#to be honest neither of them quite thread the needle for me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

Text

Constellations - Geralt/Jaskier [G - Injury]

Gif isn’t mine.

Originally posted to my AO3 account.

It’s never anything more than a scratch.

Well, no. It’s always more than a scratch to him, he supposes.

Geralt has a map of scars littering his skin that are reminders of old injuries. Most of them are faded pale lines against his skin; but the worst of them, thicker, jagged lines stretching over his stomach and heart, are from times where danced a bit too close to death.

But in the time where Jaskier has been with him, he has never gotten so much as, as Geralt puts it, “a scratch”. Even in the aftermath of griffin and bruxa fights, when Geralt comes back to their camp or to their shared room in an inn, he shrugs off Jaskier’s fidgeting hands. “I’ll live, bard,” he grunts, padding over to the other side of the room to do whatever it is that needs doing to stop the bleeding.

Jaskier will always care. When love started to kindle between them, breathing became that bit harder when Geralt wouldn’t return when he said he would. Even if the Witcher was late by a couple of minutes, Jaskier paced so often that the soles of his boots threatened to wear away.

But Geralt always came back: carrying a limp or holding his side, fingers smudged with dirt and blood. But he always came back.

This is different.

He returned from a hunt, stumbling into their rented inn room, eyes still blackened and dark tendrils spreading out over his pale skin, a red stain across one side of his chest. Jaskier barely had time to speak the Witcher’s name before he crumpled to the ground with a pained grunt.

The town is large enough to have several healers making their businesses in it – but only one of them actually comes to help. No one bothers with Witchers, no matter what good they do for those living on the land. It’s something Jaskier has come to know. The people glowering and sneering at Geralt as he walks through villages and towns won’t lift a finger to help him if he ever did ask for it. The innkeep was a kind woman, offering them a good room and better food if the Witcher dealt with a bruxa problem in the forest nearby, scaring away all of her produce suppliers. Geralt took the contract – because of course he did, they were being offered a room and food after a long journey of having neither.

Jaskier can only presume it was her who ran to every healer’s apothecary within the town. He barely had Geralt settled on the bed when the healer steps into the room; and a long breath rushes out of Jaskier. He thanks every god he can remember the name of as the woman sets her leather work-bag on the foot of the bed. She fishes out fistfuls of clean, white rags and sets them to the side; along with glass vials of ointments and potions.

Jaskier sets his hand on Geralt’s forehead. It’s damp with sweat, and his skin is almost scalding. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “You’ll be alright, my love,” he says gently, wincing at how Geralt’s face scrunches up at another bout of pain shaking through him. The black tendrils that sit where his veins would are starting to ebb away. And once his potion’s effects are gone, searing pain will replace it.

“Do you know how to clean a wound, bard?” the woman says, already handing him some cloth and a vial of reddish liquid.

Jaskier swallows and nods. He’s spent sun-turns following this damn man. Of course he knows what to do with wounds.

It’s just the initial panic that flashes through his body that he can’t quite get rid of yet. In fact, if he’s being totally honest, he thinks it’s getting worse.

He manages to get Geralt’s loose shirt off – a chunk of it having been torn by whatever it was that he was hunting. It’ll be mended in the morning, but as soon as Jaskier tosses the piece of clothing aside, he has to swallow at what he sees.

It’s deep. Jaskier sets his fingers around the wound. It’s a gash spreading across Geralt’s pectoral. It’s so deep he worries that Geralt’s own heart and lungs might burst out. Blood gushes out of it, staining his hands and pooling underneath his fingernails.

Jaskier fiddles with the vials and cloth. A harsh smell of something metallic covers the roof of his mouth. “This is going to hurt, Geralt,” he says softly, pressing the cloth over the worst of the cut. Geralt’s face pinches and his entire body goes stiff under Jaskier’s hands. “Shush now, I’m here,” Jaskier mumbles, lifting the cloth away. He switches it out for a clean one. Soaking that one with more of the red liquid, he sets about removing whatever dirt and grime he can see within the cut.

Geralt is as stiff as a stone slab beneath him. Jaskier’s eyes dart up to the Witcher’s face. His eyes are squeezed shut, hair splayed over the pillow. His skin is returning to its normal colour. Jaskier winces. “Do you have any poppy’s milk or valerian root?” he directs towards the end of the bed. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

A glass vial suddenly appears beside him. Jaskier looks at what’s inside; a white liquid speckled with black flecks. Poppy’s milk. Jaskier sets the cloths aside for a moment while he uncaps the vial. “Geralt,” he reaches out for the Witcher’s face. Red smears over Geralt’s cheek. “Geralt. Drink some of this. It’ll help.”

Yellow hooded eyes stare blearily back at him. Jaskier sets the vial against Geralt’s lip. He sighs in relief when a few drops of milk are swallowed. It’s strong stuff. He vaguely remembers the opium gardens of the academy being of particular interest to a few students. It never took long for them to fall under the plant’s effects. Geralt’s head grows heavy in his hands. He helps the Witcher lay back against the bed.

The woman moves around the room like a ghost. Jaskier is so focused on the job at hand, he doesn’t notice her grinding herbs with oils by the foot of the bed. He does sense her lean over his shoulder to inspect his work. There’s a soft hum of approval. “It’s deep, but the main problems are blood loss and infection. If we can manage those, he’ll be alright.”

He knows. He wants to snap. He knows.

Jaskier’s fingers curl into the pieces of the linen cloths. Gods above and below, he knows. She doesn’t have to keep saying these things.

Geralt is just as mortal as the rest of them. The gods can touch him. He can die. It takes a lot more of an effort on his assailant’s account, but he can. He’s danced too close to death before. Thankfully never in Jaskier’s presence. But it doesn’t stop the flood of fear that washes through his body every time Geralt stumbles back from a hunt, at the thought that one day, maybe soon or in a few years, Geralt might not come back to him.

Jaskier sucks in a breath. Stop it, he has to tell himself. There’s no point in worrying about any of that now. His fingers tremble as he cleans the worst of the wound, and he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t taken a steady breath since Geralt fell to the ground. But there’s no point in panicking.

He’s stitched Geralt back together before – in the areas along his back and shoulders where the Witcher can’t reach himself. He’s become quite good at it, if he were to say so. But with a wound this deep, bright red with streaks of what looks like muscle peering through, the healer gently nudges him aside. She’s already threaded a thin needle and seared the end with a candle’s flame.

Jaskier moves to the other side of the bed, gathering more cloth as he goes. Blood still trickles out of the wound. The only way to stop it is to knit the Witcher back together again.

He’s pale. The worst of the potions are fading from him. But his skin is still so pale that Jaskier sets his hand against it to feel for warmth. And Geralt is still scalding.

A tremor shakes his body. “It’s the potions, darling,” Jaskier says lowly, taking up a place by Geralt’s side. He soothes his hand along the unmarred side of the Witcher’s chest. “You’ve done it all before. It’s alright.”

When the last of the stitches are pulled tight together, Geralt has finally settled into a sleep. It probably won’t last long, and it’s more to do with the poppy’s milk than anything else. But Jaskier cards his fingers through the Witcher’s hair.

“The wound should heal nicely, but he lost a lot of blood,” the healer says, scrubbing her hands in a nearby basin. Red smudges reach her elbows. “He needs to rest.”

Jaskier hums. “He certainly won’t like that.” They were meant to be on their way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The call of it had already whispered by Geralt’s ear. He’ll wake in the morning and, knowing him, will grunt out some excuse or other that they need to keep going. That the winds will turn and the roads will freeze over. But the summer has been kind to them this year. Even now, with crops being taken in and farm animals sheltered, the sun still warms the fields.

