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heyitsyn · 3 years

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MANAGER!SEIJOH AU

a/n: this is kind of an au like what if you were

for more seijoh content, check this masterlist out!

anon:

- 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 i would like to request a seijoh!manager reader who’s a first year and is siblings with ushi and the team’s reaction to finding out that she was supposed to go to shiratorizawa with ushi and their reaction with her getting along with the shiratorizawa volleyball team and maybe the manager is a small cute soft little energetic ball of sunshine 🥺🥺 also hewwo, hope youre doing well! ☺️ -🎷🐛

- Ir seijoh manager series is so gooood. Can we get something where by some weird reason yn-chan is close to ushijima and tendou and the seijoh boys dont know about it and how they'd react to her being so affectionate w them ahahwindkdn

EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT HOW FREAKING PRETTY TENDOU IS LIKE AKLFDJLASKFJDLSKFJDSFLKD

okayokayokay

so this is a what if thing

like what if ushijima was your older brother

SLKFDJADFLIJSDKLDF I CAN ALREADY IMAGINE OIKAWA SCREAMING

you didnt exactly have the best relationship with your mom

you remember when you were younger that she used to yell at your brother for using his left hand and you got angry a lot because you were fiercely protective of your brother

this caused her to yell at you too for being nosy and being involved in something you shouldnt be in

duh we know that ushi’s dad takashi actually supported him for this and protected him too and you were also a papa’s girl so you always ran to him

he understood you both better and while your mother worked, he was at home taking care of you two

then when they mentioned wanting to separate, you were very sad but somewhat relieved

mostly because you hated hearing your parents arguing and you felt bad for your brother as he constantly did whatever to get you out of the house

thats what brought on your love for volleyball

you werent exactly the best player but you were interested in it and often watched matches with him

but you also liked volleyball because your brother liked it

you liked whatever your brother liked

he adored you too and he was a boy who didnt talk much due to your mother but he was always a talker with you

especially when you couldnt sleep, he would sneak you out of your room and you both would run to the kitchen and eat ice cream

even with just a 2 year age difference, he looked as if he was older than you due to his massive height

‘just wait nii-chan! i will drink enough milk to reach your height!’

*insert lenny face*

AKLDJFSLDKFJDF I HATE MYSELF

CAN I PLEASE DIE

however

when they divorced, you thought your father would take both you and ushi

like the lady at the court even asked you where you wanted to go and not a breath of hesitation you chose your father

you weren’t very concerned because you knew your brother was going to choose your dad as you both were closer to him

so imagine your surprise when he said he didnt care and naturally, the mother would get the child

lowkey you felt hella betrayed and when your dad whisked you away overseas, there was this grudge you held against toshi

yall youre like 5

i would be hella mad too if my brother chose the person who yells at him all the time

in california, your father made sure you still remembered your brother and you tried to detach from the japanese lifestyle to your new one but you just couldnt

maybe around 6 years you were already fed up with the hot california heat and you wanted to go back to japan to see toshi again

you got over that grudge years ago but your mother refused to have any contact or anything to do with your father and so that included you too

she refused to let you both video chat and any type of connection

your dad obviously noticed your sad expressions and your obvious longing to go back to your brother again and so he arranged something

you shut the door gently before taking off your shoes by the doorway

the large house was often quiet except for the constant typing of a keyboard in your father’s study

‘tadaima’

you meekly mumbled but his sense of hearing never wavered so he heard your voice

‘oh? y/n?’

his voice echoed through the hallways and you heard his chair squeak as it was moved back so he could stand

your sock-cladded feet padded against the hard wood floor and you walked towards his study where indeed he was standing there

your father has definitely aged yet his job as a coach made him as fit as he was decades ago

as much as it disgusted you, you could tell what your friends meant when they said your dad was good-looking

they actually said your dad was hot but you refuse to acknowledge that

you and your friends are like 12 tf

you closed the door and sat down on the loveseat at the corner of the room as it was your designated spot

‘hey, papa’

you greeted with a smile and he gave you the same grin

‘i ordered f/f (favorite food) for dinner tonight so try and listen for the bell to ring, okay?’

you nodded

there was bit of small talk and you asked about his team while he asked about school and you both arranged to hang out over the weekend at some ice cream shop

the conversation dragged on until you heard the doorbell and you ran to the door to answer the delivery man

your dad put out the plates on the table and you excitedly dug in

‘also, you remember your grandmother? and her terrible back?’

oh god of course you did

they lived about 30 minutes away from your house in japan and she constantly worried your father bc the woman was approaching 90 and was still picking peppers!

with old coach ukai

‘what did she do now?’

your father chuckled at the exasperation in your voice

‘she misses you. says something about the family’s princess needing to go back to her country or something’

there was a smile in your face

your grandmother was your favorite and she always said you were the princess

she hated your mother because of how insensitive she was so she only acknowledged you as the only other female in the family

obviously your brother was also liked but there was just a special bond between you and your grandmother

‘so when are we going back?’

you asked and it was clear that you were excited at the thought of going back to japan as you havent been back since you moved due to your father’s busy job and your school

takashi swallowed his food before revealing the news

‘actually, if you want, you could finish your schooling there. but only until college first though because your old man needs you over here too’

nah bro you didnt even care about the last part

literally your fork fell to the table and you shrieked

‘WHAT?! SERIOUSLY?!’

and thus brought you back to japan

you stayed with your grandmother on your dad’s side and you quickly got accustomed back to japan life

your BROTHER!

okay

so waka-chan def heard you coming back

your mother was grumbling about it the other day and he was sure he heard your name in there

‘sdkfjkdslfjdkslfj y/n dkfjlsdkfjldkf’

LMAO THATS ME TRYING TO SAY THAT WAKA COULDNT UNDERSTAND WHAT SHE SAID SINCE SHE WAS MUMBLING SHE WASNT KEYBOARD SMASHING LMAO

there was a mutual giddiness in there too and he was excited to see you again after many years without contact

however

there was a bit of fear in there that thought back to when you were younger and his choice of not really having a specific parent despite your pleads to stay together with him

but he was going to make sure your bond was still intact!

he would do anything in his power to do so!

when you arrived

your dad accompanied you back to japan and you both were walking out to the exit of the airport when you saw your grandmother excitedly waving a sign around

in bold sparkly letters, it said ‘USHIJIMA’

okay wait i love grandma usui

you quickly ran over to her and she grasped you into her arms

‘nana’

you sobbed and she hugged you tightly

‘im so happy youre back home’

your father shook hands with the friend she brought to help drive you guys back home

old man ukai was basically the chauffeur but hes really good friends with your nana so it was okay

the entire ride you guys basically caught up with each other and you couldnt help but laugh whenever your dad would go on a rant about your grandma being too reckless and your nana defending herself

‘oh stop it, takashi. i was only given one life and if it’s over, it’s over. for now, ill live it how i see fit!’

your old family home was exactly as you remember it but you didnt expect the 6′2 boy in the living room

‘nii-chan’

you meekly whispered and he let out a soft smile before opening his big arms

you ran into them and he held you tightly

‘i missed you. so much’

he whispered and you nodded

it was def such a nice thing to have your brother again

oooo your dad been knew that you would be sticking to waka like you did when you were itty bitty young

so when you practically begged waka to stay at your nana’s house the entire summer, he couldnt refuse you

duh your mom went to see you but you just quietly sat there and smiled at her

polite but distant

due to being around waka so much, you naturally went to his volleyball practices and their training camp

there

you met his friends and you guys quickly got acquainted especially with tendo bc he was just so fun

and he was your brother’s boyfriend best friend

the others were still kinda distant with you ahem ahem im looking at you shirabu

but they were mostly amazed at how powerful the genetics played in your appearances because wowza you were beautiful

lmao dont let waka hear them say that bc they would be benched all season in a single snap

during training camp, you usually sat at the sides or you would be their stand-in manager

goshiki absolutely LOVES you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GOSHIKI MY SON MY BABY

him and you were the same age so there was an easier way of being friends and your energies just matched so well

he would run up to you whenever he got a play right and you would ruffle his hair affectionately

LADKSJFLDSKFS FLASHBACK TO TENDO!SISTER X GOSHIKI

‘y/n-chan!’

hell even ushi was getting annoyed at goshiki’s constant need for you

tendo would steal you away and he would be giggling to you about how adorable you were and you just giggled along bc wow this beautiful man is really talking to me right now

ALKSDJFLKSF CAN YOU TELL IM ALSO A TENDOODOO SIMP?

‘cmere, y/n-chan. i taught toshi this the other day and he was very impressed and wanted me to do it again. okay so it goes in a rhyme, ya ready?’

you nodded along and he shot you a close-eyed smile before starting to draw on the dirt with a stick

‘there once was a man with-’

lets just say

you were definitely your brother’s sister

sometimes though

you would try and go towards the calmer players to get away from the rowdiness from baby daddy tendo and baby goshiki

you would find them at the gym just doing drills and at the sight of you, they would turn red but continue playing

they didnt really mind seeing you there bc youve always been such a positive energy and cheered them on which gave them strength

‘NICE ONE OHIRA-SAN!’

‘WAHHH SO COOL YAMAYAMA-SAN!’

you were like a cute ball of serotonin >o<

‘wah, of course its expected for you guys to be the top in the prefecture. youre like,,,,, silent but deadly~!’

duh a compliment from a girl?

dead

shirabu’s bangs would get in the way of his vision sometimes yall i will never stop making fun of that ridiculously adorable haircut so you would use a clip and tuck it away for him

this big babie is so awkward that he turns red when you whisper in his ear that you were done

semisemi baby and you got along bc you guys had a similar taste in music and because you lived in california, he was fascinated that you were in the music capital of america

‘did you see celebrities down the street?’

he asked you excitedly one day during lunch

you stopped then smiled softly

‘semisemi-kun, i didnt live at that part of california’

nah to him, america is just filled with celebrities

OH DEAR BABY BOY KAWANISHI

taichi is a generally quiet guy

like you thought he was actually selectively mute when you first met him

but you gradually got him to talk and you would help him whenever he would want to practice

usually it was during the ungodly hours of the morning

you woke up and went to grab a drink from the common room but you noticed his large build exiting the door so you followed him into the gym

‘kawanishi-san?’

you called out and felt guilty when he jumped

‘oh, hey’

he aknowledged

‘wha-’

you stopped to yawn causing your eyes to close making you miss the brief second of softness that flashed in his eyes

‘what are you doing?’

you tiredly asked

taichi dusted off his trackpants after kneeling down to rummage through his bag and you couldnt help but gawk at his height

‘im training early’

he answered

‘why? is it because you want to keep up with the others?’

you mumbled and he was surprised for a second but reverted back to his stoic expression

‘i have to make sure i am able to reach my seniors level for next year’

taichi turned away to grab a stray ball and you moved to go to the storage room for the ball cart

‘oi, what are you doing? go back to bed’

he said from the other side of the gym but you just looked back at him with a tired grin

‘meh, i want to spend time with you, senpai’

you reasoned

he shook his head before walking over to you then ruffled your hair

‘no wonder youre so tiny. you dont sleep enough and let your body grow’

yep that was the closest youve gotten to taichi joking with you

usually, hes training and when hes in the zone, nothing else has his attention but the ball

maybe thats why the others ahem goshiki has said that he was very scary

his game face was practically a mean face

basically you spent the entire training camp with them and then soon, you were going back to school

duh everyone hmm maybe not shirabu bc he most definitely read the school book of rules thought you would be going to shiratorizawa with them

but you broke the news to them one afternoon and imagine the tears from both tendo and goshiki

‘WHHYYYY!!!!’

‘NOOO!!!!!’

‘why can’t you?’

semi asked and you were about to answer when shirabu beat you to it

‘the school doesnt allow late transfers’

oh right

the american school system was set in a different schedule than a japanese school system

it was considered the summer for them yet school already started a few months ago

since shiratorizawa was a very academically and physically prestigious school, they refused anyone who would potentially be late or behind their curriculum

‘so where ya headed to then, chibi?’

tendou pouted and you leaned against his arm

‘hmm some school named aoba johsai? i dont know its near my grannie’s so that’s all that mattered’

oh dear

USHIJIMA NO Y/N WILL NOT ASK TOORU TO GO TO SHIRATORIZAWA

they consider seijoh a rival bc theyve played against them practically in every prefecture tournament and they were worried for that infamous setter

‘ne, y/n-chan, promise us that you won’t be swept away by them! especially a guy named oikawa tooru!’

uhhh

well

tendou’s warning was kinda ignored bc you ended up being seijoh’s manager

hehe

surprise?

but they weren’t really really shocked tho bc they knew you liked volleyball so you would naturally be in the volleyball team

even as a manager

meanwhile in seijohhh

OooOOOoOoOooooo sEiJOOhHHHH~~~~~~

okay so you were actually registered under your father’s last name usui rather than the ushijima last name

therefore you werent exactly immediately known as HEY! USHIJIMA’S SISTER!

you still became the manager the way you did as mentioned in part 1

and you still are their adorable baby manager

you were aware of their oikawa’s hatred for wakawaka so you try not to talk about him even though youre literally the closest person to him

was it traitorous?

maybe

but you actually even help them when they practice

duh the boys are like eyebrow raise emoji

‘wow youre really into volleyball, huh, manager-chan?’

matsukawa commented and you just smiled

‘hmm, my family likes it so ive picked up a thing or two’

LMAO

little do they know your brother is literally the best volleyball player around and is a member of the under 19 team and your father is a volleyball coach in america and would someday be someone iwaizumi hajime (19) would apprentice under

there was a lot of times you thought you would slip up like your home screen was of you and waka but youve been careful to cover it up

BUT

you cant always be sneaky

it was during the first day of the tournament and you were filling up their water bottles I SWEAR WHY IS MANAGER-CHAN ALWAYS FILLING UP WATER BOTTLES when you found a familiar bunch of boys at the end of the hallway just chatting

you havent seen tendou and the boys in so long so you placed the bottles down and rushed over there so quickly

‘TOMUTOMU!’

you shouted and the oddly-haired boy turned and he gasped before grabbing you into a large hug

this grabbed tendou’s attention and he cheered then hugged you too

your giggles and happy cheers were so infectous and they just absolutely missed you so much

these tall boys were at a advantage so someone scooped you up and you were just affectionately being talked to and hugged and LKDSJFSLDFJ SO LUCKY SO LOVED

meanwhile

the plant babies were wondering where the heck you went to

‘y/n-chan?! where is she?!’

oikawa panicked quickly while iwaizumi hit him to shut up

‘be quiet! you won’t find her if you’re too busy freaking out!’

‘ill find her’

matsukawa volunteered and they nodded, feeling at ease of him being capable to find you if you were in trouble

but when he returned empty-handed and with large eyes, they knew something was up

they ran behind mattsun to stop and copy his shocked expression at the sight in front of them

is that

you?

with

shi

oh my god

‘y/n-chan!’

oikawa shouted, being the first to speak

you jumped and your own eyes widened

��oh. oh no’

you mumbled

the others were so stunned and seijoh itself was so hard to make speechless but they were just shocked

period

‘what is happening’

iwaizumi mumbled

yea the others were just shocked period

‘hey guys’

you waved and you motioned them closer

‘uhh,,, well,,, um they are my friends’

you smiled uneasily and they could see that

‘aaand?’

oikawa signalled you to say everything bc he knew it wasnt the whole story

you sighed

‘ushi,,, jima is my brother’

you mumbled the last part

but they heard you

‘HAH?!’

you cringed and the shira boys were about to move to protect you but they saw you glare at them

‘what? what about it? hes my brother? and?’

you babbled

‘but,, why are you,, in seijoh? dont get me wrong! its just,, youd naturally go to shiratorizawa right?’

mattsun waved his hands around and asked the question thats bugging the team

‘i came to the country late’

‘THE COUNTRY?!’

well,,

turns out you havent exactly told them everything about you yet :/

even when youve cleared the air and introduced waka as your brother, seijoh still didnt say anything

they were stuck in this shocked and surprised moment even at the end of the day and when you went straight to the shiratorizawa team,

they watched with wide eyes as you laughed with goshiki and was jumping around with tendou

‘AH! TOMU! MY HAIR!’

‘TORI-SAN! SATORI-SAN! TAKE THAT!’

wow you were actually really beautiful when youre happy

‘i dont think ive seen her this happy with this much energy’

makki said and they nodded

it was true

you were usually calm and collected and was the perfect balance to this chaotic team

so seeing you so free and loose with them was so refreshing, even if it was with damn ushiwaka

you finally went back to the seijoh boys and they all sent glares to the violet team before sending you a smile

‘you ready to go, manager-chan?’

watari ruffled your hair before handing you your bag to start walking to the bus

‘yea. lets go home’

as you all walked, oikawa was already starting his tantrum

‘y/n-chan~! why aren’t you that happy around us? are we not enough for you?’

oikawa whined and pouted

but you just turned to smiled at him and stopped walking to pat his head

‘im not their manager, therefore im not pressured to act like anyone except as a friend and a spectator. but i try to be as professional as i can with you guys to make sure you dont appear bad to others. and you guys are perfectly chaotic enough, adding me into the mix will just about kill coach’

oikawa didnt seem satisfied though

‘but! thats not fair! they get to see you smile and i dont!’

iwaizumi growled at him to be quiet but you beat him to it

well

you smiled at tooru but your eyes shone maliciously

‘i knew you would act like this, oikawa-san. as punishment, i gave nii-chan your phone number. good luck avoiding him now’

oikawa screamed

a/n: AAWWWWW LETS NOT KILL COACH IRIHATA OKAY? HES LIKE OUR GRANPAPA AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LEAVE OIKAWA ALONE WAKAWAKA-KUN!

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hopelesslonelyghost · 3 years

Note

I AM HEARTBROKEN OVER THE FUCKING EP 16 LIKE GODDAMMIT MOTHERFUCKERS

IM ON THE VERGE OF TEARS

I desperately need some crosshair comfort fic where they got his chip removed and she comforts him on the maurader. He feels really bad, but the reader reassured him that she loves him endlessly and she is happy to have him back.

Lots of tears and kisses and cuddles PLEASE-

I Forgive You

crosshair x force sensitive!reader

warnings// spoilers for tbb ending (kinda sorta?), angst, not beta read

author’s note// is tied to this shot but can be read as a stand alone! and yes i did use That Scene with ahsoka and rex as inspiration. enjoy!

At first he didn’t want you anywhere near him. You didn’t blame him. To him you were a traitor to the Republic and deserved to be executed, so you kept your distance.

He was kept in binders up and was temporarily placed in Omega’s nook, for everyone’s sake.

But you could still feel his anger, his confusion coming off him in waves. You did technically go against his wish and ripped him away from the Empire.

So you meditated. More so than usual. And you tried to push the sniper out of your thoughts.

Until it was time to take Crosshair to the trashed jedi cruiser on Bracca. You were genuinely surprised to find it still intact. And so the journey to get the chip out began.

———————

“My scanner isn’t picking up anything.”

You blanched at Tech’s observation.

You shook your head, “It can’t be. Try again.”

“We already tried twice, there isn’t anything.”

You clenched your fists, “I want to try something.”

Walking up to Crosshair’s unconscious body, you gently placed your palms on either side of his head and nodded at Tech, “Run the scanner.”

Closing your eyes, you focused, “I am one with force and the force is with me….I am one with the force and the force is with me...”

“I am one with the force and the force is with me.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“There! The scanner picked up something.”

You breathed out, “Let’s get to work then.”

———————

Seeing the Batch finally get some rest made you smile. They deserved it. You’d all been through a lot the past two rotations.

“I know you’re awake, little one.” You whispered into the room.

Omega sighed and got up from her place on the floor and walked over to you, sitting by the doorway.

“I can sense how restless you are. What’s on your mind?”

“What if…what if he doesn’t wake up? Wrecker didn’t take this long.”

Your gaze made its way over to Crosshair, “To be honest, I’m not quite sure myself.”

You turned back to her and gave her a warm smile, “But I do believe the Force.”

Omega gasped quietly, “What you did back there was so cool! Can you teach me?”

You chuckled and booped her nose, “I believe you should be sleeping. C’mon, I’ll play with your hair the way you like.”

———————

It was chaos when he woke up. You accidentally dozed off with Omega’s head in your lap. A loud crash had you on your feet, shielding the little girl from danger.

Your protective stance wavered when you realized that Crosshair was staring right at you. He looked around the room and glared at his brothers, who had also woken up at the commotion. Their guns drawn and pointed at him, you were so caught up looking at his face you failed to see he had reached for his sniper and was pointing it at your chest.

You raised your hands in surrender, “We’re not here to hurt you.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Hunter.” You looked at the Sergeant, “Give us a few minutes?”

He nodded, “We’ll be right outside.”

The batch shuffled their way out, Omega gripping your hand and squeezing it before letting go.

“You can lower your gun now.”

“You took me!”

Lowering your hands, you tucked them to your sides, “I did what I had to do.”

“I told you that I had removed my chip!” Cross snarled.

“And as it turns out, you lied!”

“How could you have possibly known I was lying?”

“Because the Crosshair I know would never willingly side with the Empire. We all know it!”

A few tense seconds passed before he lowered his gun and dropped it to the floor. Relief overwhelmed you, but you didn’t care. You had him back.

———————

For days Crosshair wouldn’t speak to you. Would only grunt in response to anything you had to say. Back in Ord Mantell, Crosshair decided to stay behind instead of joining you all at Cid’s.

Halfway to the parlor you stopped in the middle of the street and looked back at the way you came from.

“You should go. You both need to talk.”

You looked back at Echo and nodded, “Tell the others?”

He nodded and you turned back to make your way to the Marauder.

———————

“Weren’t you supposed to be at Cid’s?”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the Marauder's door. If you wanted to speak with him, you had to make sure he didn’t try escaping.

“I had more important things to do.”

Crosshair cocked an eyebrow, “Oh?”

Defeated, you relaxed and slumped a little, “You’ve been ignoring me.”

He tsk’ed and plucked the toothpick from between his lips and flicked it off somewhere into the ship.

“I’m not doing this.”

You rolled your eyes and walked up right in front of where he was sitting, “That’s too bad. We are doing this.”

You reached up to place a palm on his cheek, to which he promptly turned away from, “Talk to me, Cross. It’s impossible for me to ignore what you’re feeling. So please, talk to me.”

He stood up abruptly, forcing you to take a few steps back. And then some more when you realized he was stalking towards you, “What do you want me to say? Huh?! That I feel terrible after trying to kill you? That all I could think about was how much you deserved to die?!”

He stopped once your back hit a nearby wall.

“You should hate me.”

Your eyes softened and this time when you reached up to caress him, let you.

“I could never hate you, Cross. Never.”

His eyes widened and glossed over with unspoken emotion. He didn’t have to tell you what he felt at that moment. You could feel it.

“I know that wasn’t you back there. I did what I did because I love you.”

You pressed your forehead against his, “I forgive you. Always.”

#tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #crosshair x force sensitive!reader #force sensitive reader #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #the bad batch #tbb

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fanmoose12 · 3 years

Text

after death do us apart

Summary: Levi thinks his house is haunted.

Levi is in his kitchen, busy with a very important task of measuring leaves for the tea when he hears a loud, obnoxious thud, coming from his living room.

He softly curses, grabs his cane and rushes, as fast as he can with his body not as strong as it was before, there.

When he arrives, he sees that everything else is in order, except a picture frame that is now lying on a floor.

Levi's blood boils, an annoyance bordering on anger rushing through him. This picture - that one that now lies on the floor like some kind of useless shit - is his most priced possession. It is the only thing that keeps the memory of them alive, the one thing that reminds him during cold and dark nights that he might be alone right now, but there was a time where he wasn't.

It's a picture of him, Hange, Erwin and Mike all standing together with their arms around each other. He doesn't remember if that had ever happened, but that's what he had found in one of Moblit's notebook and after he made that discovery, he just couldn't leave it behind.

No picture of them exists - Mike and Erwin were gone even before they found out what a photo camera was, and in her last years, Hange was always too busy to take a single photo.

He regrets it now, not pushing her to take it, but Moblit's picture is vibrant enough. He doubts a photo could capture their essence quite like his sharp eyes and skilfful hands could.

Onyakopon tells him there are more pictures of Hange now. There are portraits made by talented artists that paint Hange as the last Commander of Survey Corps or during her last moments on Earth.

They're hanged in museums and various memorials but Levi doesn't wish to see any of them. He doesn't care about them, those pictures - they were drawn by talented artists, and Levi doesn't doubt that.

But they never knew Hange, not like he did. So how could they come up with something worthy of the light she bestowed on this world? How they could ever hope to put it on paper?

Levi crouches down, his bones and protesting, and picks up the picture frame.

Thankfully, it is still intact.

But just as his old, broken heart swells with relief, there is another thud. This time, the book falls down, nearly missing Levi's head.

He curses again, loud and vulgar, letting out the best of profanities the Underground taught him.

He whirls around, his eye searching for the offender. The room is empty, though. It's mostly silent too, the only sounds flowing around are those from outside his window. But then he hears it, a faint, feeble murmur that sounds almost like "sorry".

His heart clenches, his hand gripping the cane to keep himself grounded.

He knows that particular sorry. Heard many times many years ago - ehen he stumbled over the barely conscious, sleep deprived body, when his shirt got soaked in tea, soup or some kind of possibly dangerous chemicals, heard it repeating over and over as gentle, trembling hands inspected his injuries and wiped away the blood.

It was sometimes accompanied by cheerful, loud laughter, other times - with quiet, broken sobs.

He couldn't hear that sorry. He couldn't.

It was just a trick of imagination, nothing more, nothing less.

I am not old enough to go senile yet, he thinks as he puts the picture where it belongs to.

It was just a trick of imagination, he repeats and leaves the room.

He goes back to the kitchen and resumes his task. The skin on the back of his neck is prickling, like someone stares intently at it, but Levi chases that feeling away, convincing himself that he's simply being paranoid.

He pointedly ignores the quiet sound, the one that resembles a sigh of disappointment and the one he heard too many times too, during long nights at the lab and inside Commander's office, as well.

***

It's not the first weird (unexplained, she would say) thing that happened in his house. There are instances happening all over the place, each of them brings a different degree of strangeness

Windows and doors - close and open on their own volition, lights turn on and off, books, his clothes, kitchen ware - disappear for hours only to appear in the most random of places, bangs and knocks sound at all times of the day, merciless to his sleeping pattern.

Logically, he knows that it isn't normal. He also knows that he probably should talk about it with someone. But he was never good with that thing - talking. All the people he was somewhat comfortable sharing his troubles are now dead and gone.

He theoretically can discuss it with Gabi and Falco, but he doesn't want to, because, well, no matter how big they think they are, they're still children. Onyakopon is out of question too, because he might just get too worried and then send him into that building on the edge of the town - mental institution, he calls it.

And Levi might be old, but he's not senile. Yet.

Probably. He hopes so at least.

