sit across from him. The only people in the small space are both of you and a hostess that comes up to you with a smile on her face. You suggest that she also works for Camorra and is probably trained in how to defend herself.

“Welcome aboard, can I get you anything to drink?” she asks politely. Her head turns from you to Santino. The Italian shakes his head, not wanting anything at this moment. You look up at the woman.

“Um… water is fine.” you say softly and return the smile. The hostess disappears and you look outside of the small window. The sun is high up in the sky, by the time you arrive in Italy it will be already night. You stare at the New York far in the distance, the high skyscrapers gleaming with light reflecting on them.

You wonder if you made a right decision. Yes, going to Camorra is a safer option but you are still not sure if they would even accept you, an outsider, one that doesn't belong in this world.

All this time that you've been here you haven't even thought of a way to get back home. Or even a way of how you really got here in the first place. Do you want to go back home? Is it worth it, to go back to a place where you were not fully acknowledged by others? You feel like the questions won't end for a long time. You break your thoughts with one question that has been bugging you since the Lounge.

“Do you think it’s a good idea taking me with you?” you ask the man sitting across from you. He glances towards you and his green eyes shine in the afternoon light.

"How many times will you ask this before we get there?" he asks with a hint of that Italian accent of his. You smirk his way, mirroring his own, faint grin.

"As many as it takes, I just… need to be sure." you hesitate with the last part. You see from the corner of your eye the sun peaking out from the leftover clouds, some of its rays fall on the side of your face.

Santino keeps his eyes on you and slowly turns his gaze towards the window. Everything is already prepared for the departure. You can hear the engines of the plane becoming alive. They roar faintly in you ear.

“You’ll fit right in, I promise.” you hear Santino say. His gaze still focused on the window, the plane begins to move and it slowly takes off. “You’ll be safe there.”

New York starts to become a small point in the distance now that you're in the air. The city is even more beautiful from above, you can still see cars moving and even the platform below the Manhattan Bridge, but you don't see any of the Bower King's men or even the King himself.

“I hope you’re right," you say quietly, he narrows his eyes at you. "cause I don’t really wanna end up six feet under, especially in this world.”

You look at your reflection in the small window, the bruises started to fade and don’t hurt as much as before. The painkillers helped but you will still have to take them in the evening, just to ease the rest of the pain as you’ll fall asleep.

It hasn't been even full 24 hours and you feel a big change coming. You don't know if it will affect the world around but you're sure that it will get to you. You sitting on that plane proves it, in a few hours you'll be in the center of the underground world or at least a big part of it.

You wonder if Camorra will be the only organization you meet during your time here. You've met the Bowery, but you know that there's so much more underneath this world.

The tranquility filling the air of the small space is deafening. Over 8 hour flight, might as well get comfortable. You lean back in your chair and lean on the side of the plane. The soft trembling of the walls lulls you to sleep, before you can fully submerge yourself into the dream land you feel a soft material being placed on your body.

#santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #riccardo scamarcio #john wick #john wick 2 #john wick chapter 2 #john wick 3 #keanu reeves #fic; dulce periculum #feedback much appreciated #and really if i offended someone by writing that scene wrong just tell me #so that i know for the future #i'm still trying to see where all of this will go so please be patient #be kind #baby steps as always

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vegas9 · 5 years

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Summary: She loves touching Max. Wherein Anne asks Max to teach her French and the madame obliges in a fashion Anne probably should have anticipated. Set between series 2 and 3.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Max Genres: Romantic Fluff, Mild Smut Pairings: Anne Bonny/Max Rating: Mature

Warning: none

Read it on AO3

………

She loves touching Max; the way her skin feels warm and silky under the toughened pads of her finger tips and her soft curves that feel exactly right in her hands. Anne loves the way she moves and the pretty sounds that fall generously from her lips, body yielding sweetly under her like every little shift and gasp is an invitation. Even if they ain't fucking, she loves how small Max is; that all of the soft warmth of her body fits so perfectly against her lean muscle and that she kisses her like she's worth savoring and not a woman who's really only good for killing.

Jack kisses her like that, but it ain't the same. Max don't have a reason to do it. Anne didn't try to kiss her first, didn't spend years fighting and killing at her side like she did Jack. Sure, she'd saved her from that fucking tent, gutted Hammund like he'd more than deserved, but she didn't do that for her. It's not even like she was particularly nice to her for all that time. She mistook the hazy wanting for something else - anything else - and it just fed her temper, making her feel constantly guilty for no reason she could figure.

She doesn't know why Max did it the first time, or why she kept at it, kept letting Anne come back to her, but she knows Max wants her. It could just be a whore faking it because that's what they do, but Anne ain't payin' her and she can't see what just splitting her and Jack up is worth. They're a good team, but they ain't worth shit separated, neither of them are really anyone when you take away the other. S'not like Max wants Jack for herself and he's already letting her have forty percent of gross profit from the brothel as the madame. Anne doesn't know how much that is exactly, but it's enough that Max can buy herself prettier dresses and jewelry like she's never had before.

No one but Jack has ever wanted just her before. Max don't want her swords, doesn't ask her to kill for her. She looks at Anne like some kind prize she can't believe she's gotten hold of, tries to take care of her when she allows it. Anne doesn't know what it is they're doing, but she can't stop thinking about Max when she ain't got anything else on her mind and the thoughts are confusing, but mostly they make her feel warm and start a quiet wanting.

They're laying in Max's bed, the sun starting to set outside and the sounds of the brothel gearing up for the night filtering in through the floor and the closed door. Max has been asleep for at least the last hour. Anne knows because she's been focused on nothing but her the whole time. Her chest rhythmically rising and falling at an ever slowing pace until her lips parted just barely and she nestled closer and tucked her head under Anne's chin with a soft sigh.

It's fucking criminal that Max looks the way she does is what it is. Downright devastating with her clever mind and ladylike manner even though she's a whore. And Anne can't help herself from running her fingers through her dark hair, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she moves to trace idle patterns over her back.

"Ma doux pirate," Max murmurs. Anne feels her smile against her skin before a soft kiss is pressed just below her collarbone. A small hand curls around her hip possessively and Max slides one of her legs between Anne's.

Before she can even make the conscious decision to do it, Anne tips Max's head back and tilts hers down to kiss her. Softly at first, gentle because she's learned Max don't always like starting out as rough as she does with Jack and because she's come to enjoy the slow kisses that gradually grow more desperate. Anne doesn't let this kiss go too far before pulling back, knowing Max expects different. She smirks at the frustrated mutter of French that she can't quite make out.

"Teach me," she says suddenly. Max blinks at her, brow furrowing in confusion. "The French," Anne clarifies. "I like hearing it. Bet I'd like it even better if I knew what it was you were sayin'," her cheeks colour and her gaze slides off to the side. "I know I ain't that smart, but–" she's silenced by Max's hand cupping her cheek, thumb resting on her lips.

"I think you could learn, ma chérie," Max affirms with a gentle smile. "Lesson one," she starts, her smile curling wider, she brushes her thumb across Anne's lips. "Lévres," she says the word slowly.

"Lévres," Anne repeats without any of the finesse of Max's accent, a finger reaching up to touch her lips. Max laughs, but it's a warm, gentle thing.

"You sound like an Englishman," she tells her, still grinning with amusement. "but we shall practice and the sound will come more naturally," she promises. Max kisses her and the sound of her speaking the word for lips fills Anne's mind. Anne lets Max coax her on to her back, the familiar weight of her straddling her waist a welcome sensation as she drags her hands down her sides and is rewarded with one of those soft sounds she enjoys so much.

Max pulls away, teeth tugging lightly at Anne's lower lip, and kisses the curve of her jaw. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and nips at the shell of it.

"Oreille," she says, lips brushing the outside of Anne's ear as one of her hands slips under her tunic and she trails her nails slowly up her ribs, teasing a feather light touch to the side of her breast.

"Oreille," Anne repeats after swallowing. Her pronunciation still leaves much to be desired, but she's trying to shift to get even a little more contact.

Max moves down her body slightly, laying on Anne's chest and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. She starts to suck a small mark where her neck curves into shoulder and Anne tilts her head to the side, giving her better access. One of her hands slips down Max's waist to rest at her hip, the other she brings between them to cup one of her breasts, rolling her nipple between the rough pads of her fingers with just enough pressure to get a pretty little whimper and Anne gasps as Max sets just the barest edge of teeth into her skin.

She thinks she hears Max murmur the word for what she can only assume is neck, but the better part of Anne's mind is focused on the fact that Max has eased off of her enough to reach down and press the heel of her hand to her clit. Max doesn't do anything else, just holds her hand there and Anne rolls her hips with a soft moan of satisfaction when she doesn't tease and pull away. Max goes back to kissing her neck, letting Anne writhe underneath her and even though she's got her head turned to the side and she's looking out the window she knows exactly what that smug smile on her face probably looks like about now.

It's gone dark out now. The sky is clear and while she can't see the moon from where she is, stars glitter brightly in the darkness. A thought crosses Anne's mind, one so eloquent she can hardly believe she's thought it and she uses both hands to bring Max's face up to kiss her. She gently nips at Max's lower lip, tasting her leisurely when she opens to her. Max lets her roll them so its her back on the sheets and Anne above her and Christ but Anne doesn't think she'll ever get tired of the sight of her laid out beneath her. She moves down to kiss the space between her breasts where usually some sparkling pendant sits, drawing her attention away from everything else even in the middle of a conversation.

"What're the stars called?" she asks, laying another kiss a bit lower and scraping her teeth a few inches below that until her mouth is just over Max's navel.

"Étoile," she raises up on her elbows to look down at Anne. "Why?" there's no accusation or judgment in the question, just honest curiosity.

Anne rests her head on Max's stomach, fingers drawing curving patterns over the outsides of her thighs, occasionally dipping up to the hollows of her hips.

"When we're at sea an' a storm blows us off course the navigator uses 'em to figure out where we are," she explains without further context. "Ma étoile," she murmurs, feeling her cheeks heat. She bites her lip and can't look at Max, can't believe she's said anything of the sort and is terrified Max is going to make her explain it further.

But she doesn't, of course she doesn't. Because Max always seems to understand what she means even if she doesn't so much as say a single word, always seems to know exactly how to respond so that Anne never feels bad about what she wants just because it's confusing for her. She sits up, surprisingly strong as she moves Anne with her and draws her into her arms, whispering into her hair and holding her close. It takes Anne several moments to realize she's speaking in English, that she can understand what she's saying and she buries her face in the side of Max's neck and hugs her tightly, closing her eyes against the sensation of tears threatening to start, though she couldn't have said why.

She loves touching Max; the way she don't let her feel like it's wrong and that she should think less of herself for wanting to. Anne loves the way it ain't just about the fucking, that for her Max ain't a whore and for Max she ain't a killer.

#fanfic #fan fiction #black sails #anne bonny #max #maxanne

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joyfullynervouscreator · 6 years

Text

Slàinte mhath

Minerva & Severus are one of my brOTPs, so here is a ittle something from the beginning of that, for the lovely @deathdaydungeon who planted the seed of the idea in my head ages ago...

It’s Halloween, once again, and – just like last year – spirits in the castle are high; it’s been a year of uncertainty, of uprooting and unearthing corruption in all levels of government.

It’s been a year.

A year, since the world lost that bright spark of vivaciousness that he had once clung to in hope of something better.

A year, since threatening darkness was defeated – not vanquished, he is not foolish enough to believe that the Dark Lord would have no safeguards in place; there are whispers, and clues for those who know how to look.

A year of mourning.

Looking at the pumpkins that Hagrid has grown – each one carved with a different face, and flickering with candlelight – Severus Snape sips his coffee. Black as night, but oh, he wishes it was laced with any number of concoctions he could whip up.

Later, he probably will; he knows himself well enough to realise that the bottle waiting in his chambers is like as not going to be empty come morning.

But perhaps he will sleep, perchance dream.

Azkaban stole his dreams – Occlumency helped, but Azkaban was the final nail in the coffin.

Later. He’s still got that bottle from Narcissa – French liqueur is horrid, but it’ll get him good and plastered – and Severus almost looks forward to it, terribly sweet taste and all.

If only to get him through the cheer of the day; does no one care that their peace was bought with blood? Her blood?

He can feel McGonnagall’s eyes on him; she, at least, seems subdued in the face of the festivities, her mind as far away as his own.

“Would you visit me this evening, Professor Snape?”

The question is not a request, and stops him dead in his tracks as he tried to sidle out of the Great Hall after pretending to eat his dinner.

“As you wish, Professor,” he replies, nodding stiffly. She always makes him feel like he’s in for a reprimand, even more unnerving than spending any length of time with Bellatrix Lestrange – the comparison would make both women shudder in disgust, he knows, and the image is almost enough to make him smile – but Professor McGonnagall just dips her head slightly in his direction.

It is as good as permission to flee.

He has had several of these ‘visits’ over the past years of teaching; Professor McGonnagall either wants him to fail, and keeps a close eye on him to ensure she knows the moment it happens – or she wants him to succeed, sharing small tips from her own experience.

Severus has still not decided which agenda is the truth, and he has to admire the Slytherin-esque way she plays her little game, even if he is determined not to let her see him rattled.

But why did it have to be tonight? Tonight, when his heart is at its most raw and bleeding, when he cannot ignore the heavy weight of guilt hanging around his neck?

“Have a whisky.”

It’s dry, and bafflingly unexpected, but the offer seems genuine. Severus stands, stunned, in the doorway of the sitting room; he’s been here before, has sat stiffly on the tartan couch that matches the tartan wound around her hat – Professor McGonnagall always wears the pointy hat when she’s teaching or in an official capacity; he wonders if she believes it makes her more witch-like. Severus rather thinks it makes her imposing, even more so than the stern bun in her hair, pulled back tightly; the hat makes an already tall woman taller, and McGonnagall never seems to slouch, which means he can’t, either, his posture as proper as Lucius’ in her presence.

“Merlin’s Beard, lad,” she sighs, exasperated, and Severus realises he’s been pontificating about hats and postures for far longer than it is polite to keep standing. “I’m not intending to poison you, Severus.” Jumpily, he moves towards the cabinet – of course she wouldn’t, whatever her agenda is, McGonnagall is not an underhanded murderer. She might transfigure him into something – a pet, perhaps, if so, he hopes for a snake, though knowing her it would happen in a fit of pique and he’d end up being a miniature lion with a tartan collar. Severus shudders.

Opening the cabinet, he falters for a moment; it’s nothing but whisky, and he honestly has no idea what she’d want him to serve. A few names are recognisable – from the liquor shop, nothing more – but he can’t help but feel like he is being tested and failing. Grabbing a pair of glasses – that, at least, he knows is necessary, even if he’s still mystified by the purpose of offering him whisky instead of the ever-present biscuits – he searches through his memory, trying to remember any instance in which he has overheard Professor McGonnagall mention a preference for whisky.

He wishes the bottles were biscuits; he’d have a chance, then, to pick the right one.

Blindly, unnerved by the silent judgement he feels, that piercing gaze striking him right between the shoulder blades – he wants to hunch over, make himself unnoticeable – Severus reaches out, his free hand closing about the cool neck of a bottle.

“Interesting choice.” Professor McGonnagall is inscrutable as ever, nodding at him to pour.

The glasses are too full, he thinks, his famed steady hands and measuring eye failing him as a more-than-healthy measure fills each tumbler.

Strength of will stops his hands from shaking when he hands one to her.

“Slàinte mhath.” Holding up her glass in a toast, Professor McGonnagall downs at least half of her drink at once.

“Slan-gy va?” he tries, even though he knows his tongue can’t twist that way – he may have learned proper British, and grew up with working class English, but he’d never even met a Scot until he came to Hogwarts. The whisky burns his throat – preferable to Narcissa’s liqueur, at least – but the smokiness nearly kills him.

“Slàinte mhath,” she repeats, chuckling at his inept attempt. Severus scowls. He doesn’t like being laughed at, even less than he likes feeling wrongfooted. “We’ll work on that,” she adds, and he thinks he sees an almost-smile on her face.

“You wished to see me,” he asks, putting the glass down on the small table and taking a seat on the tartan couch; Professor McGonnagall rests in a tall wingback chair, studying him in a way she has not done before, not even when he was s student called to her office.

Severus stops himself from fidgeting, suddenly wishing he had not abandoned the whisky – his glass looks so far away.

“It has been a year of great change, Professor Snape,” she replies, turning the glass in her hand slowly, the amber liquid forming waves up the sides, running back down lazily. “Next year promises even greater ones; but that is not why you are here.”

“Why?” He has a feeling he ought to know, but he is still surprised at her response.

“Because she was your friend, and tonight is the anniversary of her death.” Leaning closer, she pushes his glass back towards him. “I have studied you – in meetings with the Order, at Hogwarts, during our… guidance sessions – and I… drink your whisky, Professor.”

It is not an answer, but he’s beyond certain that he does not want to hear her state the reason aloud – he can guess, easily enough, she must have known of their friendship, at least at school.

Severus drinks his whisky, forgetting the burn until it hits him again, making him double over coughing.

“Laphroaig is possibly a bit too strong for a beginner,” Professor McGonnagall says, kindly ignoring the steaming eyes of her guest. Severus wheezes. He thought he had tried strong liquor before, but this… amber firebrand … is something else. “I would recommend a Talisker, next,” she continues. Severus stares, but Professor McGonnagall’s attention is entirely absorbed by the contents of her glass, her head tilted back in obvious enjoyment as she pours it down her throat, smacking her lips lightly.

“You… want me to drink whisky?”

“Talisker, lad, it’s on the bottom shelf – might be hiding, a bit, got a bottle from my cousin…” Professor McGonnagall trails off, her raised eyebrow as effective as an actual command.

Severus is on his feet before he realises it, suddenly feeling slightly lightheaded from the first glass. Finding the bottle marked Talisker – it still has a small card tied to the neck – he pours again, slightly less awkward. One finger, each; looking at McGonnagall, her eyebrow twitching minutely, he adds another splash to both glasses.

“These are both from Islay, a small island off the coast,” she says, studying her glass, “Islay malt is the best for smoky whiskies, lad, peaty soil. Mind that.” Severus just nods, dumbly, sipping his whisky. It’s still smoky, but also sweet, and less burning as it slides down his throat. “Of course, I prefer Lagavulin if we’re talking Islay, but Talisker is better for virgins.”

“V-virgins?” Severus splutters, trying to convince himself he misheard her. Surely, she’s not implying…

“You’ve never had proper whisky, lad, clear as day,” Professor McGonnagall interrupts his thoughts smoothly, her form not even wavering as she makes her way to the cupboard. “Means I’ll have to train you right, of course.”