They have time. They can afford to stop for a moment; especially if it’s Jaskier heavily relying on Geralt to get him to Kaer Morhen in the first place. He can’t imagine he would be able to climb the damn mountain, let alone be let in the gates without the Witcher.

But Jaskier glances over his shoulder to the woman. It’s the first time he’s actually looked at her for more than a moment. “Thank you, my lady,” he breathes. He eyes the leather bag at her feet. “How much do I owe you for-?”

She shakes her head. “You owe me nothing, bard. A life saved is payment enough for me.”

He turns back to Geralt, lying motionless on the bed if not for the slow rise of his chest with every small breath he takes. He’s alive. A small sentence stated again and again in his head, repeating it to himself so that the more flighty and anxious side to him will just calm down and see reason.

She leaves him with more potions and ointments; valerian root for pain, arnica for the wound and bruising, tea tree for any infection that might come about. Jaskier places them on the small nightstand beside the bed, within an arm’s reach. As he locks their room door for the night and places another log of wood on the fire, he sighs. It’s the first proper breath he’s taken in what seems like hours.

Whatever had squeezed his chest begins to loosen.

He leaves most of his layers and his boots by the foot of the bed. Geralt’s tunic lies on the ground, still wet with blood. Jaskier stares at it for a moment. He’ll wash it in the morning, and see what he can do about that tear along the neckline.

Geralt’s bandages will need changing every hour. Though the Witcher’s heart is slower to beat than a normal man’s, blood still seeps through his dressings like water. Jaskier struggles to think what it would be like if Geralt were a normal man. He’d be dead, some part of his own mind tells him. No normal man would survive an attack like this.

He takes up by the Witcher’s side, sitting back against the headboard of the bed and pillowing Geralt’s head on his lap. Opium will keep him under for another few hours. The hearth’s fire threatens to burn out a few times, but Jaskier can’t bring himself to move away from the other man. He stares at the thing, wishing that the heat from his eyes alone would just make the fire come back to life.

Mumbled nonsense leaves Geralt’s lips. Jaskier can’t sleep, so he listens to it. Carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, untangling and unknotting dried blood and dirt out of strands, he listens to whispers and mutterings of a girl in the woods, of a city falling, of the south coming north. He frowns. Setting the back of his hand against Geralt’s forehead, his frown only deepens when he finds no fever.

“What’s got you all bothered, hmm?” Jaskier mumbles, returning his fingers to Geralt’s hair. The Witcher doesn’t move; but his face does twitch every so often. A nightmare, maybe. Or a too-real dream. The poppy’s milk will keep him under for a few hours – but Jaskier has never seen its effects on a Witcher. Maybe he’ll doze off and wake to find Geralt stumbling around the room, muttering about a compromised arm and a ruined shirt. Maybe he’ll sleep long into the following afternoon. Jaskier has no idea.

The tavern quietens. Jaskier’s ears prick at the sound of patrons stumbling out on to the streets, calling their goodbyes back to the innkeep. He hears the door being bolted and the rest of the tenants going to their rooms. The floorboards outside squeak and groan with every footfall. Jaskier glances down at the Witcher. His face is lax and regular, slow breaths puff out from a slightly opened mouth. Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest. It isn’t often that he’s awake when Geralt isn’t. He falls asleep after Jaskier and wakes up before him. Seeing him like this now, he wants to commit it to memory.

At some point, he must fall asleep. His head falls forward and he jerks awake. Watery morning light streaks in through the window, the curtains still splayed open. A thrum of pain spreads across his lower back, but Jaskier eventually shuffles to lie down on the bed, facing Geralt and setting his hand against the Witcher’s chest. His fingers brush the bandages; a relieved sigh leaving him when he feels that it’s dry and not speckled with red.

The first sign he gets of Geralt surfacing is the slight increase in his heart rate. Jaskier feels it underneath his palm. It’s nothing that noticeable, but Jaskier recognises it from sleeping on Geralt’s chest for countless nights.

When yellow eyes open, blinking blearily, Jaskier has to swallow the lump clawing up his throat. “How are you?” he rasps. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

Geralt grunts. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, you’re so far from being fine,” Jaskier mutters, reaching for the vial of valerian root. He’s become adept at reading his Witcher. In the coming winter, he might compile a dictionary specifically for the damn brute. Some things mean other things in Witcher-speak. And an I’m Fine has hundreds of meanings.

Despite glaring at the vial in Jaskier’s hand, Geralt takes a small sip of the potion. It won’t be as fast-acting as the poppy’s milk, but it’ll do. Geralt sinks back into the mattress and pillows. His eyelids can barely stay open.

Jaskier’s fingers curl against his chest. “You need to rest,” he says. “The healer said you lost a lot of blood and that you need to rest – so I don’t want to hear anything about you being fine, or that your Witcher-y-ness will have you right as rain by the afternoon. We don’t need to be in Kaer Morhen for another few weeks. So you’re going to lie there, and sleep until you feel better. Do you hear me?”

At that, Geralt’s eyes open again. He settles the bard with an arched eyebrow. “I hear you,” he rasps.

Jaskier blinks. Tears sting the back of his eyes. “Good,” he says stiffly, pillowing his head on Geralt’s uninjured shoulder. “So, off to sleep with you.”

The arm beneath him moves. It’s slow and heavy, but eventually Geralt slings his uninjured arm over Jaskier’s shoulders, keeping the bard close to him. “Whatever you say, little lark."

180 notes · View notes

fortune-fool02 · 4 years

Text

More than a Machine

Android Jonathan Joestar x Robert E.O Speedwagon

This was inspired by the Android AU that @lyssors helped support! Thank you again for that!

Android/ DBH AU

Please enjoy.

2038. In this day and age, humans were no longer the peak of perfection. That spot belonged to the human's greatest creations: Artificial Intelligence, Androids. The perfect being. Never tire. Never blinded by emotion. Perfectly obedient to any and all given commands. Unable to talk back. Every flaw that humans had were removed from them. Emotionless. Indifferent. Obedient. Perfect. Just because they looked human, it did not make them human, as many believed.

But that all began to change. Slowly, like a tiny strand in the genetic chain of evolution, the androids began to change. Thinking for themselves, questioning their owners and some even disobeying completely. Many feared this, no longer trusting their own androids and even becoming hostile towards them if they felt unsafe. While many treated them as items and objects, things to be replaced and thrown away once they grew bored of it or the newest model came out, there were those who did no such thing. Instead, they treated them as more than items and objects, treating them as individual beings with their own thoughts and feelings, like humans.

Robert Speedwagon was one of those people. He knew what it was like to be shoved about and treated like the lowest scum on Earth. He has had his fair share of fights -as resulted by the many scars on his body and the countless nights of patching himself up or having a friend do it for him- but he would never hurt someone who didn't deserve it. While he may be a thug, he was not a horrible person to those who knew him. Though, with the decline in jobs due to the androids taking their place was more than a kick in the knees for people like him who were forced to resort to stealing just to make some money. And yes, he couldn't deny he had some form of bitterness towards the androids but it remained at that.

But that changed when he found an android slumped against the wall, blue blood leaking from an open 'wound' on its chest where its regulator was. The dim glow on the LED light told him it was damaged but still working. Seeing as no one was around, he took it to his place thinking he could salvage some parts to sell or sell it as a whole.

He muttered to himself as he opened the android's chest and examined it a bit. He had a bit of knowledge of android repairs and whatnot, and noticed the two disconnected wires -likely done so during the damage- and reconnected them. A sharp gasp left the android as he sat upright, the LED light flashing blue as his eyes darted around, scanning his environment as his systems rebooted and came back online.