His mind is still his own, broken but not shattered. He knows right from wrong, sees the difference between reality and a dream.

He still functions properly, and yet those instances don't back away.

He'd ignore it, write it off as a product of imagination or strange coincidence. If only it happened once. Or twice. Three times even. Three weird happenings in a row is hard, but possible to ignore. But when it happens every damn day, for almost dozen times, it's not just hard to ignore. It's fucking annoying too.

He knows a name he can put to describe it all, of course. Born and raised in the depth of Underground, how can he not? Stories like this were well known and greatly appreciated down there. They were children of the dark, after all, friends with shadows. Everything dark and scary, anything feared above their little world was welcomed and encouraged.

Isabel used to warn him about enraged, vengeful spirits that hunt those who wronged them or those who disturbed their resting place. Kenny - when he was in a less shitty, kinder mood - used to tell him about souls that die without fulfilling their purpose and were destined to roam through the land of the living for all eternity, unable to sleep with their business unfinished.

Before putting him to bed or whenever she felt especially sentimental, his mother used to speak of those unlucky ones who died before their loved ones did.

"They cannot find peace even in death," she said. "And so they come back to our world and stay close to the ones they still cannot let go, watching them until they are able to reunite."

He never believed in those stories, though. Perhaps, he was born and raised in the Underground, but he got out of it, lived his best years with the sun shining on his face and wind blowing through his hair.

He thought ghosts doesn't exist.

But now that his best years are behind him, now that he has seen enough shit to know that anything is possible, now that some days he himself feels like a ghost, he starts thinking of them more and more.

Hange is gone, he reminds himself, she's gone and even though you miss her like crazy, it won't bring her back.

Hange is gone, and none of it is real.

But, god, does he really wishes that it was. *** It is the middle of the night, and Levi feels a presence behind him. It's not ominous like in that book about ghosts he recently found. It's quite soothing, actually. It makes him almost content.

It's not looming or hoovering over his form either. It's right next to him, as though this something - or someone - lays on a bed close to him.

It doesn't bother him anymore, nearly not as much as it did before. It brings him comfort, in some sort. It reminds him of-

No. It doesn't.

The presence behind him shifts and Levi feels the blanket slip from his legs.

No, that won't do.

He tugs the blanket back, but either he's getting too weak with age or that presence, ghost or whatever is so much stronger than him, but he can't get it back. They fight for it for a while, each struggling to get the upper hand. Levi yanks it back, applying all the force that's still left in him, but bears no result. He grits his teeth, sweat gathering on his temples as he pulls the blanket.

"Give it back, you little sh-"

He doesn't get to finish.

The loud, snapping sound of ripping cloth cuts him off.

"Fuck!" Levi yells, frustrated. It was his favorite blanket. "Is this so funny to you, you piece of shit? Why do you keep tormenting me?"

There is a bit of silence, and then lights in his room turn on. With wide eyes, Levi watches the paper levitate from a small pile on his desk. Pen appears next, and it hovers above the paper, the sounds of furious scribbling filling the dark room.

Before he can say anything else, shout more profanities or threaten the invisible fucker to get out (he may not be as strong as he was before, but he has a cane and he still knows how to use it effectively), the paper starts flying, catching him right in the face.

Levi takes it in his hands, squinting his good eye to see what's written there.

It IS funny, but i didn't wish to torment you. You know that, right?

Something resembling a sob escapes from his lips. Levi fists his hands into sheets below him, but eight fingers is apparently not enough to ground him and keep him from falling.

"Who are you?" he asks shakily, his voice breaking.

The pen starts moving again, flying over another paper. This one isn't thrown in his face. It's gently laid next to his thigh. Levi takes it, and his hands shake so much it gets hard to read. Words swim between his eyes, but Levi persists, laying the note on his lap and bending over to see better.

His whole world shakes when he finally deciphers the words.

Haven't you guessed already?

He closes his eyes and some sound escapes past his lips, he's not sure if that can be called a sob or a chuckle, or a combination of both, but his whole body is trembling as he tries to fight strength to whisper,

"Hange?"

From somewhere close to him, on his left side where she always used to be, he hears a delighted, happy laughter.

He looks around the room, his eye shifting, desperate to find her, but he sees nothing.

Fear grips at his heart.

So just a hallucination then? Simple wishful thinking?

"Where are you?" he murmurs, giving it all another chance. "Hange-"

"I'm here," a warm sensation travels up his forearm. It doesn't exactly feel like an ordinary touch would, but it's there, it seems real and it fills his chest with hope. "Right here, a little to your left," she continues. "Just look at me, Levi."

He does, immediately he does. But there is no one next to him. The gentle sensation doesn't fade, gets more persistent if anything, but Levi still can't see her.

"You need to look a little bit harder," Hange murmurs. "If you can hear me, I'm sure you can see me."

Levi stares, his eye focused on the empty place next to him. He strains his vision, moves his gaze up and down, huffs in frustration and then finally, finally, he sees something.

It's vague, indistinct, barely visible in the dark, but he makes out the outline of the body. He can see the mop of brown hair, and they're messy as always, can see strong arms and wide shoulders, that long, prominent nose, that rosy, soft lips that are stretched out in a hopeful smile, those brown, sparkly he missed so much.

"Hange," he breathes out, his voice barely above whisper.

He wants to touch her, god, he wants to touch her so much, but when he puts his hand above hers, it goes right through her.

"The situation is not exactly perfect," Hange laughs. "I don't think you can touch me, and I can't exactly touch you as well."

"I don't care," he shakes his head and moves his fingers, until his and Hange's are close. He doesn't feel much, but something warm is still there and it still makes his breath stumble.

Hange is here, she's not gone, not completely, she's here, with him. It is more than enough.

*** They fall into a sort of routine after that. It's easy with Hange, as it always was.

She disappears for short periods of time, refusing to tell Levi where she goes.

"They asked me not to tell you," she says enigmatically, and doesn't ever elaborate, no matter how many Levi asks.

At first, he still worries he's going crazy, but then Falco, Gabi and Onyakopon show up. They all sit down around the small coffee table in Levi's living room, chatting amongst themselves and sharing the last news and gossips.

"You look healthier," Falco remarks, as Levi brings the tea from the kitchen.

As soon as he puts the cups down, the chaos begins.

The door shuts with a loud bang, the windows rattle and chandelier above them starts to dangerously tremble.

Levi also notes that Hange is careful not to make any mess, but she still acts so damn loud. And dramatic. He hides a sigh as he continues to sip on his tea and watch Onyakopon, Gabi and Falco lose their shit in front of him.

Gabi ducks behind an armchair, Falco close on her heels, curling around her. Onyakopon keeps frantically looking around, his breath quick and shallow. Levi can almost hear the sound of his panicked heartbeat.

"Stop it, four-eyes," he murmurs, too softly to everyone else to hear (not that they could pay attention to him amidst all that clutter anyway).

Everything stills immediately. Silence washes over his apartment, interrupted only by Onyakopon's gasps.

Hange snickers beside him, but Levi is the only who can hear her.

"This was fun," she giggles, running a hand over his shoulder.

Levi can't disagree with her on that one.

"What was that?" Onyakopon exclaims, clutching his heart. "Was it-"

"A ghost?" Gabi cries out, looking both horrified and excited.

Levi glances at Hange, silently telling her 'she looks just like you'. She waves him off and turns back to Gabi.

"Is is the first time it happens?" Falco asks.

"No," Levi answers, shrugging. A week ago, he'd be as disturbed as his friends are, but now he moved past disturbance to acceptance to delight. "It's been happening for weeks now."

"You aren't safe here," Falco, bless his young soul, looks genuinely worried, down to the deep crease on his forehead. "We should look for another apartment."

"Don't bother. I'm quite comfortable here."

Of course, he's comfortable. Hange is here with him, after all.

"But!" Gabi tries to protest, but Levi silences her with a raised palm.

"I'm not injured or unwell," he gestures on himself, as if to illustrate his point. "And, besides, it gives house some character, don't you think?"

"A very scary character," Onyakopon notes.

"Well," Levi almost smiles, hearing Hange's laughter behind his back. "The house is not very different from its master then."

His guests leave soon after, but not before Gabi and Falco make him swear to call them if anything 'more dangerous and scarier' happens.

As soon as they're out, Levi sits down in his favorite armchair. Hange flies over to him.

"So," she looks up at him, and the bright sparkle in her eyes, even though it is still a bit indistinct, sets his heart racing. "Have I convinced you that you're not going crazy?"

He wants to ask how, opens his mouth even, but then promptly shuts it closed. Of course, it is Hange. She knows his thoughts better than he does.

And if he had any doubts about her realness, they've disappeared right in that moment.

*** Hange is almost always next to him, hovering over his shoulder and constantly chatting into his ear. It almost feels like the good old days.

Although now he can't kick her leg whenever she starts teasing or rambling too much. His trademark glare has to be good enough, though.

He brings Hange books and introduces her to all kinds of new technology. She is beaming like a child at every new thing he shows her, and Levi's heart is so full of love for that weirdo, he's afraid it's going to burst.

Hange accompanies him on his strolls too, and his poker face has never put to trial more than during those moments, when Hange starts joking or fooling around, making him almost lose all of his composure.

He can't laugh or even berate her in public, and she knows it, goddamn. And uses it for her advantage, the asshole.

Levi gets his revenge when they're back at his house, refusing to give her new books until she swears to behave.

She swears every time, hand on her chest and all that. And she breaks that promise the very same day. Levi can't stay mad at her, though. He never could.

*** "You know, I thought you were a vengeful spirit at first," he shares with her one evening.

He sits in front of the fire, his legs outstretched to the source of warmth. Hange is laying on the floor, book hovering above her. She closes and turns to Levi.

"I could be," she says. "But, unfortunately, the people I'd like to haunt are long dead as well. Floch is gone, Eren is too..." Hange scoffs, shaking her head. "And I can't very well haunt every bloodthirsty soldier back in Paradise. Too much work for the old, frail me."

Levi lifts an eyebrow. "You don't look that old to me. Especially, when compering with me..."

"Oh, Levi," Hange rises and gets closer to him. She sits down on his lap, and Levi feels warmth spread through the skin of his cheek as Hange puts her hand on it. There is a smile on her lips, the one that Levi knows too well. The one that means that Hange is going to say something very, very stupid. She opens her mouth and proves him right once again. "I was always more attractive than you," Hange murmurs. "Nothing changed since my death."

He rolls his eye and laments that he can't flick her nose.

Hange is still smiling, and when she leans in, he can almost feel a ghost of a kiss on his lips. *** "Don't you ever feel regret?" Levi asks one day.

He is sitting in his wheelchair, looking at the bright setting sun from the small garden near his house.

Hange is on top of him, her long legs dangling from the wheelchair. As he speaks up, she turns to him, and the happy expression turns into something more thoughtful.

"Regret?" she repeats, frowning. "What can I ever regret?"

"This?" Levi gestures around. "I know, you're still here, but don't..." he frowns, struggling to find the right words. "Don't you wish for something more? For us to have a proper chance?"

Hange looks up at the sky, and for a moment she's quiet. Levi thinks if he should take his words back, change the subject completely but it's something that's been bugging him for a long time. He's happy, so happy, that Hange can still be with him. But there are moments when he wishes for... more. To be able to hold her hand and share meals with her, to walk with her through the streets without worrying that someone might think he's some drunkard or lunatic who talks to himself.

He knows it's selfish to even think about it, he already received so much more than he deserved, but isn't selfishness an inherent part of a human?

Sometimes, he just can't help but long for something more.

"I'm sure you know what a method of trial and error means," Hange begins, looking back at him. Her words confuse him, but before he can open his mouth, Hange shushes him and continues. "Remember those days at my lab? Nothing ever worked out, every experiment turned into an ever bigger disaster than the previous one, and I was so frustrated I wanted to crawl up the wall. But there was a certain beauty in it all - I tried, I failed, I tried again. Over and over, until something good came out. And, boy," she chuckles. "When something worked, it worked perfectly. And, maybe, all of this, all of us," she swiftly runs her fingertips through his brow and Levi shivers at the warm, gentle feeling that spreads down to his soul. "As a failed attempt. We tried, it didn't work," she pauses, and her eyes are bright, much brighter than the sun behind her. "We can try again."

Her words stir something inside, a long forgotten feeling of hope. But he still can't accept it so easily, the cynic in him fights to make himself known.

"But you're already dead," he protests.

"And that means this attempt has failed. Not as spectacularly as that time when my experiment blew up and burned Moblit's eyebrows, but... not a perfect success either. We can try again, though. We can say goodbye, walk from each other and then meet again, in some other place and time."

"And what if we fail again?"

"Then we try again. And again, and again, until we can get it right. And when we finally do, oh boy!" she exclaims, flailing her arms into the air. "Wouldn't that be spectacular?"

She laughs, so happy and free, and Levi wishes to gather her in his arms and never let go. All he can do right now, though, is circle his hands around her waist, imagining that he's holding her.

Just like always, he trusts Hange.

They will meet again, and, maybe, it will all fall apart in a disaster worse than this one. But they can try again. They can keep trying, until... forever.

And, perhaps, that's the true beauty of life.

#not me ignoring all of my wips to write another barely comprehensible oneshot #ghost hange though!#we need more ghost hange lmao #levihan #levihan fanfiction

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moonbaby26 · 3 years

Text

Title: Telling the Truth

Pairing: Peter Maximoff x Reader, but also Magneto and Peter father/son interaction!

Summary: Continuation from previous chapter. Set during X-Men: Age of Apocalypse, you and the others finally defeat Apocalypse, just to end up stranded together until a way home can be devised. During the wait, you get to clear up some things with Peter on your feelings for him. Yet all goes sideways when Peter finally works up the courage to tell Magneto the truth about being his son.

Notes: For those that know the movies by heart, I made some more changes closer to the comics obviously. You’ll see.

Warnings: Some cursing, especially during the impromptu therapy session of Magneto and Peter unleashing their emotional baggage.

Chapters: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Taglist: @drikawinchester , @n0obmaster69 , @alexloveskili , @what-a-silver-lining , @bluesprings18 , @weakmoony-stuff , @slytherinsi-mp , @wintwrsoldiwr , @tommy-braccoli , @amourtentiaa

Peter Maximoff x Reader Masterlist

—————————

You didn’t know what you felt anymore. In a way it was like being outside of yourself. Just watching from somewhere far away even as you were pouring every ounce of strength you had left into your hands, blasting Apocalypse’s shield over and over.

You were trying to cause even the slightest, tangible bit of damage to him, just as Magneto was, just as Scott was. And yet, even with the three of you giving all you had, the monster had already gathered himself up again. With just the movement of one hand, he’d thrown Hank violently to the side when Beast had gotten too close while trying to help you all.

And only moments after Hank’s unconscious body had come to rest, Scott had faltered as well. In exhaustion, he’d finally had to close his eyes, pulling his glasses back down as he’d staggered backward. Then with another flick of the wrist, Apocalypse had all too easily slammed the boy into a building, the wall he hit then swelling out to cover and encase him like some living horror.

You could still hear Scott screaming even as you realized Apocalypse had now turned his attention towards you. With his every step closer, that numbness grew within you. You were too weak to fly away now, after all the energy you’d thrown at him, you were barely still standing.

But you could see the irritation in his expression. It was obvious that he couldn’t understand your loyalty to one another. Why any of you would be fighting this hard, just to die.

He kept reusing the same tricks, but they were effective. As the earth shot up around you like tendrils on a vine, you couldn’t break free. As quick and flexible as it was, it only felt like concrete wrapping all around you. It pinned your arms to your sides and wrapped around your legs, chest, and throat.

With a clenching of Apocalypse’s fist, it all drew tighter. And when your energy field finally gave out, the last of your shielding went away with it. As that light faded, the pain of being slowly crushed exploded through you. But you couldn’t scream when you couldn’t even breathe.

Apocalypse would have Xavier. That was all he wanted, then outright ignoring the straining of Magneto in the sky above him, Erik desperately trying to still do anything on his own now.

But as your sight blurred and your senses faded, it was the most surreal thing, you could still recognize Jean’s silhouette as she also moved out into midair.

Yet it wasn’t her, at least not as you knew her. Somehow that thought had still floated through your dying mind, before the world exploded all over again.

Even without being powered up, you could feel that surge. Like a pressure wave of pure, raw force. It seared across everything, hot and burning. But like a warm fire, for those far enough from the center, it only revitalized them. Hank was awakened suddenly, soon enough breaking the pieces that held you and giving you a chance to breathe again before he ran on all fours to also free Scott.

And yet for Apocalypse, someone far too close to that center, and the real target of Jean’s fury, the only option was to burn.

You were on your knees as you still tried to catch your breath, but you all knew opportunity when you saw it. She’d broken through his shield, torn through his armor. But even as his flesh seared away, it was still trying to heal back just as quickly.

Magneto had impaled him to the spot with multiple steel bars as soon as his shield had fallen, but Apocalypse was a coward. As soon as that tide had started to turn, he tried to flee.

Hank called out, “He’s getting away!” As Apocalypse tried to teleport, an energy shield rebuilding to close around him.

Even digging as deep as you possibly could, you only had enough left to make a large orb from one palm. That white light encasing just one of your hands rather than your whole body as you realized you had to make this last shot count.

And just as you thought you were not going to have another opening to get past his shield, lightning began striking down right on top of him. A hole broke in his field with the force, the white haired girl from before surprising you all with a sudden change of allegiance.

You threw your orb at once then, controlling it to come right through the opening she had made. It exploded directly against Apocalypse’s head and neck, further blasting away muscle and bone that no longer had time to heal under all the combined attacks.

But it was still Jean who dealt the killing blow. With one final powerful surge of her energy, screaming, she erased the last of him. His body broke into only ash under her red aura. It spread into the sky all around her, like wings of flame before extinguishing at last.

You were still waiting for some final confirmation that it was really over though, that you’d won. After a few moments of only the sound of the receding wind, and the sand lightly blowing past with it, it was like a collective acceptance at last.

You fell back with a large exhale, exhausted as you laid onto your back in the dirt. In the sky, you could see Magneto and Jean hover back to where Xavier was, no doubt to check on him now. You could only imagine if Magneto would soon be apologizing to his old friend, or not, for his part in all this.

But you didn’t rest in your silence for long. As you heard footsteps, you turned your head enough to see Hank’s clawed feet approaching. But he wasn’t alone. He had Raven on one side and Peter on the other, Peter more so the one he was propping up with that broken leg.

“Raven wants to go see Charles,” Hank said by way of some explanation, awkwardly helping Peter sit back down beside you as the other winced in pain. “I need you two to stay here while we see if there’s any medical supplies intact nearby, and while we try to figure out how on earth we’re going to get home now.”

While Hank spoke, you thought Raven might have still been giving you a kind of odd look. As if she was trying to make sense of something. You could assume what, after the abrupt display between you and Peter before. But you were just too tired to feel anything other than relief right now that everyone was still here at all.

“Okay,” You said, maybe just to check that you could talk, as much as your throat still hurt from being squeezed earlier. But the two older mutants were then gone just as quickly. Hank had picked up Raven, jumping over to the exposed second floor of the building where the Professor and the others were.

Peter was unnaturally quiet afterward. At least for a while before he finally looked down at you. “So holy shit, right?”

You glanced up. That phrase really could reference about anything that had happened today. You smirked tiredly. “Could you be a little more specific please?”

“I mean, your friend just vaporized that dude.” Peter answered, waving one hand. He couldn’t stop from being animated even if he tried it seemed, even when injured. “Did you know she could do that? Like damn, we could have been done an hour ago.”

You tried not to laugh. It’d hurt your ribs too much if you did. “No. I’d say she didn’t even know she could do that.”

“Well, I know who not to piss off,” He said, before going quiet for a bit again.

You still hadn’t been around him all that long in actual length of hours. But for all you’d now been through since first meeting at the mansion, it seemed like this morning was lifetimes ago. And you could sense that his mind was churning with something else he actually wanted to say.

You looked up to him again after a while. “You okay?” You asked. Which probably was still a bit ironic for you to question, as even though he had the broken leg, you were also the one laying in the dirt, too tired and hurting to properly sit up.

It still took him some time to respond though. Which told you he actually was trying to weigh his words somewhat before speaking. But when they did finally start to come out, he was still pausing and hesitating. “I’m, um, first of all, sorry about the whole surprise kiss there. I figured you’d just slap the crap out of me or something. But I thought we were going to die too, and I...I just-”

He was looking at the ground now, like there would be some answer there that would help him verbalize what he was trying to say. “I know I screw up a lot and let things go that I shouldn’t let go I guess. I already flaked out with the whole reason I came up to your house this morning, the whole Magneto thing. And I didn’t want to do that twice, not telling someone the truth again all in one day just because I was being chicken shit. You’re just really cool, and you know...I just wanted you to know that.” He looked back at you at last, as if trying to judge if any of this was making sense at all.

It did and it didn’t of course. You didn’t understand at all what he meant about why he came up to the house in the first place, or anything about Magneto. But you didn’t want to question on that when he was already making himself vulnerable with the main point you thought he was trying to make to you at least.

“Peter, I kissed you back remember? I mean yes, there was a lot of stress involved. But it doesn’t make it a mistake.” Now you were the one perhaps putting too much optimism in your thoughts here, and taking a risk. “Maybe it just made it happen a lot sooner than it naturally would have. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t want that, you know, eventually.”

Again, you’d only known each other for a day in real terms. Of course it was too much. But everybody had to start somewhere, right? You had no idea what a serious relationship could be like though, you’d never had one. Just awkward first dates that never became second dates because it was always just weird. You didn’t feel anything that way for those people and it was always evident so quickly.

And yet here came this guy, dropped into your life like a bomb in a time of utter chaos and danger, and you thought you were now finally understanding why your friends seemed to go so crazy when they told you about their “crushes” at school. It was just something that clicked. You couldn’t put rational thought to emotions like this.

“So you wanted to kiss me?” Peter finally asked in a way that was somewhat silly to you, because of course you wouldn’t have done anything like that if you didn’t actually want to. And yet you couldn’t make any dry reply to that effect when you saw the honest expression on his face as he’d asked.

Was it really so hard for him to believe that he would be wanted? You were surprised, genuinely. Of course he was quirky and odd, well maybe a great deal odd. But for all the flashy appearance and smugness you knew he could radiate, did he not actually see his own worth?

You touched his hand lightly, as you sat up at last. It hurt, but he needed to see your eyes to believe you now. You knew this was important. “You’ve had me flustered since you first introduced yourself this morning. I’m not used to that, at all, so it’s really new. I don’t really know how it’s all supposed to work, or what I’m supposed to do next. But I can at least speak to how I feel. I want to be around you more, I want to be close.”

The physical and the emotional went hand in hand really. But, you’d both have to figure out your own comfort level on that. You continued, trying to put that into words. He didn’t owe anything to you. “You need to remember it depends what you want too though. I can like you with or without kissing again. If you just want a friend, that’s okay too.”

He chuckled, seeming kind of taken aback. “Hell...” He looked away a moment, running his hand through his hair. It was obviously a nervous gesture, as it only made it look messier. “I’d really be a pathetic boyfriend you know. Like, epically bad.”

“You think so?” You asked, trying not to press too hard, but also not wanting him to keep seeming like he didn’t deserve any of this kind of attention.

“I’ll annoy you eventually, you’ll regret it.” He kept on, a little bit quieter then.

“How do you know I’m not annoying?” You countered. Of course you hoped you weren’t, you seemed to get along well with the other students, and they ran the gamut of so many kinds of personalities. But really, how was it fair for him to assume any fault would only be his?

“Pfft.” He looked back to you. “You literally glow. It’s not even metaphorical. You’re like perfect, and-“

Did Apocalypse ding him in the head too? You were having none of that. “I’m nothing of the sort. And neither are you.” But you smiled before he could take that negatively. “And I’m totally good with that.”

He quieted again, just watching you for an awkward while, before finally responding. “I guess we can try. I mean as long as you’re admitting now that your taste in guys is really this bad and you won’t get mad at me later for saying I told you so.”

It didn’t seem proper to laugh, but he made you want to. “I’ll overlook you insulting the both of us. But yes, if you want to try, then so do I.”

“Okay.” He answered. Then seemed to realize the depth of this a little more. “Shit...didn’t expect to get mutant-napped by the government, fight a god, break my leg, and become a boyfriend all in the same day.”

“And rescue a whole mutant school,” You added.

He shrugged purposefully for effect. “That’s what heroes do, babe.”

The pivot from so self conscious that he could barely accept your attraction to him, to now wanting to brag again really was something to behold. You started to quip something back, but stopped when you saw his face go serious. He was now looking at something abruptly in the distance, so you turned your head to follow his gaze.

It was Magneto.

You straightened up as well, now fully sitting up before Erik landed in front of you both.

He was direct, speaking immediately. “It will still be some time before Charles’ little CIA friend can get her cohorts to arrange your transport out of here.”

You didn’t know if the distaste in his tone was more about Moira being a government agent, or just dislike to her presence here entirely, but he only continued. “And given that Hank has no idea how to field dress wounds without access to his full laboratory, I get that responsibility.”

Peter shifted, abruptly realizing the meaning then. “I’m fine,” He lied.

Of course he absolutely wasn’t fine. But clearly distrusting about whatever Magneto now had planned and the inevitable pain it could mean for him. Peter hadn’t moved his leg at all in the entire time you’d been sitting here together.

Erik only answered him sharply, “You need a splint before you do even more damage to yourself.”

As he then raised his hands, metal rebar started to drag itself out from the broken buildings all around you, leaving no question that this was no longer a choice for Peter.

It was hard not to think that just a short time ago, Magneto had been using that same kind of power to impale Apocalypse over and over again. And yet now he showed how controlled he could be, breaking the thin rebar into lengths that could run all the way from Peter’s thigh to just above his ankle, and even bending them slightly to match the natural curvature of the knee.

“Lift his leg.” Erik spoke.

You’d been so distracted with watching him work the metal, that it took you a moment to realize the command was for you. You looked briefly to him, then to Peter. You and Peter both shared the same nervous expression.

If you just used your hands, you felt like you would only hurt him, not being able to support his whole leg in a way that wouldn’t put more pressure on the break. But you also didn’t know if you’d rested long enough sitting here to use your powers at all either.

Someone as intimidating as Magneto standing over you both impatiently certainly didn’t help.

But if it meant less discomfort for Peter, you’d at least try. You lifted both your hands, facing your palms towards Peter’s leg while focusing as best you could. Normally what would have been fairly simple now took a good deal of effort in your still drained state. But a faint white glow did start to move across his leg, eventually covering it from his hip all the way to the end of his foot.

Once enveloped, you raised just your fingertips, lifting his entire leg gently, just high enough that Magneto could place the metal bracing around it.

You heard Peter make a small sound of pain as Erik had circled other metal strips around the longer ones that ran parallel with his leg, snugging it all into place. But beyond that, the unconventional first aid seemed to be successful. His leg was effectively now immobilized as you let it back down softly, the light fading away as you let go.