Severus isn’t quite sure how he went from slightly-tolerable-colleague to whisky-drinking-protégée, but he’s beginning to feel nicely mellow from the drink; perhaps the latter option isn’t so bad, after all.

His drink has been refilled.

“Speyside Balvenie. Sweet.”

He likes this one, something almost citrusy in it.

Severus is not quite sure when he lost his shoes, but the tartan couch is supremely comfortable – as is the tartan blanket that seems to have magically appeared – and he no longer remembers how many whiskys he has tasted, trying to discover his favourite. He’s not sure he can still taste them, really, but McGonnagall doesn’t seem to care.

“Sláinte mah!” he exclaims, carefully not sloshing liquid gold down his fingers as he raises the glass towards the ceiling. They’ve been toasting things for some time now, magic, whisky, poetry – McGonnagall taught him a naughty limerick, so they had to toast limericks, and Severus felt quite proud he remembered one his Da once told him; it made McGonnagall laugh, which felt like some sort of victory. She cheers; he’s getting better at the Gaelic toast, even if he still can’t pronounce it throatily enough for her.

“To Oichne Shamha, and those who have gone before us,” McGonnagall says, her voice rough. “Slàinte mhath.”

Severus turns his head, but her eyes are closed, no tears caught on her lashes. Still, grief lines her face, and he thinks he would see a row of faces if he dared dip into her mind – temptation beckons, but Severus resists, feeling strangely honoured to be included in what he suddenly realises is a private ritual; Samhein, after all, being the night of the year where the veil between the living and the death is thinnest.

“Slàinte mhath,” he agrees softly, red hair moving with the flutter of a breeze on a summer’s day in his thoughts as he empties his glass. Lily. Slàinte mhath, wherever you are.

#severus snape #minerva mcgonagall #whisky #brotp

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hunterartemis · 6 years

Text

Couch: pt-3- Finale (Dean X Reader)

Prompt: Once a Wise man said: if you can’t catch the culprit, you’ll just have to wait until the culprit catches himself.

Inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRCYEkA0_q8

Read: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

warning: angst and drama alert. Introvert reader and dealing with emotion-issues.

“ _ , I called truce days ago, please talk to me...” Sam whined again from my back, as I looked away from him, placing my neck, fulcrumed on my palm. My elbow had been slipping slightly from the greasy bar counter, but withdrawing my hand would mean readjusting my position and most dreadfully, signalling Sam that I was ready to forgive him for the heinous things he did.

When I thought his futile apologies stopped, something cool and smooth touched my forearm. As I turned to look at it, it was a glass of (favorite drink) and Sam was slowly sliding it towards me. The entire attempt looked like an elementary school kid trying to pass an ‘I’m sorry’ note to another kid, whom he hit or pulled up her skirt in the playground, during lunchtime.

‘Non, Je n’vais plus te parler’ (no I won’t talk to you) I answered him firmly.

‘C’est suffisient, d’accord. Mais, Je t’en prie pardonne-moi.’ (Fair enough, okay. But please forgive me) Sam answered me with his hands together, ‘I would like to apologise on my knees, even if people think that I am proposing you which I’m not...’ he added with a mock distress that broke into smile as I finally loosened up.

‘Okay fine... But, never again!’ I warned him, ‘I don’t like to be teased, you know that don’t you!’

‘Je Sais madamoiselle, comme les alphabets anglais’ he smiled and patted my hair, ‘like English Alphabets... well, that wasn’t pretentious at all.’ I added sarcastically and chinked with his scotch glass, ‘I screwed up bad and I ran out of metaphors in French...’

We sat down with each other, and I looked at my drink, glowing as the light of the headlamp went through it. I bit my lips as the ice melted inside the liquid, and felt a light pressure on my hand that rested on the bar counter.

‘You really don’t wanna tell him _ ,’ Sam asked me softly, his hazel eyes compassionate and empathetic, as they always are, ‘think about it, you, I and Dean... we work on different paces, Dean likes things fast and frisky, and you and I, we like things... you know--’

‘Are you trying to tell me something Sam?’ I asked him seriously, I didn’t really like where it was going, not like I had planned to, ‘No... no, _ you know what we are and the similarities between us is too platonic, but I think you need to step out of your comfort zone for a while and man up and tell Dean you were the one whose voice he is dreaming about ever since.’

I did not speak, I was quiet and tried to listen to the voice of my mind, and strangely it’s not my outward silence that protested Sam, but my inner voice that wanted to agree with him.

‘You want that, don’t you?’ Sam said, ‘look, we have been with you long enough to make out what you are hiding beneath that poker-face of yours. You can’t hide it forever _ , you have to step out, tell him... I know Dean will never turn you down.’ he implored earnestly.

‘What if he does exactly what you say. What if he accepts me for who I am and someday, someplace, I become another Lisa Braeden... that he have to erase my mind and mourn for me forever? Do you think I want that in him?’ a lump in my throat made my voice hoarse, and I downed Sam’s whiskey in a go, wishing the burning sensation will make the lump of tears go away, ‘Sam, I can reason with Dean bringing a new girl every night, I can reason with the fact he sees me nothing but a friend, I can reason with the fact that I will never be his, but I cannot reason with the fact that I have to leave him forever.... so leave me alone.’

I got up on my feet, staggering as the Whiskey took its toll. But Sam grabbed my hand to stop me.

‘ _ , are you in love with him?’

I shook his hand off mine, and looked at him with bleary eyes. I felt my mouth failing to make a smirk and drooping at the end. That’s the furthest I could go, replying him. To fill my silence, I grabbed a bottle of beer and staggered through the door of the bar towards my way to the bunker. Dean was out for a day and I knew there was nobody in that place. Sam could not drive me there as Dean took his Impala to the case he needed to solve alone. The rustle of the leaves became harsher and harsher as I went further inside, and finally greeted the dreaded silence of the sitting room.

The call of the silence is more maddening than constantly hearing something you hate. I forgot where I put the bottle and my legs finally gave in when my left feet hit the leg of the couch. Grabbing my feet to prevent the throbbing pain, I toppled on the couch. Suddenly, I felt a burning urge to laugh... I don’t know why I was laughing, I just knew I had to laugh or else I will fall apart on my own ruins.

What if the world could disappear right now... what if I didn’t have to fight the things I had been feeling for so long... what if I could transform my feelings into objects and burn them so that I could go on with my life, pretending like nothing even happened. What if I could go back to the time where I was the arrogant smartass always outwitting Dean Winchester.

c’est paye, balliye, oublie... je me fous du passe (it’s paid for, wiped away, forgotten... I don’t care about the past)

God... I hated my voice right now.

‘ _ ?’ a voice called my name but it was not Sam.

‘What... now you have a problem with me too?’ I slurred as I tried to stand up from my position... I refuse to act drunk right now. I refuse to appear weak in front of Dean Winchester.

‘No... but, your voice sounded like--’

‘Yes my damn voice sounded like the record you heard once upon a time in your enchanted sleep.’ I said, as my knees shook. As I slurred I saw him coming towards me and trying to give me shoulder, but I threw them away, ‘why are you even here?’ I asked him, frowning... probably.

‘I called Sam that I was coming to visit you at the bar, but he told me you were home, drunk... so I came as soon as I could...’ Dean overpowered me by lifting me into bridal style, and his sturdy arms locked me with his chest.

‘Lemme go... Dean Winchester, you hear me?’ I slurred, trapped in his arms.

‘Will it kill you to depend on me at least this time?’ Dean’s right arm, that was under my knees tightened further, ‘yes... it will...’ I replied.

I never realized I was this close to his chest that his inviting warmth was basking all over me. That warmth was almost making my head clear all the confusion and suddenly that very moment felt the very awaited antidote to the past few torturing days I had been withholding myself.

But at the same time, I didn’t want this to happen.

The drunk stupor was vanishing with every minute, yet I pretended to be out cold. I didn’t want Dean to look at me when I listen to his constantly pacing heartbeat, the fluttering of his shirt as it caught my breath. At the moment I felt safe and secure, like nothing could harm me... and despite of myself, I didn’t want the moment to end. My heart dropped when he kicked the door of my room and very slowly I felt the futon touching my back. His firm hands grazed behind my neck as he placed me tenderly on my bed. The hand behind my knees withdrew ever to gently. A gentle finger brushed the hair off my face. I wish I could see the look of his eyes...

He will go any moment now... he thinks I am asleep...

Maybe I could act whatever and he will just forgive me, thinking that I am drunk.

‘Deeeeaaaan.... nghhh...’ I pulled his sleeve, feigning to be drunk, so scared to be my own self. It worked... his hand stopped on my temple and slowly withdrew. My heart quickened when he leaned towards me, dangerously close, his breath hitched near my lips, and he whispered.

‘Sweetheart... I know you are not drunk, so drop the act...’ His voice sounded cold and almost... hurt. I felt panicked, but my reaction was unexpected, even by me-- I laughed and sat up on my bed, looking at his face, looking grim in the slight light of my room.

‘You just shot my last line of defense...’ I sighed at him. ‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘Was that true... you singing to me, was that true?’ Dean asked, hoarsely and as he uttered the last words, his voice shook a little. ‘Yes I did... so? What’s the big deal?’ I tried to brush it off despite my inside was screaming to do the entire opposite.

‘Of course it’s a big deal...’ He halted to find words, ‘things that you do for me, you should not do them... you should do them to someone who deserves’ his voice sounded very hurt.

‘Dean what are you talking about--’

‘I see the way you speak with Sam behind my back... I see the way you two move around, and I know...” Was he tearful? did I hear correctly? did he just...

‘Are you saying that you hate me--’

‘No god, I-I don’t--’ Dean sighed and grabbed my shoulder gently ‘I know you like Sam okay, and it’s obvious-- he speaks the way you speak’ Dean gulped and swiped his hand on his mouth, ‘I am saying this because... it kills me every time you do those little things to me...’

My drunken stupor gone, I was up on my feet, angry and tearful... that’s it, he will never see me that way, ‘thanks Dean... thank you for expressing things so fully.’ I stomped out of my room, and I heard Dean following me to the sitting room.

‘ _ , listen, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt you and I am sorry that the words came out wrong and you can forget about my... you can just forget about it’ I saw Dean fidgeting around, pacing down and wiping his hand on his mouth, and very discreetly pretending to grab the temple, wiping tears... I know it because his eyes are rosy and he didn’t even smelt like alcohol all night.

‘Forget about it?’ I thundered at him, ‘forget about it?...You men... you are all the same.’ I said in anger, ‘your brain is like your boner... it points at one direction and it’s usually at the most easy, most convenient and most wrong way possible!’ I shook my head in anger. ‘Do you even understand the relation between me and Sam? Yes-- I like Sam, because he is easier to talk to. He was the first one who never made me feel like a freak, speaking in tongues, yes, we have so much in common but it’s not like that Dean--it’s not like that!’

‘But I heard you talking with him and--’

‘Oh god...’ I was going over edge, and when I looked at the poor guy, I felt a pang of pity for him. I knew exactly what he was feeling. I know that look on his eyes, he looks like this when he feels like an intruder, when me and Sam interacted. All this time he felt like an outsider who never belonged between me and Sam, who couldn’t keep up with us...

How could I do this to him?

‘He was coaxing me to admit to you that I sang to you when you were asleep’ that’s it... it’s all out in the open, I am all naked now. And look, he doesn’t even give a damn. ‘I never wanted to tell you at the first place because I knew you never felt the same for me.’

Dean frowned at me with confusion, he paced towards me and looked at me square in the eyes, ‘what exactly you felt about me?’ it wasn’t a mocking, teasing tone... it was disbelief.

‘I don’t know...’ I was scrambling to find my words, I was never good with words and feelings altogather-- I was very masculine, in this very sense and that’s why the boys and me were so similar. And now, I am trying to do the very thing I am worst at-- what a life!

‘I don’t know...’ the words rolled in my tongue, bringing some confirmation in the confusion, ‘I think-- it always was... a part in me. The comfort I felt when I was around you, I could rely on you all the time, the things you said that cheered me up... and then it just happened... when I stopped caring about you.’

I could tell he was shaking, although he was holding my hands to make me steady. He knew I needed to get the words out of my system, although the words may or may not be the words he needed to hear, but he is there--for me. He is waiting for me to tell it.

‘I stopped caring about how you behaved, how you goof around, how you mess things up... I stopped caring about your everything... your shortcomings and flaws and then I realized I never really cared about you before as much as I do now...’ I huffed.

It seemed that time ran slower than usual... I felt his hands sliding off mine. My heart dropped into my stomach like a cold stone when he let go of my hands, but wasn’t for the reason I was dreading. His right hand gently caressed my cheek as his lips crashed into mine. Softly and gently he held me into his arms like I was the most precious thing in his life. His arms slowly snaked around me lower back, that pulled me into an embrace as my head sank in his chest. I was too embarrassed to show my face right now, so I bawled, clutching his flannel shirt.

‘_ , what’s wrong, sweetheart... are you alright?’ Dean sounded alarmed as he bend to my face to look at me, while I was a teary mess. When his eyes met me, a series of emotions passed through the pickle-green eyes: concern, guilt, empathy and finally came down to gentle compassion. With his thumb and index finger, he pulled my chin up and with his relatively thick and big fingers started to wipe my tears away.

‘I don’t know Dean... I have never done this before.’

He pulled my shoulders away from himself, ‘what... confession?’

I nodded nervously, and waited for his reply. However, he gave me no answer, instead his wide green eyes slowly moved to inspect every crevice of my face.

‘What are you looking at?’ I asked him, after an eternity.

‘You...’ he mused as his lips barely moved with the words. He looked at me in a way that I never seen in his eyes. It was incomprehensible. I didn’t know he could look like that... was he really looking at me? My emotions were all astray and they finally rained in tears.

‘Shh... don’t cry sweetheart,’ He bent to my face to kiss the very place where my tears were concentrated into a thick droplet. ‘and don’t ever stop to tell me whatever comes into your mind without being embarrassed or scared or both.’ He cupped my face into his hands. ‘I was only wondering how long...’

‘Ever since I realized I won’t change a thing about you... even if it means letting you go with other girls different night, or do your usual shenanigans.’ I replied wittily, trying to smile.

‘Well, you shot my last amusement down... I am not going with anybody.’ He said while squeezing my nose, then again he paused to look at me.

‘God you’re beautiful....’

‘scuse me? where did that come from?’ I asked him, half amused, half surprised.

‘can’t you take a complement seriously for one time?’ Dean laughed as he kissed me.

‘What can I say... I learned from the best.’ I bopped his nose, ‘he is a master of denial and self-hate.’ I grabbed his hand to get him up and with the other hand I turned on the old transistor.

‘Dance me Dean Winchester...’ I said while putting his hands on my waist, ‘or don’t tell me you can’t...’ then I put my arms around his neck, as the old transistor whizzed with the oldie song. He gave me a smile that I haven’t seen in a really long time.

‘only if you sing to me...’ He whispered against my neck.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean x reader #la vie en rose #dean winchester fluff #spn songfic #old songs #french referance #slow dance #humming songs

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seokjinstopit-blog · 7 years

Text

Maybe It’s You (1)

Word Count: 8.2k

Genre:Fluff and other things I don’t know what to call…. Synopsis: You meet a boy at the park one day….

(Sidenote: Plagiarism is a crime punishable by law, don’t do it kids, this is my original work, so I worked really hard on it, don’t make me sue you haha.)

(Author’s note: AHHH THIS IS MY FIRST STORY, I’M SO NERVOUS, please tell me if you guys liked it or didn’t…😭. Whatever it is I would love to hear some feedback! Oh this is also going to be part of my school project haha, but I truly hope you guys enjoy it! Part two will come out when I have time to write it and when people ask for the next part so I know you guys want to see more hehe, anyways enjoy! Please..? 💙~Ace)