Speedwagon tried to calm the android down. The blue-haired android calmed, his scanners confirming he was safe and all his systems were running smoothly again. Once he had calmed and gathered himself, the android introduced himself as Jonathan, a JJ-180 model; the model was a rare prototype given to Lord George Joestar as a gift, the model was one of a kind.

As he is programmed, Jonathan was nothing sort of a gentleman to Speedwagon, thanking him for fixing him and helping him, which did surprise the blonde human. Well, seeing as this model was a prototype and belonged to a Lord, he was easily worth a lot of money and not to mention he was very easy on the eyes. No human could be as well built and beautiful as Jonathan. But now there was the dilemma: What to do? Reset the android and sell it off? Keep it? What to do? Well, with him still somewhat damaged, Speedwagon thought it best to keep hold of him until someone came looking for him.

And that was how Speedwagon ended up with an android despite having little money to his name.

Jonathan was, surprisingly, a caring android despite being programmed for a Lord and acted more of a carer than anything; kind and warm, gentle and soft despite his large build, to be honest, there were a handful of moments where Speedwagon had forgotten Jonathan was an android until he noticed the LED light on the side of his head again. It was known that some androids were programmed to 'care' with their operation systems but none seemed to match the way Jonathan showed this.

It was mostly thanks to Lord Joestar who had treated him as a son rather than an android. He would thank Jonathan if he completed a job, he took the android's condition into consideration and whenever there were guests, he asked them to treat Jonathan with respect. But there were occasions where he came back home with dirt and slightly torn clothes from people pushing him around because he was an android.

Accessing Memory File. March 3rd 2038. 10:51am....

Jonathan sat across from George, the man's cane resting beside them as he threaded the needle through the rip one final time, sealing it fully and pulling the thread away. He grabbed the pair of scissors beside him and snipped the thread.

"There. Good as new." He spoke, setting the tools aside and holding the jumper up. Jonathan smiled at it and took it from him, slipping it back on.

"Thank you, George." The jumper had been a gift from George so Jonathan didn't have to wear the uniform all the time. Even though Jonathan stated he didn't require clothing, George insisted, telling him that he didn't need a servant. Jonathan was confused at this but he continued with the duties given to him. George smiled at him,

"JoJo, you know I am not going to be around forever. Humans are not like machines, we're fragile. We break down and eventually, we die." Jonathan turned his head and looked at George at this, his scanners quickly analysing George's condition. He did have a few medical conditions but nothing that posed a high fatality rate. "I want you to be safe when I'm no longer here."

"George, I'm afraid I don't...quite understand what you mean." George smiled lightly at this and placed his hand on Jonathan's shoulder, patting it lightly.

"I am going to leave everything in my possession to you when I pass." Jonathan looked at him, flecks of confusion on his face at this. Everything was being inherited to him?

"But George, your inheritance should go to your next of kin or related family." That was how it went, everyone knew that. Though he simply smiled at the blue-haired android.

"Jonathan, you are my son. And that won't change because we have different coloured blood." His words weren't hollow nor false, Jonathan was his son regardless of their differences and he would proudly defend him if the situation arose. Jonathan felt himself smile at this.

"Hey, JoJo, you alright?" Speedwagon's voice pulled him from his memory file, bringing him back to the present moment, "You zoned out there for a minute." Jonathan looked over and smiled a bit,

"Yes, I'm fine, Speedwagon." He responded and continued with the task he had given himself. It had been a few weeks since Speedwagon had found him and he just couldn't bring himself to rest the android or sell him off, it just felt wrong to do so. Plus, he was amazing company. During his time there, Jonathan had noticed a similar pattern between Speedwagon and George: They both treated him like a human. But what did that mean?

George treated Jonathan like a human because he viewed him as a son, but what did Speedwagon view him as? Friend? Ally? After finishing his task, Jonathan moved and stood aside, awaiting another command.

"Speedwagon, may I ask you something?" He asked, looking at the blonde man as he read the newspaper.

"Yeah, sure. What is it?" He set the newspaper aside, showing the android he had his full attention.

"Why do you treat me like a human?" Confusion painted Speedwagon's face at this, his head titling lightly as he thought.

"Well, it's just you're so....human-like. You look human, sound human and on occasions, act human too."

That caught Jonathan's curiosity. He acted human? How can one act like something they aren't? His thoughts jumbled a bit, trying to figure out what that meant.

"How though? How can I be human if I am an android? A machine?" That was what he was though. Mechanical mechanisms composed together and dressed up to mimic human appearance and speech. The blue LED flashed yellow, circling as he tried to process it.

"JoJo, just because you're one thing it doesn't make you unable to be something else. Look at me, I'm a thug but I'm not a jackass like others are." He had come clean to Jonathan about his past and the things he has done and yet the android didn't see him any different as the kind man who reactivated him and repaired him. That was what Speedwagon was trying to get through to him.

"But-"

"No buts. Yes, you're an android but you're also whatever you wish to be. You're an intelligent being with thoughts and knowledge, you care. That's what makes you who you are, JoJo." He took in the answer and processed it, "You're not just a machine, JoJo."

He repeated those words in his mind over and over again, breaking it down and analysing it further. It was similar to what George would tell him but there was something else in there. Something he couldn't quite define. Slowly, Speedwagon's hand moved towards his, their fingers gently brushing against one another. His touch was warm, while Jonathan's was cool with a smooth texture. It felt...nice. The blue-haired android watched, a mix of curiosity and wonder in his eyes as their hands moved closer to each other, pressing their palms against each others. The skin on his hand fading away to reveal the smooth, snow-white colour beneath that every android had, the pale blue lights glowing more than they should.

Speedwagon seemed just as fascinated at this as Jonathan was, a warmth softly bloomed within him as he watched the android slowly lower his fingers between his, interlocking them together. Something about this felt right in a way neither of them understood. How their hands seemed to fit perfectly together like two pieces in a puzzle. The odd warmth that seemed to spark and bloom from this simple touch.

Perhaps...they were not so different after all? Maybe he truly was more than just a machine.

#jonathan joestar #speedwagon #robert e o speedwagon #robert edward o speedwagon #reo speedwagon #jojo bizarre adventure #phantom blood #jojo phantom blood #jojo #jojo part 1 #jonawagon #speedjona #speedwagon x jonathan #jonathan joestar x speedwagon #android au #android jonathan #dbh au

26 notes · View notes

maxparkhurst · 3 years

Text

What We Can...

A storm brewed behind Augustine’s absent gaze. On the outside he looked to be in pristine condition; color to his cheeks, purpose to his movements, strength in his posture. He worked at a diligent pace, measuring out each reagent before tapping them into his mortar. If someone hadn’t known better, they’d think him to be as focused as ever. Not everyone was privy to her brother’s inner workings. Not like Max. It was too precise; mechanic even. He was going through the motions without so much as skipping a beat. A vacancy glistened in his eyes. His gaze was trained on his work, but she knew that his attention was elsewhere. She could tell when he was solid and when he was air. When he was grounded in the present and when he was floating away on a far off thought. Even as a young boy he got stuck in his own head, circling around and around. A ship caught in an endless whirlpool. It never took much to get him going.

Max reached for his hand, intercepting the spoon full of Siren’s Pollen he was mistakenly about to dump in. She took hold of his wrist and eased the spoon from his grip. “Augustine,” - she tapped a finger to his forehead- “You aren’t focused.”

It took him a minute to register her existence. He blinked once and then again, eyes crossing as she touched his forehead. The contemplative pout puckering his lips melted into a disquiet smile. “Sorry…” he sighed. Augustine dragged his gaze down to the muddled mixture. His close failure caused his brows to draw in a furrow and another sigh to pass. He ran his hands over his face and under his glasses, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’m just…”

Max watched him curiously. Augustine had the tendency to wrinkle his nose when he lied. She couldn’t help but notice how he kept his face hidden when he said, “I’m just tired… That’s all.”