“I look like a Mad Max reject,” Peter commented absently, breaking the silence after a moment as he poked at the new metal contraption.

“You’ll be running and finding trouble again soon enough I’m sure. We still heal faster than the lesser species.” Magneto responded, but not all that surprising to you really that he would still find ways to throw jabs at non mutants even in an unrelated conversation.

What did surprise you was that when Erik had started to turn to no doubt leave again now that his task was done, it was Peter that stopped him.

“Hey, wait a second.”

You didn’t think you were imagining a new anxious sound in Peter’s voice either, and it bloomed all new nerves in you as well. What was it between the two of them? There had been confusing hints of something ever since you’d gotten to Egypt, but Peter had never elaborated to you. Not that he’d really had much chance either though.

But just because of who Magneto was, it was easy to imagine things taking a dangerous turn if the wrong thing was said or done, but you had no idea how to help when you didn’t even know what had Peter so focused on him.

You felt him touch your hand, like a physical desire for support, as he asked Erik in the most serious voice you’d ever heard from him. “Do you remember a woman named Magda Eisenhardt?”

Magneto went rigid, and you froze as well. Very suddenly you were wondering if the others could still see you from here. If they were paying you any mind at all right now. But the only person here fast enough to actually get away from Erik, was here beside you with one wing clipped essentially. There’d be no escape.

“How do you know that name?” He’d turned fully back to face you both, eyes locked on Peter.

By the way Peter had seemed to pause his breathing, he wasn’t immune to the sense of threat either, but he still answered. “Well she goes by Maximoff now. She’s my mother.”

You felt like a helpless bystander watching some kind of disaster unfolding in slow motion. The frightening look in Magneto’s eyes versus the way Peter was now almost squeezing your hand painfully. The mental gymnastics your mind was now going through were chaotic. Did Magneto do something to Peter’s mother? Were they enemies? Was this some vengeance quest?

But if any of that were true, why on earth would Peter confront him now? With both of you already injured with not a chance to survive or defend against someone of Magneto’s power?

Whatever frightful things were burning through Erik’s mind as well still silenced him long enough for Peter to speak again though. And it all came out then.

“I was too afraid to tell you earlier, but I guess I’m just ripping the damn band aid off everything now. She told me about you. How she left because she was afraid of you too. But she didn’t tell you about being pregnant. She went to the states, changed her last name and had me. Me and my sister Wanda. Twins. But I didn’t know any of that about you when I busted you out of the Pentagon those years back. I didn’t know who you really were. That you were the guy I thought had just run off, or maybe you were dead. I didn’t know my father was in a damned plastic cell less than ten fucking miles away all those years when we had nothing!”

A chill went through you. The anger in Peter’s voice towards the end only added to the shock as you were forced to process everything at once. This was why. God. Just...shit.

You were all silent after that. For an unbearable amount of time there was silence.

When Erik finally did speak, you heard the anger in him too, but it was different. There was a raw pain in that, something so extremely deep coming out of him now. His fist was clenching. “She was right, boy. If it’s all true, then Magda was goddamn right to do everything in her power to hide you from me and to try to put an ocean between us back then.”

With a little horror, you could see the smallest fragments of metallic debris starting to quiver along the ground. His emotion carrying over into the environment now.

“I did remarry after I escaped Washington and went back to Europe. We even had a little girl. Anya.” There was the slightest sheen of wetness in his eyes, even though sheer anger was the only look still coming from them. “They killed them. My wife. My daughter. The humans killed them because of who I was!”

He gritted his teeth, and you could plainly see a couple tears escape his eyes then before disappearing back behind the sides of his helmet.

“They would have done the same to you and your sister eventually. To Magda too. She knew she’d be caught in the crossfire even when I didn’t. She knew what I really was.”

“It doesn’t make it right!” Peter’s voice surprised you as it broke, uneven and just as emotional as he yelled back at Erik. But he looked down again afterward, his hand trembling against yours. “I’m sorry what they did, that was our little sister too then. But you can’t just lie to someone their whole life. My mom shouldn’t have waited so long to tell me! I could have helped you...maybe it could have been different. Maybe we-”

“It would have been the same result.” Erik said coldly. “Because I would have been the same.”

With that he flew off abruptly, completely out of sight before Peter cursed under his breath, looking defeated. “Goddamnit. He really is an asshole...”

You opened your mouth to respond, maybe to try and comfort him, but then hesitated. There was so much to digest on both sides here. “I think he might just need time to cool off...” You finally said, as delicately as you could.

“Correct.” The Professor’s voice popped into both your heads then, leading you both to glance towards the broken building where the others had been, to now see they were all standing on the edge looking towards you.

“Apologies for eavesdropping,” Xavier continued. “But you were getting quite loud, both verbally and mentally, and I wanted to make sure you were safe as I had instructed the others not to interfere.”

Peter sighed, maybe a bit embarrassed at the audience, but also still clearly unused to having anyone in his head as he replied aloud. “That’s so damn weird. Guess you’re good now then?”

“Getting there, thanks to all of you.” Xavier answered with a slight amount of humor, “But helmet or no helmet, I don’t need to read Erik to tell you that he’ll be back. His anger is only towards himself, not to you. You did the right thing by letting him know the truth. He’ll come around.”

There was another odd feeling of amusement from the Professor after a moment though. “In fact, knowing how possessive Erik can be, I dare say you may get more than you bargained for, Peter, in parental attention. Good luck to you too, (Y/N). Though I’d think he’ll approve of you once he realizes how much you genuinely care about his son.”

You stared, knowing Xavier couldn’t see your ‘are you for real/horrified’ expression from this distance but that he’d definitely feel it.

You saw Raven make an exaggerated gesture of a thumbs up from way over there and Peter laughed tiredly. “We’re totally screwed aren’t we?” You sighed and he just leaned into you, teasing. “See? Too early to say it yet? Nope, it’s not. Told ya so. Told ya so. Terrible choice of a boyfriend, babe!”

You put your head on your knees as he rubbed one of your shoulders. You mumbled numbly. “I just want to sleep for sixteen hours.”

—————————

(Continued in next chapter here)

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littlefreya · 4 years

Text

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue)

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs.

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?”

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure.

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?”

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body.

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them.

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately.

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin.

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them.

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid.

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug.

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel.

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently.

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare.

But her laughter soon dies.

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint.

“Time to fall, angel.”

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death.

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.”

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker.

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station.

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his.

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.”

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull.

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache.

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks.

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction.

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them.

A true king among peasants.

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright.

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him.

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in.

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air.

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she?

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever.

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades.

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut.

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them.

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her.

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms.

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…”

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids.

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death.

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.”

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest.

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?”

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest.

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips.

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.”

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will.

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue.

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.”

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out.

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision.

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely.

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her.

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her.

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god.

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world.

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave.

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming.

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns.

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes.

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined.

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.

‘How is she even real?’

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp.

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky.

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss.

Epilogue.

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump.

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings.

“Loki!”

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose.

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir.

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles.

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove.

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck.

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x ofc #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction #the way to hell #henrycavill

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bopbopstyles · 4 years

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ROSE COLORED GLASSES: PART ONE

SERIES RATING: R (cursing, smoking, alcohol use, violence, PTSD, and sex)

WORD COUNT: 19.5k (long boi)

CATEGORIES: boxer!Harry, gang/mob!Harry, 1920s!Harry, Peaky Blinders!Harry (?)

As the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham, there were expectations of Cicely King: an advantageous marriage to save her father’s business, for one. But Cicely had never been one to follow orders. So when she woke up after an accident in the home of Harry Styles, the illusive boxer, she took it as an opportunity to escape her life. What she didn’t intend on was falling in love with him.

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | PART TWO

a/n: IT’S HERE!!!! Cicely and Harry dropped into my head and have lived in there rent free ever since. strap yourselves in for a ride, my friends! this story is hugely inspired by Peaky Blinders, and i willingly admit that characters and elements of the story resemble parts of PB, including Cicely’s appearance (Grace). thank you @hsogolden for making this beautiful banner, and thank you to @bfharry @harrysclementines @stellarboystyles and @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this, ilysm!

historical notes: i’ve got a couple of things to alert the public of for this story. 1. this story is set in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, UK in 1920 or so, and i did as much research as possible on the area, but it is by no means all accurate. imagery and descriptions of the neighborhood are largely my own. 2. Church Hulme was the name of Holmes Chapel until 1974, so it is used in this story. 3. The Magnificent Ambersons is an actual book that was a bestseller in 1918. you can read it here.

without further adieu, here is part one of ROSE COLORED GLASSES - come talk to me about it in my asks! pls reblog and share with your friends 💕✨

The cool spring air swept around Cicely like a cloud, the hem of her skirt ruffling in the wind. She was miles from home, the landscape around her having turned to just rolling hills of green, just the way she liked it. Here, she could finally breathe. At home, all she could smell was fear and secrets, while here, out in the open, she was anyone and everyone. It was just her and Joseph, her beloved horse, on the empty road.

Father had told her it was going to rain when Cicely pushed her way out of the house, stomping away from him in anger at the news he had given to her, but she hadn’t given it a second thought. She loved rain, loved being caught in it and getting drenched, not minding the weight of the water on her skin. If anything, it made her finally feel something, even if it was cold. In hindsight, she probably should’ve thought twice about going out so far in the rain, Joseph being a bit skittish as he got older, but now here she was, having ridden over halfway between her estate and the city, and she could feel the droplets falling onto her blond coiffed hair that her maid, Polly, had done this morning.

She sighed and looked up at the sky—it was grey and angry, the wind swirling around her. It was going to be a downpour, she suspected. Joseph stopped when she pulled on the reins, and she considered whether she should turn for home or find somewhere to ride out the storm. It seemed to be coming soon, after all. She glanced around and there was just open space of hills and trees, but none large enough to provide any sort of suitable protection. Plus, she was closer to the city than home, anyways, so maybe it was better to just keep on going the direction she was heading. She could stay with friends in town if need be.

So she dug in her heels and Joseph continued, her urging him to go faster as the rain began to come down harder around her. It was like a curtain, the combination of the rain and the dark skies making it hard to see very far in front of her. The water licked down her face, and her chiffon blouse was sticking to her skin, the one her maid had made her promise not to get dirty, as it had just been mended for the second time. But she could make no promises—it was her favorite one, after all. And now, it would most definitely be ruined as dirt road beneath her turned to mud and it splattered Joseph and her clothes. She held fast though, wishing now more than ever that her father let her wear the new fashionable pants to let her ride more easily because side saddle was simply not cutting it at the speeds she was urging Joseph to achieve.

All of a sudden, a crack rang through the clouds, bolts of lightening littering the path far ahead. But the sound was enough for her to tense and Joseph to whinny, his front legs leaving the ground, her hold on the reins slipping as she was thrown from the saddle.

The last thing she remembered was the sight of Joseph taking off into the rain, saddle empty and reins flying around his body.

Harry could barely see in the storm, the downpour causing sheets of rain to fall on the windshield, his vision completely obscured. So he inched along as slowly as he could without endangering his ability to drive—or the car, since it was a gift from Josiah—and kept the headlights on full blast. He was exhausted after a weekend of fights in the town over, ones that left his body aching in ways he preferred to ignore. But he had a pocket full of earnings and he knew Josiah would be happy with that, so he paid it no mind.

He was running through the fights, thinking about the missteps and wrong moves he had made, spots for improvements, when he saw a girl lying down on her back in the mud a few feet in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes immediately. What the fuck was a girl doing out in a storm like this? When she didn’t move as he sat in the car, surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was dead. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been killed on a road, left there to be found by the next car.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the car, lifting his hand to shield the rain from his face. “Miss?” He called into the storm, eyes drifting over her body. She looked well to-do—her blouse seemed to be some type of lace material that the girls he knew were always fawning over, skirts bright and recently washed. What was she doing out here, alone and in the mud? And how had she gotten there?

He took a few paces closer to her, and she didn’t make a move when he brushed the hair away from her face. Hesitantly, he leaned down, an ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing—which she was, to his relief. She must be unconscious, although he could only begin to imagine how she had gotten that way. But Harry wasn’t the type to leave a young woman in need, alone on a dirt road in the middle of a storm. So he bent down, slid his aching arms under her body, and lifted her from the mud, cradling her against his chest as he walked back to the car.

She fit perfectly on his back seat when he tucked her knees in closer to her chest, blond hair draped over the seat. He grabbed his coat from the passenger side and draped it over her body, her skin cold to the touch from the rain. The thought crossed his mind of where he should take her—the police, perhaps? Or maybe a hospital? But Harry hated both of those establishments after years with Josiah. Plus, if she needed any protection, in town it was best if it came from Josiah anyway. The police were useless, a bunch of pompous assholes too big for their britches, Harry thought. And a hospital, Harry believed, was where people went to die not where they went to be healed. So he decided to take her to his flat, despite the fact that the prospect went against most principles he was raised on.

Although, everything Harry did went against his childhood principles.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was green peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t a wallpaper she recognized, and as she came to, looking around the room, she realized this was definitely not a place she had been before. Her heart seized as she inspected her surroundings. She was in a wire-frame double bed, a red duvet cover pulled around her shoulders, a soft light coming in the heavy curtains against a small window in the middle of the room. Clothes littered the floor—men’s clothes, from what she could tell—and a rug sat in the middle of the room amidst the chaos. An ashtray and the butts of cigarettes laid on the bedside table next to her, as well as a glass of water. Maybe it was a stupid choice, but her throat was raw and so she took the glass, gulping down the water without a second thought.

Faintly, she could hear the sound of a whistle. Tea, she realized. Someone was making tea.

Which meant she was not alone.

Her hands dove under the covers, inspecting the clothes on her body. Everything was still intact, her green skirt and the lace blouse she had put on, every button done up exactly as she had left it. She didn’t have her shoes on, but on closer inspection, they laid on the ground next to the bed, but her stockings were still clipped to her garter at least. A sigh left her mouth at the prospect of some semblance of safety in this foreign place.

She tried to remember what had happened last—she had been riding through a storm after a fight with her father. Then, there was a bolt of lightning, she thought to herself, piecing together the memories in her fuzzy brain, and then remembered Joseph bucking her from the saddle. She couldn’t keep herself on, so she let go, knowing that was better than being dragged along. The last thing she remembered was Joseph riding away, her lying in what she believed to be mud.

Which would explain the brown marks all over her clothes.

Polly was going to kill her for the stains.

The whistle she had heard earlier suddenly stopped, and she heard the thud of something. Then, a soft hum of a song she recognized from the gramophone her father had in the sitting room. After a few beats, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wood floors, the creak of the footsteps growing closer and closer. Someone was coming. She was going to finally discover who had picked her up off of the road and where she was—hopefully it was some nice old lady and she was in their son’s room.

But instead, a boy about her age stopped in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, wide eyes at the sight of her sitting up in bed. His brown hair was tousled in soft curls across his forehead, and just trousers, a shirt, and suspenders adorned his body, his feet bare. His shirt sleeves were pushed up and she could see tattoos on his arms, something she had never seen in person before, just in photographs and magazines.

He was, she thought to herself as he stood there in shock, quite handsome.

“You’re awake,” he finally said, voice croaking in his throat. “I—uh, sorry, would you like a cuppa?”

Cicely considered the question for only a beat before nodding. He seemed nice enough, judging solely from his embarrassed reaction to the croaky sound of his voice. The boy disappeared and she waited patiently in the bed, flexing her toes to bring some feeling back into her limbs. She wondered how much time had passed—it seemed to be daylight out, so maybe not much time at all.

The boy returned, a second tea cup balanced in his other hand, his face more serious and put together than before. “Here you are,” he said, making his way over to her, his presence instantly changing the feeling of the room. Before, it was small, but not too small. Now, with his large frame and dark eyes, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space.

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the cup with cold hands. It was chilly in the room, probably from the draft coming in from the windows and her skirt which was still a bit damp in spots. The tea, though, was delicious on her tongue, plain, just how she liked it.

The boy grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to the edge of the bed before sitting down, eyes darting between the tea cup and her face. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Cicely.” She took another sip of the tea before resting it on her lap. “Is this your flat?”

“Yes,” Harry said, eyes glancing around the room. “My room too—sorry about that. It’s just me here, so I didn’t have anywhere else to put ya.”

So no wife or family then, Cicely thought, filing the information away for later. It was interesting, a boy of his age living alone. He must have moved away from home and made decent enough wages to get a place of his own, she decided, eyes fluttering around the room to see if she could pick up on any other clues about him. But she couldn’t find anything. “How did I get here?” She asked after leaving them in silence for a few moments, the curiosity getting the better of her.

Harry placed his teacup on the nightstand as he spoke, eyes avoiding hers. “Found ya in the road in the rain. Cold as ice and unconscious, all covered in mud. Didn’t want to leave ya out there, so I brought you here—thought I could take you home once you came to and all that. Call your husband.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought, and Cicely couldn’t help but smile internally at the thought of him thinking she was married.

Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. And not for a while, if she had any choice in the matter. “No husband,” she informed him, thumbs brushing over the duvet. “How long have I been out for?”

He pulled his lip into his mouth and Cicely didn’t know if she had ever seen something so enticing. “Almost a day.”

A day? God, her father would have her head. He probably thought she was dead after she didn’t come home. Although it wouldn’t be the first time she had let him think that, her flair for escaping after an argument a reoccurring personality trait that her father despised. Which of course, was exactly why she did it. “I hope I wasn’t a bother,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Harry shook his head, and Cicely studied his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the high rise of his cheekbones. He had a bit of scruff around his lips, which looked soft and pink and she tried not to think about what they would feel like. Cicely didn’t usually pay men all that much mind—sure she noticed them, but did she study every feature on their faces like she did Harry? No. She was intrigued by him, the rings on his fingers and the tattoos on his arms, the way he licked across his bottom lip. And perhaps that was why Cicely made no mention of needing to go, or that she should call her family.

“Are ya hungry?” Harry asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

At the concept of food, suddenly her stomach grumbled and she blushed, embarrassed at the sound, but Harry didn’t even react to it. “Yes, actually.”

He stood immediately, wiping his palms on his trousers as he did so. “I don’t have much here,” he said, taking their empty tea cups with him as she walked towards the door. “But I’ll put something together.” She watched him, unsure if he wanted her to follow. She was a bit curious as to what the rest of the flat looked like, she had to admit. “Ya comin’?”

Cicely scrambled to follow him, her stocking-clad feet nestling into the rug by his bed. Her skirt was crinkled from sleep and she straightened it as much as possible before sighing and exiting the room and into the hall. When he turned down a set of stairs, she realized that what she thought to be a flat was actually a little townhouse. When she reached the base of the stairs, she found that the rest of the home wasn’t much—dimly lit, only one other window in what seemed to be a small sitting room and a kitchen. A table was pushed to the side, two chairs tucked into it, a plate with crumbs on it sat on one side. The green wallpaper from the bedroom covered all of the walls of the home, and when she looked around, she saw a noticeable absence of most personal effects. He had only one photo up on the side table next to the couch, of what Cicely assumed was his family. Next to it laid another ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, an empty whiskey glass.

At the sound of a plate on the counter she turned to see Harry placing a slice of bread on a plate and tenderly spreading jam across it. Cicely tried to imagine her father even entering a kitchen and she had trouble with the idea, while here was Harry making her a slice of toast. The thought was actually quite endearing, despite the fact that Harry had not once smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said when he set the plate down on the table, grabbing the dirty one and taking it to the washbasin in the corner. Harry didn’t reply, so she took a bite. The jam wasn’t quite as good as what she was used to and the bread was a tad bit stale, but it was food all the same, and she didn’t mind all that much. As she ate, she watched Harry wash the plate, dry it with a dishrag, and place it back in a cabinet that held a few dishes.

He turned around when he was done, eyes trained on her with an intensity she was beginning to grow accustomed to from him. “I have work in a bit. Can I drop you someplace before that?”

Should he? Yes. Did she want him to? Not in the slightest. She pushed away the plate, and tried to figure out how to say this. “Would it be a bother if I stayed?”

Harry blinked at her a few times, his face finally changing from the usual intense stare that he gave her to one that was more curious in nature. “Is home not safe for ya?”

Cicely tried to decide whether or not she should lie to him. He seemed kind, generous, probably understanding, despite his inability to speak to her for very long periods of time without stretches of silence. Maybe he would understand that her desire not to go home wasn’t because home wasn’t safe, but because the life that was waiting for her was one she despised. So, she decided not to lie, but not to tell all of the truth. “No, it is. I’m just not eager to go back right now.”

“Oh.” Harry twisted a large gold H ring around one of his fingers, contemplating her words, before looking back up at her. “If ya want to stay, ya can. Know what it’s like to wanna hide for a bit.” Before she could request more information, he came towards her, snatching the plate and taking it back to the sink. He seemed to be awfully set on a clean kitchen, despite the messy state of his room. “You’ll have to come with me tonight, then.” He still had his back to her, so she couldn’t study his face as he said the words that piqued her interest.

Most girls would have probably requested to stay home, but Cicely wasn’t most girls. “Ok,” she replied, pushing back the chair. “Could I—uh—wash up somewhere?” The prospect of a bath sounded utterly delectable, although on second thought, she didn’t expect him to have a bath quite like the one she had at home.

Harry whirled around, eyes looking everywhere but her. “Yes. Um, there’s a basin in the washroom. Don’t have the water for a full bath right now, but…”

Cicely realized what he was so flustered about—he was embarrassed. Perhaps he had realized that her social station was a bit higher than his, that in her home they didn’t have to go fetch water somewhere, that she could have a bath relatively whenever she liked. And when she did it, someone else filled it for her. “That’s fine. I’ll manage.” She stood and made her way towards the washroom, following his directions, and shut herself inside. It was dark in there too—far less than she was used to. A silver bathtub was on one wall, and a smaller basin on a pedestal, a toilet in the corner. It was simple, bare bones, but she didn’t mind too much. Her father had put in running water when she was an infant, so she had never washed without it, but she decided it wasn’t too much of a change.

Quickly, she undressed, making sure the door was locked, and hung her clothing over the lip of the bath so it didn’t touch the floor. She took a rag and dipped it into the water, exhaling softly at the feeling of the cool water on her skin. There was some mud on her skin from when she had fallen, although she thought that perhaps Harry had washed some of it off—there wasn’t quite as much as she thought. A small mirror allowed her to wash the crust of mud from her forehead, and by the end of her washing she felt rejuvenated, even if it wasn’t a proper bath. Slowly, she slipped back on her clothes and considered for a moment the idea that she might need to purchase some more. Her clothes were stained from the mud, and she imagined she wouldn’t quite be able to get it out.

Although it would’ve been convenient, she didn’t imagine Harry had extra ladies clothes lying around for just this purpose.

She ruffled her hair slightly, the curls unfortunately having dropped for the most part, and sighed before letting herself out of the washroom. “Harry?” Cicely asked, turning the corner into the kitchen, where he stood, holding a glass of what she thought was a whiskey, a cigarette between his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a set of ladies’ clothes lying about, would you?”

Harry furrowed his brow before taking the cigarette from between his lips. “No—why?”

Cicely gestured at her stained clothes. “Mine are a bit dirty, and I wouldn’t want to wear them to your place of work like this.”

The chuckle that left Harry’s lips surprised Cicely in more ways than one. One, that he was laughing at all, for she didn’t find it to be a laughing matter. She didn’t want to make a bad impression to whoever his employer was, especially if she was going to have to be there. Second, his laugh was sweet, syrupy, one that rocked his shoulders, and made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to. “You wouldn’t want to wear your Sunday best to my place of work, love,” he told her, tapping his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You’re fine the way ya are, but we can track down some clothes for ya tomorrow.”

Where would he work where her appearance would be adequate? But rather than question him, she just nodded. “Well, I’m ready,” she told him.

“Gimme a mo’,” he told her, tucking his cigarette back between his lips before heading out of the room. Cicely decided to check out the sitting room a bit more, investigate the people in the sole photograph in the whole home. She picked up the photograph and studied it, a man, woman, and young woman, probably a few years older than Harry, stood outside of a family home, a younger Harry nestled between them. It was curious to see him younger, his face less defined, an obvious softness to his facial features. But what stuck out to her the most was the uniform he wore.

He had been in the war. Of course. Her father had avoided it because of a years old injury to his leg, although she had secretly always throught he had gotten his doctor to make it seem more severe than it actually was. Many of the men her parents had set her up with, including the horrid one they were currently trying to force her to marry, were in the war, but when she asked them about it, they only talked about their medals, heroism, the beauty of France’s countryside. But she also knew most of them had been officers, their social ranks earning them a certain level of protection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for Harry who had none of those privileges.

Footsteps came from behind her and she turned, dropping the photograph back to the table when she saw Harry in the hall watching her. He had changed while she was looking at the photo, a charcoal jacket over his shirt, a pin with a J on it buttoned to the lapel that she thought was a bit curious. He had a bag over his shoulder, and she wondered what was inside. “You were in the war,” she said, not acknowledging his appearance.

“Just like everyone else,” he replied, his response a stark departure from how the men she knew would’ve replied. “Come on, we’re goin’ to be late.” She followed him out, wishing she had a hat or a small purse with her at the very least, but she had nothing but her dirty clothes and scuffed boots.

When they stepped onto the street, the sight of a wide and long street, row houses lining each side met her gaze. They were in working class Birmingham, she thought to herself as Harry locked the door behind him. Most men would’ve made to put their arm through hers, but not Harry—he just began walking, letting her catch up to him, struggling to keep pace with his longer legs. His bag swung at his side as they walked, and Cicely took in their surroundings, the silence stretching between them. It was dusk and women were calling their children inside, the games of football on the street breaking up. Two young children squabbled until their mothers separated them, tugging their little hands inside. Doors shut behind them and Cicely snuck a glance at Harry. His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, most likely adjusted to their surroundings.

He didn’t want to talk, she understood from his body language, and she decided in a choice completely against her normal mannerisms, not to push him.

Cicely didn’t know what she expected from Harry’s place of work, but it was definitely not a boxing ring in an empty warehouse. She could hear the shouts and laughter of men from outside, and she had looked at Harry with confusion written all over her face when they approached the warehouse, but she followed him inside anyways. The smell of stale beer and sweat overwhelmed her immediately, and she had to squint in the darkness of the entryway. The ring had some lights rigged up around it, some chairs around it, but it was by no means someplace fancy.

So this was what Harry had meant by her not wanting to wear her Sunday best.

“You work…here?” She asked, turning to Harry, who stood beside her, watching her take in the surroundings. He nodded, offering no additional information. “And you box?” Another nod. “Is this legal?”

That’s when he gave another one of his chuckles, and then under his breath he said, “Doesn’t need to be, love. Josiah McClemmons runs it.”