You

Under the harsh radiant sunlight your eyes are engulfed by a blinding light causing you to shuffle in your bed contained within your ebony enclosed room. You pulled the large warm grey blanket over your messy tangled hair hoping it would keep you protected from nature’s wrath. Before you know it you’re rising from your warm queen sized bed, rubbing your eyes intensely, causing some slight pain. You stretched your pajama covered arms out feeling the cool air around you. The sound of birds chirping fused with your wind chime reminded you of some Princess movie. Remembering that food was still left in the fridge from ordering takeout again yesterday, you stood up from your bed examining the room, well organized and put together, just the way you liked things. As your feet created a rhythmic beat with the floor below, you couldn’t help but realize how cold the tiles of your apartment floor was. Your focus was quickly diverted however when you started to wonder how you were going to spend your day. The park perhaps, or maybe visiting a friend’s house? Your thoughts went on into the endless possibilities, and various futures of your day as you made it into the restroom. The laid out wool carpets could be felt under your feet, highly contrasting from the tiles with it’s warmth. After a few seconds your gaze was transferred onto the framed bathroom mirror which caused you to smile, you didn’t look too tired and you felt slightly more confident in yourself today. Normally you would look more like a hot mess who’d been drinking for too long, that was hilarious to you considering the fact that you never touched alcohol in your life. You reached for your electronic toothbrush, adding on some Colgate toothpaste before brushing away, the buzzing sound filling up your restroom. A few moments later you were in the kitchen reaching for the leftover fried chicken and French fries you had. You lifted the crispy oiled chicken thigh up taking a huge bite out of the center, allowing the delicious unhealthy flavor to melt in your mouth. Junk food wasn’t something you’d normally eat but yesterday was special. It was to celebrate the completion of your 2 month project for English class. Your friends had thought that ordering takeout while watching, “White Chicks,” was the way to go so you just agreed. You weren’t the type to argue back anyways, and besides it was quite fun. After the celebration hangout session your friends had helped you clean before leaving. You snap out of your entranced thoughts, appalled that all of the fried chicken that was present mere seconds ago were mere bones. You turned your head rapidly silently pleading that the French fries were still safe but to your dismay the French fries were only remnants of what they once were. It was tasty while it lasted, you sighed standing up to put away your trays into the sink. It was a weekend today so you didn’t have any classes. Spending the rest of the morning relaxing and watching YouTube wouldn’t be such a bad idea. By the time you were finished with that it was already noon. - You closed the door to your apartment locking it carefully, before you placed the keys inside your pocket. Already clothed in winter fitting clothing you began to make your way to the park. Your grey faux fur jacket was keeping you warm, from the cool breezes that were surfing across your skin. Glancing down at the floor you admired your cute tennis shoes, grey and simple. The black sweats you were wearing contrasted with your beige t-shirt hidden under the coat. You’d normally dress a lot more fashionably but it was the weekend, it’s not like anyone would see you anyways. Today would be great for a little stroll to the park you thought. Despite the countless amount of times you’ve been on this path to the park, you were always left in awe at the beauty of your neighborhood. You loved nature, and life itself, if something appeared ugly, there was always some sort of beauty in it. That’s what your mother had taught you. You turned your head taking in a deep breath, the air was fresh provided only by the variety of trees that decorated your neighborhood. From pine trees to oak trees, the city had planted them during Earth day and you were glad you had volunteered to help. Cars zoomed by you, while birds flocked through the clouded gloomy sky. Perhaps it was going to rain, that’d be nice considering it hadn’t rained in almost a week. Your friends had teased you before for being such a “hippie,” as they called it but you didn’t mind. It wasn’t your fault they couldn’t cherish the very home they lived on. You’d try to lecture them about it but doing that was like talking to a wall. And you’re pretty sure the wall would’ve listened better. They were college kids just as you were, what could you do? Kids at this age just wanted to party and do the dirty. You weren’t a nun per say but you certainly didn’t go around hooking up with other guys. All your life you only had one boyfriend, Xavier. He was your boyfriend all of high school until he changed. He became addicted to alcohol, and at his age that was dangerous. Countless times you’d try to convince him to quit, sadly it always led nowhere. He wasn’t the man you’d fallen in love with anymore. He reeked of alcohol all of the time, and was always tired when you saw him. It didn’t matter to you if he drank ever so often but he didn’t, it was every, single, day. You decided that breaking it off with him was the best thing you could do. If you couldn’t save him, at least you could save yourself as selfish as that sounded. By distancing yourself from him, you found a sort of peace. But at the same time your heart was broken, it was too late, Xavier was never going to be the man you fell in love with again, and you were never going to be the same again. After Xavier you grew skeptical of trusting people, if you couldn’t trust them at least you could trust the world. The beauty of the world was a comfort to you. You weren’t ignorant to all of the cruelty and disasters of it of course. It’s just you’d rather not focus on that, you could of course do the same for people, which you did. But it was difficult when it came to people becoming a potential love interest or a close friend. To sum it up you were a complicated girl, you’d probably end up being single until death and own 70 cats. Honestly you didn’t mind that, having cats wouldn’t be so bad, they would keep you company, and unlike people. They wouldn’t break your heart. You broke from your memories when you noticed you’d made it to the front of the park. The park looked like any park, simple and usually peaceful. With your eyes fixated on a bench in the corner, you quickly shuffled towards it, your shoes clattering with the hard cement below. You placed your hands in your pockets before you sat on the clean polished wood. Your irises darted around picking up the landscape surrounding you. The green slides were unoccupied, while the rusty black swings blew gently in the wind. Saturday’s were never popular days at the park, in fact most days weren’t popular, kids nowadays were always so glued to their devices. You let out a loud sigh examining the rest of the park. The empty sandbox, check. The lone water fountain in the corner? Check. The unused monkey bars, and check. Everything else? Exactly the same. You didn’t hate the park, in fact you loved it. It was a great place to relax and admire the sky. Without warning, your attention was suddenly caught when a sound of a pigeon cooing rang in your ear. That’s strange, pigeons barely ever showed up to the park. At least not when you were here. Maybe you were just scary looking. You stood up, following the amusing sound. The sound led you to a person sitting on the park’s grass hill a few meters away from you. On top of the grass hill, you spotted a pale, pink haired Asian boy, around your age you assume. He doesn’t spot you yet thankfully. Your vision was glued on the beautiful boy in front of you, the wind sweeping his light pink bangs upwards. He chuckled, causing you some slightly confusion, before your attention briefly transferred onto the pigeon on his sweater covered arm. His other hand was directly in front of the pigeon’s beak, filled with some type of seed. The boy seemed unfrightened as the single pigeon pecked into his palm rapidly causing him to chuckle again. Your eyes returned to the boy once more taking his features in. He wasn’t in any way masculine looking, he looked rather boyish in your opinion, kind of like one of those K-pop guys your best friend always obsessed over, claiming she would have “Oppa’s babies.” If you had to describe him he looked pretty, you’d never thought you’d be the person to call a boy pretty, but there’s a first for everything, right? He’s dressed in a grey plaid pullover sweater, paired with some distressed black skinny jeans. His shoes were tennis shoes just like your’s but instead of being grey, his were black and white. You stepped closer as if you had a magnetic attraction to him, and for some reason the pigeon flies away. Probably just finished its meal you thought. His eyes met your’s now, despite being approximately two meters apart you could feel his gaze piercing through you, as if questioning your very being. He rose dusting off the grass from his jeans and sweater. You took this as a signal to step closer to him, your feet sinking into the grassy terrain. You left about a feet of distance between you and him before you spoke, “Um hey there, I noticed you were feeding a pigeon,” you add in a small chuckle at the end as waves of regret washed over you. What were you even saying? What were you doing? Attempting to flirt? Or just a bird enthusiast, yes that was totally the reason. A girl who can’t trust in people is suddenly a bird enthusiast. His cheeks flushed a light pink, made even more evident by his pale skin tone, he opened his mouth as if to reply, but nothing comes out. It’s in this moment that you notice a small scar on his neck. It looked like a tiny slash indented into his skin. He quickly covered the spot, his expression darkening, “It’s from a fall,” his tone a lot harsher than you had expected, “I’m sorry but I have to go now,” he fakes a smile before turning his back towards you. What the heck….what happened? Did you somehow offend him unknowingly? You were always a good if not a decent to talk to, why had he just marched off like that. A sudden feeling of angst consumes you, who was this pink haired boy? And what did he go through to get that scar? Why did you even care? Endless questions began to form in your mind as the boy’s figure shrank with the distance, an ominous aura following him as rain suddenly begins to fall.

Him

As he walked away from you, cold raindrops trickled down his cheeks, tracing his face as if he were a canvas, which he’d been before. His face turned facing the dark sky filled with gloominess. A feeling of melancholy presented itself to him, as he recalled a day like this. The day he ran away from her. Strangely enough, the boy had forgotten that he’d met you just a few seconds earlier, falling into his past memories once more.

1 year ago

She raised her hand up, prompting him to flinch slightly, before she quickly slapped him across the cheek causing the sound to echo through the empty dining room, “I told you not to buy me these pathetic useless things didn’t I?!” his girlfriend threw his present onto the floor without a care, letting her high heels click against the tile floor as she walked away. He fell onto the floor, as if his body had collapsed from disappointment. His cheek still burning as his arms reached out, wrapping his arms around the white teddy bear with the words, “I love you,” written on the red heart the teddy bear held. After a few hours of staying on the floor the boy’s body was growing even colder, he tightened his hold on the bear, his eyes glossed over as he fights a sob, “I’m sorry Stella….I’m sorry,” were the only words uttered by him that night. He didn’t sob, nor did he cry, because if he did, Stella would abandon him forever. About a week had passed since the incident and the boy was still as disappointed as he’d been a week prior. He went through his life mindlessly, school became a nuisance to him, even eating became unnecessary, and his love life began to slowly crumble. His mind was eating away at him, everything he had believed once morphed into inner demons ready to destroy him. One particular night, Stella came home very intoxicated, her heavy leather coat shifted from side to side as her heels stumbled loudly against the tile floor. She started screaming for her boyfriend as if she was in intense pain, and instantly he came running out to her, his face filled with panic. However when he truly saw what was happening his heart broke, he could tell straight away what was happening noting his girlfriend’s smeared makeup, her unbalanced posture, and her bloodshot eyes. She was drunk yet again, this had been the fifth time in a row this week. Stella had been drinking her heart out at the bar every night with her friends from what he knew, he’d been extremely worried about her. Was this perhaps his fault? She suddenly straightened up her stance, a evil smirk plastered across her face, “You’ve been cheating on me with some b**** haven’t you?!” The boy backed away slowly, feeling the cold tile floor against his bare feet, he was startled by how upset Stella was, but she was wrong, he’d never cheat on her, why would he? His face morphed into a state of panic, chills running through his body, when he noticed that she was holding an extremely sharp piece of glass against her acrylic nails, she laughed as her heels got closer to the boy, who’s body had collapsed on the floor from the shock. His heart was palpating so quickly that it was all he heard for a while, everything else she said to him became muffled. The boy wanted desperately for someone to save him right now, anyone, he begged hopelessly for some sort of miracle. But that miracle never came. He couldn’t move, the fear instilled in him, but he was beginning to hear her voice again, hoarse from the alcohol, “Now be a good boy and accept this and I’ll forgive you, oh and don’t scream, it annoys me,” she lifted the shard of glass bending down slightly so that she would reach him. The boy’s voice was stuck in his throat, he wanted to scream, to run, to disappear, but he couldn’t because he was too broken to. After what felt like forever to the boy, he realized that there was a sudden intense stinging on his throat, he moved his pale fingers, trying to cover the intense feeling of pain. All his fingers did however, was worsen the stinging, his fingers coating in the warm blood while a new color began spreading across his t-shirt, the color of regret. He pulled his hand away from his neck, taking a glance at it, it was painted over with the color of crimson blood. The boy’s gaze turned upward only to be welcomed by the horrified look on his girlfriend’s face, as though she’d seen a ghost, and perhaps in this instant she did. Perhaps this was his ghost, bidding her farewell. He was too lost in the pain and onslaught of thoughts that he couldn’t think straight. The shard of glass, coated with his blood had been dropped on the floor, mere inches away from his reach. The boy pushed himself off the coldness of the floor, his body heavy and his vision blurring. His eyes darted to the sharp piece of glass and again to her, Stella saw this and screamed loudly, her voice echoing through their empty apartment. This shocked the boy, that she would imply such a thing. Did she really think that he would do what she did to him? How horrid. The boy started to run towards the door, his neck in agonizing pain, as drops of his blood painted the white tile floor. His cold hands began to fidget with the door lock, while Stella sat on the couch in a state of stasis, when he had finally managed to unlock the door, he pushed it open, running outside. His bare feet new to the feeling of the concrete floor full of pebbles which he felt under his toes. The cold night air, blew against him, causing his cut to burn prompting a loud hiss from the boy. The bright moon, greeted him, and for a second he felt a tiny part of himself relax to have been able to escape from her, until suddenly a burst of pain ran through his head, his body falling against the floor with a loud thud. His black hair was soaking up the blood that was gushing out of the boy’s head, while his neck kept its constant stream of blood, now dripping on the dark concrete floor. Above him, against the light of the moon stood Stella, her face resembling a demon, as she clung onto the broken glass beer bottle tightly. The other half broke when she hit the boy on the head, he wasn’t dead, she just wanted to knock him out. That’s all. He was going to hurt her if she didn’t, yes that’s right he’s a jerk. Stella’s mind began to fill with toxic thoughts, supporting her actions, but that didn’t last very long when the sound of a siren pierced through the night. The boy later awoke several days later in a hospital bed, his entire body bandaged and wrapped, to be informed that Stella had been arrested, the nurse had said that someone in the neighborhood had called the police after hearing a scream coming from the apartment. She furthered explained to him, but her words became inaudible to the boy as he was taking in the reality. Stella was gone, the person who had been with him for all of those years (3), she was truly gone. Now he had no one, he knew how foolish he was, how dumb he seemed, how broken he would forever be, but he couldn’t stop the stream of tears from rushing out from his reddened eyes. And before he knew it, he was sobbing hard, as the nurse comforted him. She thought however that he was sobbing because of what had happened to him, and not Stella. The boy stayed in the hospital for a total of 9 months, recovering from the near death experience as the doctors described it, it had been a miracle he survived they said. During his time in the hospital, the boy confessed many things to the doctor, how Stella would usually hurt him physically, and never apologize for it. The doctors were mortified listening to his interactions with her, his experiences which he described calmly. The doctor’s one day asked the boy if he knew that he was being abused, to which he replied he did although he didn’t let it bother him, because Stella was all he had. Another patient who overheard his conversation with the doctors one day asked him why he didn’t tell his family, “I don’t have one anymore,” the boy would answer, his voice shaky as if he’d burst to tears any second. When he finally left the hospital after 9 months, the boy was a new person. He finally after all of those years acknowledged that he had been abused for the 3 whole years he had spent with Stella, and that she was a horrible person. Despite his gratitude for Stella for taking him in after his parents had passed, he could never forgive her for what she had done, or for shattering his heart. He wasn’t going to be her canvas anymore, he wasn’t going to let anyone paint his body with pain anymore. He wasn’t going to die foolishly every single day anymore, he wouldn’t need to hide the bruises on his arms, or body anymore, he was going to live every single day as if it was his last.

Present day

By the time the boy had snapped out of his entranced state, he was already home in his apartment, drenched from the rain. He quickly headed into the restroom, showering and changing into a new pair of clothes before he sank down onto his king sized bed. The clothes that he left in the laundry basket messily for a week now, should’ve been folded sooner, the sink full of dishes needed to be washed, and he also was in a dire need to buy more groceries. When he lived with Stella, he would always finish any housework that needed to be done as soon as possible, but now that he lived alone, he was a different person. He was still somewhat shy as always, still as kind and caring, but what he wasn’t was trustful. His thoughts drifted to the park where he met you, an innocent like beauty radiating from you unlike anything he had ever seen. It was much different from Stella who always had more of a femme fatale aura about her, while you seemed so pure and innocent. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was about you that made him so curious, he blushed when he first saw you looking at him. You reminded him of the innocence he had back then, and lost in that small fragment of time it felt as if he had fallen in love with you in that very instant. That is until he was reminded of his scar, he didn’t blame you of course, many before you had questioned what it was before, and the boy would always say it was from a fall. But for some strange reason, when you asked him, he couldn’t lie, a feeling of remorse arose inside of him as his memories brought up past pains, regrets, and destructions something he had wished to bury deep in his heart. The boy’s thoughts trailed back to you, and for some reason he desperately needed to see you again, even if for a tiny bit, perhaps seeing you once more would heal his heart a little. The boy laid on his bed, his eyes closing as he muttered a silent prayer, hoping this time someone would perhaps save him.

You

You pulled out the key to your door, from your pocket desperately, as you tried to escape from the rain, even if you loved the rewards rain brought to the world, you weren’t exactly a fan of getting sick or freezing from the rain. A click alerts you that you’ve successfully unlocked the door, you stepped in drying your feet on the mat below you. For a few seconds you stomped and scraped your tennis shoes against the black mat before you took them off placing them in your well organized shoe rack. You skim the rack, as you take off your white socks, only 3 pairs rested on them, a pair of sparkly silver high heels, your grey tennis shoes, and a pair of snow boots. These had all been gifts from your friends excluding the tennis shoes you purchased yourself. They said you needed more shoes, comparing you to the girls at your school who had around a dozen pairs each. You were quite amused when one of your friends had purchased snow boots for you since it only snowed during winter here, and when it did you rarely left your house. It was winter break and you’d rather stay warm. Although you started to realize that it was actually quite helpful when you felt like taking walks to admire the neighborhood covered in white snow. Christmas for you wasn’t really that special, it was as a kid but as you grew older it didn’t hold as much meaning. Maybe if you had someone to spend Christmas with then perhaps it would mean more to you, and by someone you meant a love interest. It’s not like you didn’t have people to spend Christmas with, you did. Your friends always wanted to come over to watch chick-flicks,gossip about their crushes, and finally stuff their faces with your food. But you wanted something more this year, but who were you kidding, you were a girl with trust issues who had more chances at getting plowed by a snow plower than falling in love again. You shake your head at your foolish hopes, psshh, love, you? Not anytime soon. You jogged into your bedroom, heading towards your closet, you paused as you looked for an outfit. When you had found it you started to strip yourself of your clothing and began changing into another one of your warm pair of pajamas. When you finally did, you looked at yourself in the black framed mirror resting on the floor of your bedroom, your cute Easter bunny pajamas looked childish but you didn’t mind, it had been a gift from your Mom. She was always worried about you so she sent you gifts as much as she possibly could. You had asked her to stop, feeling bad that she had to spend so much money on you for these gifts, but she didn’t care, she told you that she needed to take care of her only child and that it made her feel happy to buy them for you. You couldn’t argue with that, you wanted the best for your Mom who had worked so hard for you all of her life, she was a single mom who lived with 3 dogs, and was the friendliest lady anyone would ever meet. For some reason the word friendly brought another person to mind, a person who wasn’t exactly friendly at the park…that boy. What had happened to him exactly, you were curious to find out, but you don’t think he would just randomly spill all of his life stories to you. You would need to somehow befriend him, maybe tomorrow again at the park you thought as you sank down onto your comfortable bed. You weren’t in Iove with him but he somehow attracted your attention. And you wanted to find out more about this boy. Like what was his name, how did he get that scar, who was he as a person. You couldn’t stop coming up with various questions and played out scenarios of how your encounter would go until your eyes finally drifted shut. You wake up to the blaring sound of your alarm, ugh, it was morning again and you still felt tired. You turned on your bed feeling the warmth of your blanket, maybe a little more sleep wouldn’t hurt. “BEEP BEEP BEEP!” Your alarm scares the living daylights out of you once again, you reach for it turning it off before checking the time on your phone. What?! 11:30 A.M.? You slept that much? You quickly hopped out of your bed, rushing to eat and get ready to head to the park once again. - You felt a burst of excitement surge through your body as you stood in front of the park’s gate. Would you see him again? No, this wasn’t for him…you um…had to go look at the grass on the hill! Which the boy sat on…No! This was for the pigeon you saw yesterday! That the boy fed…Okay so what if this was about him? You were a strong independent women, as your once single friend once wisely said, “I’m am an independent women! I ain’t need nobody in my life! I ain’t need no man! You don’t either!” Until she wasn’t single anymore. You felt yourself chuckle at the memory, as your feet began to create a rhythm with the sidewalk pavement of the park. Again today, there was no one present, no kids, no adults, just you and the sunny sky, and hopefully him as well. You didn’t fully trust the boy yet considering how he reacted last time but your interest in him guided you to the grass hill once more. You were a few meters away, standing in the same spot you were before when you first laid your eyes on him. And there he was, at the same location he had been last time. He was wearing a white oversized pullover sweater with black distressed skinny jeans, his features as gentle and friendly as you remembered as he laid on the grass hill sprawled out on his back, as if attempting to make a snow angel. He didn’t notice you, instead he seemed to be staring at the blue cloudy sky, you suddenly see a smile form on his face, causing you to admire how cute he looked. You turned your head towards the sky to see if there was anything which had caused his smile, and then you saw it. A cloud shaped like what appeared to be a sheep, maybe he had a thing for animals?