She reached for his hands, looking to coax them from his face so she could pull him into a tight embrace. A forced coldness stayed her hand. Now wasn’t the time for coddling. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and turned to the work splayed across the table. Coarse, black gloves laid amongst a winding string of crimson thread. Beginnings of an alchemy circle were already stitched into the backs. So close to completion. She unsheathed the needle from the fold she had tucked it in and picked up where she left off. The gloves needed to be finished. Now more than ever.

“You should go and sleep.” Max pressed her lips in a fine line. The warmth she wanted to place in those words sat thick in the back of her throat. Comfort could come later. Work needed to be done now.

“No.” Augustine shook his head. “I-I’m fine. Besides, you need help.”

“I need,” Max interjected, “For you to be focused. Not muddling through formulas like an addle minded fool. If you won’t do it right, then I won’t have you do it at all.” Her harsh tone tasted bitter on her tongue. The look of hurt written on Auggie’s face made it all the more unpalatable.

Augustine dropped his gaze to the floor, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The air grew thick with tension as an overwhelming silence developed between the siblings. Max trained her attention on her work. She let the silence grow and fester, lingering in the air like a pestilence. It fed her brother’s ire as the teen started to seethe. He shook with each breath he drew, lips pressed so tight that they turned white.

“How can you be so calm?” His voice, barely above a whisper, broke the seal. Each word he laced with a note of venom she hadn’t ever heard from his before. “So focused?”

Max turned to speak when Augustine’s gaze met her own, cutting anything she had to say short.

“Four days,” he hissed, “Four days, Max! And we haven’t heard from anyone!” His hand sliced through the air as he gestured to the boarded up window. “And what are we doing?! Just sitting here, twiddling our thumbs while our friends are out there!” He swallowed hard. “How are you not concerned?”

Max inclined her head as she leveled her gaze. “The Argent Crusade and the Ebon Hold are holding the line. It’d do no good for us to interfere. Getting them the potions out should be our only concern.”

“And our friends?” Augustine threw up his hands with an incredulous scoff. “What about them? Hm? The Scourge has already overrun Duskwood! It’s only a matter of time before they hit Elwynn.”

“Our peers,” Max retorted, “Are capable of handling themselves. Should the horde make it past the line, then there’ll be an evacuation.” She spread her arms out with open palms. “Anything beyond that is simply out of our reach.”

The teen bristled as his upper lip curled. “So that’s it, huh? We stay boarded up in the city while our friends are scattered to the wind?!”

“Augustine…” She spoke his name on the back of a tired sigh. It sounded neither condescending nor encouraging. Just tired. She reached a hand out to him - “Please.”- and he slapped it away.

“Don’t!” He squared his shoulders and dared a step closer. “Don’t say my name like that…”

Max recoiled as something ugly flared in her chest. Despite the attempt to swallow it down, the feeling crawled up her throat and rolled off her lips as a breathless laugh. She let him take his step, and beckoned him closer with a grin laced with devious intent. “Like what?” she challenged.

Augustine paused. “Like I’m being the irrational one…” he said after a moment, his voice a degree softer, “And you’re the one with all the answers.” His brow dipped. “Like I’m some kind of fool for having feelings.”

“Then you quit acting like a fool,” Max quipped.

“I’m not! I’m just being human!” The teen bucked up and raised a hand to his sister. “Why are you so heartless?!”

Max caught his slap by the wrist. She grabbed his shirt collar and shoved him back into the counter. Vials rattling in their racks chimed in alarm. Her grip on his wrist was relentless, only growing tighter the more he pulled. “Heartless?” she breathed, leaning in close, “How is being rational heartless?”

Augustine didn’t say a word. He only averted his gaze as he tried to break free. So Max continued for him.

“Tell me. What exactly is it that you’d want to do? You want to run into the fray and fight? Do so with the shield you don’t brandish? Or how about the sword you don’t wield? Maybe you can use that sling I see you practice with. I’m sure empty oil bottles are great surrogates for ghouls.” She yanked him closer, forcing his gaze up to meet her own. “What is a child going to do that the Argent Crusade can’t?!”

“I’m not a child!” he spat.

“And yet,” Max hissed, “You aren’t a man. You can’t even free your hand from my grasp. What makes you think you can fight the Scourge?”

He didn’t reply.

“Answer me, Augustine!”

“I don’t know!”

“You must have an answer if you’re to berate me for-”

“I just want to be useful!” he cried.

A chill ran down Max’s spine. Her brother brought up his gaze, revealing the mist of tears threading his eyes. He swallowed hard before choking out, “Because I’m scared… Okay?”

The anger which boiled her blood instantly cooled. Guilt seeped into her gut at the fear glistening his eyes. She uncurled her fingers and stepped back, watching as he rubbed the imprint left on his wrist. It was her turn to drop her gaze.

“I’m scared that people are going to die...” he whispered through a sob, “A-and I’ll have done nothing about it… Because I was useless.”

The stern wall she placed finally crumbled. She let herself reach out and gather her brother in her arms, warmth seeping into her voice. “No… No, no. Auggie you aren’t… You aren’t useless.” An ounce of relief settled in her chest as he stepped in her embrace. He quivered in her arms with each passing sob. She held him close, uttering not a word as she stroked the back of his head, and waited for him to settle.

Max’s hands slid to his forearms, pulling him back so she could look at him. The realization that she had to reach up to cup his cheeks was bittersweet. She coaxed his head down and touched her forehead to his. “Our work,” she began, “Is important. You must understand that. We are giving people who cannot fight, people like us, a chance to survive. Not just with our Alchemy Fire...With all of our work. People will need medicine, salves, and poultices. They will need our work... And we need to be ready.”

She wiped a tear away with the pad of her thumb. “I know you’re scared…” She stole a glance down at the rusted padlock and then to a basket of abandoned Peacebloom. She didn’t have the courage to touch either of them since the outbreak. Not when it could be the only remnants. “I’m scared too…”

“But,” she continued, “Not everyone who is courageous wields swords. We must be brave. Brave enough to put our emotions aside. There will be time to worry, to mourn, and to cry later.” Max took a breath, chastising herself for the waiver that seeped into her voice. “But right now, we cannot afford to be distracted. We need to keep focused and have faith that things beyond our control will sort themselves out.”

“As it is written…” Auggie murmured.

“Yes,” Max allowed a soft smile to touch her lips, “As it is written.”

She smoothed back his hair and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Now,” she breathed, “Go and dry your eyes. Rest if you need to. Then come back and pick up where you left off.”

Augustine pushed up his glasses and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. “I’m fine” -his nose wrinkled- “I can keep going.”

Max looked him over. He looked more tired than ever before and she worried he might be pushing himself too far. She kept these ruminations to herself, though, upon noting the determination that furrowed his brow. She’d let him at least have this.

“Honest,” he insisted, wiggling out of her arms, “I-I want to keep working.” He turned without waiting for a response, picking up his work as if he’d never paused to begin at all.

She watched his back. Her heart swelled with a sweet melancholy as she took up the needle and resumed sewing the alchemy circle into the gloves’ backs. With each stitch, she reeled a revelation closer. By the time she tied the string off, marking one glove complete, their candle had been burned to its wick. In its shadows was where her discovery laid.

Illuminated by the faint glow of his simmering concoction, Augustine laid with his head on the desk. Max hovered a hand above his lips and felt his warm, steady breath against her knuckles. He was asleep. At first she breathed a laugh as she carefully slid his glasses off. But then her smile faltered. She gazed down at her brother, noting the dark circles under his eyes and tension in his shoulders. It was like looking at an echo of her old self.