Cicely may not live in Birmingham proper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know who Josiah McClemmons was. Everyone did. He basically ruled Birmingham, especially the working class neighborhoods, having built up his stronghold there. Her father complained about him at least once a week, about the violence and bloodshed in the city where his garment factories were. Although, Cicely had always thought to herself, her father probably shouldn’t complain too much because a dead husband meant a wife who had to work to feed her children, which meant a larger workforce for her father.

From the way Harry was greeted, Cicely assumed he was the reigning champion, the usual fighter here. Which meant that he was probably McClemmons’s payroll, if she had to extrapolate. “Do you work for McClemmons?” She asked when the few men who had come up to them walked away.

Harry adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and then nodded. “Could say that.” His eyes darted around the establishment, taking in the sight, before resting back on her. “C’mon, I’ve got to get changed and don’t want ya waitin’ out here.” He ushered her over to a man standing against a wall who wore a J pin on his lapel like Harry, which she now realized stood for Josiah’s name, a brand of who they worked for. “Tommy,” he said, the man’s gaze turning and settling on them. “This is Cicely. Keep an eye on her while I change?”

Tommy stood up straight immediately and when he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, Cicely couldn’t help but smile. “Pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady,” Tommy said to her, a wink gracing across his face.

When she turned to speak to Harry, he was already gone, a few paces away towards a door. “Is he good?” She asked Tommy, turning back to her new acquaintance.

Tommy’s eyes widened. “The best,” he informed her before taking a sip from a mug of what she assumed was beer. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never seen ‘im fight ‘fore.”

Cicely agreed, the prospect of a sweaty Harry in the ring a bit more enticing than she perhaps wanted to admit. She was able to get some information on Harry out of Tommy, the combination of a pretty girl and a mug of beer not a combination meant for secrecy. He fought with Josiah McClemmons’s youngest brother in the war, the experience making them nearly brothers, and came back to Birmingham with them. No one knew where Harry was from, but people had a number of guesses, everything from London to Liverpool. Apparently before the war he had been learning to fight, and the war sharpened his skills, so when they came back it seemed natural that Josiah would use the rings as a way to make money, using Harry as his prized fighter.

She couldn’t help but think it made Harry sound a bit like the Spanish bulls she had learned about in a magazine, a caged animal. But Tommy assured her Harry loved it when she asked, so she tried to put her mind at ease.

“Who is he fighting?” She asked Tommy after refusing his offer for a beer of her own.

“Peters—a local bloke,” Tommy replied. “Harry’s expected to win.”

Cicely gathered as much from the grumblings of his name that she could hear when the betting started, money flying in the air. It was fascinating to her, and she thought that she also fascinated the men—she was the only woman in the room and she tried not to squirm against the wall she leaned against.

But then, she heard a cry go up, and Harry’s opponent came out of a door, trailed by two men. “He’s massive,” she told Tommy as she watched the man walk to the ring.

Tommy grunted in response. “Harry’s fast, though.”

She hoped he was fast enough. Peters crested the ring, pushing himself between the ropes. One of his men handed him some gloves and Cicely watched as he pulled them on, his massive chest glistening under the gas lighting.

All of a sudden, a louder cry sounded, whoops and hollers of Harry’s name, and her gaze flickered to the door she had last seen him go into. There he was, walking towards the ring, a determined look set on his face. Tattoos littered his body and Cicely realized the few she had seen were a mere teasing of the real deal. And seeing Harry without a shirt on, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tanned skin in the light, she couldn’t help but think he was even more attractive than she had thought.

A man helped Harry into the ring, and when he stood up, she caught sight of tape covering where his nipples should be. What in the world? She turned to Tommy and pointed at Harry. “What is the tape for?”

Tommy guffawed immediately, beer sloshing in his mug. “He’s got ‘em pierced.”

“What?”

She expected Tommy to tell her he was joking, but instead he nodded. “Got ‘em done durin’ the war, apparently. Some dare from his mates. Now he’s gotta have ‘em taped up or they’ll get ripped out.”

Cicely truly didn’t have the words for a response to that. She turned back to the ring, eyes set on the two pieces of tape over each of his nipples, entranced by the idea of them being pierced. She had heard rumors from her friends of ladies getting them done, but men? Why on earth would they want them done? She had never understood it on women, but the prospect of them on men completely confounded her imagination. Although, her best friend had told her it made them more sensitive, so perhaps that worked on men as well.

The thought was tantalizing at the very least.

“Sure ya don’t want a beer, love?” Tommy asked.

She had grown to quite like his company. He was a bit crude, but for some reason she liked that he didn’t treat her like she was made of glass like most of the men she knew. Her gaze darted between Harry, standing in the ring, and Tommy’s mug. “You know what? Sure.”

Tommy beamed. He was overjoyed at the idea, and Cicely was as well. She had never actually had beer before, just sips of champagne and wine here and there when she snuck it from her parents or during parties. But nothing as normal as beer—she didn’t even think her father drank it, to be honest. Perhaps that was why the idea was so exciting to her. Tommy left her on her own for a few minutes and she tried not to let the stares that still lingered on her bother her. Instead, she watched Harry, listened to the announcer, some chap in a jacket and askew flat cap, read out their names and weights. The part about Harry being the reigning champion stuck with her.

Cicely had never seen a boxing match before. Sure, she had heard of them, but actually been to one in person? Never. And much less one that was definitely illegal and held in a warehouse, a bunch of drunk men betting and still in their work uniforms. It made her heart race and she liked the feeling—usually she just got it when she rode Joseph, who she hoped had gone home to her estate.

“Here ya are.” Tommy had reappeared, a full mug of beer in his other hand for her. “Got ya somethin’ my sister likes.”

Cicely took the mug. It was heavy, heavier than she was expecting. Would she even be able to drink it all? She stared at the murky brown liquid, the foam on top, and then up at Tommy who she could tell was stifling a laugh. Fuck it, she thought. And took a long sip. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Sour, sure, but it was also refreshing. A bit heavy, and considering she had only eaten some toast today, that wasn’t a negative thing. “It’s not bad,” she told Tommy, who gave her a grin in response.

She was about to say something else when she heard a bell sound—she had been so focused she had missed the start of the match. Whirling around, the first thing she saw was Peters’ arm fly through the air. The breath knocked from her chest at the possibility of Harry getting hit, but to her pleasant surprise he ducked it completely, feet helping him to move away from his attacker. The crowd cheered and Cicely took another sip, the action of having the drink in her hand helping calm her nerves as she watched Harry dance around Peters, ducking at every punch. She could see the frustration in Peters’ eyes, and the focus in Harry’s eyes making her scream out his name along with the men in the room.

She could feel Tommy’s eyes on her as she did it. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that surprise was written all over his face. If Cicely was going to be at a boxing match for the first time in her life, drinking her first beer, she was going to enjoy it. And watching Harry take a swing—and make contact—at Peters was exactly the excuse she needed to scream his name again.

The match passed quickly, and by the end of it Cicely had reached the end of her beer and her and Tommy were laughing at the fear in Peters’ eyes as Harry’s punches landed. He was winning by a long shot, and she had to admit, she was proud. During the whole match she had barely been able to take her eyes off of him, gaze trained on the sweat dripping down his cut body, his broad shoulders and tattooed skin glistening. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat, and for some reason she had the innate desire to twirl it off of his forehead and see what he did.

She also desperately wanted to see his nipples without the tape.

Desperately.

He was beautiful in the ring, his steps almost like choreography she had learned as a child to all of the dances she had to know for parties. Except Harry looked like a natural up there, his body moving before Peters made the move, as if he could read his opponent’s mind, his reflexes faster than anything she had ever seen before. She had a million questions for him the minute he stepped out of the ring, but the first thing she wanted to was clean the blood off of his body—blood which was a mixture of Harry’s and Peters’.

The end of the match happened so quickly that Cicely barely caught it. One minute, Harry was boxed into a corner, his arms up to protect his face, and the next, he was throwing a powerful punch to Peters’ face, the sound of bone crunching at Peters hit the ground so loud she could hear it over the men yelling in the ring. The announcer counted and she watched Harry’s chest rise and fall, his breathing ragged. Everyone else was staring at Peters, but her eyes were glued on Harry. And then, his lifted to her, their sight lines catching from across the room, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile at her.

As much as she wanted to rush to the side of the ring as many people did, she waited where she was. She knew Harry would come find her eventually, since she was sleeping in his home, as weird as that sounded in her brain. So she turned to Tommy while she waited, her bones feeling light in her body. “He’s good,” she said, her words slightly slurring. Huh. That was weird.

“Told ya!” Tommy replied, taking her mug from her. “Forgot to ask you, love, how do you know our fighter?”

Her eyes trailed across the room to Harry, who she noticed was making his way towards them, a towel draped around his neck. “He saved me,” she said, watching his body flex as he moved. And her words were true, but in that moment she didn’t know quite how true they were. Only later, would she look back on the moment she met Harry and consider how he had changed her life by picking her lifeless body up on that dirt road in the middle of a storm.

Harry had fought the desire to look at Cecily throughout the match, and now that he was done he couldn’t stop. She looked so relaxed, leaned against the wall with Tommy laughing, her blond hair messy and her eyes bright. It was if his feet were carrying him towards her without a second thought, weaving through the crowd of sweaty drunk men in pursuit of the girl made of light. The closer he got, though, the more he noticed how she stumbled on her feet, how rosy her cheeks were, how loud she laughed.

Fuck.

Tommy had gone and gotten her drunk. Tommy might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t make him the smartest bloke in a room.

As he reached them, she took an uneasy step and Harry was there immediately. His hands fit around Cicely’s waist like it was the place he belonged, the lingering smell of perfume in his nostrils before he could clear the fog of his mind. “Ya okay, love?” The words slipped from his mouth, the pet name he had never called a single woman before just finding his way into his speech, as if his brain knew that she was special. He sure thought so.

Cicely turned her head, her gaze catching his and a smile broke across her face. “Harry! You were incredible!”

“Thank you,” he replied, gingerly removing his hands despite the fact that all he wanted was to hold onto her hips for the rest of time. “Tommy, did you give her beer?”

“He did,” Cicely answered instead, a hiccup escaping her mouth. She rushed to cover her lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks at the sound. “It was quite tasty.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said, giving Tommy a hard look that Tommy only shrugged at. “I’ve got to change and get you home,” he told her, processing the situation here. Although he trusted Tommy with his life, in this moment he didn’t trust him not to give Cicely more beer.

Before he could say anything though, Cicely was speaking, her fingers brushing across his arm. The feeling sent sparks up his spine, delicate compared the touches he was used to, the ones he had just experienced. Her fingers weren’t callused, but soft, as if she hadn’t seen a day of work in her life. Which she probably hadn’t. “Can I come with you?” She asked, eyes on his, a slight pout on her lips that drew his gaze in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

“While I change?”

She nodded. “I’ve got some questions about the match that I want to ask you.”

Harry glanced at Tommy who he could tell was barely holding back a laugh, a grin on his face that told Harry he would never hear the end of this exchange. “Fine,” Harry told her, the word coming out gruff. “Tommy, I’ll see you later.”

Cicely slipped her fingers around Harry’s wrist as he stepped away, and he tried to resist the immediate urge that came over him to rip them off, the touch something he hadn’t experienced in ages. The feeling of a woman’s hands on him was one of the things he had not indulged in when he came back from France, preferring drink and alcohol to drown the memories in. The prospect of one of them experiencing him at night, while he slept, was enough to make him frightened enough to avoid the concept.

So when Cicely touched Harry, even in the simplest of ways, it stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something that he hadn’t experienced since before his life changed, since before he saw men die in front of him, his friends lose limbs and call out for their mothers in their final moments. He had always thought that his ability to feel had died on the battlefields of France, but with Cicely’s fingers on his skin, perhaps he was wrong.

She didn’t remove them, either, as they moved through the throngs of men. When they reached the hallway that led to the room where he got dressed, though, he had no reason to let her continue touching his skin. So he wrenched his hand from her grip, as much as he wanted to let her touch every inch of his skin if she could continue to make him feel something again.

“I need to wash off,” he said when he shut the door behind them. “Wait over there.” He pointed to a couch in the corner of the room. Usually it was an office of some kind, but for Harry it was his dressing room. A basin of water sat on a table, cold and full, and he was itching to wash his sweat-coated skin. Surprisingly, Cicely followed his directions, and so he turned to the basin, using a rag to rinse off his skin, the feeling of the cold water like heaven on his pores.

“When did you learn to box?”

His head perked up at her voice. He could barely see her in the dimly lit room, but the outline of her was enough, her legs thrown over the arm of the couch in a complete unladylike way. “I was sixteen.” He surprised himself with his honesty, but in the room with just Cicely, for some reason he let a piece of his past slip through.

“Do you like it?”

The question had Harry pause. Did he like it? He cupped some water and ran it through his hair, the sound of the water dripping into the basin filling the silence between them. “It’s a job,” he told her simply. It was the best answer he had. He didn’t really have the luxury of considering whether or not he liked his job. It paid the bills and earned him a reputation that meant no one tried to talk to him, which was all he wanted. After France, all he wanted was to be left alone, save for a select few.

He was focused on his thoughts and the murky water in front of him that he didn’t see Cicely move from her position on the couch. Suddenly, she was there, her fingers dancing across his back that faced her. “Hand me the basin,” she said, voice firm in his ears.

Harry considered fighting her, but his body exposed him. His body craved her touch on his skin, and so he slid the basin to the side so she could reach it. The rag was wrung, and then she was brushing it over his back, reaching the places he couldn’t reach. He could smell her perfume, the faintest taste of beer on her tongue as she breathed lightly in his ear, the traces of jam on her breath from the food he had given her hours before. It made his fists clench against the table and he hoped she didn’t notice.

They stayed that way, Cicely brushing the rag across his skin, wiping away his sins from the night. Her fingers brushed a cut once or twice and he hissed, stopping her in her tracks. She halted her motions each time and wrung out the cloth with fresh water, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch he had never felt. She murmured how they needed alcohol when they got home, how she needed to properly clean the wound. It was something his mother would’ve told him, he thought to himself, a thought he quickly pushed aside as he clenched his jaw.

“Turn around,” she said, voice so quiet he barely heard it above their breathing.

And Harry did as she said. She had made him pliant under her touch, his desperation not to let her stop clouding his ability to speak. His bum pressed against the table and his eyes caught hers in the dim lighting, the gaze that passed between them making Harry stop breathing for a second. But when she brushed the cloth over a bruise, the wince that fell from his lips drew him from his fog.

The rag criss-crossed his body, covering the area he had already cleaned, but he didn’t stop her. It was only when her fingers brushed over the tape across his nipples that his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. But her eyes zeroed in on him, a determined look in her eyes that made him pause. “Let me see them.” Her words were gentle, but firm.

That made him release her hand, and he sucked in a breath and she pulled the tape from his nipples, the air on his sensitive skin making his stomach clench. He stood there under her gaze as she looked at him, the bars through each nipple that he had gotten on a dare. At first, he had been embarrassed of them, regretted them because they hurt like hell and scratched against his uniform. He considered getting them removed, or just ripping them out, but each time he paused. Paused just enough to let the thought pass, and his best friend’s voice entered his mind. “Who gives a fuck, anyways?” And that was the voice that made him keep them.

Now, it was too late to turn back. He was a boxer and the moment he stepped into the ring with taped nipples, it became something he was known for. The stories circled, tall tales that made Harry chuckle to himself, but he never told the truth. He liked the mystery around them. They became a sort of badge of honor, something that set him apart.

But he had never experienced a woman’s gaze on them, and he couldn’t help but fear her reaction. Would she be disgusted? Ridicule him?

Cicely, though, just looked at them, and then up at his face. “What do they feel like?” She asked tentatively.

It was a question he had never been asked before, actually. And one he didn’t quite know how to answer, because after two years with them they had become normal to him. “They heighten everything,” he replied honestly. It was about the only answer he could give.

This seemed to pique her interest. “Can I touch them?”

Fuck yes, his body screamed, desperate for her fingers on the most sensitive part of his body. His gaze zeroed in on hers, searching her eyes for a hint of a possibility she would ridicule him. But instead he found just genuine curiosity. And perhaps a hint of desire. So, he told her, “Yes.”

When her fingers grazed the bars, her warm touch on the cold metal that ran under his skin, he tried not to flinch, but it was difficult. Her touch was like a lightning bolt through his body, setting every one of his nerves on fire. Holding in the desire to moan was one of the hardest things he had done, and as she touched the other, fingers curiously exploring his skin, it became more difficult. And then she whispered, “I like them.”

Harry’s eyes snapped from where her fingers touched his skin to her eyes, and he found her already looking at him. He watched her lick across her top lip, the flush to her cheeks and wide eyes that stared at him making his body boil. It was too much. He pulled away, desperate for space, for something to allow himself to calm down.

Cicely must have sensed the change in his demeanor, because she immediately stepped back, the rag dropping into the basin of dirty water. Sweat, grime, and blood all mixed together and Harry thought as he looked at his reflection in the water that a mixture had never described him more.

“Let’s go, I need to eat,” Harry said, bending to grab the shirt from his bag on the floor.

Cicely didn’t reply with anything but a nod, and when he had laced his boots she followed him out of the room. The warehouse had emptied out, just some of Josiah’s boys around to help direct the cleanup. Harry knew he’d stop by the office tomorrow to get his cut of the winnings, so he didn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he pushed open the front doors and led Cicely out into the nighttime Birmingham breeze of coal and horse shit.

Cicely awoke to the sound of someone moaning and talking. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the darkness in Harry’s bedroom, her mind taking a second to gather her bearings and remember where she was. Then she heard the sound, something that resembled an injured animal, the edge of fear and pain that made her skin crawl. Last night Harry had given her one of his shirts to sleep in after she said she wanted to wash her clothes and leave them out for the night, and the cotton material bunched under her thighs and she swung them over the edge of the bed. She paused to see if she heard the sound again.

This time, a scream ripped through the house, and Cicely knew something was wrong. She pulled open Harry’s door and moved through the hall, eyes searching to see if she saw anyone, but it was empty. And then she heard it again, and this time without the barrier of a wall, she could tell who it was.

It was Harry.

Her feet didn’t bother to avoid the creaks on the stairs as she moved down the stairs to where he was asleep on the couch. The only light was the faintest bit from the moon, high in the sky, and it was just enough to make out the pained expression on Harry’s face and the thrashing of his body on the couch. He was talking to himself, something about the dark and the word No repeated over and over again, his voice cresting in panic.

It was a nightmare, she realized as she crouched next to him on the floor.

“No, please, it’s too dark, please—“

“Harry,” she said firmly, hands reaching out to grip his wrists to hold his arms to the couch cushions underneath him. “Harry, wake up.”

His eyes didn’t open though, and his body only trashed more under her. She didn’t know what to do, how to wake him up. The only thing she could think of was how when she was scared it helped when she felt safe. She didn’t know what made Harry feel safe, but for her, it was when her mother held her. So carefully, she lifted Harry’s shoulders, trying to avoid his arms trashing as she did so. Once she was seated on the couch she tugged him into her, letting her arms wrap around his chest and pin down his arms.

She murmured his name over and over again, softly in his ear to try and rouse him from the dream. “It’s Cicely,” she told him, “You’re safe, Harry, you can wake up. Wake up, Harry, you’re safe.” With their bodies this close she could feel his heartbeat, the way it raced in his chest. What was he experiencing? Where was he? She wanted to rouse him, pull him out of it and bring him back to her, but she was powerless.

After a few tries, she saw his eyes flutter open, his arms immediately trying to himself free from her grip.

“It’s me,” she said softly. “Hey, hey, it’s me.”

“Cicely?” His voice was rough from the screaming and it broke her. It was raw in a way she hadn’t heard from him, honest and open. Nothing protecting him from her.

She could feel his heartbeat slowing already, and the thought put her at ease. “Yes.”

He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and Cicely just ran her hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him as much as she could. His breath was ragged, big inhales of air and deep exhales, but it was becoming more normal as time passed. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually said, voice small in the room.

But he had nothing to apologize for, Cicely thought to herself. The last thing he should do is apologize—it’s not his fault. “It’s okay,” she told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That made him pull away from her arms, her skin immediately missing his. Her arms fell to her side and Harry sat up, swiveled, and laid his face in his hands. “No,” is all he told her, not even lifting his head.

She didn’t know what he needed from her in that moment, but she knew she would do anything. Somehow she had only known this boy for a day, and yet the sight of his pain made her heart break. “Do—do you want me to stay?” It was the only thing she could think of to help, and if it would work then she would do it.

But he shook his head. He didn’t want her there. And the last thing she would do is push him after what had just transpired, so she stood, the hem of his cotton shirt reaching an unladylike mid-thigh. When he finally looked at her, she saw that he noticed, his eyes falling to the place where the material ended and her skin began. She tugged at it, hoping he didn’t judge her—she didn’t exactly stop and think about getting dressed, she just moved. “I…”

“Looks good on ya,” he said, words reverberating in Cicely’s mind.

She stood there, as still as stone, trying to figure out what to say to him. No man had ever seen her like this, and she had always been taught that they shouldn’t. And yet, the idea of Harry seeing her exposed legs, her hair messy from sleep, her in his shirt, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. So she didn’t disguise the blush that she could feel in her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Try and get some sleep,” she told him, and then she turned away, heading up the stairs and back to his room.

When she looked back from the third stair, Harry’s eyes were transfixed on her figure, gaze locked on her. For a moment, she held it, letting him watch her, but then she turned her head and went the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Harry behind in the darkness.

Harry didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The prospect of having the dreams again (although he got them most nights) and Cicely waking up again was too frightening a thought for him to allow himself to go to sleep. Instead, he ended up having a glass or two of whiskey in the wee hours of the morning, smoking too many cigarettes on the doorstep, and thinking. His thoughts revolved around Cicely, weaving in and out of the snatches of moments they had spent together—of which there were few—and the bits he knew about her. Which was very little. He didn’t even know her last name, where she was from, or why on Earth she was out in the middle of a rainstorm, lying on her back in the mud. He hadn’t asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or push her to talk, because he had this feeling that she was more than some spoiled rich girl.

The fact that she was rich was an assumption on his part, but one he felt was probably right. First, there were her clothes, which were nicer than any he had seen a girl around here wear, boots that looked like they were new, unscuffed. Then there was the way she looked at his neighborhood—as if she had never seen something like it before. When she had walked out of his room and into the rest of the house, he had had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should be embarrassed, and at moments he was. But as they spent more time together, he began to get the feeling that even though Cicely may not be used to the way he lived, she didn’t seem to care all that much.

It intrigued him, the way she looked at his world. The way she had watched him during the match, the feeling of her eyes on his skin something he couldn’t shake, the way she had adapted to Tommy like a chameleon, blending in with ease. The way she had slid into the booth at the pub last night where they had eaten a late meal, complete disregard for the fight breaking out in the corner, her focus only on him and their meal. He kept expecting her to fit into the mold he had created for her, but she continued to slip away. And he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Or the fact that she seemed to want to stay. When she had asked him if she could stay, and she said she didn’t want to go home quite yet, he immediately jumped to the worst of conclusions. That her father hurt her, that something had happened, and she was running from a past as dark as his. But then he reminded himself that she had money, wealth, status. Problems like the ones he knew didn’t exist in their world. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to cast her in a mold of wealth and opulence he had read about and encountered on a handful of occasions, people who used people like him and tossed them aside when they had had their fill. But the world wasn’t fair.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, the sounds of horses and distant rumble of cars, clap of house doors as men left for work telling him that the day was beginning. It was time for him to see Josiah and pay a visit to Nellie, who he hoped wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Inside, Cicely was still asleep—he couldn’t hear any footsteps from upstairs—so he decided to dart out while she was still sleeping. With any luck, he’d be back before she awoke.

The walk to Josiah’s offices was a well-remembered one, the row houses, shipyards and factories he passed old friends. He waved to the children he passed on their way to work or school, and nodded to the men he knew from matches or Josiah. He lived deep in Josiah’s territory, a requirement for what he did, and as a result every man was on Josiah’s payroll in some way. They all knew when to turn their heads, when to lock their doors, and when to pull out their guns. It used to unnerve Harry, but with time it became as normal as the nightmare that plagued his sleep.

He knocked on the back door as he was trained, a nod to Cyril when the door opened. People congratulated him on the match last night, and he didn’t respond. They all knew he was quiet most of the time, knew not to expect lengthy replies. Before France, he used to not shut up. Now, he preferred to think rather than talk.

Josiah’s door was ajar, his ankles propped up on the desk, the telephone stand in one hand, the handset in the other. His eyes darted up as Harry opened the door wider, shutting it quickly behind him. Josiah never changed much—a mustache on his upper lip, hard brown eyes that only lightened if he had enough drink in him, lips that curved into a smile when someone made a very bad mistake. He wore exclusively charcoal suits, saying black was too common, and he wanted to stand out, and a dark blue tie every day, a silver pocket watch chain tucked into his vest. Josiah had built his operations from the ground up, a man of barely 25 years of age when he came back from France, determined to make a name for himself and protect the community that had been, in his eyes, murdered by the British government for a war they had no business being conscripted for. His hatred for the government ran deep, deep enough to line the pockets of the police across southeast Birmingham, especially in Balsall Heath.

“Alright, but don’t fuck it up, ya hear?” Josiah said, nodding for Harry to sit in the leather chair across from his desk. It was the chair where Harry had sat during many conversations, both good and bad. “Yeah, okay.” Josiah hung up, resting the telephone back on the desk and running a hand through his longer dark brown hair. He picked his cigarette up from where it was burning in the ashtray, and swung his feet off the desk. “Heard ya won,” Josiah said, finally speaking to Harry.

Harry took the offer of a cigarette and nodded. “Peters wasn’t as bad as everyone said.”

“Mhm. I’ll tell Billy that when I see him.”

“He was Billy’s?” That was a surprise. Billy had been on the rise in the neighborhoods bordering Balsall Heath, his power growing to become something threatening to Josiah’s operation. So for Harry to be fighting one of Billy’s boys was unusual to say the least. Josiah didn’t usually like to risk the fights turning into something more—at least, not when they weren’t meant to be.

Josiah nodded, pushing aside a stack of papers and resting his elbows on the oak desk. “Newer kid. I was promised no trouble, thought I’d take the gamble.”

“Warn me next time, eh?” Harry wouldn’t have had Cicely within a mile of the warehouse if he had known his opponent was one of Billy’s. The prospect of guns coming out while she was in the room made his skin crawl.

But Josiah just chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Goin’ soft on me, boy.” Harry hated it when Josiah called him that, but he always had. So he wasn’t going to start correcting him now, even though he was anything but a boy. “Heard ya had a girl there.”

Cicely. He knew Josiah would hear, but he had hoped he’d have a bit more time. “Yeah.”