Him

The boy felt himself smile once more, as the sheep cloud passed by. Goodbye Mr.Sheep, he thought. He always found a fascination with animals after he’d been in the hospital. During his time there, doctors would let him visit a therapy room full of animals, usually filled a variety of dogs. They always comforted him and he felt warm when he got to play with them. Soon after when he was released from the hospital, he visited a petting zoo. He met a sheep there which he really liked, the sheep’s name was Henry, and the boy loved petting Henry. The wool against his palm felt calming somehow, so soft and gentle. He realized how childish his fascination for animals was, so he usually kept that fascination to himself. If he ever had enough free time after college and work he would visit a pet store, sometimes even a petting zoo. His main reasons for visiting these places however were to comfort his loneliness and to cope with his past. Even if he hated to admit it, without Stella he got extremely lonely, but thinking of her only made his heart ache even more. He was slowly recovering from the hell prison he escaped, but it would take a lot more time for him to slowly become normal again. A thought occurred to him remembering the girl, he did show up to the park again after all hoping he would see you. And at that like magic, you stood over him, causing a shadow over his face. “Hello, there pink haired boy..” you said nervously, as you clutched onto your navy blue backpack tightly which caused the boy’s eyebrows to furrow. The boy propped his arms as he pushed himself up to sit, his pink bangs falling messily against his forehead, “What’s in the backpack?” the boy couldn’t hide his curiosity as to why you were holding onto it so tightly. At that the boy started to blush, he hadn’t realized how open he was being with you when he dismissed you last time so harshly. He felt bad about it, so he hoped that he would be able to apologize today. The boy’s gaze caught sight of your outfit, again today you were dressed extremely casual, with an oversized black zip up sweater and a pair of black sweatpants, paired with the same tennis shoes you had yesterday. You looked away nervously when you noticed his staring, but the boy responded with a smile. He loved how casual and comfortable you looked, it made him feel closer to you somehow despite being strangers. If you had dressed fancy, he wouldn’t have been able to look at you properly without being a nervous wreck. The boy’s cheeks heated up, which prompted him to avoid staring at you for too long, he was a shy person in general so he didn’t have the confidence to say much to you until he felt comfortable enough. You noticed his shyness immediately because it was so different from your ex, his shyness was adorable for some reason, but it’s not like you would admit that to him. You took off your heavy backpack placing it beside you, as you sunk down next to the boy. The grassy texture could be felt even in your sweatpants, but you didn’t seem to mind as much as the boy did as he scooted a few inches away from you. He felt his heart starting to beat faster you were so close to him, he was going crazy, his heart was fluttering over a stranger. “So umm, what’s your name?” you began the shakiness in your voice apparent, as if you were giving a speech to your entire class, something you hated. The boy slowly looked back at you, now that a few inches were separating you both, he felt less shy, “My-my name is J-Jimin,” instantly his cheeks flared up, embarrassed by his nervousness and stuttering. He noticed your bright smile as you nodded, your simple action only intensified the heat he was feeling on his cheeks, “That’s a nice name,” you responded intrigued by the boy’s adorable shyness, “my name is (Y/N).” The boy hugged his legs with his sweater covered arms hesitant to respond, a few seconds passed before he finally cleared his throat to respond, “T-that’s a pretty name..” he hid his face burying it in his arms. Why were you making him so nervous? Was it because you complimented his name? Or maybe it was because you were so close, or may- “You know you’re really handsome Jimin,” you said interrupting his thoughts, sounding confident for the first. His heart raced in his chest, as Jimin heard the loud drumming of his heart against his chest. Why were you so nice to him, he wondered. You were only strangers after all, “T-thank you,” he lifted his head from his arms, a rosy pink color decorating his squishy looking cheeks. You suddenly remembered the pigeon from yesterday, “Hey Jimin, what was happening with you and that pigeon yesterday, do you feed pigeons often?” the boy’s head quickly snapped in your direction his eyes widened slightly as memories of his harsh response to you came back to him. “I-I’m sorry about yesterday,” his eyes were glued to the floor, as his index finger began drawing tiny circles on the grass, “I just had bad memories come back to me.” You laugh loudly, startling him, “I wasn’t mad or anything don’t worry,” Jimin exhales loudly your response easing him, “Are you okay now?” The boy simple nods his heart feeling lighter now that you’ve told him your feelings, he’d been nervous about it coming to the park, afraid that he perhaps rubbed you the wrong way. “And yes I do feed pigeons,” Jimin smiled brightly, his nervousness less apparent now, “The one you saw yesterday was my favorite pigeon, his name is Mr. Pigeon.” Your head turned slightly looking into his dark obsidian irises, he held his stare with you for a second before his head turned looking downwards, “That’s so cute, how you name animals and all,” you noticed his ears getting slightly pink at your remark, which caused you to feel warm inside. Perhaps he was a nature lover like yourself?-Both you and Jimin’s conversation went on for about an hour before he had to go home to do his chores he claimed. As his feet felt the warmth of his carpet floor he thought of you again, you made his day today, and he secretly hoped to see you again tomorrow. You felt special somehow, and spending time with you today mended his broken heart slightly. He wasn’t in love with you just yet, but he was sure that if he kept seeing you he would eventually fall for you, something he was afraid of, but also excited about.

You

You: Are you coming to the park again today? You wrote the text smiling to yourself, as you placed your phone back in your pocket, locking the front door to your apartment. You and Jimin had been meeting at the park for around 3 months now almost every single day, some days you had homework to do while other days he was busy with work or school. But seeing himself everyday somehow became a common thing, your friends had found out about it and teased you for having a crush on the boy, which you admitted you were starting to develop but it’s not like he returned your feelings so it didn’t matter, you just enjoyed his company. Although it would be nice if he felt the same way about you. You also somehow managed to convince him around 2 months ago to give you his phone number to you, he was hesitant about it but finally gave in when you constantly bugged him about it. You giggled remembering the incident.

2 months ago

“C’mon give me your number..” you whined, a puppy eyes look plastered on your face. He blushed looking away, as he scooted further away from you on the park bench. After one month of meeting him you were a lot more comfortable now, he was different from all of the guys you’ve met before, he slowly earned your trust with his kindness and you never regretted meeting him for a second. You scooted closer to him trying to get a better response from him, you felt the coldness of the bench against your thighs, today you stupidly decided that booty shorts were the way to go. The weather was cloudy this morning, you assumed it would get hot for some reason which prompted your decision but instead it didn’t, it stayed cloudy the whole day. You shivered against the wooden bench catching the boy’s attention, without saying a word he removed his black zip up jacket handing it to you, “Put it over your thighs or you’ll catch a cold,” his eyes avoided you as his ears reddened.” You smiled at his kindness and cuteness retrieving the jacket and placing it over your thighs, “Thank you for that,” he simply nods trying his hardest to fight back a smile. “So can I have your number now?” your straightforwardness surprised him, causing him to look in your direction. You looked beautiful again today, but he was to shy to tell you that despite how close you two had gotten in the past month. Jimin finally nodded, reading his number to you at lightning speed. Your mouth drops open as you unlock your phone heading to the contact page, “Wait wait! Slow down, say it again…”“I don’t wanna..” he responded mischievously as if he was a child, Jimin felt his heart warm up as he admired how less nervous he’d gotten around you. “Please..! What if I get stranded somewhere and I need you to come help me from getting eaten from a pack of hyenas?” At your exaggerated lie he slowly reads his number to you, feeling nervous that the impossible future you just named could be possible, he cared about you after all. You added his number smiling to yourself, “Done, thank you!” He nodded once again, his heart fluttering slightly as pulled out his phone reading your text, “Just added your number, Hi!” Jimin turned to smile at you, and you returned the gesture, as you both felt the cool breeze of the afternoon. Maybe Jimin was going to be even more special to you in the future somehow, but as for now you were happy being by his side. You two chatted for a while after that, watching the sunset together before the night came to a close, which meant that you had to part ways with him. Both of your least favorite part about spending time together. “I’ll see you again tomorrow alright?” you smiled back reassuring him, he nodded giving you a thumbs up before you both head your separate ways. Maybe someday, you would both head the same way, maybe someday you would not have to part any longer, maybe someday you would fall in love with him, maybe someday he would tell you he loves you too, and maybe someday he would be your’s.

Present

You shook your head, snapping out of your warm memories, you shouldn’t be so delusional right? Your weren’t even if saw you that way, for all you knew he saw you as a close friend. You began pacing down the street in your grey tennis shoes paired with some blue skinny jeans and a white flannel. Today for some odd reason you didn’t want to look like a hot mess, maybe something big was going to happen if you dressed to impress. Maybe he would finally confess to you! You cackled loudly, as you continued making it to the park entranced by your crazy fantasies of Jimin. A thought suddenly occurred to you, his scar, you never did find out what it meant. Judging from his first reaction you didn’t bring it up, but maybe now that you were closer to him, maybe he would react differently.

Jimin

The bitter alcohol burned down his throat, causing him to cough slightly. He felt the grass under his fingers as he shuffled backwards slightly on the grass hill. The cold air brushed his pink bangs upwards, before it slowly fell back into place. His dark irises embraced the sky’s sadness, it’s features painted over with a coat of darkness. Clouds decorated the sky, as the bright moon glowed above the boy, allowing him to be comforted slightly. But that wasn’t enough, he felt lonely, Jimin took another gulp of the alcohol, placing the bottle beside him as he exhaled loudly. Tears began to stream down the boy’s face as memories flowed back to him. Today was suppose to be another anniversary with Stella, but that wasn’t the case anymore. He’d been through so much, so much time has passed, he’d met you and slowly became closer to you. Yet, it ached so much, his heart felt the void that hadn’t left him. He didn’t want to be with Stella again, he wanted someone like you, someone so kind and pure. Someone who could save him this time, someone he wouldn’t be afraid of, someone, perhaps fear someone would be you. Even if it was the alcohol speaking, he didn’t care, he wanted to be your’s even if for a little, he wanted to experience your love for him. Just hearing you tell him you loved him would’ve been enough, he never heard those words from Stella for more than 3 months. In the beginning she was kind, she seemed like she actually loved him, but suddenly she changed. The boy clasped his hands together as he broke into a sob, his voice breaking into an emotional cry for help. Help from his past, help from himself, help from his fears. Maybe you were going to be like Stella, maybe you would also change, but he was willing to risk that. Because maybe he loved you, and even if he was foolish, he wanted to be truly happy again. The days he had spent with you were the happiest in his life, it made him feel special, it gave him everything he never had. So he would give you something you never had, his story, his life, himself. And the boy wished with all of his heart that you would accept him, all of him. The boy’s sobbing was interrupted by a gentle patting he felt against his back, he turned to a warm face greeting him, a smile so warm and precious, a person so special and dear to him. That person was you.

You

You continued patting Jimin, making sure to stay silent, his sobs growing weaker now that you were here. You were really confused when you saw him on the grass hill, he didn’t reply to your text, so you assume he wouldn’t be here. But on top of that Jimin had been sobbing when you saw him, you couldn’t stop your feet from running towards him, as if you desperately needed to comfort him. You suddenly noticed the alcohol beside him, causing your heart to break slightly, you knew Jimin was never the type of person to drink, he even admitted to you before that he never had before. So why so suddenly? Why was he drinking? Why was he crying? You had so many questions, but you were hesitant to ask him in his state. You bent your knees down, sitting beside him on the grass hill. Your black scarf blew with the wind, sending a slight chill down your entire body. The black trench coat you had chosen to wear today kept your body warm, while the black leggings accompanied by your grey tennis shoes kept your lower body warm. Your head turned to him slowly, your gaze fixated on the fragile boy in front of you. His navy blue pullover hoodie was paired with his usual choice of distressed black skinny jeans, he also wore black tennis shoes, but what you noticed most on him was not his clothing choices but rather the sadness he was wearing. It cloaked him in a dark aura, a mysterious tragedy, the boy remained silent, his reddened eyes embracing the moon. Jimin’s tears were beginning to dry up slowly, but you couldn’t help but feel saddened by the tear stains still painted on his pale face. The moon’s light revealed the contours of his face to you, his soft and gentle features captured you. “Hi there…” the boy whispered, keeping his gaze away from you, the sadness in his voice was unfamiliar to you considering he was a usually bright person. “Hey..” you responded, taking in the awkward atmosphere between the two of you, you looked away from the boy’s face trying to not make him uncomfortable. Jimin quickly turned his head towards you, his bangs blowing word with the gentle wind, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be coming today,” his tone more casual now, “I left my phone at home because I wanted to be alone.” His gaze dropped to the grass, as he traced small circles into it, something you picked up was a nervous habit he had. “It’s okay,” you began, feeling yourself smile, “I didn’t think you’d be here either honestly.” The boy opened his mouth as if to respond, but shut it, quickly as he kept his gaze on the floor, his fingers drawing endless circles onto the terrain. “Are you alright?” was all you could say, your voice felt constricted somehow as if you were asking a forbidden question. Jimin nodded noticing your nervousness, he looked up at your face, his irises gently piercing into your’s, “Now that you’re here I am,” he paused sighing as his gaze returned to floor below, “It’s just that today is a bad day for me.” His voice grows solemn as he fights his aching heart, trying his best to tell you his story, “Today was the anniversary of Stella and I.” He paused looking for a reaction, but you were completely clueless to the pain he had experienced. His gentle cat like eyes captured you seeking a response, for a signal for him to continue. You knew about Stella being his ex, but he never spoke of her much which led you to assume that it had just been a bad breakup, “Oh I’m sorry,” you responded, unsure of what else to say as you felt a strange sadness radiating from the boy. “Don’t be, it’s not your fault, I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” Jimin looked at you regretfully, afraid that you would hate him, the boy knew how much you hated alcohol but despite that he couldn’t stop himself from attempting to numb the pain. You rubbed his denim covered thigh reassuringly, the boy jumped back slightly, this was the first time you had ever touched him physically. As strange as it was, you both never even hugged before, despite how desperately you wanted to. “Jimin can I tell you something?” the boy simply nodded, a curious look in his eyes awaiting what you wanted to ask him, “Will you let me love you?”

#jimin #jimin fluff #bangtan fluff #bts fluff #bts scenarios #jimin scenario #fluff

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caroline18mars · 7 years

Text

Into the night - Chapter 83

“I don't know, Tom, maybe I shouldn't have come..this is..what if I..” she stopped in her tracks in front of the entrance to the private club, how did she let Tom talk her into this? All of a sudden she didn't seem so ready like she thought she was to step out of that suffocating bubble her illness had forcibly created for her. “What if you what, Jordan? What if you're gonna be the most beautiful woman that's gonna make every head turn in there? Is that it? Because you are, let me tell you! I thought you liked the dress?” Tom grabbed her arm so she couldn't back away anymore and rolled his eyes. “I do! I love the dress, it's..gorgeous” Jordan let her hands slide over the beautiful silk bodice, “excellent, then what are we doing standing around here in the cold for? It's gonna be fun, you'll see! And I promise I won't leave your side so come on” he grabbed her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. Stepping inside the club, the low rolling thump of the bass caught her by surprise and it took a few seconds for her heart to get accustomed to it again, “you ok?” Tom asked as he noticed her hand moving up to her chest,“I'm just fine” she lied a little. They sure didn't miss their entrance because just like Tom had predicted, every head seemed to turn in her direction once they stepped inside the VIP area “these are all your colleagues?” sure Tom had told her they were going to some party in his honour to celebrate the new collection but she hadn't expected this many people. “Not all of them, most people are models, agents and so on, you know, people who are just part of the 'scene' ” he shrugged like it didn't impress him but it impressed her alright, it was like stepping into another world, a world Jared had been part of for a long time as well, Jared..her thoughts strolled out to him, maybe she should have called him back but she just couldn't seem to calm down enough to have a decent, normal conversation again, just thinking about his lethargic reaction to all the horrible things that stupid bitch had apparantly said about her...Why couldn't he see what she was trying to do? All she wanted to accomplish with her false accusations was to drive her and Jared apart so she could get her claws into him, was that so hard to understand?

Shannon couldn't take it any longer, watching his brother stomp through the house, slamming doors wherever he went, he had rarely seen him this restless and when finally the huge sliding door that gave out to the garden and the pool, thundered and rocked in its' frame from banging it shut so hard, he followed him outside where Jared was nervously fishing the leaves out of the water of the pool with the net. “Wanna talk about it?” Shannon sat down on the edge of the garden table looking at his brother who furiously tried to scoop up the last leaves, a stroppy “No” was all he got as an answer before a heavy silence fell. “I know that you're worried about her but she's not alone over there, she's got Nahla and Omar and Tom's there too..” the minute Shannon dropped that name, a surge of anger washed over him and the pole with the net went flying with such force it broke in half as it connected violently with the garden wall behind him. “Don't! Are you fucking deaf? I.DON'T.WANT.TO.TALK.ABOUT.IT!” Jared yelled furiously at him, almost spelling it out to him as he stomped back over to the house, but Shannon refused to let him crawl back in his shell “Don't what, Jared? Don't talk about Jordan? Why? Because it's convenient? So you can become a ghost again? Skulking around the house and not talking for weeks? Just like you did after Charlotte?”. Jared's head shot up instantly the second her name dropped and he gave his brother a foul glare warning him not to push this any further. Shannon knew that look all too well but he wasn't going to stand around and watch his brother fall to pieces again like he did last time, there was no way in hell “talk to me, Jared, I'm your brother, there's nothing that you can't say to me..will you just tell me what happened?” he stepped in front of Jared blocking his way, preventing him from running back inside and dissapear in his room to sulk. Jared stomped his foot in frustration and hung his head taking a deep breath “I shouldn't have come here..last night..last night was fucked up..” suddenly it felt like his legs couldn't carry his weight any longer and he sank down on one of the garden chairs, running his hands over his face. Shannon sat down as well and leaned back in his seat, looking at his brother, as he lit up a cigarette and took a long drag “you told her about the courtcase and Amanda, didn't you?”, Jared didn't confirm or deny, he didn't need to, “is she ok?” he pushed the hot smoke out of his lungs and tipped the ash off his cigarette. “I don't know..She screamed at me, I've never heard her so angry..Tom took the phone from her and hung up..her phone's still switched off, I can't reach her anymore..goddammit” he banged his fist on the table. “You got your phone?” Shannon took another drag from his cigarette, “Shannon, I told you, she's switched off her phone...” Jared hissed at him, the agitation in his voice clearly audible.,“I heard you, just take your bloody phone and call Nahla” he calmly said. Of course, why didn't he think of that? Nahla would know where she was, his fingers folded around the phone in his pocket, scrolling through his contacts and put the phone to his ear, it only took one ring for her warm, sleepy voice to penetrate his ear “Jared? Is everything ok?”. Jared shook his head, he didn't have time for small talk “Nahla, I know it's late, but I can't reach Jordan, and I'm worried, is she there with you?” he held his breath for a second, “No, no, she isn't..but Noah is, we're babysitting him, she brought him here earlier on because she and Tom were going to a party”. Jared couldn't believe what he was hearing, she was where? “What? A party?” his head shot up to Shannon who quizzically raised his eyebrows, “yeah, I wouldn't worry too much if I were you, Tom's with her..I would get Noah for you, but it's awfully late and he's asleep..” Nahla softly yawned. “No..it's alright, let him sleep, he needs his rest, and so do you..anyway, sorry for waking you..say hi to him from me in the morning, alright?” defeated he leaned back in his chair as well, “I will..goodnight Jared”.