Max shook her head and sat his glasses aside. She didn’t want this kind of life for Augustine. One plagued with strife and long nights. All she wanted was for him to cherish these last few innocent years. Maybe that was asking for too much...

She stole a glance at the rusted padlock, feeling the black box’s gaze hiding within the drawer. Certain truths she had hidden well from him. She’d done a good job of hiding plenty from Augustine, shielding him from the cold world with her secrets. But not all truths, she realized as she lay her head next to her brother, could she protect him from. Some he’d have to face on his own.

That was what scared Maxinora the most.

Previous chapter: Churning Skies

#The Alchemists #prepatch #Act 1: Chapter 2 #|What We Can |

21 notes · View notes

bnha-soulchild-au · 4 years

Text

By the age of ten Bukugo Katsuki is convinced he doesn't have any soul bonds. He’s seen the marks on his skin, but he doesn’t believe them for not even one fucking second.

Why should he anyway? It’s not like anyone out there cared even one bit about him.

Well one person might.

He shook his head fiercely, he needed to snap out of it. He didn’t want to think about him, with his wide green eyes and innocent smile. He was close enough to sparking up as it was, it was never a good idea to make it any worse with anger.

He had three marks, if his parents were to be believed. One was a simple black cat, taking a nap with its tail hanging over a ledge. That one was believable enough, simple, it could be anybody really.

The second was a black needle and a red thread, his mother told him that must be his mark for her, since she worked in the fashion industry. He hated that this one fit, that it worked. He hated the fact that he could possibly be bound to the hag by fate. He hated that it meant that every fucked up thing she did to him was justified in the eyes of fate.

He hated that it meant that he was supposed to be here, stewing in frustration and humiliation as the gloves slowly absorbed his sweat. He was quite literally a ticking time bomb, if he so much as moved too quickly his hands would be utterly scorched.

He hated the fact that it meant he somehow deserved it.

The only thing that made it better, was the fact that he had a green mark. It was a green key with two bunny-like ears, he could have laughed. Green marks didn’t exist.

Nobody out there had ever had a green mark, it was unheard of. It made him think that the whole thing was a hoax, an elaborate lie his parents told him to keep him in check. He might not have any soul marks for all he knew, not real ones anyway.

He was fine with that...

...and he was fine, all the way up until the end of his work study with Best Jeanist.

He hadn’t looked at the marks in years, he hadn’t thought about them in years, they were irrelevant, meaningless. Just shapes and colors, there was no meaning to them.

He hadn’t liked the man, he came off as a snob and was always telling him to play nice and smile for the people. It was all pointless showmanship, and by the end of his internship he hadn’t learned a single damn thing, much less been in a real fight.

He got more violence at home in a single night than he got this whole damn week, it was absolutely pathetic.

On the last day of his internship though, something happened. As Jeanist combed gently through his hair, Katsuki noticed something. It was barely visible in the shadow of his long sleeved denim costume, but it was a flash of red just showing in his vision as Jeanist worked from behind him. He had to wait until he got another glance as he repeated the motion, to fully comprehend what he was seeing. It was just on the inside of his wrist, a black explosion in the shape of a mushroom cloud, with a small red heart inside of it.

Katsuki felt a wake of chills hit him, almost instinctively he could tell that the mark was his. He didn’t know how he knew but he knew. That was his mark and Jeanist had it. Katsuki did his best to hide it, the internal crisis he was having as his whole world seemed to be knocked off kilter.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

It was all he could think about, he was running on autopilot, while his mind shut down entirely trying to process that the marks were real and he’d just felt what it was like to find a soul parent.

He couldn’t deny that they were real, not any more, and Katsuki was suddenly overwhelmed with multiple emotions at once, shame that he was bonded permanently to his wretched mother, fear about what the fucking hell a green mark might possibly mean, and some amount of shock that there was one right here, a soul parent.

He wondered dully why he’s never felt this sensation with either of his parents before.

Dragging him forcefully from his thoughts, Jeanist started to speak. “I know that you’re probably disappointed with how this week went. I know we didn’t see much action.”

The gears clicked in Katsuki’s mind after a moment of silence passed between them. He realized that he was expected to reply and gave a simple grunt. “Damn right I am….”. He couldn’t muster more venom than that though, not with his mind as it was. He needed to destroy something before it became too much, he could already feel the nitroglycerin coating his sweaty palms. His racing thoughts made him sweat and he needs to blow it up before it hurts someone.

Though, in this close proximity to Jeanist, the idea was pushed down. With the amount of nitroglycerin built up, all he’d do is either hurt Jeanist or startle him and neither of which was good.

“I do hope you understand why I had you do the exercises I did.” Jeanist prompted, clearly goading Katsuki for a better answer. There’s that condescending tone again, he could practically hear him tilt up his nose in disdain. How the actual hell could he be my soul parent?

“Of course, I fucking do! I’m not a dumbass.” He latched on to the anger, it was familiar, not like the utter confusion that had come with the discovery of the mark.

Jeanist hummed placatingly as he continued to comb through his hair, the damn guy was really into this shit. He was so intensely focused on it that he hadn’t looked anywhere else, it was probably the only thing that saved Katsuki’s sudden change in demeanor from being noticed. “Oh, then tell me. Why did I?”

Katsuki would literally rather be doing anything else, but no, here he was a grown-ass teenager, having his hair done like he was some girl’s doll. The answer he said tasted bitter in his mouth. Especially as he remembered the echo of his mother’s voice screaming similar sentiments just the other day.

“...everyone thinks I’m a villain, because of the way I reacted to being chained to the pedestal at the sports festival. “. Katsuki huffed, doing his best to keep the undesirable emotions from his voice, keying up the annoyance as a cover. It was still lingering just below the surface.

That was his fucking soul parent he was talking to, holy shit.

He violently pushed the desire to just ask the man about the mark on his wrist down. Get your shit together you were in the middle of a damn conversation.

“In order to be a hero, the public needs to trust me right, that’s your damn point, and people won’t trust someone like me?” Katsuki added, summing up the week's events in a single conversation. Tsunagu gave him an affectionate pat to the shoulder.

Why the hell is he so chummy, all I’ve done this week was cuss and yell at him? That wasn’t guilt he felt, he swore to god it wasn’t.

“I’m glad, I was convinced you didn’t listen to a single word I said this week. It seems like I was wrong.” Jeanist finished up his work and spun the chair around so Katsuki was facing him. The man was smiling warmly, the denim mask didn’t hide the way the creases at the corners of his eyes hinted at the smile.

“So what you’re saying is that I have to pretend to be someone I’m not, just to make people happy? That sounds like bullshit.” Katsuki found himself seriously considering what Jeanist was saying for the first time this week, and that was his honest assessment. This was bullshit, so long as he saved their sorry asses they should be grateful. He shouldn’t have to pretend to be nice about it.

Jeanist’s smile faded and he took a moment to consider Katsuki’s question. “Not necessarily, would you say that you are truly to the core a villain?”

Katsuki’s mind froze for a moment, visibly flinching. While Katsuki had hinted at the idea before he hadn’t expected the man in front of him to blatantly ask him about it. If he wasn’t such a mess at the moment, he would have heard the slightly playful tone to the man’s voice, indicating that he didn’t actually believe what he was insinuating. However, when he said those words, all Katsuki could see was his mother. The close connection between the two of them as his supposed soul parents brought to him the stunning realization that everyone believed it, that he was a villain at heart.

For a split second, he considered bolting off, because fuck this. This was too much bullshit and he couldn’t handle it all at once.