Josiah wrenched open a door, reaching around for what Harry hoped was his pay. He wanted to get out of this damned office. Harry tolerated Josiah for Jack’s sake, but in truth Josiah had always been a bit too much of a wild card and a short fuse for Harry’s liking. But he gave Harry work, so he didn’t let his feelings get in the way. Plus, most men were short fuses after the war. “Where’d she come from?”

Harry chose not to answer, and thankfully Josiah didn’t push. He knew Harry didn’t like to talk, and most times he didn’t push too hard. “D’ya have the money from Manchester?”

Josiah didn’t reply, just pulled out a stack of bills, crisp and ordered, and placed them on the desk. “Manchester and last night,” he said and Harry took it, folding the bills over and shoving them into his pocket. It was more than most should carry, but Harry was anything but most people. “Don’t spend it all in one place, yeah?”

Unable to help it, he rolled his eyes, the tension in the room lifting. Josiah smirked and Harry pushed back the chair, the thought of getting back to Cicely making him eager to leave. “When’s Jack back?”

Josiah pulled a ledger from a drawer before responding. “Sunday.”

Harry nodded. Jack had been in London since last week, working on some deal that Harry didn’t have the status for the details on. “Tell him I’ll come by?”

“Sure.” Josiah didn’t look up as Harry took his leave, shutting the door behind him and giving Josiah’s secretary a nod. Next was Nellie’s, which he hoped would go smoothly, at least.

Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Nellie stared at him when she opened the door, hair swept up on her head, clothes disheveled as usual. She cocked her hip against the door and rolled her eyes at him before asking, “What d’ya want, Harry?”

It had been over a year since he had rejected her, and yet she still treated him like he had broken it off with her after months. When in actuality, she had been the one to pursue him, and he hadn’t had it in him to tell her he wasn’t interested until she tried to kiss him. To say the least, things had been icy ever since. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Clothes for who?”

“A girl.” To her credit, she didn’t react to that news with anything but a sigh.

“What happened to hers?” She asked, opening the door wider. He stepped inside, the sound of children from upstairs wrapping around him, the sound making his body itch. It was too loud.

“Mud,” he replied simply, looking around for something to keep his hands busy, but he turned up empty. “So?”

Nellie pointed to the couch in the sitting room, a bit sunk in and worn with love. “I’ve got some that no one picked up. What size is she?”

Harry sat down the couch, folding his fingers together. “About yours.”

Nellie gave him another pointed look, but said nothing. She just disappeared to where she kept the clothes she mended for ladies, and he had to sit there and listen to her younger siblings squeal and yell up the stairs. When she reappeared, she had a few things in a stack for him, which she set on the table next to him. “There.”

He looked at the stack, the fabric without anything around it. He would have to walk home with them under his arm. “No wrap?”

“No,” she replied, and he decided that she purposefully didn’t give him any. “3 shillings.”

Harry pulled the coins out and pressed them into her hand, taking the clothes and tucking them under his arm. “Thank you,” he said, and headed for the door, knowing when he wasn’t wanted.

“Bye, Harry,” Nellie said, and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which he didn’t deserve, but wasn’t the type to protest. He checked his pocket watch—a little over an hour had passed since he left home. He wondered if Cicely would be waiting for him.

Walking into his home to find Cicely in his kitchen in nothing but his shirt made Harry stop in his tracks. While he knew he had seen her like this last night, last night it had been dark. In the dark he couldn’t see the lines golden curl of her hair, the milky white of her skin that seemed to go on for miles. It should be illegal, he thought to himself, to look as beautiful as her.

“You should put some clothes on,” he finally said, words gruff in the distance between them.

Cicely looked down at her legs and then at Harry. “I was waiting for you to come back, hopefully with clothes. Which I see you did.” She nodded at the stack of clothes under his arm and Harry knew he should move to give them to her, but he was frozen in place.

Seeing her in his kitchen, a plate with a piece of bread on it, an open jar of jam on the counter next to it, tea in his cup, it made him wonder for a split second what it would be like if she stayed. Like, really stayed. He knew that what was happening wasn’t permanent, that eventually she would have to go back to wherever home was for her. But having her in his home was making him realize that perhaps he didn’t like being alone as much as he had thought.

“Harry?”

His thoughts cleared and he jolted into action. He set the clothes on the table by the door and walked into the sitting room leaving her make her own decisions. Space, he thought to himself, he needed space from her. It was a push and pull inside of him—a pull that drew him to her and a push when he got too close. He stood by the fireplace, eyes trained on the black metal of it, as he listened to Cicely move through his home. Across the room to get the clothes, feet creaking on the stairs as she went up. When he heard her door shut he let out a breath, his body softening, tension leaving him.

The prospect of breakfast was enticing—he hadn’t eaten this morning. Porridge was what he had every morning, and this wasn’t the time for that to change. He shrugged off the jacket he had on, dropping it onto the couch, and headed for the kitchen.

When Cicely reappeared, the porridge was done and he was pouring it into two bowls, one for each of them. “Did you make me breakfast?” She asked, and his eyes drifted up to her. Nellie’s clothes fit her perfectly—a bit more snug on the curves of her body, but he wasn’t complaining.

“S’just porridge,” he replied and took the two bowls to the small table. He returned to the kitchen to grab his cup of tea, and he immediately felt her presence next to him as she picked up her own cup, left on the counter. Somehow he would have to get over the tension that raked through his body whenever she got near, but he didn’t know how he would manage that.

Cicely turned away from him and he followed her to the table, eyes trying to land anywhere but her body. She pulled out a chair and smiled at him softly. “Thank you. I’m not used to men cooking for me.”

Harry realized that him making breakfast for both of them meant they would have to eat together, that they would be forced to talk. The idea made him falter as he went to sit, but he forced himself to do it anyways, knowing that she would probably make him. “Mum taught me,” he mumbled, chair scraping against the floorboard as he say.

“Is that her in the photo?”

He knew exactly which photo she was talking about—the only one he had up. “Yes.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dipped her spoon into the porridge, taking a bite. She was probably used to better quality, an actual chef maybe (he had heard rich people had those), but she didn’t give any indication that it was bad. Instead, she just took another bite before opening her mouth again to speak. “Where are you from?”

Harry didn’t tell people where he was from. It was a decision he made when he came to Birmingham, to leave his past behind him. The photo was up in his sitting room because he would’ve felt like shit for not putting it up, not because he particularly wanted it there.

“Harry?” She prompted, gaze fluttering over his face.

His grip tightened on the spoon in his palm, eyes on the food in front of him. “I don’t talk about my past.” Why did he want to tell her? He could feel it on the tip of his tongue and he tightened his jaw, trying to keep it from tumbling out on its own accord.

Cicely considered his statement as she sipped on her tea. “What do you talk about?”

The question made him look at her, her brown eyes already waiting for his. “What d’ya mean?”

“If you don’t talk about your past, then what do you talk to people about?”

He didn’t talk to people, he thought to himself. That was how he dealt with it. He only spoke to people who he felt safe with—Jack mainly, sometimes Tommy, Josiah if forced. They all knew his past, knew not to share it around. “Dunno.”

The sigh that slipped from her lips made Harry grimace. He had disappointed her and he didn’t like the feeling. “How about this? I tell you about myself, and you do the same in return. We each get a question.”

The idea was enticing, mainly because Harry desperately wanted to know more about her. She was like a period to him and he wanted to know everything that came before it in the sentence. Was it worth telling her about his past? Perhaps. “Fine. What’s your last name?”

Her eyes twinkled, a playful grin sliding onto her face. “King,” she said, that one piece of information rocking Harry’s world immediately. The Kings were as notorious as Josiah was, just in a different way. They owned dozens of garment factories in Birmingham, controlled a handful of shipyards, one or two coal factories. Harry estimated probably half of Birmingham’s working class was employed by the King family and he assumed properly, by Cicely’s father.“Where are you from?”

“Church Hulme,” he told her. “Who is your father?”

He searched her expression to see if she recognized it, but she didn’t seem to. And why would she—it was nothing but a small farming town, some local businesses and a forge. “William King. How old are you?”

So she was the daughter of the head of the King family, an heiress to a fortune larger than anything he could imagine, no doubt. He knew the Kings had only daughters, but he didn’t know how many, or if Cicely was the oldest. The importance of staying up to date on the lives of the King family was never something he felt inclined to do, but now it was vital information. “22. How did you end up on that road?”

“I went riding,” she said after taking another bite of porridge. “The lightning scared my horse and he bucked me off. I must have passed out when I hit the ground.” Cicely considered him for a moment before speaking. “Where did you fight?”

Harry’s blood ran cold at her question. It dredged up memories he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re done,” he told her, pushing away his finished porridge and standing abruptly.

“Harry, wait.“ Her hand wrapped around his wrist, catching his arm as he stepped away, and the feeling of her skin on his made him have to close his eyes to get his breathing under control. Did she know what she did to him? “I’m sorry.”

“‘m not talking about that,” he said, not budging from his position.

Cicely’s thumb brushed across his forearm, the thinner skin meaning he could feel the press of her fingers on his body. “That’s okay,” she said, voice soft. “Will you come back?”

Although he probably shouldn’t, he opened his eyes and turned back around. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

Her hand dropped from his wrist immediately at his question. “My father is forcing me to marry Clifford Stevens. Do you know who that is?” Harry shook his head. He didn’t exactly keep up with high society Birmingham circles in his free time. “He’s thirty and disgusting. He never even acknowledges that I might have a brain, much less that I’m a human being. If I marry him I’ll end up shut in his estate to raise his children for the rest of my life and I would rather die than sentence myself to a life like that.”

Clifford Stevens immediately became Harry’s least favorite person in the world, with the second being William King. To sentence a girl as kind, spirited, and open-minded as Cicely to a life as a glorified hostage was deplorable. “Why is your father forcing you to marry him?”

“We’re nearly broke,” Cicely said with a sigh. That was news to Harry. “Father has been losing money for years. He gambles most of what he makes away and because he’s a fucking idiot he never wins, and he hired a series of treasurers who are apparently inept at balancing the budgets. The factories are bleeding money and rather than take any responsibility for it, his solution is to marry me off with the knowledge that Clifford will bankroll my father’s lifestyle.” Perhaps it was the look on Harry’s face that gave him away, but Cicely gave him a weak smile. “Didn’t know the truth of the Kings, did you?”

“No.”

She fiddled with the cuff of her blouse as Harry considered her words. Was there any way to get out of her future? Probably not, unless she left behind everything that came with her name. Although from what she told him, it didn’t sound like there was much left. “Will you tell me about your family secrets in exchange for mine?”

His family secrets? God, where did he start. His gaze drifted across Cicely, her fingers brushing through the ends of her hair. What would she say to his answer? He supposed it didn’t hurt to tell her, since it wasn’t like she would tell anyone in his life about it. They were from different worlds, after all. “I found out when I came back from the war that ‘m not my father’s son.”

Cicely blinked at him, face softening as the words settled in. “What?”

“It’s just what it sounds like,” he said, leaning back in the chair and taking a breath. “Grew up my whole life thinking I had one father, when in reality it’s not him at all. My mum had an affair with some bloke and the man who raised me,” he spit out, hating the word father when he thought of him, “decided to keep me.” The feeling of her hand on his warmed his skin, but didn’t have the calm effect that he expected she intended. “Haven’t been back since.”

“Harry,” she murmured, calling his eyes from where her hand covered his to her face. “I’m sorry.”

It was the first time someone had told him that, now that he thought about it. He had told Jack, who said, Fuck mate, that sucks. Want another pint? And that was that, but he didn’t mind it. Somehow though, Cicely’s compassion made his chest ache, his throat close up. He could feel tears rising inside of him and he panicked—he hadn’t cried since France and he wasn’t bloody going to start now, not in front of her. “I—I need a second,” he said quickly, scooting back in the chair and walking into the hallway, leaving her behind at the table.

He rested his forearms on the wall and let his head fall on his neck. Deep breaths in and out, his eyes shut, struggling to keep his brain together as his ears buzzed. They didn’t deserve his anger, he reminded himself for the millionth time, they didn’t deserve shit after the secrets they had kept from him. That his sister wasn’t his sister. The man who had taught him how to play football, how to tie a tie, wrestled with him as a kid, wasn’t his father. His fists clenched against the wallpaper, knuckles hurting from last night, but the pain almost felt good to Harry—it was a feeling he knew.

All of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped his head to the side to find Cicely standing there. “What?” He asked, not moving an inch, but just looking at her, trying to understand for the life of him why she was there.

Instead of responding, she ducked her head under his arm and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling his body into hers.

She was hugging him, he realized.

He was frozen, unable to move. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her skin, somehow still clinging to her despite being in Balsall Heath for almost two days. The darkness of this place seemed to not even touch her, the light from her repelling all of it away. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt loosely, but just enough to where he could feel her through the fabric, her body feeling impossibly close to him.

No one had touched him like this in years. And he didn’t know what to do, how to respond, how to act.

The only thing he could think to do was to lift one of his hands from where it was clenched in a fist against the wallpaper, and brush it down her hair. It was soft against his skin, the strands of it darting between his fingers and petting the rough calluses he had from years of hard work and fighting. They stung against his cuts from the past week’s worth of fights, but he didn’t care. The prospect of touching her was enough to push all of the pain away.

Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes finding his. She was sandwiched between him and the wall and it was way too fucking close, so Harry immediately took a step back, giving her space. “Will you show me your Birmingham?” She asked him softly, voice echoing in the narrow hallway.

“What d’ya mean?”

“The Birmingham that’s your home,” she offered as an explanation. “I want to see it how you do.”

His Birmingham, the one that he had made a home, full of people who knew him as he was now. Respected him, feared him even—because what was the line, really, between fear and respect? The prospect of her wanting to understand his world the way he saw it was one he had never expected, but appreciated more than he could say. “Okay.”

Harry took her on a grand tour of Balsall Heath, them weaving through the streets with children playing, horses and cars making their way down the thoroughfares. He showed her the factories her father owned, which he assumed she had never seen before, and he studied her as she saw the conditions of the workers her father employed. Cicely seemed to be everything her father wasn’t and he hoped that that continued to her views on labor.

Parts of Balsall Heath were more well-to-do, people who could afford to send their children to the art school opposite the public baths. But Harry showed her the parts he knew, the parts where people scrapped together money to make ends meet, where they relied on wages from people like Cicely’s father. He was thankful he had gotten her clothes from Nellie because at least at this rate she blended in more, although her nice boots still stuck out like a sore thumb. Although, he expected her being with him drew a decent amount of attention. When men stopped him to talk about a match and their children were with them, Cicely would squat and talk to them, not minding that her skirts got muddy from the unpaved roads. Harry had a difficult time understanding her when she did things like that. She was so unlike so many people of her station, and yet here she was crouching to talk with grubby children on unpaved streets with a pile of horse shit just a few feet away with a smile on her face.

For a second, he let himself consider what it would be like if she stayed. But he didn’t let that thought linger for too long.

They visited his favorite pub for a pint and she laughed at the barkeep’s jokes and charmed every man they met. Perhaps Harry should have been hesitant to introduce Cicely to so many people in his world, but at the same time he didn’t care what people thought of him. If Cicely wanted to see his world, then by God was he going to show it to her.

It was getting dark by the time they made their way back to his flat, bellies full from a roast they’d had at the pub. Harry watched her walk beside him, her eyes darting around the homes as they passed. “I like it here,” she told him, not meeting his eye. “Everyone is so nice.”

He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. “Not everyone is. See all these houses?” She nodded. “In every one of them is a man who works for Josiah in some way. There’s a gun in every one of these houses for when Josiah calls.”

“Does he call?” Cicely asked, eyes finally turning to him as they walked.

He nodded, hoping that was the explanation she sought. From the way her expression changed, he assumed it was. Harry didn’t know what to do with her naivety, because it mystified him that someone could know so little of the world around them. Although, he thought as they rounded the corner to his street, he couldn’t exactly blame her.

“Does he ever…call for you?”

“Yes,” he responded because it was the honest answer. Even though he got to avoid a lot of the action because he specifically had told Josiah when he signed on to box for him that he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it came with the territory. Sometimes they needed all the people they could, and with someone as skilled at fighting as Harry and the experience from the war that he had, it would be idiotic for them not to call on him.

They reached his house in silence and he unlocked the door before pushing it open. She stepped in, and leaned down to wipe off her boots. He liked how she had already made herself feel at home in his space, knew that he always wipes off his shoes in the entryway on the mat, because otherwise the filth from the streets ends up inside. “Do you have a match tonight?” She asked, moving to the side.

“No.” It was his night off, but he had one tomorrow.

Her fingertips grazed the table and he watched them trail, the thought of her fingers on his skin drifting into his mind. “What do you do in the evenings you have off?”

Harry considered her question. He didn’t know, really. The evenings all passed, though, somehow. Time was irrelevant to him since the nights dragged on, plagued by nightmares most of the time. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall in the dark. Sometimes he took walks. Sometimes he drank enough to where the dreams didn’t come, but that was when it was really bad. “Nothing, really.”

Cicely rotated to see him, the sliver of moonlight those shone through his curtains hitting her blond hair perfectly. “Do you do anything but box?”

“No.”

“Do you read?”

Harry hadn’t read a book since before France. “Not anymore.”

Cicely turned to his bookcase, which had collected dust from disuse. “Then why do you have so many books?”

“They make me think of my sister,” he replied, the truth shocking both of them. Gemma loved books, always had—she would be curled up on a chair all day with a book in her hands if their mother didn’t make her stop. When he was young, she would read to Harry sometimes, his childhood memories a mixture of fantasy and historical tales from his sister’s lips. Perhaps the books were his way of keeping her close.

Her fingers grazed the spines of his collection, dust falling around her. “Do you talk to her?”

“No.” He’d picked up the telephone a handful of times, ready to say the number to the operator. But then he’d think again, and set down the stand.

“I like this one.” Cicely pulled a bound volume off the shelf, her eyes dancing across the cover. “The Magnificent Ambersons.”

The name meant nothing to him. He bought bestsellers because he knew his sister did the same. Sometimes he considered reading one just to see what she would’ve thought about it. One time he almost mailed her one on her birthday. But each time, he did nothing.

“Can I read to you?”

Her voice was hesitant, nervous of what he would say. No one had read to him since the war, when his friends would read aloud their letters if someone didn’t get one. It made them feel like someone was looking out for them, even if they didn’t get a letter themselves. If it had been someone else, he probably would have said no. But it was Cicely and her voice was like his favorite church hymnal, entrancing and meditative. He would have listened to her talk for hours. So he said yes.

She directed him to lay down on the couch and he did, while she sat in the chair to the side. Harry lit a cigarette as she opened the cover, the sound of her tuning the pages the only noise except for the flick of his lighter. And then, she began. “Major Amberson had ‘made a fortune’ in 1873, when other people were losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.”

Cicely’s eyes fluttered open and at first she didn’t know why. But then she heard a shout and a long, deep moan from downstairs. It was Harry again. Her hands pushed at the duvet and she flicked on the light by the bed. As she left his room the sound of him moaning in his sleep, words she couldn’t understand reached her ears, but louder without the muffling of the door. She didn’t bother to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way to the stairs and down to the first floor, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

A scream, blood curdling and filled with anguish, ripped through the house, and Cicely flew the remaining few feet to the couch. The sound of Harry’s scream, sharp and frightened, shook her to her core. She just wanted him out of there, free from the clutches of whatever demon robbed him of his sleep.

“Harry!” She said, loudly, jostling his shoulder to try and rouse him. Unlike last night when she had knelt by the couch, Harry wasn’t flailing around. He was stick-straight, as if held in a straight jacket, but she could feel his pulse racing when she pressed her fingers to his sweaty skin. It was almost more frightening—seeing him unmoving but mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The only part of him that moved was his head, ever so slightly shaking back and forth, a stream of Nos leaving his lips.

“No,” he mumbled, “please, it’s too dark, please.” His words from last night were back again, and she wanted to know where he was. What endless circle of hell he had found himself in and how to dig him out of it.

She decided to do what she had done before, and tried to lift his shoulders from the couch. But this time, Harry’s body was so tense that she couldn’t lift him, as if he had made himself a thousand pounds. As he let out another loud groan, she grimaced—she had to wake him, she just didn’t know how. “Harry,” she said again, “wake up, please. Please, Harry.”

But her words didn’t seem to do anything, because the next thing she knew his scream was filling her ears, the sound ripping at her heart. Her body seemed to move without her knowledge as she threw herself on top of him, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her palms cupping his face. “Harry,” she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Wake up for me, please. It’s Cicely. It’s safe, I’m here.”

Somehow, that seemed to rouse him, because his eyes fluttered open, his hazel eyes meeting hers in the dark. She was inches from his face, and she wondered if his sight was filled with her face just as hers was. “Cicely?”

“It’s me,” she said, brushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. “You’re safe now.” She could feel the sigh that left his body intimately, her skin touching his in parts. That was when she realized how close they were, how completely improper her position was. She was on top of him for Pete’s sake. Her knees were on either side of him, their most intimate parts just inches from one another. If her elbows weren’t propped up on his shoulders, her chest would be touching his.

She scrambled to move, but Harry’s hands moved to her hips, halting her in place. Her eyes flickered to his, trying to read him, decipher what he was doing. Usually she had a hard time reading Harry, understanding what he wanted and needed. But now she had no problem. She watched him lick his lips, his pupils still blown out from the dream trained directly on her. When his grip didn’t shift from her body, but his thumbs brushed across the shirt she wore—it was his—and she knew.

He wanted to kiss her.

Cicely had never been kissed. Boys had tried, but they’d been disgusting, as had every other man she had ever known, and she had no interest in them. Until Harry, she hadn’t ever understood romance novels, the attraction people described in them. Every man who had ever showed interest in her had been boring, unattractive, and more than anything, just made her want to run in the opposite direction. But Harry made her want to race towards him at full speed, the darkness in his gaze and warmth in his heart made her want to know his stories, the way he looked at her made a part of her heart race that she had never felt before. He made her feel alive, as if she had been sleeping for nineteen years, just waiting for him to arrive.

One of his hands moved from his hip, inching through the air until his knuckles softly brushed across her jaw. Her heart was beating in her chest so fast she wondered if she was going to pass out again. It couldn’t be possible to go this long without breathing, right? Because Cicely didn’t know the last time she had taken a breath, all of them swallowed up in the look on Harry’s face.

She wanted him to kiss her.

Desperately. With every bone in her body. Cicely wanted to know what he tasted like, what it felt like when he kissed her. She wanted to know everything about him, to uncover every piece of him like gifts on her birthday, ripping back the pieces of wrapping paper walls that kept him from her.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice one she had never heard before. It was soft, yearning, the encapsulation of everything she wanted in that moment.

He seemed to understand, because his fist uncurled, his palm moving to cup the side of her face. Slowly, his hand moved around her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the feeling of his callused hands on her skin alighting every inch in her body. Then, he pulled her head into him, his fingers on the back of her neck, delicately pressing at her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and perhaps hers were supposed to, but she wanted to see every moment of this—she wanted to know what he looked like when he kissed her.

When he did, his wet lips meeting hers, it was like returning home after a long trip, a homecoming she had been waiting for her whole life. Her eyelids shut, lost in the feeling of him, of the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey on his lips, the smell of him that she had grown to look forward to when she walked into the room he was in. Fingers drifted from her neck to her hairline, and he lifted his chin, changing the angle, and Cicely fell into the kiss. Her arms gave out, elbows falling from his shoulders to the cushions of the couch, her body suddenly flush with his.

Harry’s hand moved from her hip to curl around her lower back, tugging her impossibly close to him as their lips parted and met again. It felt like there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them and Cicely didn’t want any. Their noses were pushed against each other, foreheads touching, lips moving in a dance they somehow both knew by heart. She pushed her fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp lightly. A sound left his throat, and Cicely went to move her fingers, thinking she had hurt him.

“Do it again,” he mumbled.

Cicely’s eyes flickered open, studying him with her lips just a centimeter from his. He looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—it was a look she had never seen but one she wanted to see for the rest of time. So she brushed her nails across his scalp and slotted their lips back together, squeezing his hips with her knees. Under his shirt she could feel his heart racing, and she wondered if he was as affected by what was between them as she was. Because for her, it felt like her world had become Harry, even though she had known him for only two days. Somehow, he was her every thought and she didn’t want another thought to grace her mind ever again.

Harry shifted his head, nudging at her jaw and pushing it up so that her neck was stretched out. In rapid succession, he pressed soft kisses to her jaw and Cicely’s head lolled back to make room for him because it felt so good to have his lips on her skin. Then, his tongue flitted out and licked over her pulse point, making her squirm against him. His hands gripped her tightly in response, before ducking his head down, pulling the collar of her shirt to the side, and nipped at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

A breathy moan left Cicely’s mouth, mixed in with the undertones of Harry’s name. It seemed to spur him on, because he opened his lips and sucked on her skin softly. It was a sensation Cicely didn’t even know what to do with, how to process, but she knew it felt good, so she held his head to her skin, urging him to continue. Which he did—laving his tongue against her tender skin in between nips and harsh sucks, and when she looked down and saw the mark he had formed, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She just pulled his head up to meet hers, desperate to have his lips back on hers again.

His hands fell to her waist, clutching at his shirt that hung there. When he pulled at it, the hem crawled up, leaving her thighs mostly exposed to the cool air inside the room. But to Cicely, her flesh was burning from Harry’s touch and the cold air was welcome, and she didn’t mind that more skin than was appropriate was on show. She had a desire within her for Harry to see all of her, every inch of her skin if he would keep making her feel like this.

Harry seemed to not notice her exposed skin until his palms drifted downwards and gripped her skin, his eyes fluttering open and his lips pulling away from hers. “Cic—“

“It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing at the hair on his forehead. “I trust you.” And she did. She trusted him more than she did anyone else in her life, who had just let her down in a series of lies and cheats. He was the first person to take her for as she was, not demand her to be some prim and proper version, to show her the truth of their life, even if it was in pieces. It didn’t matter to her that she didn’t know it all, she knew enough. Enough to know Harry could never hurt her, at least, not in the ways that mattered.

His head bent, and he rested his forehead against hers, sucking in air and quick puffs. “We—we should stop.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, barely trusting her own voice in the moment. She didn’t even know what it was that she wanted, but it was everything, anything he would give her. She would take scraps at his table, if it meant one more moment in his arms.

Harry pushed her hair behind her ear, and then let his fingers fall to the mark he had left on her skin. She thought she could see a blush rising to his skin and it made her smile. “I want you to be sure,” he told her earnestly. “And I—I haven’t done this in a long time. I need…I want it to be perfect. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” It did, and the fact that he wanted her to be sure made her trust him even more. Because even though she wanted it, she had barely thought about it. Cicely was impulsive, and her impulses had a tendency to get her into situations she regretted, and she didn’t want to regret a moment with Harry. “Will you come back to bed with me at least?”

His breath shuddered, eyes closing. She could see the wheels of his mind turning, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.