The party was like a copy/paste from the one a couple of months ago in LA, with Jared..where he had kissed her for the very first time..only the venue and the people were different, but as far as being stood up by her date went this was exactly the same. Sighing she sat down at the bar and looked at Tom who was laughing and enjoying himself so much talking, flirting and laughing with his co-workers who had dragged him out of sight the minute he had walked in with her, he should, this was his night after all. Maybe she should go home, there was not a lot of dancing to be done after all with her heart protesting loudly after one song, and neither had it taken her mind off Jared, not even the happy bubbles in her glass had helped to numb the ugly conversation with Jared that rolled through her head. “Comme quoi se sent-il? d'être la fille la plus belle dans cette boîte?” a deep , dark voice jerked her out of her daydream and she gave the man that sat down next to her a startled look, “I'm sorry, my french is..” she started to apologize but the man shook his head and flashed her a grin “Ah, you're english of course, we are in London after all” he quickly switched to English with a heavy french accent “so, what modeling agency do you work for?”. Jordan shook her head sarcastically “Nice try, but I'm not a model obviously” and downed her glass of champaign in one go and grabbed her purse, it was time to go, she so wasn't in the mood for dumb pick-up lines by sickeningly smooth operators “anyway, I should be going, goodnight” she patted his shoulder sarcastically as she got up and walked in the direction of the exit.

An arm folded around her waist the minute she stepped out into the freezing night “You didn't think I would let a beautiful lady walk home all by herself at this time of night, did you?”. Jordan grabbed his hand and politely pushed it away “it's very kind of you, but I'll manage, besides, who said anything about walking home?”. The man let go of her and held up his hands with a grin “Ok, fair enough, where are you parked? I'll walk you to your car”. Ok, this was getting a little awkward, she didn't even know this man “I was going to take a cab” she stepped away to created some distance between them, the last thing she wanted was give him the wrong idea, “a cab? Oh Cherie, come on, I have a car, I will take you home..” he could see her get really uncomfortable so he quickly added “it's a car with a..how do you call a chauffeur in english? A driver?” he flashed her a comforting grin to put her mind at ease. He was right, there wasn't a cab in sight and just thinking about walking all the way home had her already exhausted so she bit her lip and finally nodded “Ok then, if you insist”. As soon as they reached the car, an older man in an impeccable suit circled the car “Monsieur Lafayette, I hope you had a nice time?” he greeted the man warmly and gave her a friendly nod, “allow me, Miss” he quickly opened the door of the backseat for her. “Where to Miss?” the driver asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror, “Uhm..Camden Lock is fine, thank you” she nervously smiled, despite this stranger's kindness, he still made her uncomfortable and she would walk the last half a mile or so home if that meant not having to give him her full address. “Camden? The home of alternative British fashion..if you're not a model, then you must be a designer, right?” the stranger turned to her as the car started rolling, “What? oh no no, I'm not in fashion at all, I..uhm..work in a bookstore”. The man looked at her all surprised “You are definitely in the wrong business then..with your looks, you could be the next top model, you are so beautiful” he turned on the charm again but she just rolled her eyes at him, at how many girls at that party had he used those exact words already? “Look..” she tried to remember what the driver had called him “monsieur Lafayette, those kind of lines might work with a lot of women, but they just don't work for me, I already have a boyfriend. The only reason I was at the party tonight was because Tom asked me to be his plus one, that's all”. The man quickly ignored everything she said except for the part about Tom “Aha, I see..well Tom is a man of many talents, not only is he a top designer, he also has an extremely good eye for beauty! How did you two meet?” he asked completely intrigued now.

”She's gone to a party..I don't believe this” Jared kicked his chair back with such force it almost toppled over, “Jared, calm down! At least she's ok! She probably needed to let off some steam” Shannon tried to reason with his brother, scared that his head was going to blow a fuse, “let off steam? She's about to drop dead any minute and she needs to let off steam? By going to a party? I swear that if I get my hands on Tom, I'm going to rip his head off” he shouted as he stormed past Shannon. “hey! Where are you going?” He followed Jared who grabbed his wallet and seemed to want to leave “I'm flying back to London, that's where! I'm gonna try and get myself on the first plane out of here” he grabbed his hoodie from the couch. “Wow, wait a minute, you can't just pack up your stuff and leave, you've got the courtcase” Shannon jumped in front of him and pushed him back, “to hell with that stupid courtcase! I need to see her right now, I'm not gonna let Tom get his filthy claws into her as well, I've already lost Charlotte because of him, I'm not losing her as well” he pushed and pulled against Shannon to get away from his grip but Shannon was stronger. “Jared! Listen to me, LISTEN to me” he put his hand firmly on his shoulders and locked eyes with him “if you leave now, then who do you think won? Huh? Charlotte would turn in her grave, knowing that you are going to pay for that bastard's child for the rest of your life! Tom is with her, and I'm absolutely sure he won't let anything happen to her, so call her in the morning, talk it through and for chrissakes' give that girl some room to breathe”. Jared hung his head in defeat, knowing that he had lost the fight, he knew he wasn't thinking straight, but he just missed his lover beyond belief. On the other side of the world Jordan asked the driver to pull over, this was as close enough to home as she wanted him to know “so..can I call you some time?” the man hastened to say when she put her hand on the handle to open the door when the car came to a standstill, “I mean I would like to get to know you a bit better, all I know is that you're Tom's friend, I don't even know your name”. Jordan gave him a quick glance “Jordan..I'm Jordan but there's not much to know about me, not what I think you want to know about me, I've got a boyfriend and I'm happy in my relationship..so thank you for the ride home”. The man gave her a mischievous smile “I see..oh, where are my manners” he quickly opened the cardoor on his side and got out, circling the car to open hers and handed his hand to help her out of the car. “Thank you” she gave him a grateful nod and pulled her jacket tightly over her dress against the merciless wind “uhm..monsieur Lafayette, was it?” it was only polite to ask him for his first name for a proper goodbye. “Oh please, monsieur Lafayette is my father, call me Cedric! well it was nice to meet you, Jordan” he said all casual, Jordan felt like a surge of electricity burned her to the core, oh god..Cedric..no, no, oh god, had she just sat in a car for half an hour with Charlotte's killer and Jared's biggest nemesis? Her instinct told her to scratch this bastard's eyes out on the spot but she tried desperately not to lose her cool, even if the blood in her veins ran cold “It was nice meeting you too..uhm Cedric..goodnight” she lied and quickly turned on her heels and quickly hurried out of sight, her heart racing at a million miles an hour.

#jared leto #jared leto fanfic #jared leto fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #30 secondstomars fanfic #30 seconds to mars #into the night #chapter 83 #jordan and jared #jordan

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Note

Uh uh. Nope. We got enough of the Lucy/Flynn betrayal heartache in the finale, I cannot handle it in the trash saga too. Fix it! Fix it now! ... please?

yadda yadda the trash saga of flynn and lucy methinks you know the drill

The door shuts with a thump, Wyatt mutterssomething about could that proprietor have been giving them any more side-eye(to be fair, turning up with an injured, clearly dangerous, armed lunatic in towdoes tend to have that effect) and he and Lucy heave Flynn onto the bed ashe continues to glare red murder at both of them. His bullet wounds aren’tlife-threatening, but they still need attention, and to judge from the amountof blood already spattered on his jacket, that should be sooner rather thanlater. Wyatt desperately needs to go back out and find the Lifeboat before JohnRittenhouse comes looking for it (let him be good and distracted at thismeeting of his, Lucy prays) and to try to find a way to contact Rufus. And asgerm theory, Louis Pasteur, and Robert Koch are still another forty years away,any surgeon they can find here will be only marginally better than useless.Lucy knows more about it than they will, and she’s a doctor of history, notmedicine. They had enough trouble finding a boarding house as it is, with thecity packed for the inauguration, and Lucy isn’t sure she wants to drawattention to herself or their hiding place by going out and looking. “Wyatt,”she says. “You go. I’ll… take care of things on this end.”

He cocks a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Really? With himsitting there looking like he wants to bite your head – or other parts of you –off?”

“I can hear both of you, you know,” Flynn growls. “In caseyou were wondering.”

Wyatt shoots a black look at him, then turns back to Lucy,putting a protective hand on her arm. “Look,” he says, still more quietly. “Idon’t know everything that happened while we were apart, and this is badenough. But if Flynn has it in his head to hurt you for something – ”

“He’s not going to hurt me.” Let Flynn overhear that,if he’s so inclined. “You know we need the Lifeboat back online yesterday. I’llfigure something out. Rittenhouse could be sending out a squad to get it rightnow, and if we lose it too, we’re done for. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Wyatt pauses for a long and loathing moment, then nods tersely.His hand lingers on her arm (something that Lucy most assuredly sees Flynn’s eyesflicker to, for all his affection of viciously ignoring them) and then he letsgo, turns away, and checks that he has his gun and it’s loaded. He takesFlynn’s too, with a very pointed look. Then he lets himself out, footstepsthumping away down the hall, and Lucy and Flynn are left alone in the smallroom, staring each other down, the tension thick enough to not only cut with aknife but serve for dessert lightly chilled. For the longest moment, neither ofthem says anything. Then Lucy goes to the wardrobe, opens one of the drawers,and starts rummaging around. Flynn watches her until curiosity finally gets the betterof anger. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out how to stop you from being a dead bodysewn into a mattress,” Lucy says shortly. “You could be the origin of the urbanlegend, you know.”

Taken by surprise, Flynn barks a laugh, which turns into agrimace as more blood soaks into his jacket. Then he glares at her, evidentlyresenting her even more for it, and Lucy struggles with a brief and intensedesire to just pick up the cast-iron coal scuttle and brain him with it.Instead she pulls out sewing scissors, a needle and thread, some rags, a bottleof the kind of old-timey medicine that proudly lists its ingredients asalcohol, cocaine, morphine, heroin, “and other Healthfull Substances,” and abizarre metal instrument that can work as tweezers. She scoops them all up,goes downstairs to the kitchen, and quietly asks the black maid who works there(she hopes she’s free, not a slave, but history has not been designed to makewhite women feel comfortable) for some boiling water. For the man upstairs.He’s hurt, and she needs to tend him.

The maid is skeptical, but also doesn’t want the trouble ofa death on the premises, and agrees to boil all Lucy’s tools and rags, althoughshe clearly has no idea why. Lucy tells her it’s a new theory in Paris, fromwhence they have recently arrived (hopefully this will account for anystrangeness of their clothes or behavior – when in doubt, blame the French) andthe maid nods gamely. Then, when the tools are well boiled and thus as sterileas they are going to get, Lucy washes her hands in some of the water that is ashot as she can stand it, scrubs them with the cake of rough lye soap, rinses,and takes her impromptu surgical kit back upstairs.

She half expects Flynn to have pushed open the window andescaped, limping across the city leaving a trail of blood, with a Bowie knifein his teeth to track down John Rittenhouse and gut him like a pig in front ofhis horrified disciples, but he’s still there, more bad-tempered than ever.“Are you done looking for your craft supplies yet?”

“I’m trying to stop you from dying of gangrene,” Lucyinforms him coolly. She knows he’s upset, she knows he’s hurt, but she’s stillnot intending to sit here and not give him a few whacks with the reins,especially if he is doing his stubborn-ass routine and jerking them every whichway. “Take off your shirt.”

He arches an eyebrow at her in a way that clearly says hehas about a hundred comments to make here, but will, for the moment, charitablyforbear. He reaches up with a grunt of pain, loosens his cravat, and unwindsit, pulling it off his neck, and then unbuttons his shirt, struggling to get itover his head. Then he looks at her defiantly. As if to say, here he is. Takeor leave him.

Lucy can’t help glancing at him sidelong as she reaches forthe tweezers. Despite everything they’ve done, she hasn’t really seen himnaked; their trysts have generally taken place with most of their clothes on,grasping and swift and greedy, falling into each other and burning up andrushing on separate orbits again, until they inevitably crash together oncemore. He has plenty of old scars that must come from his clandestine servicesdays. Her eyes trace over the breadth of his shoulders, the heavy muscles ofhis arms, the solidness of his barrel chest and the slight jut of his hipbones.The bullet wounds are in his left shoulder – fortunately not in the meat, thatwould be tricky and bloody – and low on his right side. Clean exit through theshoulder, a fragment still left in his side. Lucy normally faints at the sightof blood, and she’s feeling more than a little woozy now, but she is still theonly one who is going to handle this.

Lucy glances at him, as if to say that she will unavoidablyhave to come closer, and he flicks an insolent look at her, but doesn’tprotest. She slides the chair up to the bed and sits between his knees, movingto explore the bruised, lacerated flesh with the tweezers, as he sucks in his breathslightly but is too Slavic-stoic to show other obvious discomfort. She wonderssuddenly where he grew up. His mother was from Texas, as American as apple pie,but she doesn’t know where Asher Flynn was from. The half-brother he saved,Gabriel, now lives in Paris. He was an asset for the NSA embedded in EasternEurope, and to judge from the accent, his first language is probably one ofthose, though he speaks English flawlessly. Probably others. There is so muchof who this man is, who he used to be, that is so burned and buried far beneaththis blackened shell, this wreck of him, nothing left but the promise ofvengeance, the fading dream of solace. Of rightness. Of happiness. Of goodness.Of ease. He must wonder if he had imagined all of it.

Flynn shifts and grunts as Lucy locates the bullet fragmentand carefully disentangles it, pulling it out and dropping it on a cloth. Shehas to look away, light-headed, at the fresh scarlet ooze that results, andFlynn notices her reaction. “Don’t like blood, do you?”

“Or small spaces, no.” Lucy tries to keep her tonematter-of-fact, but she remembers her confinement in Rittenhouse’s root cellarlast night (and, you know, fifteen years ago) and her voice trembles slightly.She can taste bile in the back of her throat, and swallows hard. “I’m notreally cut out for adventures outside of books.”

“And yet,” Flynn says, with something either mockery orsincerity. It’s always so hard to tell with him. “Here you are.”

“I think that’s thanks to you.” Right, she can do this. Onemore hard gulp, and Lucy gets back to the task at hand. Rinses the tweezers ina diluted concentrate of the alcohol-cocaine-morphine-heroin super-solution,wets a folded rag with it, and presses it to Flynn’s side, as he hisses throughhis teeth at the sting. Yeah, that stuff probably packs quite a wallop. Morethan Bactine, that’s for sure. Once it’s mostly stopped bleeding, she takes therags away and tries to judge if she can stitch it. God, she really doesn’t wantto do that. Maybe she can wait until Wyatt comes back. He was in the army, hehas to know about field medicine, and besides, he would probably thoroughlyenjoy stabbing Flynn a few times, even if only with a needle.

“Actually,” Flynn says, with his typical, bullheadedinability to concede an argument, even when he’s getting his bullet-riddledcarcass pieced back together, “technically, it’s thanks to you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lucy has been preparing to tackle his shoulder wound, but at that, shestarts. “You stole the Mothership, you started allthis.”

“Yes,” Flynn says. “Because Mason Industries was making itfor Rittenhouse all along. Connor Mason was so far up their ass that he sawdaylight whenever they yawned, and I could not let them get it. Ask your friendRufus if you don’t believe me. Of course,” he adds viciously, “now they do have it, so that’s all gone fornothing, hasn’t it?”

Lucy flinches slightly at the venom in his voice. “Flynn. .. Iris… we’ll get her back, I swear, we’ll find her, we won’t stop – ”

“Is it true? What Emma said? That you handed her over tothem?”

“It…” Lucy doesn’t feel up to recounting the whole sagaof Emma’s betrayal, especially since she’ll have to tell him about JohnRittenhouse, and everything that has come as a result of her stoppingFlynn from killing him. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Flynn repeats, with cold, bitter contempt.“How did I know you were going to say that? Things are always complicated for you, Lucy. You thehistorian, you the scholar, always looking for so many nuances, so manypossibilities, so many arguments. You can’t even acknowledge evil when it’sstaring you in the face, you have to try to explain and rationalize your wayaround it. Like a good little academic. There’s always another hypothesis. Something you can publish ina paper, debate about over cocktails at a conference. It’s a game. That’s allthis is to you. You’re a coward.”

This is so breathtakingly unfair that Lucy wants to slaphim, and yet it strikes at exactly what she was terrified of in the rootcellar: that she has been protecting Rittenhouse, not history, because she’snot brave enough to do what it really takes to stop them, and finds this theeasier, safer, more existentially comfortable way. She thinks of that saying,how the real enemy of goodness, the thing that allows evil to take root andflourish, is simple indifference. People don’t bother to care, as long as itdoesn’t affect them personally. And by the time they do care, it’s too late.

She digs rather more violently into Flynn’s shoulder thanshe needs to, teeth gritted, not trusting herself to answer. Finally she says,“I did not hand Iris over to them willingly. I never would have. It was a trap.Everything was a trap, set up by Rittenhouse. And you’re not the one who erasedme in the present. They did, so I would turn to them, need them, once all ofyou were gone. We did exactly what they wanted us to, the whole time. Hands ontheir clock face.”

This takes Flynn aback enough that he doesn’t have anotheraccusation to level at her, and Lucy continues to work on his shoulder.Finally, he says, “What?”

Shortly and succinctly as possible, Lucy explains whathappened with Emma. The revelation that she’s Rittenhouse, that she braggedabout tricking Flynn into coming here, the meeting with John. The plan to jumpthem here in the Lifeboat, so he could see in person the results of hisglorious enterprise. And now, Emma with the Mothership, and them, well. Fucked.

It’s hard to say what part of this staggers Flynn the most.As Lucy straightens up, needing another opportunity to look away from hisshoulder, he repeats, “John Rittenhouse is here.”

“Yes.”