Jeanist noticed the change and his brow furrowed slightly in concern. Shit. Calm the fuck down, you asshole of a brain, shut the fuck up just until I can get the hell out of this place, until I can finish this conversation and have some space to breathe. The pro kneeled so that he was eye level to Katsuki, and shit, what the fuck was he supposed to say?

It shouldn’t be that hard of a question. He was going to UA for Christ’s sake, the best hero school in the nation. He was in a hero agency right the fuck now. He was talking to the 4th ranked pro hero in the nation. Why the fucking hell was this such a hard question? Of fucking course he was-

-he was a hero...

...wasn’t he?

All he could see was fucking Deku and his terrified face as he burned his notebook to ashes, as he told him to jump off the roof.

How the hell else was he supposed to deal with that damn nerd?

Especially when the quirkless moron was spouting shit about going to UA to take the entrance exam?

The fucking asshole was going to get himself killed!

What other ch-

“Katsuki?” Jeanist had a hand on his shoulder. The same hand that has that mark. He shook him gently, pulling him from his thoughts. The hero noticed the more focused look in Katsuki’s eyes and continued. “You are a hero, I know that. Sorry, that I didn’t make my intentions more clear.” His brow was still furrowed with concern. “You are a hero, and I may know that, because I know you. However, the person walking down the street only knows you from the media, and the way you act in front of them.” Jeanist sighed. “I only meant to say that you don’t have to pretend. I can see qualities any good hero needs within you, you just need to draw them out.”

He hated how good hearing that made him feel, he hated that his words had affected him so deeply the first time. Is this the soul bond, is there something unnatural making me feel so susceptible to what he’s saying?

Whatever it was Katsuki hated it. He hated caring what his opinion was, because his opinion was the only one he could guarantee was that of his soul parent.

….why was that still getting to him? So what, the hero had a fancy mark on his wrist? What’s the big deal? Does that suddenly make his opinion on Katsuki mean something?

Fucking

Hell

Jeanist decided to add one last statement to his lecture, while Katsuki processed his thoughts. “The only difference between a hero and a villain, is how they use their quirks. You can choose to be a good hero, and nobody can make that choice for you.” Jeanist paused, giving Katsuki time to say something but what the hell should he say. Should he agree? Should he argue? Should he stay quiet?

All he could see was Deku’s stupid face, and hear his mother’s voice telling him how horrible he was. What a horrible child to be bound to for eternity…

..horrible…

..rotten..

..brat…

...demon spawn

...the fucking devil incarnate…

“Katsuki.” The hero’s voice was softer this time, he placed his other hand on his opposite shoulder. God how pathetic must I look to make him wear that expression? The concern was still there, but the man was clearly trying to steady Katsuki. When had he started shaking? He was trembling like a leaf. What the fucking hell is wrong with me today? They were alone in the room, just the two of them. It was silent, except for the two of them. It was like they were wrapped up in their own little world, apart from the rest of reality.

Why is he acting so nice, why the actual hell is he being so nice?

Stuff like this doesn’t normally bother me. Why now?

Katsuki knew why, that mark had given validation to everything that his mother had done to him over the years. That was undeniable proof that the marks were real. That’s why, that’s why it meant so much more when he called him a villain, so much so that for a minute he actually believed him. Even if he hadn’t really said anything at all.

“Tell me what’s going on?” Jeanist gave his shoulders a comforting squeeze. Katsuki’s determination shattered a little at that. It was such an easy way out, stop fighting and let him take over, let him ask questions until he was satisfied. He took a shaky breath, why the hell was he out of breath?

I’m freaking the hell out because my soul parent is right in front of me and I’d convinced myself that they didn't exist. That’s why I’m freaking the fuck out.

He’s right here, just say something.

Say anything…..

“Please, talk to me.” There was no disdain, no hatred, annoyance, or fear. There was no frustration or anger, his voice was soft and reassuring. Jeanist gently shook his shoulders to accentuate the plea. His willpower that was keeping him stubbornly in place buckled, collapsing before him.

Katsuki spoke before he could think about what he’s saying.

“Your wrist, it has a mark on it. I think it’s mine.”

Fuck

Fuck my life.

Oh my fucking god you didn’t actually just say that aloud. Way to go, you couldn’t have been even just a bit more subtle.

Jeanist’s eyes widened as he looked instinctively to the mark just on his wrist, perfectly covered in most cases, except for the once that he hadn’t been paying attention. He looked back to Katsuki with a strange implacable expression.

They stared at each other, and Katsuki could feel his nerve wilting under Jeanist’s soft gaze. Katsuki really couldn’t remember the last person to look at him this way. He figured it must have been Auntie Inko, she was the only person that came to mind.

Without a word, Jeanist finally pulled his sleeve up to show the mark properly. The mark was just a bit larger than a nickel and on the center of his inner wrist, it was two colored, the black explosion contrasting sharp on the pale complexion of his skin that never saw the light of day.

Katsuki could feel it again, it was a faint sensation. It was like a realization, like it had been a long time coming. He had always held all the pieces, but he never knew what picture he was looking at. He stared at it wonder, feeling more than a little awestruck. He almost wanted to touch it but he suddenly and jarringly remembered how soaked his hands were. He quickly pointed his palms away and sparked off the excess nitroglycerin.

Jeanist blinked at the action but otherwise didn’t comment as Katsuki moved on to tug on his collar.

“I’m like 95-ish percent sure that’s my mark.” Katsuki hated how timid he sounded, the gruff gravel was still in his tone but it was softened by uncertainty, the sharp bite to his tone entirely absent. The embarrassment from speaking out was quickly fading in favor of itchy nervousness. “I’ve got a few marks and I’m sure one of them has got to be yours.”

Hearing the waver of his voice Jeanist quickly assured him “Only show me if you truly want to, please don’t feel obligated to.” Katsuki brushed the comment aside.

“It’s not like any of them are in uncomfortable places, there’s no reason not to.” Katsuki commented absently. “Plus, I'll drive myself insane if I don’t make sure.”

He pulled back his collar to reveal the first mark on his collarbone. It was the green key, and Katsuki showed it to the other hero who raised his eyebrows in surprise, but there was no recognition there.

“That’s a soulmark? I’ve never heard of one that color.” Jeanist asked in curiosity.

“I’m pretty sure it is? I have no fucking idea what green is supposed to mean though.” Katsuki commented as he moved on.

Katsuki covered that one up, and moved on to the one on his ankle. He shoved off his boot and rolled up his pant leg to reveal the black cat. Jeanist shook his head softly and Katsuki’s stomach dropped.

Was he really just imagining things?

Was it all in his head?

Did he just make an utter fool out of himself for nothing?

The only mark left was…

A thought occurred to Katsuki, it was a horrible thought. The only way to find out was to show him. Katsuki pulled up his shirt to reveal the last mark on his lower abdomen.

It was the needle and thread, the mark his mother swore was hers. It was the mark she had used to keep him prisoner with her. Many times it was the only reason he didn’t walk away, or tell someone about what it was like at home. It was his soul bond, it was dictated by fate. So why would anyone be able to stop it, even if they tried?

Even if he hadn’t truly believed in them, he hadn’t disbelieved in them either. It was enough to keep him still, with nowhere else to go.

Jeanist looked at the mark and somehow his posture softened further, and a wide grin erupted across his face. He could practically feel the radiating joy and comfort from the hero.

No, fucking way.

He couldn’t believe it, his mother was a horrible manipulative bitch on the best of days but this.

What she had said had done its job, it was intended to make him stay fucking put, to prevent him from questioning her and questioning freedom from her. That’s exactly what it fucking did.