“Harry,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow bone. “Your nightmares don’t scare me. I want to know every part of you, even the dark bits.” That made his eyes open, his pupils found her in the moonlit room. “Will you come to bed and tell me about them? It doesn’t have to be everything, I just want to know how to help you.”

Slowly, he nodded. She scooted back, letting him sit up on the couch. Tentatively she pulled her knees up from the couch and dropped back to the floor, coming to a standing and taking Harry’s hand in hers to help him up. He was a disheveled mess, his hair standing in all directions, and she realized it was from her. She liked it, seeing the results of something she had done on him.

With his hand in hers, they walked up the stairs to his bedroom, to the unmade bed she had been sleeping in before. Knowing he would be hesitant, she got into bed first, scooting against the wall and turning, so she could watch him get in behind her. The moment his head hit the pillow, the duvet cover around his waist, Cicely leaned into him, wanting to be close. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm cautiously wrapped around her, holding her to him. One of her hands rested on his chest, just inches from the nipples with barbells through them, the ones that she wanted to see again but didn’t know how to ask about. The bed suddenly smelled like a mixture of them, a new scent that she already adored. She hoped she didn’t have to go to bed again for a long time.

She brushed up and down his chest over his shirt, drawing light lines across his skin. After a few minutes of just lying there, Harry cleared his throat and began to tell her the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes. “I’d barely been there a few weeks,” he said softly. “It was still all new to me, the landscape of France, the sound of bullets in the distance, the smell of smoke and dead bodies in the air. We were in this open field, the only protection was an occasional tree, but we spent all of it in trenches.”

His voice was like gravel, rough in the silence of the room, and Cicely kept rubbing at his chest, hoping it would keep him calm enough to keep going. She didn’t want him to stop, no matter how bad it got. “There was this massive offensive in motion from the French, and we were a piece of it. We were supposed to take Arras, to gain a strategic advantage against the Germans, break the deadlock we were in. All of us were itching for action, something just to keep our minds from spiraling in those fucking trenches. I’d never really been in battle before, so I didn’t know what it was like. But god, the minute we started moving, when we came up out of the trenches and the firing started, it was like the world was ending.

“Everyone around me was dropping, partly from the German fire, but more so from the shells from the air. It was so loud—they don’t tell you that, how loud war is. Your ears never stop ringing, and you’re almost able to like, drown it out for a second? But then something goes off near you and your whole body is jolted and it draws you back to the Earth. And I was just trying to like, reload my gun, right? And keep my body from shaking. Jack was there, and he was telling me to keep it together—that’s how we met actually. He found me on the field, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t reload.

“It went on like that for days. Weeks, even. We made it three or so miles on the first day, but we also lost so many fucking men. We had to figure out who was gone, and it was easier to figure out who was still there. We made it into the town and there were all these houses with no roofs, tanks covering every inch of the road. It was like walking through the end of the world. And you can’t sleep, but you also can’t do anything but sleep because it’s this bone exhaustion you’ve never felt before in your whole life.”

Cicely could feel the fast beat of his heart and his voice was speeding up, the anxiety settling into his bones. “I’m here,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where her head laid. “I’m still here.”

His head shifted, tilting to his chin rested on the top of her head. “I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I feel like I did, on that battlefield. Everything I knew before that moment was gone. It was just echoes of the dark trenches at night, the feeling of rats crawling across your boots and the niggling feeling that you can’t go to sleep because something might happen. And the death...I think I stopped believing in God on that battlefield, because how could any God ever want that many men to die? And for what, a few measly miles that didn’t even fucking matter in the end?”

“How many did you lose?”

He paused before answering, but when he did his voice cracked as he said the number. “158,000. There were conflicting numbers, but that’s the one I heard the most.”

Cicely couldn’t even wrap her head around that number. What did 158,000 people look like? Who were all of those 158,000 people? Who were their families, their children, their loved ones? How many lives were changed forever by those days? “I’m glad you survived,” was all she could think to say. She didn’t want to say she was sorry because that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Not in comparison to everything that had happened.

“For a long time I wasn’t,” he said.

“What changed?”

His fingers brushed through her hair, tender, soft caresses that made her eyes flutter shut. “A girl who showed me there was still someone left inside of me.”

Cicely looked up at him, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the light bruise on his cheekbone from the fight the other night, the curls of his hair. “You know what I see when I look at you?” He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Someone who has experienced more pain, hurt, and loss than any one person should be allowed to. But who still manages to be kind, to be generous, to care. Someone with a life worth living, someone who is worth loving.” She reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back slightly. “Someone who is worthy of everything in the world.”

She felt the tears on his cheeks when he kissed her, their lips molding together just like before. His hands gripped her face, as if he couldn’t have her close enough, and she didn’t blame him. She wished with every kiss she could drink away the pain inside of him, pull it from him piece by piece until none remained. But she couldn’t. She could only hold him and tell him who he was to her, that he was everything to her, someone she didn’t know was waiting for her out there in the world. But who now she couldn’t imagine a life without.

The days melded together in beautiful technicolor. Seven days had passed since Cicely had woken up in Harry’s bed, and each one made her more thankful it was him who had picked her up on the road. She stood in the crowds during his matches, cheering his name with Tommy and becoming less floaty every time she had a pint. At the end of each night, Cicely cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin with a tenderness he had never experienced, pressed kisses to his forehead and told him how good he did. Each night in the pitch dark, she chased away his nightmares with reminders that she was there, she was real, this was real and the battle wasn’t. He clutched the shirts of his she continued to sleep in and held her close, letting the beat of her heart and the exhales from her chest lull him back to sleep.

He hadn’t slept this well since before the war.

Cicely had discovered a new routine. While Harry was meeting with Josiah and Jack, training, or just generally out of the house, she went next door and helped teach the Rollings children to read. She had stumbled on Pippa and Clarence the morning after she had kissed Harry, almost stumbling over them in the daze she carried. They were playing outside and she had a book under her arm, a plan of finding the nearby park and reading for a few hours. But when she stopped and apologized, Pippa asked what she had, and at the sight of the words and Cicely’s description of what a book was, she was intrigued. After asking their mother, Cicely began to spend her mornings with the children curled up on their couch or at their small table, or even on their front steps, teaching them their alphabet and how to sound out words, how to form sentences and read them on the page. They were ravenous for learning and their mother was happy to see her children entertained by someone who wasn’t her for a change, so Cicely quickly became a fixture in the house.

When she had told Harry, he gave her a small smile, the first one she had seen, and a quick peck to her forehead. It was exactly what she needed from him, a vote of support and nothing more. In the afternoons she washed the blood stains from Harry’s clothes and towels, or carried water into the house and ran herself a bath, a task well worth it. One time Harry almost walked in on her and the flush on his cheeks made her almost let him in. But that wasn’t how she wanted him to see her naked body for the first time, so she squealed for him to shut the door and he did, none the wiser.

After he had told her about France, about the demons that followed him into the night, the secrets between them fell away. It was if a damper had been lifted, and at night when they laid in bed, he shared more about his past and she told him of her family, the life she was supposed to live. She tried to avoid the topic of the future, because it made them both anxious. It felt a bit like they were living in a bubble, as if the outside world and its pressures were nonexistent. One morning Harry brought up how they hadn’t heard anything from her family, and Cicely nodded in reply. She had thought about it many times, and she didn’t quite have an answer for it. Although maybe Harry was just so far from the expected answer that she would never be found.

Just as she was starting to settle into the prospect of her life becoming this permanently, her past came knocking. She was with Pippa and Clarence on Harry’s front steps, their own ones being swept by their mother. A book was spread open on her lap, one she had found at a bookstore for children, and she was helping them decipher the sentence. She could feel eyes on her, which at face value wasn’t something to worry about—people were always looking at her, at the new person in the neighborhood, although once they found out she was Harry’s, they stopped. But this time, the feeling of someone watching her didn’t let up.

So when they reached the end of the page, she looked up in search of whomever was so interested in her. And what she found were the eyes of a policeman, the black uniform and intent stare raising the hair on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it meant, that this wasn’t some normal policeman, because the ones in this area normally didn’t pay her any mind. Josiah had made clear she was not to be trifled with the minute Harry had told him that Cicely was with him, for all intents and purposes.

This policeman, though, wasn’t from around here. He stuck out, the shine of his shoes a bit too bright, the cocky attitude obvious from a mile away. He didn’t know the people or the area.

Which could only mean one thing.

Her father had found her.

TAGLIST: @autumn-sunflowers @afire-hes @harrydobedirectioning @harryinsweatersandbandanas @vapingisntmything @frindgeyy @froggystyles @magical-mischief-makers @heslilac @ursogoldenshan

PART TWO

#harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles drabble #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles x mc #harry styles smut #boxer!harry #boxer!au #1920s!harry #1920s harry #boxer harry #peaky blinders x harry styles

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

HASO, “Dealing with Intruders.”

So sorry this came out so late today. I was at work and things got busy. I wanted it to be a bit longer, but decided this was a good enough stopping point. I hope you all enjoy

Yeb took a step back.

“I said run, and DIE!” The small, Fuzzy creature said, its ear twitching spastically over its brightly colored fur.

She froze in place, she didn’t know what this creature was, she had never seen it through all of her spying on the ship. It was small though, so there was more than a distinct possibility that she just hadn’t seen it. Either way that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t know anything about it. It could be poisonous, or venomous, or have some other strange ability that she didn’t know about.

“Who are you!” it demanded.

She held up her hands, “Yeb…. my name is Yeb, please don’t hurt me I’m sorry I snuck aboard your ship…. I… I panicked.”

“A stowaway then, from the ice planet.”

She nodded quickly, “Please, I mean you no harm, I just…. I just made a dumb mistake is all.”

“I feel that the Admiral will be very interested to learn about this.”

She felt her fur stand on end thinking of the genial alien captain and how he would react to the sudden appearance of her on his ship, a stowaway. What might he think about her betraying his trust like that, what would he seem like when driven to anger?

“Come with me.” The little fuzzball ordered, turned and began waddling away, “Try to escape and I break your kneecaps.”

Yeb followed behind silently. She didn’t see how the small creature would even reach her kneecaps, but she certainly didn’t want to challenge it. If it was THAT confident it could hurt her, then she had no desire to figure out why.

They stepped into the hallway, her following, keeping mostly to the maintenance tunnels, gone unused by most of the crew. At a certain point she started to hear low murmured voices rising up in some agitation over the thrumming sound of the ship’s distant engines. They came out of the maintenance corridor, and the sound around them rose higher.

It was still agitated, but hushed, and as she walked into the room she was greeted with a very odd…. And an almost disturbing scene.

There was a ring in the center of the floor, surrounded by seats. Inside the ring, little drops of red made a smattering over the floor. The humans sat around in agitated silence looking between each other and the occasional Drev.

Sitting just outside the circle was the human leader…. looking …. More the worse for wear.

He had a small crowd gathered around him,and that strange red liquid was leaking down the side of his face and onto his shirt. Just to the side, the small Blue Drev was standing looking concerned.

As Yeb got closer, she noticed to her horror that the human’s leg was missing! She froze in place and the entire group of whispering humans looked up as she stopped. Concern turned to confusion turned to shock.

The human leader lifted his head, which was discolored and leaking fluid but paused as well, “You!”

“She shrunk back.”

“I found this stowaway hiding in the maintenance tunnels.” The fluff ball announced to the whole room.

The human opened his mouth, closed it, tilted his head and then sighed.

“Will you give us just a moment.” His voice was calm and restrained, almost, tired.

He turned to look over at The blue Drev and a smaller group of humans clustered around just to the side.

“Any joy?”

“It doesn’t look too bad sir, most of the main components are intact as expected, it is just a faulty joining pin.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Unfortunately….not with what we have here. But it should be easy enough to order At Europa.”

He sighed, “Sit, well, it’ll have to do.” He turned to look at one of the other humans, she knew to be named Ramirez, “Head to my room, look in the closet, and in the back corner, you will find those crutches that go around your wrists.”

The man nodded, “Yeah, for sue.” He jogged off and the human leader, Adam, turned to face her.

Slow red was still oozing from the side of his face still as the little spidery alien creature attempted to stop it.

“Yeb, I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

“I...I am so sorry… I have no idea what I was thinking. I saw the box, and it was open, and i just sort of… jumped in, I have no idea why I did that, and then I was worried that you were going to be mad, so I…. So I hid and…. and .”

It was getting very hot all of a sudden, and she was beginning to pant.

“Wow, slow your roll there for a moment.” He held up his hands.

She stared at him, teetering on the edge of concern and fear.

“That….. Sounds like exactly something I would have done.” He smiled at her with his pearly white teeth, “Welcome aboard the Omen. I wish you would have told me sooner as this is hardly a hospitable environment for you. Where have you been hiding.”

She looked down at her shuffling feet, “The…. walk-in freezer?”

He barked a laugh, “Ingenious.”

He held a pad of white to the side of his head and went to stand but stopped suddenly apparently seeming surprised that he was missing a leg. He huffed, “Will someone help me up.” He turned to look at the small doctor frowning and arms crossed over its bug-like chest, “Yes, we will discuss my idiocy later, but right now, we need to figure out how to keep our friend comfortable.”

The little doctor gave her a good once-over, “Does your fur grow back?”

She paused, frowned and then nodded slowly, “Yes it does.”

“Even the under layer?”

“yes , it would.”

The humans glanced between each other, and Adam held up a hand, “Now, this is not out of offence to you, so Don’t take it that way, but….. It might be cooler and more bearable if…. Perhaps you had less fur…. As in shaving it.”

She paused in thought, “I….I have never thought about it….I suppose…. It can’t hurt, if it would make the heat more bearable.”

“Alright, than that is something we can do. Your other options to wear a cooling vest,but those are heavy and would require battery changes and charging. Granted the other way would not be permanent either, but it might last longer.”

She paused to think about it, then, “Will you let me stay here.”

“I was going to let you stay here no matter what you chose to do, so it's your call.”

Just then Ramirez came jogging into the room holding a pair of metal sticks with strange loops at the end, which he handed over to Adam.

The human threaded his wrists through the loops, and levered himself up onto his one remaining leg with his weight supported on the metal sticks. Yeb tried to keep from staring, but fascination outweighed her propriety.

“Krill, take Yeb to the infirmary, and see if you can’t figure out how to safely remove some of her fur. I mean sheep shears would probably be best, but it's not like I have any of those lying around the ship.”

“And you?”

“I will be right along.”

The little spidery alien moved to the side of her and guided her away from the room. She glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see the Blue Drev and the human duck their heads in fervent conversation, her keen hearing managed to pick up some of what was being said, “Adam, I am so sorry I…”

“I asked r it, its ok.”

“No its-”

“Yes it is, now please don’t worry about it, and if you really are, just fix my leg when we get back to Europa.”

She saw the human touch the Drev’s Arm for just a moment before he limped away on his crutches, following after them up the hall.

Again she tried not to stare.

He was fast on those things, and surprisingly mobile, but her eyes kept being drawn to his missing leg, amputated at center thigh. She had seen wounds like that before, mostly after someone got to close to an ice beast or a crevice lurker. They had never lasted long dying from cold and shock a few hours after the incident.

What kind of…. Ungodly power would keep someone alive after trauma like that….

Her thoughts were cut off as she was pulled into the bright hite room next to the freezer. She was sat down and examined by the small studious doctor, who still seemed too grouchy to be particularly talkative. After a while two of the marines came trotting into the room each holding a box.

“This is all we could find, a couple of razors from the crew quarters.”

The one named Maverick eyed her, “I doubt they will be very usable after this.”

Ramirez nodded, “I’d tend to agree.”

Adam limped up behind them, “Might as well try.” he looked down at Yeb with a smile, “Want to do it yourself, or have some help.”

“Er…. help?”

Ramirez clicked on the Razor, “Hey, do you want a mohawk?”

She blinked, “A what.”

“We could do it all the way down your back, have the hair longer there, it would look badass.”

Yeb thought he was joking for a moment but seeing the look on Adam’s face she had a feeling he wasn’t. She wondered, they seemed excited and almost hopeful she’d say yes…. She didn’t see the harm in it,and she didn’t know what badass meant but it sounded fun. So she hesitantly nodded.

“Fuck yeah.”

She wasn’t entirely sure she trusted “These two humans, but what else was she to do?

The going was very, very slow, and the strange machines were very, very loud, she watched as her hair fell to the floor in great chunks, and was surprised when a cool breeze rushed over her neck.

It took them over an hour, and by the time they were done the floor was covered in hair, and she was marginally more comfortable. It felt so weird, and when they turned a mirror towards her she was shocked.

She was so…

Small.

She turned her head looking down at the scruff of hair left on her back which she was delighted to find made her look more vicious, the effect would be even more prominent when her fur stood up on end.

“See, badass.”

The little doctor crossed his arms again, “Don’t you think, Admiral that this might cause some diplomatic issues with the Tricar if they were to know she is here?”

“Than I guess we better not let anyone know she is here, and look at her, a horrible accident caused her to lose her fur and now she wouldn’t last a day back home, we are simply being generous hosts.” he patted her back then paused, “I have another potentially inappropriate question, so please don’t be offended.”

She looked up at him her head tilted and her ears pulled back.

“What?”

“Can I please…. Touch your fur, you look very fluffy, and humans love to pet things. Its sort of a thing about us?”

She shrugged and didn’t see the harm in it.

He grinned at her rather happy and adjusted himself to balance on one crutch, hooking his hand out of the other as he reached over and ran a hand from the top of her head and w nto her shoulders.

“So fluffy!”

She laid her ears back, That was actually kind of nice, and when he stopped she was only mildly disappointed. She’d have to convince someone else to touch her fur, which she doubted would be hard.

“Anyway, I have to take care of a head wound, but Ramirez and Maverick, why don’t you take Yeb around the ship, and give her the full tour, you know without the sneaking around and being forced to hide in the walk in freezer.”

They nodded and laughed somewhat.

“Try to keep her out of trouble will you. Oh…. and if you see Sunny…. Can you send her up here?”

His voice had grown somewhat hesitant, a minute change in pitch which she detected with her large ears.

She wondered what was going on, but let it go as the humans took her by the shoulder and led her away.

They seemed excited to have heron the ship, and their excitement made her excited. She was more than ready to learn and spend time with this strange alien species. And to try more of their food, which was about ten times better than the bland over-salted fish on her planet.

Hopefully she would be able to repay them somehow.

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theimpossiblescheme · 3 years

Text

The Rebirth of Lupin III

(I was rewatching Part 4, and this plot bunny took me hostage after watching Episode 14, “The End of Lupin III”. After what was probably Lupin’s most harrowing near-death fakeout yet, I couldn’t help but wonder about the aftermath, and before I knew it I’d written this. I hope everyone enjoys it!)

It wouldn’t have been the first time Lupin the Third “died.” Hell, given his track record, it probably wouldn’t be the last either. But damn if he hadn’t put on one hell of a show. Old Pops had been wrapped around his little finger the entire time—the discarded meals, the weakened voice, the repeated talk about the end being near… that final scene with the shared cigarette… the genuine sorrow in Zenigata’s voice, even moreso than all the other times… it was his finest performance yet.

It might also have been his stupidest.

Turned out skipping meals for multiple months, only eating what he absolutely had to in order to finish the painting on the cell floor… that kind of stunt tended to really negatively impact your health. Go figure. The amount of times he’d blacked out midway through mixing his makeshift paints, or he’d felt the acid from his own empty stomach rising into his throat as he worked… he’d honestly lost count. Walking made him dizzy, and that last cigarette tasted like nothing so much as burning tar on his lips, even as he forced himself to finish it. That final scene, hearing his ears ring as Pops spoke and feeling his hands shake under his blanket, really did feel like one. Empty stage as Lupin collapses before he can even unveil his master plan. Before he can live up to Pops’ faith in him. Lights out. Curtain.

It had been an honest to God miracle he’d made it farther than that. Standing to gloat over his victory as Zenigata finally opened the cell made his legs teeter dangerously, and his throat still felt raw, but if he was going to live to see the finale, by God he was going to make it an unforgettable one. He’d managed to walk away smiling as Pops could do nothing but laugh in hysterical disbelief, and Lupin felt a bit of that hysteria bubbling up in his own lungs, too. He’d actually pulled it off… damn, somebody up there must really like him.

Somebody out on the bay liked him, too, apparently. As soon as Rebecca and Robson’s motorboat sped into view, Lupin wasted no time leaping into the water after it. Finally, another familiar face—even if his limbs felt like they might snap at any moment, he was still going to make it out to them. To know that Rebecca had made it out alive, that she hadn’t given up on him even after so long. When she hauled him up into the boat, his head lolled onto her shoulder against her neck, and he noticed her perfume had changed. Some new label must have sent her fresh samples… she smelled nice, like a fruity cocktail on a summer day…

Rebecca brushed a lock of hair out of his face, and he suddenly became very aware of how long he’d let it get. “You look terrible,” she said with a very faint smile.

Lupin managed a wheezing chuckle in response. “Yeah, probably.”

And then he blacked out again.

When he came to, he was in an actual bed. With sheets and a pillow. What a difference it made on his neck—sleeping on concrete had done him no favors. On the endtable beside him was a bowl of stew, still hot, and a cup of what smelled like lemon tea. Not his favorite, but beggars and choosers and all that, and Robson really didn’t have to go to the trouble. Besides, after so long actively avoiding any food provided him, it smelled goddamn delicious. Even with his arms and legs still feeling like matchsticks, Lupin still managed to sit up and help himself. The stew was gone in nothing flat, and the tea was half-finished and cooling by the time Lupin felt strong enough to stand up. The Rosselini’s guest rooms were comparatively plain next to the rest of the house, but they could still stand up respectably with any of Fujiko’s favorite upscale hotels.

(Where the hell was Fujiko… or Jigen or Goemon for that matter… best not to think of that right now. He’d only just woken up, after all. There was still time… there was nothing but time now.)

And of course, the décor was hardly the highlight. Propping himself against the wall, he turned the latch on the window and opened it, letting the morning breeze waft in and the sun warm his face for the second time in God knew how many days.

San Marino was still beautiful. A jewel too big to pocket, but not too small to admire. Lupin stood for a long moment drinking in the view before turning to the guest bathroom.

The sight that greeted him there was less than beautiful. He still had the damn beard and long tangled hair, but that wasn’t the worst of it. His cheeks had hollowed out into nothing, and his skin had gone so grey and cold from darkness and malnutrition it may as well not be there at all. A skull framed with dark hair stared back at him from the mirror, and it took all of Lupin’s self-control not to hurl the half-digested stew and tea into the sink. Of all the times he had to actually almost die, it had to be when he didn’t even look like himself. A disguise would be one thing—his true face and body would still be underneath—but this…

This wouldn’t do.

Luckily, a razor and shaving cream had been left on the counter for him. Lupin immediately snatched them up and began to fill the sink with hot water, actually tapping his foot impatiently as it didn’t fill fast enough. He needed to see his face again, needed to know that it was still him under all this. When the sink was full, he wet the razor and hurriedly slathered the shaving cream across his chin and cheeks, even carelessly getting some into his hair. This would be fine. He’d be fine. Good as new, even.

If only his hands would stop freaking shaking…

He lifted the razor to the underside of his chin and instantly felt his hand slip. A few seconds of panic preceded the bolt of pain as he felt blood drip into his fingers. Damn it all… dammit dammit dammit, why’d he have to let it go this far?

“Lupin?”

The voice didn’t come from the door, but instead the window. Lupin barely even processed that before wheeling around, knees weak and face burning with embarrassment. He couldn’t let anybody see him like this, not even—

“Goemon!”

His samurai still had one leg out the window as he climbed through, but he froze in place upon seeing Lupin framed in the bathroom door. A hundred different emotions warred in his eyes, and Lupin wanted so badly to run over and hug him before Goemon’s face settled into its usual stoicism. “Is this where you’ve been all this time?”

“Ah… not exactly,” Lupin said sheepishly, reaching a hand to the back of his neck and internally cursing the cold sweat that had gathered in his hair. “I’m not really sure how long I’ve been here. Rebecca and her butler came to get me after I got away from Pops.” Another poor excuse for a chuckle wheezed out of him. “Lemme tell you… they don’t half kid around locking somebody up here if they want ‘em locked up… it’s a lot worse if you don’t have the key.”

“I can see that.” Goemon finally drew closer, studying Lupin intently. “You don’t look like you had an easy time of it.”

“Honestly, does anybody have an easy time in prison? That’s why I try to stay out of it, y’know.” But it was hard to keep even a weak smile in place, looking at Goemon now… God, he really could have died. He could have never seen him again, or any of his gang. Faking a grand exit for the benefit of Interpol, knowing he could return when the coast was clear, was so much different. And Goemon looked so healthy next to him—he’d even put on a bit of weight for once, which told Lupin that Jigen must have found him a nice Japanese place outside San Marino. Hell, compared to Lupin’s sorry state, he looked downright beautiful. It felt like it had been years… Lupin could stand there staring at him for even longer than that. How must Jigen and Fujiko look at this exact moment? Were they worried about him? Were they okay? All at once, he wished they were all here, together, and that he didn’t look like the freaking Crypt Keeper when he went to greet them.

Goemon reached up and touched Lupin’s cheek with his fingertips, and Lupin tried very hard not to lean into the touch as he had with Rebecca. “I’m not sure if the beard suits you, though. Or the long hair. You look a bit like something else crawled onto your head and died.”

That got a stronger, if extremely wry, smile out of him. Nice to know both their senses of humor were intact. “Yeah, not a fan myself… I don’t suppose you could…?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not using my sword to give you a shave, Lupin.”

“No, not with Zantetsuken, dummy—just use the razor.” There was the arch, fussy side of Goemon… he had to admit, he’d missed that, too. Nodding as if he’d understood all along, Goemon picked up the razor and washed away the blood before cupping a hand around the back of Lupin’s neck and letting him lean back as he worked. His hands were much steadier, almost gentle in their grip, and he was always a few degrees warmer than Lupin himself. Endless physical exercise would do that, Lupin supposed—ironic, considering how much time he spent under freezing cold waterfalls and out in the snow. Fujiko’s hands were always just on the comfortable side of cold, but she avoided that kind of exertion if she possibly could.

“Where are the other two?” Lupin asked, trying to move his jaw as little as possible so he wouldn’t obstruct Goemon’s work. “Are they--?”

“They’re both fine. Fujiko had rented out a beach house on the Italian mainland to wait for you, and Jigen had been spending time at one of the casinos. When I called to let them know you’d escaped, they told me they were on their day—they should be here this evening.”

Thank God… “So you finally figured out that phone I gave you, huh?”

“I’m not actually from the Sengoku Period, Lupin—I know what a cell phone is and how to use it.” He paused to wash off the razor again, and a very light pink stained his cheeks. “Fujiko also helped a great deal. Especially our first night in San Marino.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” For once, Lupin hadn’t meant it with any lewd intent, but it didn’t stop Goemon from yanking his head back a trifle harshly as he found a new angle with the razor. “They’ve gotta be pretty pissed, too… that I took so long. I know I would be.”