“The same one you stopped me from shooting in 1780.”

“Yes.”

Flynn’s face contorts into something sneering and ugly. “Andnow he’s a grown man, thinks he’s going to marry the guardian angel who so benevolently saved him when he was aboy, and have a dozen scions of his new master race, does he? I told you! Itold you, Lucy! That he believed the same thing as the rest of them, that hewould get away and found it anyway! And now it doesn’t matter if I shoot himtoo, because he’s already planted his foul seeds for years, has dozens,hundreds of followers! You stopped me,and you’re the reason it happened!”

“Maybe it was seeing his father gunned down in cold bloodthat made him make that decision!” A burning red heat rises into Lucy’s cheeks,eyes snapping back at him. She stands up, wanting whatever self-possession shecan get for this argument; even sitting, he’s still not much shorter than her.“That’s always the thing about prophecies – whatever you do trying to avert themends up inadvertently makes them happen instead! It always works that way!Always!”

“Oh? In your books?” Atruly horrible light sears Flynn’s face like the flames of hell, and for amoment, Lucy almost is downright afraid of him. “That’s what you mean, isn’tit? It always works that way in your books!Because nobody’s ever tried to do it in real life, nobody’s ever had theability to actually change history, so we don’t know what the rules are! If Ihadn’t killed Rittenhouse, he would have done the same thing! And now, thanksto you, we don’t know if I could have stopped Rittenhouse at the start! Savedeverything, everyone! All it would have taken was you to be braveenough to step aside and let me killhim!”

“Oh? Me? To be brave enough to stand aside from a derangedman with a gun and let him kill an unarmed, terrified child? That would havebeen the brave thing in thissituation?” Lucy spits back at him, too angry to pull her punches, especiallywhen she’s so sick of him, of this, of everything. “Oh, but yes, I’m a coward.I don’t understand, I have nothing on the line. When I’ve lost my sister and mymother has lied to me my whole life, my father is Rittenhouse, my friends and Iare on the run, I can’t go home because I don’t exist, and I’ve beenresponsible, even without meaning to, for turning your daughter over toRittenhouse and letting them get the Mothership! While you and I and Wyatt aretrapped here, and God knows what Rufus is facing back home, in a history thatdoesn’t even look like ours! But yes, I forgot. You’re the only oneof us to ever lose anything. To ever understand.How dare you. How dare you.”

She’s almost in tears, taken with a mortal urge to actuallyhit him, but whirls on her heel and stares at the wall, the silence thunderingbetween them. It feels so good to finally say everything, to lash out atsomeone, at him, that she could keepgoing, but she’s too raw already, too weary, too wounded to keep wanting todrive the knife into her own heart and twisting, twisting. Why can’t he justshut up and be a half-decent person for once. Why can’t she just break down inpeace. Why isn’t Wyatt here. He mightknow how to comfort her.

The silence goes on until it is almost physically painful.Then Flynn says, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Lucy, who has been braced for another angry reprisal, iscaught completely off guard. She doesn’t want to ask him to repeat it in caseshe misheard. She sniffs instead, smudging her nose with the back of her hand,until most unexpectedly, he touches her chin, lifting her face with his thumb.He looks very tired and older than he is and sick at heart. “I’m sorry,” hesays again. “I… I think I’ve put too much on you. That was my mistake. Ijust…” He trails off, as if trying to think how to put this. “This wholetime. I’ve wanted to see you again.”

“What?” Lucy looks up at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

Flynn pauses again, then goes for it. “When I said it wasyou that started this, not me. I stole the Mothership, I knew about itsexistence, because I had your journal. Because it told me.”

“My journal.” Lucy still hasn’t gotten how that’s supposedto work. “But where did you get it, when I haven’t even written it yet? How didyou get – ?”

He smiles at her. It doesn’t reach his eyes, which look upat her like a drowned creature from the bottom of a well. “You gave it to me,Lucy.”

“I…” She opens and shuts her mouth. “What?”

“I met you two weeks after my wife and daughter – after…they.” He stops, looking away. “You age quite well, just so you know. Youcomforted me. You told me there was something I could choose to do, if I wantedto, and – after I talked you into it – you gave me the journal. You said we’dbe meeting again soon. And we did. At the Hindenburg.That first time – for you.”

Lucy’s mouth is still open, but nothing is coming out. Shethinks madly of John Rittenhouse, waiting to see her again since he was a boy,and now of Flynn, apparently waiting to see her again as a young woman. If he’sknown her older self, if they’ve – if she’s– none of this makes any sense at all,but that is time travel for you. “So you met – me – in 2014. When I gaveyou the journal, supposedly. But you didn’t steal the Mothership until 2016.”

“Because it said in your journal that it wouldn’t befinished until 2016. It was still two years away from completion in 2014. So Iused that time to prepare. To learn everything about where I might be going,about who I would meet, about who I might need to target. Who was Rittenhouse,and what I would have to do to take them down. No matter what.” He looks at herunflinchingly. “I used to wonder if I had in fact dreamed the whole thing. Butthere was your journal. It gave me something to hold onto. Something to keepgoing for. So I did.”

This is still a lot more than Lucy feels adequately preparedto take in. She rubs both cold hands over her face, trying to come up with anykind of response, this revelation that this – that they – are so much more than she has ever known. So he does knoweverything about her, or at least a version of her – a stranger, a person shehas never met, the uncanniest of uncanny valleys. And has, all this time, beenhungering to get back the one person he has had to lead him through that shadowof death, the one person he has trusted, the person who is supposed to lead himback to what has been so long and lost. And that, somehow, is her.

Lucy is shaken. Staggered, almost. She doesn’t know what todo with such depths of trust and belief, even as twisted and badly expressed asit has been, and understands slightly better how terrible such a loss must be,if he thought that she had forsaken him. Emma’s voice echoes mockingly in herhead. Reads your stupid journal all thetime. Thought you could do anything. So this is going to really sting, won’tit?

They sit there, still looking at each other. He appears tobe waiting for her to say something, fire back, to shout some more. They fightwell, they always have. Especially since, for whatever confounded reason, evenwhen it would make more sense – and perhaps this is it, this is the reason –she has never been afraid of him.

Lucy considers it, to be sure. It’s enjoyable. Comforting.Safe. But for all that, it is so very not what she wants to do right now.

Instead, she leans forward and kisses him.

Flynn’s breath catches in shock. Their kisses before havebeen of the hungry, possessive, taunting, testing variety, one of them or theother pushing each other’s limits, usually a prelude to a hot and hard fuckagainst the nearest wall; the closest they ever got to a bed was the one shechained him to in 1787, and there was that chaise they nearly broke in 1912,but otherwise, tenderness has not been much of a feature.Lucy cups his face in her hands, turning his head slightly, opening his mouthwith her own, able to actually enjoy it for the first time, rather than burningthrough it to another unsettled parting and lingering haunting. He makes a moveto raise his hand, and grunts in pain as his bad shoulder catches. He tries itwith the other hand instead, knotting it in the loosened hair at the back ofher neck, pressing her into him. There is a vast, unspeakable hunger in him, aneed to be touched gently, to be seen, to be wanted. No man is an island, Lucy thinks. But God, but God, Garcia Flynn has been living on onefor as long as he humanely can, and chasing away anyone who tries to swim out.

She shifts forward onto his lap, trying not to jostle hisside, as he scoots back on the bed to give her better purchase, as her kneesslide to either side of his hips. He is a very good kisser, especially whenhe’s not actually trying to tear her face off, when the rage that burnspermanently in his depths seems to have been, at least for the moment, banked.His mouth is warm and wide and generous, and Lucy utters a small sound into itas she grips his hair, her lips brushing over the fine-cut corner of his, hisnose, the rough scratch of his jaw, the underside of his chin. His good handrests low on her back, pulling her solidly against him. His shoulder isstarting to bleed again, but he also doesn’t appear to care.

Finally, Lucy pulls back, flushed and breathless, handstrembling as she reaches for the rags, wets them again, and begins to fashion amakeshift bandage. She really doesn’t feel up to trying stitches; she’ll askWyatt later. How long will he be out, anyway? It would be awkward for him towalk in on them again, though if he doesn’t have any good news about theLifeboat, it won’t matter. Lucy feels obliquely ashamed, but not entirelyenough to avoid the risk altogether.

Flynn’s dark eyes flick to her. Lucy can feel him trying alittle too hard to be nonchalant about the way her arms are almost around himas she ties the bandage into place. Then abruptly he says, “Rittenhouse. JohnRittenhouse. Did he hurt you?”

“I think I hurt him more, actually.” Lucy concentrates onthe knot; the wet rags are slippery. “I hit him over the head with a candelabra.”

Flynn grunts a surprised laugh, then grimaces. “Ah,” hesays, half to himself. “That’s my girl.”

Lucy has to swallow an unexpected warmth in her stomach, asher cheeks heat faintly pink. She’s almost tempted to tell him about theRittenhouse thugs throwing her into the root cellar overnight, see if hisoutrage extends to hearing about her being mistreated, but she also doesn’twant to prod or grub for his sympathy, and her fear, her struggle, is moreimportant than being a prop for whatever wrong conclusion he would draw fromit. Besides, the last thing she needs is to give him another reason to try tobust out of here and try to take down John with his bare hands. She pulls thebandage tight over his shoulder, and can’t resist smoothing her own handsacross the strong planes of his bare chest. Their eyes lock. It’s not only himshort of breath.

Slowly, deliberately, Lucy slides forward on his lap,straddling him, until his back is against the wall and she is fully on the bed.Their foreheads touch, breath hot on each other’s cheeks, his nose against theside of hers, as he brushes the back of his fingers on the side of her neck,with a gentleness and hesitance he has rarely shown with her. Their couplingshave been rough, insistent, hard and heavy – perhaps because both of them knowthat the other is strong enough to withstand it, and perhaps because, untilnow, tenderness is the last thing they have wanted or expected from each other.Sex is understandable, defensible. Intimacy, less so.

Lucy traces a finger over Flynn’s bottom lip, as he suckslightly on it, and she leans closer, breath catching in her throat as shehitches herself up against him. She puts one hand on his shoulder, thencaresses from his collarbone down his stomach, sliding under the waistband ofhis trousers. He shifts with another muffled grunt, holding her back, as hedoesn’t do well with not being in control of things, of thinking he’s lostfocus on the mission even for a moment. But she gives him a look, reminding himthat if he wants this, if he wants her, he plays by her rules right now.

After a moment, he shifts again, granting silent permission,and her fingers continue their downward course. Both of them gulp, mouths open,as she touches him, cupping his smooth hardness in her palm, stroking andcircling. He thrusts up into her grip, swears under his breath as thisapparently is uncomfortable for his multiple bullet wounds, and then apparentlydecides to fuck with it, literally. Lucy can’t help grinning slightly into hischeek, keeping a light touch on him, enjoying the weight of him, the solidness.When he seems rather short of breath, she kisses him on the undersideof his jaw, nips at his pulse point, and slides slowly down him, as he looksstartled. Moves to shift his trousers down off his hips, brushes her lips alongsolar plexus to stomach, then lower. Noses at the cut of his groin, and then takeshim in her mouth.

Garcia Flynn seems to stop breathing altogether, staringdown at her like a man in a dream, as Lucy licks lightly at the tip, then movesdeliberately up the shaft, sucking slowly and thoroughly. He reaches out as ifto grasp her hair, stops himself, takes a fistful of the bedclothes instead,and braces himself, almost afraid to move if it would stop this, if she mightcome to her senses. He looks down to watch her head rising and falling on him,this woman, this angel, reaching him in the uttermost depths ofdarkness. If I ascend to heaven, Lucythinks, remaining intent on her work, ifI make my bed in the reaches of hell. IfI take the wings of the dawn, if I dwell in the remotest part of the sea.

Flynn groans, bucking up into her, as she reaches out totake hold of his hips, pushing him back down, intensifying the pace of her slowand deliberate fucking with lips and tongue and teeth and breath, taking hersweet time about it. He almost whines, if it’s possible to imagine him makingsuch a sound. Lucy doesn’t relent, finds herself enjoying the control, thepower almost as much as the action itself, the way it feels to have a man likethis – this man – completely at hermercy. She takes him briefly, wetly almost to the hilt, sucks fiercely, and dragsher lips back down, curling her tongue and flicking him. He whispers something thatsounds half like a prayer.

Lucy pulls back, shifts onto her knees, and turns around,beckoning for him to unbutton the back of her dress. He does, though it takesslightly longer than usual with one good hand, and she lets it slide off hershoulders, revealing her corset beneath. She wraps her hands around his head,pulling him toward her as he presses kisses into her cleavage, worshiping atbreasts and shoulders and collarbone and throat, having clearly had enough ofletting her have the upper hand. Swings her around beneath him, grimacing asblood shows on his bandages, and they stop kissing frenziedly long enough for Lucyto whisper, “Your shoulder – we shouldn’t – ”

“Shut up,” Flynn says into her mouth, getting a hand betweenher legs (hopefully his good one, but she’s not sure he’d notice at this pointif it wasn’t) and both of them gasping as he finds her wetness, teasing at herwith a thumb but not quite slipping into her. He toys at her clit, then all atonce, enters her with two fingers, building a gentle but relentless rhythm asshe arches her hips, desperate for the friction as he rubs and rouses her. He movesfaster, and it’s her turn to whine, pulling at him, starving for his mouth, buthe won’t let her kiss him. “My rules now, Lucy.”

“You’re a bastard,” Lucy manages, conscious of how true thisis in just about any aspect of Garcia Flynn’s life, but especially this one. Shejerks at him, well aware that this is payback, as he shifts his weight, braceshimself on one arm, and slides his hand out of her. Then he rucks up her skirtsaround her knees, glances at her, and when she gives him a breathless littlenod, plunges into her hard and fast.

Lucy practically sees stars. Oh god, oh god, it feels so good that her entire body clenchesaround him. Normally this is the part where they commence on their hot andmindless rush to release, but he doesn’t move right away. Seems to be taking itin, considering it, remembering it, before he finally starts with lighter,shallower thrusts. Her head tips back, hair spilling in shining dark locks overthe white pillow, his knee riding along her hip as he changes the angle. She clutches at him, wanting, wanton. Can feel the strain and strengthof his strokes, the rasping against her, the hunger. She is ascending, unmade.

After everything, it doesn’t take long for either of them,and he pulls her half upright as he rides one final, heavy thrust into her,both of them gasping and heaving, and shuddering and burning and blazing in theheat of climax. They fall back entangled into the bedclothes. The bandage onhis shoulder is half off. He really might accidentally kill himself one ofthese days. And yet perhaps if he died like this, he might not even care.

By the time Wyatt returns later that evening, they are bothdressed and sitting carefully apart and not sure how to talk, or ifthey should. Lucy can sense that things aren’t entirely mended between them,and won’t be as long as the questions of Iris and the Mothership remainoutstanding. Flynn isn’t outright furious at her anymore, at least, but whatwas said earlier, what Lucy realized, about the weight of what he has given her,what she’s broken, intentionally or otherwise – that isn’t something that ismended in a day, hot sex or otherwise. She could still lose him from here, shethinks. Easily. Perhaps even more easily than before, as if the knives havebecome sharper, the fall more perilous. She isn’t sure what she feels aboutthat, other than that it terrifies her.

“Well?” Flynn says grumpily, when Wyatt doesn’t speakimmediately. “Are you going to give me my gun back now, so I can go take careof the bastards?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says. “I’m not so sure that would work out foryou.”

Flynn gives him an even blacker look. “I’m happy to be wrongif it doesn’t.”

“No. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t.” Wyatt runs a hand throughhis hair. “I don’t even know what’s going on, but it’s major. They weren’tkidding about this being some kind of meeting. Look, man. Even you and I togetherwith both our guns wouldn’t stand a chance. And…” His eyes flick to Lucy. “I’mnot sure that’s a wise idea anyway.”

Flynn frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Wyatt takes a deep breath. “Remember how we got to 2017,” hesays, determinedly offhand, “and discovered that the reason Lucy doesn’t existin the present was because her mom’s side of the family had somehow vanished?”

Lucy and Flynn glance at each other. This is news to her,but apparently not to him, as he pauses, then says, “Yes?”

“Yeah. Well. The name of the woman leading this… thing?Major Rittenhouse hootenanny?” Wyatt’s jaw tightens. He looks at Lucy again, asif he really wants to spare her from this, but can’t think how to do so. “Ididn’t see her, but I heard her name. It’s Carol. Carol Preston.”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #the trash saga of flynn and lucy #anonymous #ask

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lady-divine-writes · 7 years

Text

Kurtbastian one-shot - “The Nesting Engagement” (Rated T)

Sebastian has something huge planned for Kurt's birthday, something that has Sebastian's stomach tied up in knots. So, inevitably, it doesn't go the way he plans. In fact, it almost tanks completely. (2064 words)

Future fic. Romance. Warning for mention of drug use and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to anal fingering, but no sexual content.

Read on AO3.

“Happy birthday!” Sebastian cheers, tossing a handful of confetti in the air. He’s aiming now, Kurt thinks when a second handful smacks him in the cheek while his boyfriend chuckles like a hyena, watching the pastel pieces stick to Kurt's skin and hair.

“Are you going to do that with every gift you give me?”

“Yes,” Sebastian answers unapologetically. “But for this one especially.” Sebastian drops Kurt’s last present in his lap – the largest box of the bunch, about the size of small cat carrier, wrapped in holographic, rose-gold paper. Kurt’s eyes open wide.

“What on Earth …?” Kurt picks up the box carefully, expecting it to weigh a ton, but it comes up so quickly that Kurt falls backward on the couch cushions. “What’s in here?”

“It’s a Greek salad,” Sebastian quips. “It’s a surprise! I’m not going to tell you what’s in it! You have to open it.”

“Aright, alright,” Kurt mutters, searching for a side with an upturned corner or creased tape to get started. But when he doesn’t find one, he simply shoves a fingernail into the gift wrap and slices.

“Wow. Yikes.” Sebastian cringes remembering the last, very recent time those fingernails were near his asshole. “When’s the last time you trimmed your claws, Cruella?”

“Last full moon,” Kurt returns without batting an eye. “Now, shush. I have work to do.” Kurt tears through the paper in seconds and tosses it aside, exposing a plain brown box underneath. “O-kay,” Kurt says, stymied when he turns it over trying to find a store name or a brand and there isn’t one. Not a single clue to what might be inside. He finally stumbles on an openable edge and pulls it, upending the box and shaking it to reveal … another wrapped present. Kurt tosses aside the empty box and picks up the gift, wrapped in the same paper as the first. He looks up at his boyfriend, holding out the second wrapped gift for him to see. “What … what is this?”