How many times during his childhood did he walk right up to fucking Izuku’s house to tell him or to tell Auntie Inko? How many times did he turn around, figuring that they couldn’t possibly understand? That they wouldn’t do anything because he believed it was his fucking fate, that he fucking deserved every second of it.

He watched Jeanist looking at him like Deku used to look at him, before Katsuki had gotten his quirk. He was looking at him like he was the center of the damn universe and it was way too damn much to death with.

He couldn’t tell how he felt, he felt a little sick like he wanted to vomit as a cold pit of horror settled in his gut, and scream bloody fucking murder at his mother for screwing with his head like that. He really wanted to break out laughing, a little but hysterically because well fuck if her plan didn’t fucking backfire. He’d never trust her again after this, her or his father. If he could help it, he’d spend as little time there as he was able so he could get rid of them as soon as possible.

There was also a metric ton of relief flooded over him. He wasn’t bound to her for life, he didn’t have to listen to her spit those hateful things anymore, or at least he wouldn’t believe them. He just had to bear it a few more years and he could be rid of her, rid of the both of them, forever.

A small part of his mind quietly admitted to him that he was glad he could be different than she was, that he had a chance to be the hero he wanted to be. Not the villain she had convinced him he was.

More than that, most importantly, his real true soul parent believed that he could be a hero. The number four hero who was sitting right in front of him, looking at him like he was looking at the most important thing in the world, the hyper attention made him feel weak with insecurity.

They stared at each other just like that, neither knowing the gravity of the revelations that the other was sorting through. The moment passed quickly and Jeanist pulled him into an awkward hug considering he was still kneeling on the ground and Katsuki was still in the chair.

Katsuki could feel the gentle reverence in the hug, he could feel the simple and untainted affection in it. It was such a welcome and unfamiliar feeling that it made him sink into it, all past worries between them forgotten as they take comfort and pleasure in the simple and honest gesture.

It tore down the last of Katsuki’s composure, he let out a gasp and cried stubbornly into the embrace. He fought it the whole way through, every hiccup and sob was forced its way past the willpower holding it back. Jeanist rubbed gentle circles into his back for as long as he needed, whispering quietly to him.

They missed patrol that day, on the last day of his internship but Katsuki couldn’t bring himself to care.

79 notes · View notes

aliciameade · 4 years

Text

Wear My Heart On Your Skin

Title: Wear My Heart On Your Skin Author: aliciameade Rating: T for tattoos Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Beca comes up with a wild way to confess her feelings to Chloe. PP3-era. aka the fic I promised I’d write based on that tattoo show.

Also on AO3

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ -

“Are we seriously doing this?”

“Just trust me!” Beca says with a grin as she pulls Chloe into a tattoo parlor.

They’re not drunk, but they’re not exactly one hundred percent sober, either. But Beca’s just tipsy enough to let her guard down and stop thinking so much and Chloe had been tracing Beca’s headphones tattoo on her forearm for so long (it was hypnotizing, to be honest), that Beca had to make her stop by covering Chloe’s hand with her own and saying, “Dude, we should get tattoos together!”

Twenty minutes of Chloe vacillating between bouncing-off-the-walls excited and insisting they need to be more thoughtful with such decisions because “Tattoos are forever, Beca,” has got them as far as Just Ink About It, the Brooklyn shop a few blocks from their apartment. “I don’t even know what to get,” she whines, but Beca knows she’s going to go through with it regardless.

As far as Beca can recall, Chloe’s never once not agreed to any request Beca’s made of her, and though she tries not to abuse this benefit in their friendship, she’s a human being that can’t help but take advantage of such a thing from time to time.

“Then I’ll decide for you.” She keeps hold of Chloe’s hand (not that Chloe’s trying to pull it away) and turns her attention to the thoroughly tattooed and moderately pierced woman standing at the reception desk flipping through a home decorating magazine. “Hi! Two tattoos, please,” she says before laughing. It’s so absurd and she’s on some kind of a high of silliness but she can’t find herself to care.

The woman looks at up Beca’s voice. “Do you have appointments?”

Beca’s heart sinks. From the second she’d suggested this adventure she was thrilled by it and the possibility they could be turned away due to their spontaneity makes her sad. “Uh, no. Do you think you could fit us in? We’re not getting anything big. An hour each, max.”

The woman opens her mouth as if to question Beca’s knowledge and she watches her eyes fall to Beca’s shoulder, bare thanks to the strapless button-down she’s wearing, and the ornate lotus flowers adorning it that required Beca to sit for several hours. Her arms are next, both of them sporting ink, and the woman seems to relax and regard them with less disdain.

“Are you choosing off the wall or do you know what you want?” She gestures at the walls covered with panels of flash tattoos, all butterflies and fairies and ohm symbols and tribal designs.

“Oh, we have our own designs.”

Beca sees Chloe’s head whip around to stare at her. “We do?”

“Yeah, remember? We’re picking for each other.”

“What’s she getting?” the receptionist asks as she hands Chloe a clipboard with a legal release form attached to it.

“It’s small, I promise. Can I talk to the artist first? In private? It’s a surprise.”

“We’re deciding for each other?” Chloe asks, voice so incredulous it’s bordering on amused, but she continues filling out her personal information on the release form. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”

Beca just grins at her and then at the woman helping them.

“Fine. I’ll walk you back while she finishes her paperwork.”

“Thank you,” Beca says in a hushed voice as she follows her into a back room.

“Joey, I got a couple of walk-ins for you. They’re in charge of what the other’s getting. She must really trust you.”

Beca nods. “Yeah, she does. And I trust her.”

“Y’all are crazy,” the artist says before extending his hand to shake hers in greeting. “But that’s pretty badass. Who’s going first?”

Beca watches him start sanitizing and prepping the working area. “She is. And don’t let her see what you’re doing. I want it to be just us when she sees what it is.”

“All right.” The guy seems amused, and completely unaware that he’s holding Beca’s future in his very hands. “So, what’s the design?”

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ -

The wait for Beca feels like an eternity. She paces in the waiting room, trying to pass the time first by flipping through the display racks of flash tattoos, then paging through issues of Inked magazine, knee bouncing endlessly until movement catches her eye. She looks up to see Chloe walking toward her with the same smile she always wears when she’s greeting Beca.

“All done!” she says with a slight skip in her step.

“Did it hurt?” Beca shakes her head at her question; of course, it hurt. “Where did you get it?”

“Right here,” Chloe says, lifting the hem of her shirt while tugging the waist of her jeans down an inch or so, just enough to reveal the tape and dressing covering her fresh tattoo. “He wouldn’t let me look at it. Even when it was finished.” She chuckles. “I can’t believe I just got a tattoo and have no idea what it is. Why do I always feel like I can do anything when I’m with you?”

Beca’s not sure if Chloe means the words the way she interprets them, but the gentle look in her eyes gives Beca a shred of hope, as does Chloe grabbing her hand to squeeze it.

“Because I’m a badass,” Beca smirks and it makes Chloe roll her eyes and laugh.

“Sure. Okay, your turn. Get back there.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Beca says, dropping Chloe’s hand to walk to the back of the shop, only to yelp when there’s a sharp swat to her ass.

“Badass,” Chloe laughs, winking at her before easing herself into the same chair Beca had been waiting in.

“No peeking,” Beca says, pointing in her general direction.

Chloe picks up Beca’s abandoned magazine. “Back atcha!”

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ -

“Ready?”

Beca nods and keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling and sets her jaw as she watches the tattoo artist lean over her, followed by the burn and buzz of the tattoo gun etching into her hip.