“They’re upset, certainly. But no more than usual for you.” It wasn’t said with any real malice, just as a blunt statement of the truth, but it still stung. Did it make it any better or worse that for once—out of all the times he’d faked his death—he actually feared it might be for real? Instead of just an act he’d strung them along on for the sake of the greater plan?

Probably worse. At least all those other times, the plan was to come back.

“I’ll do better next time.” And he really did mean it. Although he’d probably stave off the “next time” for as long as he could—one impregnable prison cell full of rotten uneaten food was enough. “And I’m definitely not gonna let it go this far. Believe it or not, the beard isn’t even the worst of it. With my hands the way they are, I’d hate to think what’ll happen when I need to pee.”

“As long as Jigen doesn’t have to hold you up.” There was no smile on Goemon’s face, but there was one in his voice. “And I know for a fact he’ll hold you to that promise.”

Lupin couldn’t help but grimace. As much as he’d love to see his gunman again… “Yeah, not looking forward to that conversation. Not just ‘cause I’m gonna bruise like a banana if he punches me.”

“I’ll do my best to separate you.” There was the smile—it softened up the prematurely harsh lines of Goemon’s face as it always did, and Lupin had to remember to keep his head still and resist the temptation to kiss his cheeks until his lips went numb. Rinsing off the razor again, Goemon tilted Lupin’s head slightly to his right. “I might be at this for a while—please promise me you’ll never grow a beard again.”

“You got it, man. And I got all the time in the world.”

#lupin iii #my fanfic #I can't believe this is my first non-prompted piece for this fandom... I don't hate it honestly. XD #But yeah that episode is both really good and a little wild because he's apparently back to 'normal' in the end #(after an apparent time skip but still) and I'm just sitting there like... *dude you almost died.*#I know it takes a lot to knock you out of the running but *come on.*#So that was where this came from (and his relationship with Goemon doesn't get enough love so that's why he's here too. <3).

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high-warlock-of-brooklyn · 3 years

Text

take every chance, drop every fear

Note: The art is made by the brilliant and amazing @miss-shiva-adler Thank you so much for agreeing to collab with me, you have been so terrific 💙

Summary: The Clave has given a mandate for Simon- a new mission. Get the dagger that killed the first Shadowhunter, and get it quickly. Only problem? The dagger is in possession of Jace Herondale, the continent's most notorious Vampire King. Simon has to fulfil the mission, come what may. Except, the Vampire is already aware of his intentions, and is ready to face him. The result is sure to be deadly for at least one of them. Except, the mission doesn't go the way either of them expect.

Ao3: LINK

---------

“I’m going.”

“No you’re not.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

Simon sighs, putting the briefing file back on the ops table. “Are you going to be like this the entire mission?”

“No.” Raphael shakes his head. “I’m not. Because there’s not going to be a mission in the first place.”

“Raphael, this isn’t your decision to make.” Simon crosses his arms.

“Okay. You’re right.” Raphael scowls. “This is your mission. But I have to say, it’s a very stupid mission.”

“What’s so stupid about it? It’s literally the simplest mission we’ve ever done. Even the Clave signed off on it.” Simon shrugs. “Get in, get the dagger, get out. It’s that easy.”

“Except for the part where you’re going into the lair of a Vampire king who’s been known to hold grudges against Shadowhunters in the past, and who guards his property more fiercely than a Draconea .”

Simon seems to bristle at that. “You don’t think I can do this?”

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you going in without backup. We’re Parabatais, we’re supposed to watch each other’s backs.” Raphael explains, his tone softening. Simon’s face brightens like a Mundane child on Christmas morning. “Aww you want to come with me! You want to keep me safe! I knew you were a softie inside, you big ole huggy bear.”

Raphael’s scowl deepens. “I know two hundred and sixty ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident, don’t tempt me.”

“Noted.” Simon offers him a lopsided smile. “This isn’t gonna be a cakewalk, I know that. I just- I know I’m up to it. And I’m long due for assignments anyway, I’ve been on patrol duty for way too long.”

“Nothing wrong with good old fashioned Shadowhunting,” Raphael remarks. “But if you’re so adamant, I’m going to help you with the plan.”

“I already told you my plan.” Simon reminds him.

“Yeah and I said it’s a stupid plan.” Raphael rolls his eyes. “Listen, I might not be inside watching your back, but I’ll be damned if I send you in without a proper plan. And no- don’t you dare-” he slaps away Simon’s attempt to squeeze his cheeks, “Don’t try to stop me.”

“Aye aye boss.” Simon offers him a mock salute, earning another eyeroll.

“Now I was thinking we could chart the ins and outs of the DuMort, maybe get some floor plans from the Archive.” Raphael says.

“I have a better idea,” Simon follows him out of the ops centre. “There have been missions of this type that I’ve seen before, and I was thinking we could maybe go through those. Learn how it works.”

“There has?” Skepticism clouds Raphael’s face, “I thought the Clave didn’t normally allow missions like this.”

“I know,” Simon nods gravely, “But these are crucial. You could even say that they provide- leverage .”

That stops Raphael in his tracks, the older Parabatai groaning as he pieces it together. “Simon Levi Lovelace, tell me you’re not going to put me through hours of a Mundane heist movie.”

“Of course not. I won’t make you sit through a movie.” Simon assures him, before breaking into a shiteating grin. “It’s a tv series!”

“Ay dios mio.”

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

“I can’t believe you’re still grumpy about this.”

“I’m your Parabatai, I’m allowed to be grumpy about your lack of self-preservation instincts.” Raphael tells him flatly.

“Why are you so upset? I’ve done vigorous research as you’re aware!” Simon protests weakly.

“Watching hours of tv and reading up on the man is not enough. What if you need an exit strategy quickly?” Raphael holds out a hand, a tiny round disk on it. “I asked Lily to make this specifically for you. Put it in your ear.”

“If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me to put something in my ear, I’d have two dollars. Which isn’t much but it’s weird that it has happened twice.” Simon looks at the device, debating the decision in his mind. “I know you’re concerned about my safety, and I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t take it.”

“Listen-”

Simon cuts him off before he can complain further. “I’m not refusing it because I want this to be a solo mission. I’m not taking this because Jace Herondale is the most powerful vampire on this continent and I’d rather not be caught with a device on me that crackles every time it turns on. He’ll expose me in a second. I have to focus on keeping my heartbeat even and my glamour intact, I can’t have any other distractions.”

Raphael stays silent for a moment, and Simon worries that he has insulted his best friend by declining the clearly thoughtful gift. But Raphael is nodding in agreement the next moment, and relief almost knocks Simon off his feet.

DuMort looks as sullen and abandoned as it perpetually does, and Simon feels tendrils of insecurity creep in as he stands outside wearing a white t shirt under the black leather jacket he raided from Raphael’s closet.

What if the intel was wrong and there’s no party at all and he looks like a fool when he has to go back to the Institute empty handed?

His hands fly to fidget with the cuffs of his jacket, nervously bouncing on his toes. Finally, after an excruciating wait of three minutes, Simon spots the stray lights of a strobe, a distant thumping vibrating the ground under his feet. He walks into the building, his senses at the highest of his abilities. Simon isn’t sure if it’s because of all the runes he’s activated under his glamour, or his anxiety sending a tingling sensation at his fingertips.

A healthy dose of each, he supposes.

The thumping of bass increases tangentially the closer he gets to the party venue. Simon spots no less than six vampires lounging in the dark corridors, a few perched on the banisters. It’s not something to inspire confidence, but it’s certainly a manageable number, if a situation rises. Finally, after a few minutes of going through some of the most complicated floor plans he’s ever seen, he comes face to face with the actual venue.

The party is….well there is a reason the Vampire king’s parties have a certain reputation .

There are aerial acrobats hanging from the chandelier that’s roughly the size of Simon’s room in the Institute, worth way more than he can probably imagine. The buzz of music is ever present, the bass shaking him to his very bones. Numerous waitstaff in wide ranges of clothing mingle in the crowd, offering drinks to the patrons.

The Herondale Clan symbol can be seen standing stark against the ashen skin of their wrists, the tattoo of a set of fangs biting a dagger dripping blood seared in his memory from Raphael’s in depth briefing. The knowledge does very little to soothe his nerves, hands flying to fidget with the decorative chains on his jacket.

One of the waitresses approaches him, and Simon debates between turning her away to remain alert but risk sticking out, or drinking anyway and take a gamble on his generally lightweight nature. But turns out he doesn’t need to make a decision after all, as she puts a glass of golden liquid in front of him, gesturing to the back of the club when he looks at her curiously, leaving just as gracefully as she came.

Simon picks the glass up, the doubtless expensive glass a comforting weight in his hands. The back of the club is darkly lit, adorned with only a single leather sofa big enough for two people, three at most. Simon tries not to stare, all the wheels in his mind whirring loudly to figure out just who would send him a drink so soon since his arrival.

Call it a professional curiosity.

At last, the strobe overhead flashes in the direction he’s been squinting at for the past three minutes, and Simon catches a flash of golden hair, and a set of glowing mismatched eyes, and all the bells in his head go off at once.

-----------

Jace is trying really hard not to be offended. He really is.

It’s one thing to come to the farce they call Clave Downworlder Relations meetings and lie to his face. He expects that after so many years in the Shadow World. It’s another thing to plan to steal from right under his nose.

The moment his informant at the Institute told him about the operation, he was ready for the Shadowhunter to step into his club, so he could rip his throat out and get on with his night without a hitch.

He just didn’t expect the guy to be so non threatening. Almost……. cute .

Well it’s not a hindrance really, definitely not a wrench into his plans. More like a ring lost in a birthday cake dough that you only notice after baking. A spilled ice cream scoop at most.

Whatever, Jace thinks. He’s just going to have to toy a little with the guy before he kills him.

----------

“I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Simon tries not to bristle or let any excitement show as the golden haired vampire claims the seat next to him at the bar, the crowd parting reverently to make space for him. Simon fidgets in his seat, hoping the man assumes his racing pulse as excitement rather than the truth.

He’d rather not die so soon into the assignment. Who’d finish his new Lego set?

The vampire gestures at the bartender for a drink, not taking his eyes off of Simon even for a second. The bartender, a wiry pale man, almost passable for a Mundane were it not for the purple eyes devoid of any iris. He hands over a drink to Herondale’s hand, the liquid sloshing against the rim in his hurry. Simon notices the dark red of it in the pulsing strobe light, and shudders inside.

Blood .

Simon takes a deep breath, settling his nerves. He’s a Nephilim. This is a mission. There is no room for error. He takes a swig of his drink before speaking, the alcohol warming its way down his throat. “You know everyone who comes here?”

“I never forget a face. Besides, I’d remember a face that pretty.” The vampire answers smoothly. Simon hopes the warmth in his cheeks is from the alcohol and not the implication of whatever this is.

Hope being a loose word.

“I’m Jace Herondale, I own this place.” the blond nods at him, lips stretching in a brilliant smile. A set of fangs behind his flawless set of teeth glint in the club lights, and Simon feels a shiver go down his spine.

“Simon.” He offers, stopping himself before he blurts out the Lovelace part. Herondale raises an eyebrow.

“Just Simon?”

“Just Simon. For tonight anyway.” The brunette purses his lips.

“Well then, Just Simon ,” the vampire’s eyes sparkle with mirth, looking Simon up and down, then offers an elbow casually, “You look like someone who could use some air. Fancy a tour?”

Simon straightens in his bar stool. “Mr Herondale, I-”

“Jace, please. I insist.” Herondale smiles dangerously.

“Jace.” Simon says slowly, as if feeling out the sound of it first. “I have to say, I’m not as easy to impress as I look.”

“Well then,” the blond smirks, “I guess I will have to try my best.”

Simon takes the offered arm, walking towards the back of the club, and up the stairs towards a lavish penthouse at the top of the DuMort.

The eagle has landed in the nest, Simon thinks, the eagle has landed in the freaking nest!

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

It’s like taking candy from a baby honestly. Well, not that he’d actually take candy away from a child. He might be a bastard Vampire king, but even he’s not that much of an asshole.

Jace guesses it’s more like tearing throats of pretty, unaware Shadowhunters.

The Nephilim gapes as they step into the penthouse. Jace suppresses the urge to laugh as the boy stares at the glass ceiling, the New York sky resplendent with millions of stars, the Milky Way partially visible this time of year. “Cat got your tongue?” He asks. The Shadowhunter almost forces himself to tear his eyes away, as if regretting it the second he does.

Jace feels curious if Nephilims do ever get to have the time to look up at the stars.

“This- this is, just brillian- wait.” Simon stops in the middle of the drawing room, “Don’t sunlight also come in?”

“It’s reinforced. UV resistant.” Jace explains. “Made for people with sun allergies.”

Simon nods in understanding, face sincere. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Jace answers. “Come on, I have something to show you.”

Simon follows him wordlessly, remnants of the childlike wonder still on his face, until he notices the narrow lobby and hand flies instinctively towards the breast of his jacket.

As if Jace wasn’t already feeling the glare of the adamas stele in his pocket.

Jace resists the urge to scowl. In his long life, if he knows one thing, it’s that Shadowhunters respond well only to one language.

He’ll show them what violence can mean.

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

“Why do you have four different bathtubs? In four different bathrooms as well?” Simon asks confusedly. “Seems kind of overkill.”

“So I can bathe however I like.” Jace shrugs. “Three of those are for specific moods, and one is for spaghetti baths.”

Simon stares at him for a moment. “I honestly don’t even want to know.” Jace laughs, throwing his head back. Simon tries not to pay attention to how beautiful the man looks when he smiles.

“It’s an inside joke.” Jace explains, before straightening up, expressions smoothing to neutral ones. “There’s something I’d like to show you. Come on.”

The man moves closer into the penthouse, and Simon follows, mapping out the escape routes almost instinctively, noting how far they are from any immediate help should he need to avail it in an emergency. There’s a twinge of disappointment somewhere underneath the part of his brain that has been trained for two and a half decades to be vigilant, and Simon has to remind himself to focus on the matter at hand.

Right. The mission.

“Here.” Jace gestures at an open door to a separate part of the structure, light from inside the room illuminating his golden locks into a resplendent sunlit glow. The Vampire offers him a tight lipped smile, and Simon notices the deadlocks on the door, and a set of biometric scanners that shouldn’t be needed for a vampire.

What the hell is he keeping in there? And what exactly does he want with Simon?

“Listen.” Jace says hesitantly before Simon can step inside, hand on the doorknob. “I haven’t really shown this room to anyone. This is somewhat of a private indulgence, and you are one of the only few to ever witness everything that’s in this room.”

Simon’s heart lurches, but he tries to keep the ruse going, lips stretched into a practiced smile. “Hey, at least if something’s missing, you’d know who to ask.”

“Yes I would.” Jace answers, fangs shining as he offers a sharp smile.

Simon is so fucking screwed.

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

“By the A-”

The Nephilim clamps both his hands over his mouth, possibly to keep himself from saying the name of their precious Angel. Jace pushes the eyeroll down under the feeling of knowing he rendered a Shadowhunter speechless.

“You- you have- this is- I mean I expected- but- but this- I-”

Simon sputters on, and Jace debates over how to approach the situation. He could keep up the ruse of this being a date and show off his prized possessions, and this would definitely send a clear message to the Clave not to mess with the vampire king ever again. Or he could step back and let the boy intimidate himself.

Oh well, his best friend has been telling him to practice subtlety for the past few centuries anyway.

Jace lets Simon go up to the aisles between the artifacts, eyes weaving between all them, as if trying to take them all in at once. Jace waits for a reaction, ready to relish in the knowledge that he outsmarted the Clave.

“This is the best day ever!”

Wait what?

-----------

It’s been a little over one and a half hours. They still haven’t left the collection room. Jace is beginning to fear he never will.

The Nephilim, to Jace’s utter astonishment, and more than a little disgruntled feeling, looks just as excited to see the sword that fell Vikramaditya as he is seeing the Black Volume of the Dead. He’s been over sixty such oddities, every single one of them the only one of their kind, either by nature or by design, eyeing them like a child on their birthday. He makes a mention of having a fascination with unique artifacts like these since childhood, telling Jace everything he knows about them, seeking out any extra facts the age old Vampire might know that a historical record could have missed.

Jace is starting to suspect the Clave sent this specific Nephilim planning to undermine his strategies.

Not that he’d ever admit that it’s working. Nope.

He definitely does not preen as Simon tames the usually wild Black Volume like a house cat. He absolutely does not smile indulgently when Simon gushes over the kukri used to stab Genghis Khan affectionately.

He scoffs at the mere notion that someone like him would ever even be anything other than wrathful at a Nephilim, let alone be…. fond .

Yet Simon is going up to the countless artifacts that any museum would sell all their available limbs for, and treating them the same way a Mundane might treat an old friend, and Jace’s lips quirk up in an amused smile without any conscious effort on his part.

Finally, finally, Simon rounds up the first room of the collection, coming to stand in front of a dais at the north-east corner where a single dagger lies buried in a mound of solid dirt, preserved in a decorative glass case, warlock charms the only thing keeping it the way it appears against the harshness of time.

Jace waits for something to happen, and feels something blooming deep under all the amusement and excitement and more than a little satisfaction, and tries to put a name to the feeling. It’s disappointment, he realizes a moment later.

It’s ever so rare to find someone who truly appreciates his collection, not for what they can be used for, but rather for what they represent- the undeniable unshakable proof of the world’s wonders, spanning millennia of history. It’s rarer for them to be the very joyous, caring and sweet way that he thinks is distinctly Simon.

That’s the reason for this sudden melancholy, Jace tells himself, because the alternative is so much worse. Especially when he’s going to have to wipe off the blood of the boy in front of him from his fingers in a few moments.

Simon’s back has gone ramrod straight, his expression troubled, and Jace wonders what lie he’s going to hear. Jace finds himself wondering if he will use adamas on him.

“I have a confession to make.” Simon says without turning back.

-----------

Raphael was right, he really has lost his mind.

“I need to tell you something.” Simon rambles on without a break, worried that the nerve he’s worked up will falter at the slightest pause. “I lied when I came here. I didn’t- I’m not- I’m not a Mundane. I’m a Shadowhunter. And this was my mission. To infiltrate the DuMort and obtain the dagger that killed Cain Shadowhunter. So that the Silent Brothers can study it.”

As Simon speaks, the glamour around him ripples as if every word is a stone cast in the water, and as he finishes, it falls away to nothing, showing the black runes stark against Simon’s pale skin.

Jace narrows his eyes, apprehensive of the Shadowhunter for an entirely different reason than he expected.

Simon keeps on talking. “I’m aware you might think I’m playing games with you, but I’m truly not, you can believe it. My Parabatai suggested a heist, not a con, and I wanted to do it alone. I watch a lot of Mundane TV you see, and I just wanted to test it out. Coming here undercover, flirting with you so you’d show me the dagger. All of it. But I wasn’t prepared for- for this.”

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

He’s done it, that wild Shadowhunter. He has managed to render Jace Herondale speechless.

He’s been expecting a lot of things. Lies. Accusations. Glamours. Even a fight. But not this. Not a clear admission of guilt. Not a confession. Not honesty.

Definitely not from a Shadowhunter of all people.

But standing in front of him, Simon looks as open as the book Jace’s mother used to read him, a time that seems like more than a few lifetimes ago. And just as familiar.

It’s not surprise, particularly, that makes him ask the question. Rather it’s the increasingly unsettling feeling, the uneasiness that claws inside some old forgotten part of him. “Why are you telling me this?” Jace asks, hoping the answer would tilt the world back into the way it was, the way it should be- a Shadowhunter cheating and lying their way into his lair, and him tearing them apart without a second thought.

But Simon, it seems, has a natural knack at surprising him.

He laughs, leaning forward, a clear sound Jace wants to hear again as soon as it subsides. His form shakes with the bouts of laughter, dark blue sneakers scuffing against the floor as Simon has to make a conscious effort to steady himself lest he topples the thirteenth century jade vase with a hidden message only to be read under clear moonlight.

Jace looks at him, questions swimming in his stare. Simon stops laughing for a second to catch his breath before he can answer.

“I’m telling you this because I’m an absolute idiot.” Simon wipes away a few stray tears that had sneaked their ways down his cheeks. “I’m a Shadowhunter, here to take back what is essentially historically ours. And I’m worried about you, the literal Vampire King, being sad.”

“What?” Jace asks, stupefied.

“My thoughts exactly.” Simon echoes. “Raphael is going to kill me.”

“Who?”

“My Parabatai,” Simon clarifies, then straightens up, shoulders rigid, the typical Shadowhunter mannerism shining through that lopsided smile. But even then, Jace notices it being filtered by a prism made of a good heart with an open mind. Then the Nephilim speaks, and the tone is, understandably, much more firm than it was a moment before.

“I have to take it. Dimensional portals are being breached, demons that haven’t been seen for millennia are swarming their way back. And we need more information. I’ll fight you if I have to. But really, you have to understand. This is a matter of safety of the whole Shadow World.”

That brings Jace back from his stupor, Simon’s words playing in his head on repeat like a beloved record. He squares his shoulders, regaining his lost composure, and regards Simon closely before he speaks. “I was aware of the ‘mission’, as you put it.” He silences Simon with a raised hand. “Yes, I have sources inside the Institute. Don’t insult my intelligence by arguing otherwise.”

“I was going to kill you once I caught you trying to steal the dagger.” Jace notices as Simon digs his nails in his palm, trying to fight off a shiver. “However, I have to admit, I was not ready for you to confess. And I was definitely not prepared for you to be so forthcoming with your intentions.”

Simon stares at him, expression resting somewhere between apprehensive and curious. “What should we do now, then?”

Jace turns, sitting against a high-backed leather chair he keeps inside the room. “In any case, I don’t see why we have to tarnish our professionalism.”

Simon squints in confusion. “You mean like a….. fight?”

“No, of course not. I see no reason we can’t be civilized.” Jace makes a show of mulling over the matter, before deciding on it. “I propose a deal.”

Simon crosses his arms. “I’m listening.”

“I offer the dagger to the Clave for their research, on loan . In return, I receive a generous compensation from the Institute.” Simon opens his mouth to ask something, but Jace keeps going on. “Let me finish. I also get a date with you. An actual one.”

That succeeds in shutting Simon up completely. The Shadowhunter stops, confident expression faltering at the face of the statement. He swallows, throat bobbing. “Why?”

“Why not?” Jace counters. “I had fun today, infiltration and all.” The blond smiles, as if letting Simon in on a private joke. “And it is awfully hard to find anyone that’s actually as interested in these as I am. I’ve been told most find these grim and improper for date night.”

“Ugh, amateurs.” Simon exclaims, face lit in a shining smile. “Okay then. I’ll go on a date. You know, for the greater good.”

“Ah, right. The greater good .” Jace teases.

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

“What the hell were you doing there for six hours?” Raphael asks in an accusatory tone as soon as he steps inside the Institute. Simon doesn’t answer, putting the wooden box gingerly on the ops table first, then shrugs off the jacket, bending his head this way and that to pop a muscle joint.

“You got the dagger.” Raphael says quietly as he opens the box. His eyes go wide once he takes in the content, enthralled to be in the presence of the stuff of legend every Nephilim child is told during bedtime.

“We have a mole here in the Institute.” Simon says, quiet enough only for Raphael to listen. The latter barely registers the words, eyes transfixed on the dagger at hand.

“Don’t be absurd.” Raphael scoffs.

“He knew about the mission, about me being undercover.” Simon raises an eyebrow.

That seems to snap Raphael out of whatever trance he’s been in ever since he took the dagger in hand. “What? Your cover’s blown?” Simon nods in agreement.

“We have to fix this right now.” Raphael puts the box away, focusing on the problem at hand. “We need to take Herondale out.”

“Already ahead of you, Rapha.” Simon claps a hand over his Parabatai ’s shoulder, assuring him. “We’re going out to Taki’s this Thursday.”

“Okay then.” Raphael nods along, before his face scrunches up as the words fully register. “Wait, what?!”

Simon can’t wait for Thursday.

#hmdiscord #nephilimdaily #idrisnnetdaily #tsccreatenet #dailyjimon #jimondaily #jace herondale #simon lewis #shadowhunters #the shadowhunter chronicles #tsc #the mortal instruments #tmi #jay.fic #collab fic #art

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generallynerdy · 3 years

Text

One life, I thought—a thousand deaths (Jon Antilles & Fay)

Summary: On Queyta, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the only one to escape Durge and Ventress. One of the four legendary Masters, Jon Antilles, emerges from a lava stream despite knowing he’s going to die. He’s so sure of it that he crawls his way to Fay’s side, wanting to spend his last moments with the woman who he considers his Master. But she has other plans. Plans to make certain that Jon Antilles lives past today.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, On-Screen Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there’s both sorry, Self-Sacrifice, The Curse of Immortality, holy shit i made myself sad dude Word Count: 2,191

Prompt: Angstpril Day 2 - Sole Survivor

Author’s Note: listen I know nobody knows about these characters that are in literally one comic but I have FEELINGS about them okay?? Jon is meant to be a badass mysterious enigma but he screams sad boi and Fay is like...the greatest cryptid Jedi ever, I love her. So, of course, I decided to make them and Knol and Nico suffer. (Also I know Obi-Wan survived the mission but the Sole Survivor still applies because Jon is the sole survivor of the four legendary Masters, just in case that wasn’t clear.) I just finished this today, so the editing is minimal.

Read on AO3

Using the Force as a shield is, in theory, one of the easier skills a Jedi utilizes. That is assuming, of course, that the Jedi in question is in good health, a decent mental state, and isn’t under a severe amount of stress. If said Jedi is, say, three feet into a pool of lava, already bearing grievous injuries and the weight of the deaths of two close companions, and feeling the fading life of another, the simple task, understandably, becomes something of a problem.

Jon has finally managed to pull the Force around him like a blanket. It protects him from the bubbling lake around him now, but the first few seconds he couldn’t pull it off were torture.

As it turns out, lava burns. It burns like shame, like failure, like the nightmares Jon used to have about his Master abandoning him on a planet in Hutt space for getting just a little too mouthy. And it hurts nearly as much.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He makes a rule of not cursing, but right now feels like an appropriate time to break it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He claws at the charred remains of his robes. Contrary to popular belief, lava doesn’t melt initially, as Jon now knows. Instead of melting, he burst into flames for the few seconds it took to pull himself together, though they felt like an eternity. Red, throbbing burns litter his entire body, his hair singed but miraculously intact thanks to his hood, which is entirely ashes now. The pain consumes his thoughts, making his shielding start to flicker in and out.

And then, through the debilitating agony, a touch of something familiar.

Jon’s eyes fly open. “Fay,” he whispers.

Her light is dimmer than it should be, not flickering in and out mischievously like it usually does. But still, she makes an effort to reach out, to check on him. It sends a sob up his throat.

“Hold on, Fay, hold on.”