“It’s a present, silly,” Sebastian replies. “Open it.”

Kurt stares at Sebastian, blinking in confusion, then returns to his gift. He tears through the paper solemnly and finds another plain brown box. He locates the seam, opens it, turns it over, gives it a shake, and … there’s another wrapped present inside. He looks at his snickering boyfriend, unamused.

“Are you high?” Kurt asks.

“Not in the last few hours.”

Kurt holds the box up to his ear and shakes it. He hears something shift inside, so he decides to try again, tearing through the paper, opening up the expected plain brown box, and shaking out the contents inside to find … another wrapped present. They’re all the same, wrapped in the same shimmery rose-gold paper, only they’re getting progressively smaller.

“Is there an actual present somewhere in here?” Kurt asks, scrunching through the wrapping paper beside him on the couch and turning over the boxes he’s already opened. “Or is this just some elaborate prank?”

“Hey! I put a lot of work into this,” Sebastian complains, “so just stop whining and keep going. I promise it’ll be worth it,” he adds when Kurt frowns.

Kurt sighs. “Alright,” he caves, attacking the next present, tearing through one side of the wrapping till he finds the predictable plain brown box, then ripping into that without even clearing the shredded paper aside. “The man can’t close a cereal box competently but he sure as hell can wrap a million boxes,” Kurt grouses. Sebastian almost laughs out loud. He watches, thoroughly satisfied with his plan as Kurt goes from wrapped box to wrapped box with a frustrated grunt in between. Though, now that he thinks about it, Sebastian doesn’t remember wrapping this many boxes. He might have been a little buzzed at the time.

He couldn’t help himself taking a few hits. He needed something to calm his nerves. This is the biggest step they’ve taken in their relationship. It’s not untimely, just huge, and he wants to make sure it goes off as planned, without any hitches. It took him months to figure out the right way to propose. He wants this moment to be memorable but not sappy; a combination of everything they have together that’s both distinctly individual and oddly complimentary – Kurt’s romantic sensibilities, and Sebastian’s off-color humor and snark. He thinks he may have found the perfect balance in this. It’s just annoying enough to get Kurt comically irritated, but the pay-off at the end should be more than worth it.

But then old, meaner Sebastian creeps in and offers up an amusing thought - what if Kurt reaches the last box and nothing’s in there? Sebastian giggles to himself picturing Kurt’s face, how he’d go from curious to furious so fast it would break the sound barrier. But Sebastian wouldn’t do that to Kurt, not now. It’s only amusing because it’s not going to go down that way. There’s no way Sebastian’s that stupid.

But it’s with a cold and sickening terror that Sebastian realizes he’s not so sure.

Sebastian tries to shake it off, tries to focus on Kurt’s growls and angry murmurs, bouncing between English and French, but the terror won’t go away.

The last time Sebastian had Kurt’s present - before he put it in that final box and wrapped it, that is – was in the pocket of his lounge pants … the same lounge pants he’s wearing right now since he finished wrapping Kurt’s presents a scant hour before Kurt’s alarm went off and didn’t bother changing.

So, if he never wrapped the Tiffany ring box, it would still be in his pocket, right? Which he knows it’s not because, again, he’s not that stupid.

And since he knows he’s not that stupid, there’s no harm in making sure, right?

Sebastian slides his hands into his pockets, but even before he reaches the bottom, he feels a hard edge brush against his leg.

Oh God …

He thrusts his right hand in further and that’s when it hits him.

More like that’s when he feels it – the ring box rolling up his fingers and into his palm.

Oh holy hot Christ on toast! I am that stupid!

And suddenly, Sebastian finds himself stuck on that stupid, watching open-mouthed, like a fresh water bass about to be flattened by an 18 wheeler, as Kurt tears through the boxes with a renewed vigor. Icy horror overwhelms him when Kurt reaches the final box, a box the exact size and shape as a ring box, and, with an ecstatic giggle, starts tearing its wrapping to pieces. Sebastian prays, negotiates, barters with the universe that if there’s something, anything in that last box when Kurt opens it, he will … well, he’ll think of something. The universe can send him a bill.

But, surprise surprise, there’s nothing, and Kurt’s smile, jubilant with expectation just seconds before, dissolves into a frown.

“Is there … is there something I’m missing?” Kurt asks, feeling around the littered floor with despair.

Yes, Sebastian thinks, disappointed with himself, but he slips and says it out loud. “Yes, you are,” he reiterates when stormy grey eyes snap his way. Sebastian attempts to sound haughty, like Kurt should know what’s going on, while he desperately searches his fuzzy brain for a way out of this.

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Kurt asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Sebastian gulps. Arms crossed over Kurt’s chest is Kurt’s offensive position. Sebastian had better come up with something brilliant … and fast.

“What you’re missing …” Sebastian starts.

“Yes …”

“… your present …”

“A-ha …”

“… is, uh … a metaphor.”

Kurt’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but not the good kind. In the you’re insulting my intelligence and I don’t believe you as far as I can throw you kind. Though Sebastian’s pretty certain that, at this moment, Kurt could throw him straight out the window of their penthouse. “A metaphor?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says with a confident sniff. “A metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?”

“F-for us,” Sebastian stutters, losing ground. “For our relationship ... for all relationships really.”

Sebastian clears the bullshit from his throat.

He’s tanking and he knows it.

Kurt’s right eyebrow rises farther than the left, but his overall expression doesn’t change. “Keep going.”

“Well, uh …” Sebastian remembers those days when he could bullshit with the best of them. In fact, among bullshitters, he was their leader. Where did that go? He knows, with dismay, that it’s still there inside him, but it won’t do him any good. Because he doesn’t want to bullshit Kurt. He wants to be honest with him. Real. But he also doesn’t want Kurt to know that in this, the most important thing he’s ever planned, he fucked up majorly “… you work hard at a relationship, not knowing what it will become, if all that work will be worth it, and, uh, in the end, the things you gain, the rewards you earn aren’t something you can touch or see. They’re something you feel. And you, my love, have stood by longer, fought harder, and put up with more than any human being should have to for the love of another person …”

Sebastian pauses, waiting for a reaction. Kurt’s eyes roll to the ceiling, but he makes a concurring face. “This is true.”

Kurt relaxes his tense arms, and Sebastian’s heart races. Score! One tiny victory. Okay, Smythe, keep it up …

“Uh … so …” Sebastian gets down on one knee at Kurt’s feet, and Kurt’s arms fall the rest of the way. He sits up straighter, eyes aglow, shoving down what’s left of his vitriol “… I’m hoping that, regardless of all the trouble I’ve put you through, you’ll be willing to be my husband?”

Sebastian fishes out the ring box already in his hand and opens it, presenting Kurt (he hopes since he neglected to double check that the fucker is actually in there) a polished platinum wedding band with a single blue-diamond inset – single since Kurt is his one true love, and blue for the color of Kurt’s eyes.

“Oh, Sebastian!” Kurt sighs, and Sebastian’s heart speeds a little more. Thank God it’s in there! “It’s gorgeous! Did you pick this out yourself?”

Sebastian scowls. “Yes, I picked it out myself.” He plucks the ring from the box. “I’ve had it picked out for you since our first year anniversary.”

“That long?” Kurt shakes his head as he watches Sebastian slip the ring onto his left ring finger. “But … that was six years ago. We’ve broken up three times since then.”

“Yup, but that didn’t matter.” Sebastian takes a good look at the ring now that it’s settled on Kurt’s finger where it belongs and kisses it. “I always knew that it would be you and me in the end.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Kurt whispers again before Sebastian kisses him, dissolving into his boyfriend’s arms with tears and laughter, “that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sebastian smiles but stays silent, determined to act humble so he doesn’t ruin the moment by saying something smug. The truth is Sebastian barely pulled this off, so much so that he’s surprised his gums aren’t bleeding.

“The ruse with the boxes ...” Kurt chuckles despite lingering exasperation from moments before “… I have to admit, you got me! I was skeptical at first, and it kind of hurt my feelings, but then … that speech!” Kurt gushes, hugging Sebastian tight as Sebastian swallows down a mass of guilt the size of a ten gallon drum. “I didn’t think that you were capable of such … such … sincerity.”

“Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you?” Sebastian definitely did. “Are you sure you like the ring?”

“I do. I really, really do,” Kurt replies, wrapped in Sebastian’s arms, unwilling to move. Kurt looks at the ring, glittering on his finger, and sighs. Such a beautiful ring. Such an elaborate lead in. Sebastian must have been heartbroken. But so was Kurt for about five seconds, so he can’t just let it go. “You forgot to put it in the box, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Sebastian admits with chagrin. “Yes, I did.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Well, you’re lucky I’m so completely in love with you … because I accept.”

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

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alisayamin · 7 years

Note

IF VICTOR CAN FRENCH, WOULD YUURI EVENTUALLY FRENCH TOO?

Despite the many times Yuuri was late to the ice rink for practice back in Hasetsu, he was actually very punctual once he set his mind to it. Sometimes Victor found himself arriving later than his own student. Yakov always gave him a side glare but it’s not like Victor was late, he was relatively on time. Everyone was just earlier than he was.

Expecting the customary glare from Yakov, he was surprised when Yakov’s glare was set on the ice.

Victor walked to his coach and handed him the extra cup of coffee he brought with him, “Which one of yours is it this time?” Clearly a frown meant one of the skaters weren’t performing to a certain standard.

“It’s yours.” Yakov replied before silently sipping his coffee.

It’d only been a month since Yuuri made his home rink in Russia. He was almost always in control of his practices after the Grand Prix Finals in Spain, both in jumps and program rehearsals. But it’d been awhile since Victor saw him so riled up.

Victor focused his eyes on Yuuri. Everything was off about his skating. He was too impatient, too anxious, his jumps had bad take-offs and awful landings (if he even landed them). Victor could hear Yuri shouting at Yuuri for the 100th time probably since they started practicing. It was a little cute how much Yuri cared and worried for the Japanese skater.

Instead of being worried himself, Victor smiled. It really had been a while since Yuuri was such a mess. There were too many things on Yuuri’s mind. Something must have went up in Yuuri’s head to trigger his restlessness without Victor’s knowledge. Yuuri wasn’t exactly open with his problems and worries but it didn’t take Victor much anymore to see something was bothering Yuuri.

And unlike a few months ago, Victor would never force Yuuri to face his anxiety or try to ‘fix Yuuri’. What he could do though, was remind Yuuri that Victor was there for him. And there was a beautiful way to get that fact through Yuuri’s consciousness.

“Yakov, can I borrow the ice for 10 minutes?”

Yakov gave him a weird look but didn’t say anything to state any disagreement. That was good enough for Victor who went to a bench to put his skates on. Before stepping on the ice, Victor put a CD into the audio player.

Being asked to ‘stay on the side and watch’ should have been a little offensive. But being told to later hit the play button so that Yuuri could have a private 10-minute lesson with his coach made Mila feel 200% better. She never understood the dynamic but was curious and Victor never showed his personal lessons before.

Mila was leaning beside the audio player with Georgi on her right and Yuri on her left. She saw Victor skating towards Yuuri and-

“..Did he just-.. spoke French? To Yuuri?”

The three Russian rinkmates frowned as they tried to pick up the conversation between the two further out on the ice.

Then Yuri suddenly looked impressed at Yuuri, “He replied.”

Georgi’s eyes were wide, “IN FRENCH”

After another ‘smooth’ landing on his arms and knees, Yuuri panted and stood up with frustration screaming in every muscle of his body. He just- He couldn’t think straight. He had arrived before everyone else and he didn’t want Victor to come and see him fumble like he used to. He was better than that. But no matter how hard he tried, every effort he put into his jumps just wasn’t working that morning.

Without his glasses, he could only estimate who the people surrounding him were. Sharing the rink with other skaters was fine. What wasn’t fine was how he couldn’t properly land a single jump since he stepped on the ice. Yuri’s (encouraging) shouts did nothing but fuel Yuuri’s frustration.

Gaining his composure from his 28th tumble, he realized how quiet the rink had gotten. No blades were gliding on ice. He didn’t manage to get a good look around before he saw someone skating towards him.

Victor’s smile was not of pity, it was a knowing smile.

“À quoi penses-tu, mon chéri?”

Yuuri hated how Victor could make him smile from that endearing term alone. Yuuri didn’t know French before he met Victor. But the past year, he had learnt plenty of Russian and French since Victor was not limited to spending time with Yuuri in just English.

Victor was right in front of him, still smiling gently.

“Don’t call me that.” But there was no heat in Yuuri’s words, just the sparkle in his eyes and the slight laugh in his voice.

“Mon trésor? Mon ange?” Victor leaned in closer and closer towards Yuuri, until he could wrap his arms around Yuuri and rest his entwined hands on the small of Yuuri’s back. Victor whispered the last term, for only Yuuri to hear, “Mon petit cochon?”

At the last one, Yuuri broke out into a giggling smile, “Je ne parle pas francais.”

Victor leaned his forehead against Yuuri’s, noses bumping, lips just an inch apart, “Liar” he accused in a fond tone.

After a few deep breaths, Yuuri finally sighed, “I’m okay. Just-.. A lot in my head.”

“Will you skate with me?”

Yuuri’s eyes met Victor’s. That question held a lot of meaning for Yuuri. And given how scarce Victor actually asked, it meant a lot to Victor too.

“Yeah…” Yuuri answered dazedly, “Yeah I’d like that…”

Victor turned to Mila and gave a curt nod. He avoided humoring his rinkmates’ smug faces and smirks. Victor and Yuuri were old news but it still amused (impressed) a lot of people of how open they were with their relationship.

Leading Yuuri out to the center, Victor allowed Yuuri to take the rink. Their song; their pair program, all its elements, were components that Yuuri already knew by heart. And the moment he became in tune with the music, all thoughts were erased from his mind. It was just him, the ice, and Victor.

Yuuri’s jumps were flawless. His mind was at peace. And when Victor joined him, Yuuri’s body was relaxed and compliant. Victor lifted him effortlessly as they waltzed on the ice. Their audience could only watch in awe. Towards the end though, they both fumbled on the final lift and they ended up falling together and sliding on the ice.

Victor took the brunt of the fall but Yuuri had cushioned his hand under Victor’s head on time to avoid any serious blows.

Over the sound of Yakov’s angered shouts and their rinkmates’ worried cries, all Victor could hear was Yuuri’s laugh.

A/N: Dear anon, YES HE WOULD (Happy new year, sorry I’m late but yeah I love this headcanon and been thinking about since last year wwww)

What they said:

What are you thinking about, my darling?

My treasure? My angel?

My little pig?

I don’t speak French

#fav #yoi #answered #yuri!!! on ice #victuuri #victuri #vikturi #viktuuri #my fics #floof as hell wtf #hahahahaha #gotta love yuuri in Russia though

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atlaswriting · 5 years

Text

“What do you mean the credit card has been declined?” The attendant behind the desk shrinks into herself, fingers furiously tapping away in front of her as her mouth opens and closes. “You need to check again. There isn’t any reason for this card to be declined!”

The noise that rises from my throat isn’t pleasant and barely human, “La carte n'a pas de limite!”

The attendant looks over her shoulder at a co-worker, eyes wide and full of fear. I do my best to lull the beast in me, quiet the anger so it’s less of a storm—but for the first time in my life, I want to leave Paris and not look back. Her manager steps away from her own customer and stands behind the girl, boredom stretches over her long face. “She is correct, the card has been declined. Éteindre.”

I can feel the fire spread through my skin, crawling up my cheeks and burning down my spine, “That. Can’t Be.”

Clearly annoyed and not at all phased with my temper tantrum the elder attendant sighs, “There isn’t anything we can do, Miss… Allaire,” she looks down at my card, “Perhaps you should have paid your bills?” Her voice is higher this time, pulling attention from the people around me. Holding the credit card in front of me, she produces a pair of scissors from a drawer in the desk and cuts the card in half, dropping it on the counter in front of her. Lips pulled apart into a smug grin as both my and her co-workers jaw goes slack.

“I want to speak to your manager,” I seethe through clenched teeth.

“Unfortunately for you—I am the manager. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual customers to help.”

Behind me, Abram clears his throat, “I can’t help but over hear what is going on and in honor of the holiday, I would be more than happy to purchase your ticket.”

“I don’t think so.”

He shrugs, “Or you can stay here.”

When I don’t say anything, Abram bumps me to the side with his hip and I watch as the women behind the desk all but melt into puddles at his feet. Assuming he is monolingual, I listen in on their hushed conversation about the good looking American. How sweet and how kind he was to purchase a ticket for a total stranger.

The need to argue scratches at my chest—I want to tell them that he’s sweet when he wants to be otherwise he’ll wrap a string around your heart and tug you along.

When the tickets are finally printed, Abram hands mine to me.

“Merci,” he tells the women behind the counter.

As we turn to walk away I hear the older of the two mutter under her breath, “Enfant gâté. Je déteste.”

Immediately I turn on my heel but before I could stomp over there I feel Abram’s fingers around my wrist, “If you’re done being a child now, we have a plane to catch.”

♡ ♡ ♡

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place.

And by that I mean Abram and a man who smells like Frito Lays left in the car after a string of 90 degree days.

When he finds out Abram plays hockey, it’s suddenly all he can talk about.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch with me?” I glance over at Abram, half-pleading.

But he returns my desperation with an amused smile, “I’m perfectly fine where I am, Elise. I’m comfortable.”

I clench and unclench my jaw, hoping it would relieve the tension holding my body together.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the man says—he introduced him to Abram as Christian, “We’re probably boring you with all this sports talk.” He laughs, guzzling back the rest of his overpriced airplane beer, “It’s probably going straight over your head.”

Trying to focus on not bashing his face in with my empty mini-bottle of wine, I laugh obnoxiously, “You are absolutely right,” my lashes flutter in his direction, I force my arm through Abrams and lean my head on his shoulder, “I don’t know what I would do without my boyfriend here. How would I know if someone on the ice scored a touchdown?” Our new friend doesn’t catch on to the vehemence dripping into my words, “I get so excited when a hockey player scores a home run—and don’t get me started about how cute they are!”

Finally he catches up and he rolls his eyes, “I was just—,”

“You were just being a prick.” I tell him, tone flat.

Suddenly he starts laughing, “Hell, I don’t care if you know what you’re talking about or not—I bet you look good in a jersey.”

I snap my attention toward Abram who muffles his laugh with his hands, “I hate you,” I mouth.

“I know.”