Clenching his fists, he opens himself up to the Force. His actions are ones of faith, not of desperation, and he lets it flow through him as he takes a deep breath. The idea of using one of his Master’s abilities would normally make him nauseous, but the disgust doesn’t even cross his mind this time as he prepares to teleport. He thinks of that open, flat space of rock that Obi-Wan and Fay ran to, their enemies close behind. Focusing fiercely on that distant image, he pulls on the Force and folds the two points—

Jon collapses on solid ground with a heaving gasp.

Every inch of his body protests the change, especially his knees, which burn when they make contact with the ground, but somehow he manages to ignore his own complaints.

Fay isn’t far, or she shouldn’t be, at least. The distance between them seems gaping when he tries to move.

Still, her light is fading fast. And he wants to be by her side.

So, Jon Antilles crawls on hands and knees, dragging his body across sharp stones and past bubbling streams of lava. He aches with each movement and cries out when it becomes too much, but he persists regardless. Something in him knows it may be the last thing he ever does.

Finally, he sees her.

She’s sprawled out, her chest hardly moving as her breathing becomes shallow. Her near-golden hair is filthy with ash and her eyes are dim. She’s hardly herself, Jon thinks, and feels his stomach sink.

Hundreds of years the great Master Fay has lived and breathed. Hundreds of years and he’s going to watch her die today.

“Jon,” she calls out weakly.

He pulls himself to her side, grabbing her hand with his own shaky ones. “I’m here, Master.”

They only met when he was a teenager, but he feels as if he’s known her all his life. They’ve travelled the Outer Rim together, following the Force, for decades now and he’s never regretted a second of it. In all but title, Fay is his Master. She was always better than Dark Woman, even when the bar was six feet under. The only record with both their names will be at the Temple, where the dead are listed, a handful of mission reports with other Jedi, and the stories the younglings share of the 4 legendary, nomadic Masters.

“Knol and Nico,” Fay breathes out, “they’re one with the Force.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes. And the Force is with us.”

She laughs, breathy and half-choked. It’s an old lesson, familiar and grounding. “And so too are they,” she adds.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Gone, with the cure.” She smiles just a little. “The Republic fights another day.”

Suddenly grim, he squeezes her hand. “But not us.”

A pause.

“But not us.”

The silence overwhelms them. The wind whistles in the distance, carrying with it nothing but smoke and ashes. Queyta isn’t the best place to die, Jon thinks absently. He would rather it have been someplace with flowers.

“I wish it could’ve been Jedha.”

He almost jumps at her voice, but her words jarr a surprised laugh from his sore lungs. “Jedha? I thought you hated cold planets.”

“Oh, yes, but not that one. Force, I should have taken you. The Force there is so...so strong, so pure, you can feel the kyber from the surface,” she explains, staring straight up at him. If anyone else were to gaze so intensely at his scars, he’d be uncomfortable, but she’s safe. She’s family. “And the Guardians of the Whills are so kind. I met a young one of theirs some decades ago. You two would’ve gotten along.”

Jon laughs a little. “You’re always looking to find me friends, Fay.”

Her smile turns sad and she lifts a hand to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. “You’re so young,” she whispers. “Too young to be so lonely, Jon.”

He shuts his eyes, lets himself be comforted by her touch. When he opens them again, she still has that gut-wrenching look on her face. He places his hand on top of hers, unsurprised at how cold they are despite the blistering heat.

“I’m not lonely,” he promises.

Jon doesn’t say that it’s because of her, Knol, and Nico, but Fay picks up the thought anyway. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I have watched so many I love die.” Fay’s voice wavers as she says it. He realises that it’s the first time he’s ever heard it do that. To be honest, he’d thought it was impossible. “Taken by age, by Darkness, by foolishness. Never have I met a soul as good as yours, Jon. And never a Jedi so worthy of love.”

“Fay…”

She shakes her head. “Your Master did not deserve you. The galaxy did not deserve you.”

Pulling her hand away from him, Jon squeezes it. “You did,” he says firmly, though his voice cracks.

“I hope so,” she admits with a rueful laugh. “I hope so.”

He smiles weakly. “I wish you’d found me first. But I thin-I think the Force knew when I needed you to save me. Because you did save me, Master. I could never thank you enough.”

She takes his word silently, holding his hand even tighter. “You never needed to.”

“Thank you,” he says now, even though it’s useless.

Fay’s grey eyes meet his pale ones and suddenly, she’s distressed. “You’re so young,” she repeats.

But Jon can see that she means something else this time.

“Not too young to do my duty.”

“Too young to die doing it.”

Jon thinks of Tan Yuster, one of four Padawans to die on Geonosis. The Jedi have experienced great loss these past months since the beginning of the war and so many so much younger than Jon have died in battle, the clones included. Of course, to Fay, they all may as well be children.

“I will go proudly into the Force,” he promises her. At your side.

Fay’s expression twists. “No.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think we have a say in it.”

“The Force let me live this long,” she says suddenly, as if it’s a realisation, “longer than I should have. Obi-Wan is gone, I’ve done what good I can, except...you’re here. Why are we here?”

“To say goodbye,” Jon offers.

She shakes her head, then tries to sit up, struggling until her would-be Padawan helps pull her up. “I’m done with goodbyes.”

“What are you—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Fay presses their foreheads together and grabs his hands with a newfound energy that terrifies him. Chills go up his spine when her presence in the Force covers him like a blanket. Warmth climbs up his hands, then his arms, and with a glance down he finds that his skin is healing.

“Fay, no!” he cries, trying to shove her away.

She only tightens her grip. “Stay still, Jon.”

She sounds more like herself, certain and unwavering. Jon would be happy-crying if he weren’t horrified. He tries to drag himself out of her grip, but she’s impossibly strong. Her healing creeps up his entire body, soothing his burns, though scars remain behind.

“No, no, no—FAY! Fay, stop it!” His screams turn to sobs. “You’ll die, stop—!”

“I already am,” she says, just as certain in her abilities as her fate. “But you don’t have to.”

Trembling, his attempts are weaker now but still there. “Please, please,” he begs. “Not without you!”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She allows herself a moment of weakness; she opens her eyes and meets his tearful gaze, remembering the teenager she first met. He was so scared and so brave. And for a moment, she’d thought he must be a ghost. But no, he was just a boy. For the first time in a long time, she had let herself build a bridge between them, like Knol and Nico before him, even knowing she would have to watch him die one day.

Now, she thinks with fierce stubbornness, she won’t have to.

It feels like her life is leaving her for him, though she knows it’s just fading into the Force. It’s to it that she speaks, the cosmic energy she’s dedicated her long, long life to.

“If anyone is deserving of the time you’ve given me,” she gasps out, “it is Jon Antilles.”

She doesn’t see the horror in Jon’s face, but she can feel it in his quiet Force-presence, so subdued. He hides himself on purpose and it truly breaks her heart. His light is so strong. The galaxy is all the better for his existence.

“I don’t want this! Fay, I don’t—let me die, please—”

Fay only lifts her head and kisses his forehead, the sort of gentle gesture a mother might give her son. “One day,” she promises. It rings with truth, with the strength of the Force behind it. “But not today.”

Jon cries out and tries to rip himself away, but freezes when pure light washes over him. The warmth he’s always associated with Fay soaks into him, healing all his wounds in an instant and rejuvenating his fading energy. Stars burst before his eyes, like he’s seeing into the very universe beyond Queyta, beyond what he’s meant to see with his petty Human eyes. In another instant, it’s gone and Fay is slumping over.

She falls to the ground with a thump, a noise that jolts Jon back into focus.

“Master!” he sobs.

He pulls her up from the ground with the sickening realisation that she’s a complete deadweight. She’s limp in his arms, already paling. Desperate, Jon pushes her hair out of her face and finds...nothing. Her eyes are dull. With his fingers on her wrist, he can’t feel a pulse.

“Fay?”

The steady beat of her Force-presence is gone, a gaping hole in his universe. Their bond, one strong enough to resemble a training bond, is shattered, a physical pain that throbs in his skull.

Jon begins to hyperventilate, his sudden gasps for breath burning his now-perfect lungs.

“Come back,” he begs Fay’s corpse. “Fuck, please. Please, come back.”

He pulls her into his lap, clutching her robes like a child being left behind for the first time. It doesn’t hurt to move anymore and, thank the Force for it because his entire body shakes with the force of his cries.

Overwhelmed with grief he’s never experienced, Jon wails into Fay’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. The agonizing sound rings across the valley, a noise like torture.

It’s only now that he feels the frayed edges of his bonds with Knol and Nico.

He screams again, his vocal cords protesting it sharply.

The last time Jon was this alone, he was a child. And now, he’s right back where he was before he met his three closest companions. Except now, now, he knows what it means to love and to lose. It aches. It aches like nothing he’s ever felt.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I need you. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He never gets an answer.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

one day, a horn grew from my head (part one)

Beetlejuice, but BJ is more visibly demonic, there’s world building for the Netherworld, and he has a partner helping him...

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

- the whole being dead thing! -

A blue truck rattled up the gravel path, racing to beat the storm beginning to brew up in the sky. Rain was already starting to come down, drizzling over the clouds of dust kicked up by the tires. The headlights shone on the wall of an old house in the distance. From the darkness of the surrounding greenery, sharp teeth spread in a wide grin.

“It’s almost time,” said the demon. “Took ‘em long enough. I thought he’d never get back.”

There was stirring at his side. He lightly whacked the figure next to him. His suit was sopped with rainwater, making the sleeves dangly and heavy as they hung around his wrists. It was odd to be in such merciless weather after having to deal with the acid rain back down in the Netherworld. Sometimes he couldn’t help but turn his head up to the downpour and let it run over his face in refreshing waves of coolness without it feeling like his flesh was melting off of his skull.

When his partner didn’t get up, he lightly poked her in the ribs with a claw. She squealed.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s time to wake up.”

The mud-slathered, blood-stained young demon sat up straight from her curled position against his side. She blinked, and the moonlight caught on her bright hazel eyes, making them glow.

“He’s here,” the larger demon pointed a black-clawed finger at the parked truck and the figure walking to the front door.

The smaller demon flicked her comically large pointy ears at the vehicle, then looked back up at him, eyes shining. A moth landed on one of her horn nubs.

The larger of the two smirked again, alligator teeth flashing. “It’s showtime, kid. Let’s put this plan into action.”

“So, crazy story,” Adam began, taking off his rain-spattered coat. “I got all the way to Howard’s store, and Howard tells me they’re all out of stock.”

“Oh no,” Barbara vocalized her dismay.

“But I asked Howard Junior to check the back for me--”

“Smart.”

“--so he sends little Howard the Third and long story short, I got the last bottle of Manchurian tung oil!”

“That’s great!” Barbara beamed. “Now you can finally finish the crib?”

“Yup!” Adam said, ripping off the cloth of a shiny, wood-carved crib. It was his pride and joy in a strange sort of woodworking way. “It should be ready before the O'Brien’s baby gets here!”

“She had it yesterday.”

Adam blinked. “Oh. Well--” He fumbled for just a moment. “Doesn’t matter! They’ll get it soon! They can put the baby in the…sink…in the meantime!”

Barbara laughed. It was a sweet, high sound that made Adam’s heart flutter.

“That’s definitely a place to put a newborn,” Barbara said.

“It’s round!” Adam said. “It can hold an infant. Plus, it doubles as a bathtub, so you can kill two birds with one stone!”

Barbara chuckled. She was shining one of her newest pottery jugs- her latest hobby. Last week it was painting. The week before that it was embroidery. And the week before that it was composting. He wondered how long this interest would last.

As Adam was shining one of the bars of the crib, rubbing his thumb over the pristine wood, he said, “Maybe we can keep it for ourselves.”

Barbara dropped her jug and it shattered into a thousand orange shards. Adam jumped, nearly ripping the bar right off of the crib. He stood up quickly.

“Are you alright?” he sputtered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Barbara said, haphazardly rushing for the broom. She began sweeping up the broken pieces of clay, then peered over at Adam. “What would we use a crib for?”

“You know…” Adam gestured vaguely.

“A baby,” Barbara smiled softly.

Adam smiled, too. “Yeah.”

“I mean…we do have this whole house,” Barbara said.

“It is a big house,” Adam nodded.

“And we already have a minivan.”

“A minivan is a family car.”

They smiled dreamily, imagining what it would be like to have a baby in their household, babbling adorably, snoozing in their arms, calling them “mama” and “dada”, having toys everywhere, getting in danger as they crawled around, crying, hating them when they grew up…

Adam swallowed thickly. He shifted, and the floorboards creaked below him. “Oh!” He pointed to the ground. “But-- but the floor! Listen to this creaking!” He stepped, and it creaked again, perfectly on time. “We can’t have a family with floors like this! It can be a safety hazard!”

Barbara nodded energetically. She put the broom away and began walking over. “You are absolutely right! Someone could get hurt!”

“Yeah! And we don’t want that to happen!”

“Not at all!”

“We have to do something about it before we have our own baby.”

“Among other things. We have to baby proof this whole house!”

“Yes! Great idea! We should get on that as soon as possible!”

“You’re so right! As soon as possible! So we can get on that baby right away afterw--”

There was then an awful shriek, and Adam realized it came from below as the wood seemed to fold inwards, dropping he and his wife into the darkness below the house. The last thing he remembered was Barbara’s horrific screaming, and then something cold and hard smacking into the back of his skull…

…and far above, in the light of the house, two heads peered into the hole, one with spiky lime green hair and the other wearing a red and black helmet.

“Damn,” Beetlejuice said. “I knew they were going to die, but that was quite the fall.” He stood up straight. “Eh. Still a better death than others I’ve seen. At least their bodies will still be intact. Them being cut in half would make things WAY harder.”

The Jockey nodded at his side. She was leaning treacherously into the hole, so Beetlejuice grabbed her by the back of the helmet to keep her from falling in. He tugged her backwards.

“They’ll get up soon,” Beetlejuice said. “So we gotta get ready. Prepare. Where’s the book?”

The Jockey looked around mutely. Beetlejuice learned rather quickly that she wasn’t much of a talker. He had never actually heard her voice before so he didn’t know if she even could talk, though she did nod when he asked if she could. Whether that was the truth or a lie to save face, he didn’t know, but he didn’t really care because they communicated together rather fine. It was quite a bit easier than he was expecting once he had all of her mannerisms down.

“It’ll show up eventually,” Beetlejuice said, checking the watch he didn’t have. His sleeves were still dripping with rainwater. “In the meantime,” he gazed around the house. “Pretty big place they got here. And for only two people?”

The Jockey pointed to the crib.

“Right. They had been discussing starting their own family,” Beetlejuice nodded. He glanced back into the hole for a moment. The two bodies at the bottom were still in the same position as they had been a minute ago, but the pool of blood gathering around their heads had grown slightly larger. Their lights were definitely knocked out cold. “Hopefully the woman hadn’t actually been pregnant. Nobody likes ghost fetuses. They’re so weird. All crawly and goopy and malformed…” He shuddered.

The Jockey laughed. She was capable of making noises, just didn’t like talking for reasons Beetlejuice still didn’t know.

“What about you? Did you have a house like this? Big? Small? Rich? Poor?”

She looked over at him, flicking one of her ears. She was quiet, as usual.

“I only ask because my housing unit back in the Netherworld was terrible,” Beetlejuice said. “I was once chained in this abyss for, like, a hundred years. It was the worst. Really makes you miss normal houses, doesn’t it?”

The Jockey nodded faintly, her lips pursed, eyebrows knitted together as she stared at him.

There was suddenly a thump as a thick book appeared out of seemingly nowhere, crashing to the ground on a rather ugly green and brown carpet. Beetlejuice picked it up.

“The rulebook,” he presented it to his partner. “Let’s see…” He flipped open to the first few pages and began reading, “The Handbook For The Recently Deceased. Chapter One: The Netherworld. All ghosts should proceed directly to the Netherworld.” He closed it abruptly. “But that isn’t gonna happen! These lovebirds need to stay here with us and haunt their house!”

He thrusted out a hand and the fireplace roared to life, crackling with bright orange flames. The Jockey leapt around to it, the glow making her eyes shine. She followed him over to the mantle as he carelessly threw the handbook into the inferno.

“Whoops!” Beetlejuice exclaimed. “Damn. There goes the book. Now they’ll never get to the Netherworld.”

The Jockey tittered softly. At the same time, there was the sound of shifting from within the hole.

“Barbara…? Are you alright?”

“Oh crap!” Beetlejuice grabbed the Jockey by the arm and yanked her behind the couch with him to hide. They both crouched low, listening as the couple crawled their way out of their tomb.

“Holy smokes! That was some fall!”

“I guess the floor gave out…?”

“I didn’t think it was that weak. Are you alright, huh?”

“I think so…”

“Oh my god--”

“You are like ice!”

“You’re freezing!”

They must have discovered their body’s drop in temperature.

“I’ll make a… I don’t remember making a fire…”

The Jockey’s gaze shot over to Beetlejuice. He shrugged.

“Had to destroy the book somehow, kid,” he whispered.

“That’s so weird. It’s not hot…”

“I think we should consider ourselves lucky. A fall like that could have been bad. I mean, my whole life flashed before my eyes like it does in the movies. I started asking myself the big questions, like… Why are our bodies still in the basement?”

“What did you say?”

The Jockey grimaced behind the couch.

The couple then began screaming, though Beetlejuice didn’t exactly know why. He couldn’t risk blowing his cover just yet to check.

“Adam! I don’t think we survived that fall!”

“…What? You mean… Oh god.”

“Here we go, kid,” Beetlejuice whispered to the Jockey. “It’s our time to shine.”

“I know… I know. There’s still so much I wanted to do.”

“I know, me too, but-- Hey, hey. We’re still together, right? We’re still in our house, all of our stuff is here! So what if we are…dead… That’s bad, obviously, but hey! Maybe nothing has to change!”

Just then, Beetlejuice and the Jockey popped up from behind the couch.

“Hi.”

The Jockey waved.

Barbara and Adam whirled around to them. They all stared at each other in a beat of silence. Beetlejuice held up his hands.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. His sharp black claws didn’t help the statement very much. “You are dead. I am also dead.” He pointed to the Jockey. “So is she. Maybe we can help each other out. What’s up?”

The Maitlands screamed and scrambled away as he advanced over to them with his hand outstretched. He backpedaled in reaction, pointy ears shooting up. He had not been expecting them to act like that. Good thing he had a child with him.

“Work your magic, kid,” he said to the Jockey.

The Jockey did as she was told, slowly walking over to the Maitlands with her hands up, palms out, claws visible, as if she were approaching a pair of spooked horses. The Maitlands seemed to relax slightly in the midst of the young girl, but then got weirdly defensive looks on their face. They bustled around her, forming a barrier of sorts between her and Beetlejuice. She blinked over their guard.

“Hey!” Beetlejuice yelped. “That’s my jockey!”

“Who the hell are you?!” Adam yelled.

“Help! I am help!” Beetlejuice said. “I’m here to help you both! And so is she! So can I have her back now? Pretty sure we have a whole codependent, separation anxiety thing going on here.”

Barbara peered at the small form of the Jockey, then at Beetlejuice protectively, not budging. “Are you her father?”

“What? No!”

Adam’s eyes somehow got even wider than they already were. “Did you kidnap her?!”

“How did you even come to that conclusion?”

But Adam and Barbara were already wrapped up in the theory, becoming even more fierce and protective around the Jockey. Not that they were very intimidating. They had about the menace of a pair of pomeranians, and even that was being generous.

“You’re not laying another finger on her!” Adam yelled.

“I didn’t kidnap her!” Beetlejuice yelled back, exasperated. Hints of orange-red were beginning to flicker around the crown of his head like the first sparks of a fire. If these two newly-deads weren’t so damn attractive he probably would have clawed their faces off by now and found a new couple to get a living human to say his name.

Barbara turned to the Jockey, crouching slightly to meet her eyes beneath the rim of her helmet. “Sweetie, did this mean man take you from your parents?”

“I didn’t take her from anyone!”

“That sounds like something a kidnapper would say,” Adam said, narrowing his eyes at him in suspicion.

“I’m not a kidnapper!!”

The Jockey quickly held up her hands again, shaking her head. She weaved around the protective forms of Adam and Barbara and darted over to Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into his side possessively. He glared at the Maitlands for a moment before cooling off, easing his stare. The red and orange fire beginning to light through his hair went down.

“I did not kidnap her,” he reiterated. “She is my partner.”

Adam opened his mouth.

“NOT LIKE THAT!” Beetlejuice cut him off before he even got the chance to say something. “Partner in business. My business partner. We work together.”

“You work with…a child?” Barbara asked.

“She’s more useful than half of the adults I know.”

The Jockey stood up a little straighter at that.

Adam looked Beetlejuice up and down. “You said you were here to help us…”

“Right!” Beetlejuice perked up. “Yes! We are!”

“Help us with what?” Barbara asked.

“To learn how to scare!”

“Scare? Scare who?”

“The people who bought your house!”

At that moment, two men dressed in delivery outfits came in and began grabbing everything they saw. Barbara and Adam tried to stop them, but their yelling and waving did little to help. Beetlejuice and the Jockey watched on in amusement.

“They can’t see us!” Adam finally exclaimed.

“Keen observation, Adam,” Beetlejuice said. He took the crop from the Jockey’s holster and began waving it around as if he were giving a presentation. “The living ignore the dead. We are invisible to them. And they’re so wrapped up in their stupid little lives that they usually just ignore the strange and unusual unless you make them, which is why we’re here.”

“This is all so much to take in,” Barbara said, running her fingers through her hair.

“Hey, I get it,” Beetlejuice said. “It’s a lot, but it’s okay! You two are special! You died together! That NEVER happens! Unless it’s a murder-suicide, which makes for a VERY awkward eternity.”

“How did you die?” Adam asked warily.

Beetlejuice laughed. “Oh, that’s cute. I was born-dead. Never got to experience human stupidity.”

“And her?” Adam nodded at the Jockey.

“Horse racing accident,” Beetlejuice said. He thought it had been obvious from her muddy and bloody silks and the hoofprints branding her body. He tapped a claw on her helmet. “She doesn’t talk very much, so don’t expect an answer from her.”

“Wait-- how can you be born dead?” Barbara blinked.

“I’m a demon, Babs, try to keep up.”

Both Barbara and Adam’s eyes widened. Thankfully, they didn’t freak out like they did the last time.

“You’re a WHAT?!” Adam yelped.

“So is she!” Beetlejuice pointed to the Jockey.

“You don’t…look like demons…” Barbara said hesitantly.

“Well, that’s just rude,” Beetlejuice looked down at the Jockey. “I swear, Breathers read the Bible once and think all demons are the same.”

The Jockey nodded with a tiny giggle.

“Demons aren’t exactly what you’re used to,” Beetlejuice said to the confused faces of the Maitlands. “If you weren’t already ghosts, my true form could strike you dead simply by being in your midst. I can kill a Breather with a single stare! But I appear in this form,” he gestured vaguely, “to seem less intimidating. Don’t want to scare off any potential clients.”

“You need to work on that,” Adam said.

“I can go more demonic whenever I want, though,” Beetlejuice went on, ignoring him.

He then snapped his fingers and a pair of black-and-white striped horns burst out from the crown of his head. A long, arrowhead black tail slithered out from his waist as his legs painlessly bent backwards into a more hock-jointed position, large talons pressing out from his ratty shoes. The Maitlands stared in shock. The Jockey looked enraptured, her ears fluttering.

“Like so,” He presented himself to them. “And this isn’t even what I REALLY look like.”

The Jockey clapped energetically. Beetlejuice grinned at her toothily.

“I was born a demon,” Beetlejuice said, looking back at the Maitlands. “Therefore, I was born-dead. She,” he drummed on the Jockey’s helmet, “became a demon. That happens if a ghost becomes too consumed with bitterness, grief, or anger and can’t get over their deaths.”

Barbara and Adam both shot worried looks at the Jockey from the implication behind Beetlejuice’s words. Beetlejuice didn’t blame them for that one. It was uncommon for ghosts to become demons; only if their deaths were REALLY bad. And for a child to turn, no less…

“Anyway,” Beetlejuice continued. “There’s a lot of feuds between the two types of demons because born-demons perceive turned-demons as “falsies” or “dirty half breeds” since they used to be humans and weren’t born with their horns and whatnot.” He tapped one of the Jockey’s little horn nubs for emphasis. “It’s just this whole thing. We get along just fine, though!”

As if to prove it, he and the Jockey smiled innocently, showing their sharp teeth. The Maitlands blinked back at them. Adam glanced over Beetlejuice’s shoulders as the movers continued to haul out furniture.

“So you can really help us get our house back?” he asked.

“You bet your sweet dilf ass I can!” Beetlejuice replied animatedly.

Adam’s cheeks flamed to an adorable shade of pink. Barbara looked slightly startled before barking, “There’s a child here!”

The Jockey waved a dismissive hand and mouthed, “I’ve heard worse.” She then tugged on her filthy silks for emphasis of sorts.

“Please say yes!” Beetlejuice said, trying not to beg. “Nobody else can help you! We’re all you got!”

Adam and Barbara cast one more dismayed look at their departing furniture, then said, “You’re hired.”

Electric green shot through Beetlejuice’s hair like the lightning bolts during an acid storm down in the Netherworld. His tail had to be wagging at the speed of light. He shook the Jockey’s arm eagerly.

“They said yes!!” He yipped, and the Jockey grinned up at him gleefully. He looked at the Maitlands. “You won’t regret it!”

The Maitlands looked slightly worried.

“I sure hope so,” Adam muttered.

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

Jaws dripping with gore, the many-limbed, razor-clawed amalgamation towers over the smaller creature on the street, holding a heart between its teeth. The smaller creature raises its blunted, chipped, and ripped off claws in a sign of weakness, spiked tail tucked between its legs. The abomination devours its heart, then hisses in its ear, “D o n ‘ t e v e r t o u c h h e r a g a i n.”

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

Beetlejuice’s eyes popped open. He stared into the darkness all around him, thick and tall like walls of onyx. Rain was still falling outside. Normal rain.

There was shifting at his side. The Jockey curled up tighter against his side, finding him warm despite the Dead being deathly cold. Finding his presence comforting despite him being awful.

She didn’t need to sleep, and yet she did. Perhaps to retain a shred of normalcy in her unlife. The Maitlands seemed to be the same way from the soft snoring coming from the other corner of the attic. It was too dark to see them, but they were there.

People were there.

His tail was still out, so he draped it over the Jockey’s ankle, testing her reaction to the touch. Even in sleep, she stirred, ears flicking slightly. She slumped over completely into his lap, her head cushioned by one of her arms, pointed tongue caught between her sharp teeth. Beetlejuice snorted. He poked her helmet.

“I don’t know how you sleep in this,” he said.

There was no answer. Even if she weren’t asleep, she wouldn’t give him one. That was okay. He didn’t mind her silence.

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