♡ ♡ ♡

As soon as we’re off the plane I run toward the bathroom. Stopping just short I slip my phone out of my bag and look down—13 missed calls, 2 voicemails, 9 messages. With the exception of one message, they’re all from my mother.

Reluctant fingers press her name and as it rings my heart jumps into my throat.

“Elise Beatrice, where are you?” She demands. “You had me worried sick! Sick! You think you can just take off with that boy—that—that—,”

“Your step son?”

She draws a sharp breath and I can feel the strong smack to my cheek through the phone. “Come back home, Elise. You can’t be in Los Angeles—he’s in Los Angeles. What if you see him?”

“Then I do.” But I hadn’t thought this completely through—I hadn’t thought of a scenario in which I would run into my father. I consider for a moment that maybe he’s forgotten about me, that even if we passed each other on the street, neither of us would know. Bitter longing buries itself in my chest and I can’t help the feeling of disappointment as it creeps over my shoulders. “That isn’t your problem. It’s mine. Thanks for cutting off the card.”

“I did what I had to, mon cher. I warned you what would happen if you chose him over me.”

“That’s the thing, mom,” I start, loading the words into my throat like the barrel of a gun, “I would choose Abram over you. Every time.”

She starts speaking, French assaulting my ear but confidence slides down my hand and forces my thumb over the END CALL button. I turn and Abram’s standing so close I nearly bump into him. Looking up my breath catches, “I was just trying to make her mad.” I say, but what I really mean is I love you.

Blue eyes stare down at me, sharp and dangerous, everything I want to get lost inside, “I know.” My fingers curl around the strap of my bag to keep from pulling him against me. After what feels like eternity, Abram’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he steps away to answer it.

“Let’s go,” he calls, “Gigi’s waiting in a car out front.”

As we walk I pull out my phone and text Anais—making a decision to spite my mother. One last dig into her chest before I wave the white flag.

♡ ♡ ♡

I am terrified to be alone with Gigi.

Terrified in the sense that she could kill me and dispose of my body without blinking an eye. Fear digs its nails into my ribs and I try to follow close at Abram’s heels as she shows us through her house which is planted a few steps from the ocean.

“Dear,” Gigi calls as Abram slips into the hall bathroom, “I doubt he needs company for that—or maybe he does, who am I to judge,” she shrugs, falling back onto an all-white recliner. “Come, sit. I’m sure you’re exhausted from travelling.”

She calls again when my feet refuse to move—they betray me by following her voice. I stink into the matching chair beside her.

“What do you make of this whole situation?” She asks.

I shrug, “My mother goes through boyfriends like Kleenex—they never last this long. I suppose it could be the real thing.” We share a look and start laughing at the same time. “I think she’ll do anything to keep Abram and I apart—I don’t know why she hates him too much.”

“What’s your father like?” the look on my face must have answered her question, “Do you remember anything about him?”

“He laughed a lot,” she shrugs, “He could make anything fun. He was strong—but gentle and his eyes,” I lick my lips, “his eyes were so blue...” my words trail off and I have to take a breath to settle the ache in my chest, “I don’t remember much about him. I was eight when he and Cerise divorced.”

“Sounds familiar,” she leans forward on her knees and I glance back at the bathroom door—there was no way Abram was anything like my father, I want to argue, but something at the back of my head doesn’t let me. “He’s kind, you know. He has a big heart, fragile and he’s given it to you.” She sighs and leans back, her eyes trained on the door and voice low, “Don’t you think it’s time to stop playing games? You’re destroying him—you say you want to be nothing like your mother, but is this not something Cerise would do?” I visibly wince at her words, “She manipulates people in order to make herself happy—how is what you’re doing any different?”

“I’m—it’s not—Gigi,” I start, “I’m not manipulating him. I ended it. As her, I ended it.”

“And broke his heart.”

“He was choosing her over me!” I find voice growing in my chest, stoking the flames. Pushing myself up, I try to make myself appear larger—more intimidating, “He was choosing her—he would always choose her, and I—I,”

“You love him.”

“No. Yes.” There’s a pause and I can hear the toilet flush, followed by the sink, “I don’t know.”

She sighs, stand and claps her hands in front of her, “You better find out because if there’s one thing that boy doesn’t need it’s a woman like Cerise loving him.”

The need to tell her I’m nothing like my mother dies in my throat.

Abram exits the bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans and stops looking from Gigi to me and then back again. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing, dear. I was just telling Elise that I had plans for dinner tonight and that you two would have to fend for yourselves.”

“That’s fine,” I tell them, “I actually made Abram and I plans.”

♡ ♡ ♡

“Would you like to tell me how you managed to find tickets last minute?” We’re walking into Staples Center, moving toward our seats when the excitement in him finally settles and he can speak, “Did you have to kill someone? Wait. No, don’t tell me—okay, tell me.”

I shake my head, “I didn’t have to kill anybody. Anais managed to get them for me.”

“How did she get them? I didn’t know she liked hockey.”

We settle behind the boards but Abram’s too happy to sit down, every chance he gets he stands and wildly waves his arm, begging the camera to pan over to him. An O’HAIR jersey fits loose around his frame and a Kings toque covers his hair.

“She doesn’t like hockey, she just keeps in touch with somebody that plays hockey.”

The game against the Avalanche begins and Abram excitement becomes a full on riot.

Uneasiness sits heavy in my stomach as I do everything to avert my eyes from the main reason why we came. I could apologize until I’m blue in the face for the incident on the bridge but maybe doing something ( almost ) as hurtful could make up for it.

“Oh my God, Elise, there he is!” Abram tries to grab the player’s attention, “I can’t believe I’m this close to Simon O’Hair.”

I glance up at the man who takes his attention off the game for just a moment and is rewarded by a hard check that makes the boards shake.

“Did he notice you?” Abram looks from Simon to me as he skates away, “He noticed you—that is so cool. Maybe he’ll give you his stick.”

“I feel sick.” I say, “I’m going to—I’ll meet you out there when the game is over.”

The last two periods drag and despite by pacing, it does nothing to calm my nerves.

“You should have been there—that was an amazing game. The Av’s goalie couldn’t stop a parked car. Are you ready to get some food?”

“Not yet. Follow me.”

I take his hand with mine, which hasn’t stopped shaking since the buzzer went off. I hope he can’t feel the fear that radiates down my spine. We weave through halls, walking for five minutes and finally stop a few feet outside of the locker rooms.

“I don’t feel like getting arrested,” Abram says, “We probably should go.”

“Just wait.”

My fingers wring together and my eyes bounce everywhere toward the mouth of the locker room. Finally, players sporadically began to leave and Abram’s eyes widen in wonder, staring at each man like he’s half in love. I make a mental note to tell Brody.

I notice him before he sees me. Tie loosely hung around his neck, suit neat but not pressed.

“Hey.” I say—and suddenly I feel like I’m eight years old. Waiting for him to come for me at the airport and him never showing. Disappointment bites through my chest as his eyes meet mine. It’s like a punch to the gut.

“Elise?” Simon drops his bag and rushes over. Before he could wrap his arms around me I take a big step back and he looks noticeably wounded. “Anais told me you were coming—but I didn’t think you would stay.” He reaches forward again to touch my cheek, eyes wide, fingers grasping, the fear that I’ll disappear at any moment sets in and despite my protests he pulls me into a hug.

“Simon.” His name falls out of my mouth like a curse and I push him away, “I didn’t come for you,” the lie feels heavy on my tongue, “I wanted you to meet someone and hoped you would do that one thing for me—,”

I’m not able to finish when he starts speaking, “Anything. I’d do anything for you.”

“This is Abram,” I step to the side, dread keeps me from looking at the other half of my soul but when I do, confusion freezes his features and though his mouth his open, he’s unable to form any words. “Abram, this is my…dad.”

#thread: ablise #thread: all

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pcinvasion-blog · 7 years

Text

New Post has been published on PC Invasion

New Post has been published on https://www.pcinvasion.com/nier-automata-review

NieR: Automata Review

There’s a line in NieR: Automata that’s repeated a few times, in different contexts. To paraphrase it, it’s that something – be it an item or an emotion – “reflects what’s in your heart.” To my mind, that’s very, very true of NieR: Automata itself.

NieR: Automata is ostensibly a game about a war between androids and machines. An alien invasion forced humanity to evacuate to the moon, and the aliens’ machine army still roams the Earth. Humanity have built their own androids to fight back against the machines, in the hopes of someday retaking control of Earth so that the humans can return to their planet once again.

However, saying that NieR: Automata is about androids fighting machines is sort of like saying that Les Misérables is about a guy chasing a criminal. It’s technically true, but it’s drastically underestimating the nature of the thing, because NieR: Automata is about religion, war, evolution, preconceptions, humanity, morality, loss, despair, revenge, determinism, and about a dozen other concepts. It is considerably more than a hack-and-slash game about robots. Which parts of this you consider to be most overt and most important probably say more about you than they do the game; I found it to focus more on a couple of those concepts than others, but I in no way believe I’ve got the “right” interpretation. Or maybe this is just my past as an English Literature student trained to find meaning in everything coming into play.

If that’s turned you off, don’t worry. It’s also a game with a lot of large explosions and over-the-top action scenes. I mean, the prologue closes with a fight against an ambulatory oil rig, which ends when you beat it to death with its own giant arm.

Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out has nothing on this.

And it’s hauntingly beautiful. Seriously, the presentation of this game borders on the impeccable, both visually and aurally. In visual terms, different areas are tinted different colours at different times, evoking particular feelings. In audio terms, all of the music in the game is “layered”; you might hear the vocals of particular track slowly fade in as you approach a huge building, or everything but string instruments might fade out as you walk out onto endless sandy dunes. And – thankfully – it’s mostly not ominous Latin chanting. The vocals to the music seem to be a mish-mash of languages; I swear I’ve heard Japanese and French, at least, though it’s hard to be certain.

There are also some wonderful juxtapositions of this stuff. There’s something to be said for having a high-octane battle against 20 machines, dashing and slashing and dodging strikes with perfect timing, while the background music is mostly a child’s humming and the entire screen is tinted grey. Eerie? A little, but mostly it just serves to pin moments like that in my forebrain. And NieR: Automata does this shit a lot. Even the occasional shifts into 2.5D, where you suddenly find yourself playing a side-on platformer, simultaneously feel like smooth transitions of the mechanics you’re used to, while jarring enough that they stick in your mind.

This also makes it a bit of a joy to explore. It’s not a particularly large open world – indeed, it’s mostly a bunch of open-ish areas stitched together through corridors – but some of the vistas are utterly spectacular. Traversal gets considerably more pleasant once you get access to the game’s fast travel system (although, annoyingly, this will probably be after you’ve done the first batch of side-quests), but spending a few minutes sliding across a desert or hopping across a very literal urban jungle still evokes a “wow” every now and then, even when you’re doing some irritating backtracking.

Or you can take a break to do a spot of fishing, if you’d rather.

As with most of Yoko Taro’s games, though, it’s got some fairly obvious flaws. Side-quests are mostly fetch quests that involve a lot of trudging backtracking. A couple of the antagonists are (initially at least) incredibly bland and dull. One of your companion characters, 9S, is so very annoying, and he has a very large role in the game. It maybe says something that I think that’s somewhat intentional, though, and bits of the plot wouldn’t really work without it.

Unlike some (Drakengard) it’s actually fun to play, probably in part because Platinum do third-person hack-and-slash stuff really well, but even that’s got its issues. The hack-and-slash combat, for instance, is a little on the light side; you won’t be unlocking dozens of new combos and memorising attack patterns, despite how flashy and frenetic the combat is, and how challenging it can sometimes be. The exploration is (predictably) a little limited by invisible walls, and things you can’t climb on even though it appears you can. The SHMUP sections are over-long and not particularly interesting. And the twin-stick shooter bits can, on mouse-and-keyboard at least, fuck right off.

I talked about that stuff a fair bit in the PC Technical Review but some of it bears repeating and elaborating on here, having now had significantly more play. This is entirely playable on mouse and keyboard – I’ve gone through to Ending A doing so. A controller is arguably a better option, but there are a few benefits to using default PC inputs.

Combat is mostly a case of mixing up light and heavy attacks depending on the situation, while dodging the instant before an enemy hits you. Being able to hurl a giant sword and have it spin in place several metres away from you may have something to do with how fun it is.

The main one is the camera controls. While the game often opts for a cinematic camera (like the aforementioned 2.5D bits, where it obviously has a very enforced camera) it’s pretty easy to control with a mouse outside of that. The camera does have some inertia, which makes precise aiming a pain, but you can get used to it. Even with these limitations I still prefer mouse camera to gamepad camera, and it meant that using the game’s lock-on functionality (disabled on the higher difficulties) felt far less essential.

The downsides are a bit more regular. Dodging – activated by a directional double-tap on the keyboard – feels less precise than having a dedicated key for it, and I’ve been hit a bunch of times when I know damn well I’d have evaded them on gamepad. Platforming is a bit more problematic with eight directions of movement rather than full 360 degree movement afforded by an analogue stick. Swapping Pods (your ranged weapons) requires you to hold down Alt and press an arrow key. And then there are the twin-stick shooter sections, which are totally unplayable on mouse, but can be played by using WASD to move and arrow keys to aim… but, again, this only gives you eight directions of movement and attack, and these segments are designed around you having more. While playing on mouse and keyboard is possible, then, a controller is mostly the better way to go, and I sort of feel like whoever designed the keyboard and mouse controls only had a cursory play of the game with them to check that they were largely functional. Unfortunately, “largely functional” is pretty different from “good.”

I sneaked one thing in there: “Ending A.” I’ve been doing my damnedest to avoid going into much specific detail in this review, but NieR: Automata does something quite unusual in that it has multiple endings. I don’t mean that in the sense of “make a decision at the end to get a different closing cutscene”, either.

It also does something quite unusual in that I think it looks nicer with motion blur turned on. Madness, I know.

After finishing the game once and getting Ending A, you’re then casually advised to play through again, and that is not the last time you’ll need to play through it. If you feel a little unfulfilled by the time you reach Ending A, that’s not a surprise, because you really haven’t finished. That ending message doesn’t quite hammer home that your second playthrough is most definitely not “the same game again”, and you’ll need to play through the game more than just twice to actually experience the whole story. I’ve played through all of the story endings (as well as a bunch of the “joke” endings) on the PlayStation 4, and gone through to Ending A on PC, which I think gives me a good balance of “experiencing all of the content” and “playing it through on PC”. This also has the upside of me not having screenshots from any further in.

There are lots of other little mechanics that are unusual, too, especially if you haven’t played a Yoko Taro game before. Every weapon has a hilariously bleak story tied to it – usually focusing on murder or arson or the death of an entire family or horrible child genocide or something – which you gradually unlock as you level it up. Death functions in a Dark Souls-esque way, in that dying leaves a corpse and a little message behind, and you respawn at your last save point (manual saves only!) shorn of your equipment and any experience you gained since your last save. This actually makes sense in-universe, since you’re an android: “saving” is uploading your consciousness, so when you die, you’re just dumped into a new body. Go pick up your corpse if you want your stuff back.

I have a whole plethora of really lovely screenshots, if anyone’s interested. Loads.

The skill system, too, is rather neat. You have a certain amount of memory that you can slot skill chips into, which mostly fit into the boring standards of Bonus Weapon Damage or Regenerate Health After Not Taking Damage. These chips can be fused together to upgrade them, but as they all take up a certain amount of memory, you can only have so many equipped at once. Excellently, your HUD is actually part of these skill chips too: you can free up some room for another upgrade by, say, removing your health bar, or taking out the chip that controls how parts of your interface disappear when they’re not needed. It’s a minor touch, but one that neatly plays with the basic concepts of games while making sense for your character, and it’s one of many such touches.

Oh, and you can remove your OS chip if you want to. Don’t be surprised when it instantly kills you and gives you one of the game’s numerous joke endings, though. You kinda need that one in your head.

I’m coming awfully close to divulging minor spoilers here, but one other thing that bears mention is just how much emotion is poured into this game. You’re told that machines are mindless murderbots, constructed solely to kill humans, but this is very quickly shown to be blatantly untrue. Despite many of them being waddling tin cans, they’ve got a wealth of personality, both in terms of individual character and in terms of actually having personalities. Most of the characters you meet might be robotic, but a couple of scenes are nearly guaranteed to bring you to tears. I want to give examples, but my urge to let you experience this for yourself is keeping that in check.

One other thing I’ll note, briefly: I’ve lied by omission in this review. There are new mechanics and adjustments to the existing mechanics that I simply can’t talk about because spoilers. I’m being as cagey about the actual content of the game as possible, because it routinely changes things up, and saying “This bit only happens for this period” or “Also, later on, this happens” would give far too much away.

Although I will say that this early scene, with machines rocking empty cradles and imitating sex, is incredibly creepy. That should give you some idea.

So, how the bloody hell do I score this? As a game, NieR: Automata is pretty damn okay. It’s quite good. It’s entertaining. It’s worth a play. As an experience, though, it’s something really rather sublime. It’s never overbearingly intellectual; you can follow along with most of the plot without having to look for deeper meanings, so don’t worry about that. Still, it’s a game that’s less about its fighty/explore-y mechanics, and more about the events surrounding the fighty/explore-y bits. If you’re seeking a new Devil May Cry or Bayonetta, this isn’t in-depth enough for that, despite the ludicrous acrobatics of the combat.

And then there’s the PC stuff. This isn’t anywhere near a Dishonored 2 level of “problematic port”, but I can’t ignore that its PC controls have some issues they really shouldn’t have (camera acceleration, those fucking twin-stick controls). Likewise, I can’t complain about the crashes and black screens that some have experienced because I simply didn’t hit them, but while they’re still known to be a problem, you may want to wait for a patch. Or at least keep in mind Steam’s refund window.

Still… I really can’t do much but heartily recommend NieR: Automata. It is a very special, unique game; I don’t think it ever really hits some of the soul-wrenching highs of NieR, but equally, it’s a lot more fun to actually play and it hits its own notes. It’s so weird and singular that I honestly can’t say for sure if you’ll even like it, but it struck such a chord with me that if it sounds at all like a thing that you’d be into, you should give it a try. Despite everything, I’d be surprised if this doesn’t wind up as one of my favourite games of the year, and with a perfect PC port, this’d be awfully close to a perfect score. The flaws, obvious and common though they are, aren’t nearly enough to take away from everything else this superlative action-RPG accomplishes.

In the end, NieR: Automata reflects what’s in your heart, and it’s possibly the most playable introduction to the glorious madness of Yoko Taro there is. Whether that’s worth something to you I couldn’t possibly say, but it’s left quite a mark on me.

#Nier: Automata

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