She’s not sure what the hell they’re doing; it had made so much sense when they decided to get tattoos but Beca’s big idea of choosing tattoos for each other was a new level of impulsivity. Not to mention what she chose to imprint—permanently—on Chloe’s body. Chloe had agreed, but Beca’s having all kinds of regrets even as what Chloe chose for Beca sinks into her skin.

It’s not like Chloe made the same dumb decision.

It’s going to be a nightmare; the longer she sits, the worse the future plays out in her mind until she’s pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop the tears from falling.

“We’re in the homestretch; ten more minutes. Can you make it or do you need a break?”

She had forgotten about the pain of her own tattoo, the pain in her chest long overtaking it.

“I’m good,” she grinds out. She needs this to be over so she can run away and hide. Where? She’s unsure; she can’t even go home, because it’s Chloe’s home, too. She tries to focus on the tangible pain, the endless burn of needles scratching at the thin, sensitive skin of her hip. It doesn’t hurt at all compared to what’s in her head.

When it’s over, she checks her face in the mirror to make sure it doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Her eyes are a bit smudged but no worse for wear than they usually are at the end of a fun night out. Her heart, on the other hand, won’t stop racing at seeing Chloe waiting for her at the desk, wallet out as she hands a credit card to the woman working.

“How was it?” Chloe asks, same smile as always.

“Not too bad,” Beca lies. It was the most excruciating hour of her life, and not because of the needles.

Chloe scribbles on a receipt and tucks her wallet into her purse while she meets Beca halfway through the waiting room. “Where’d you put it?”

Beca pats the spot on her hip lightly.

“Same as me!” Chloe squeals with undue excitement. She threads her fingers through Beca’s and steers them toward the door. “I can’t wait for you to see what I picked for you.”

“Yeah,” Beca says weakly. “Same.”

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ -

“So, how do we do this?” Chloe asks as soon as they’re home. “I want to see!” She’s already unbuttoning her jeans and working them down her legs in the middle of the kitchen while Beca makes a beeline for the bottle of whiskey on the top of their fridge to immediately take a swig of it, straight from the bottle. She needs to find the courage she had a couple hours ago.

She tries to avert her eyes at least a bit, not that Chloe ever seems to have modesty around Beca.

“Okay, okay, just…” Beca moves to the tiny dresser they share and grabs two pairs of pajama shorts; she doesn’t even know whose they are. Their wardrobes have become so interchangeable that some items genuinely belong to neither of them. Or both of them. “Let’s put these on and we can take off each other’s dressing.”

“What’s wrong with being in our underwear?” Chloe asks, but catches and pulls on the shorts Beca tosses to her anyway. Though, in true Chloe fashion, she immediately removes her blouse as though she has some kind of limit on how much of her body can be covered at any one time when she’s at home.

“Don’t know about yours,” Beca says as she shucks her jeans and then, angling herself away from Chloe, her underwear, “but the waistband of my underwear goes right over it and I don’t want it rubbing.” She slips her shorts on quickly and then grabs a washcloth off the top of the small stack of towels to soak it under the bathtub tab with warm water.

“Oh,” Chloe says, a bit absently, and when Beca turns back, Chloe’s tracing a line across her hip. “I think mine’s okay. Who goes first?”

Beca drops onto the edge of the bed, then winces a bit at the sting from her raw skin pulling. She just wants to get it over with. “You. Come here.”

Chloe obeys and Beca has to hold her breath for a few seconds. It’s quite something to have Chloe standing in front of her, topless save for her sand-colored bra which is only an inch or two above Beca’s line of sight. It’s quite something to have Chloe slipping the very shorts Beca just gave her down her legs until they sit high around her thighs.

Her underwear doesn’t match her bra, and Beca has a lot of second thoughts about the fact that she chose to remove her own underwear. She had been thinking of practical tattoo aftercare at the time, and not a moment like this.

Chloe’s quiet chuckle gets Beca’s attention and she glances up to see Chloe’s eyes on her. “This is kind of sexy,” Chloe says.

Beca blushes and drops her eyes to the white gauze and clear tape covering Chloe’s newest tattoo and chooses to ignore the comment—she agrees with it—and carefully lifts the edge of tape to peel it back from Chloe’s skin until she’s using the wet cloth to moisten the gauze enough so it releases without too much discomfort.

“No peeking,” she murmurs as she peels the bandage off completely. She spends what might be too long dabbing at the fresh tattoo to clean it up a bit, reading it again and again.

It had come out quite nicely; she hopes Chloe tipped well when she paid the bill. (Beca makes a mental note to pay her back.) She also can’t believe she asked for those words to be inked onto Chloe’s body forevermore.

“Does it look good?” Chloe asks, and Beca can hear the eagerness in her voice, though it seems a bit thick, like she’s been crying or something. When Beca looks up, though, her face is void of any tears and her eyes are fixated on Beca’s.

“Yeah,” Beca says after a few seconds. Then she’s working Chloe’s shorts up her legs for her, careful to not let them scuff against the tattoo. “My turn?”

“Your turn,” Chloe says, a smile brightening the strange darkness that had settled over her features. She’s walking away before Beca can respond, the wet rag Beca had used in her hand to drape it over the side of the tub and grab another and soak it just as Beca had done.

Beca scarcely has time to think before she’s back and pulling Beca to her feet, only for Chloe to kneel instead of trade places with Beca. Beca’s mouth instantly goes dry and she feels dizzy. Chloe is reaching for Beca’s shorts when Beca’s brain finally catches up.

“Whoa, dude,” she says, grabbing them. “I’m not wearing anything under these.”

Chloe’s smile looks a little crooked when she says, “I know.”

“I didn’t really think this through…” she starts, thoroughly unsure of how to solve the problem.

“I’m not going to look,” Chloe says. Then she shrugs. “I’ve seen it before anyway.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Beca,” Chloe says, looking up at her. She doesn’t try to negotiate further; she doesn’t have to because the way she says Beca’s name is enough of a negotiation.

“Fine; just...no commentary.”

Chloe snorts a laugh and Beca lets go of the death grip she’s had on the waist of her shorts and feels them slip down a few inches until the waistband is being stretched enough to not make contact with her skin; it stops somewhere above her knees. She stares straight ahead.

She hears Chloe clear her throat and fully expects some type of comment but none follows, just the quiet sound of adhesive tape peeling back from Beca’s skin until Chloe’s wringing warm water from the cloth against Beca’s hip to soak the gauze. It takes longer to remove than Chloe’s did, or maybe it just feels that way given the circumstance of Chloe being on her knees face-to-face with her bare junk.

As friends do.

The last edges of the gauze finally give and then she can feel Chloe dabbing at the hot, raw skin at her hip with caution and care. Her other hand, the one not cleaning things up, is holding on to Beca by the leg, hand wrapped around the back of her thigh in a place Chloe’s never touched her. Until now.

There’s an extended moment of nothing, no damp rag, no blotting, and Beca has to fight with every cell in her body to not look down. She can’t; the visual in her mind is enough to make her light-headed. Then there’s soft, wet warmth on her undamaged skin, just to the left of where she knows her tattoo is.

A kiss.

“All better,” Chloe says after a lifetime passes and Beca releases the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She’s grateful it’s over because the situation was turning her on (an understatement) and she knows she was dangerously close to getting wet with Chloe right there.

She’s reaching for her shorts to pull them up before Chloe has a chance to do it and then she takes a few brisk steps away. There’s no air left in that area of the apartment.

“Well?”

She hears Chloe’s voice behind her and forces herself to turn around to see Chloe still on her knees, though turned partway as though she’d followed Beca’s quick exit.

“The suspense is killing me,” Chloe continues with a soft smile. “Can we please look?”

Beca wonders if she looks as terrified as she feels as she nods.

“Same time, yeah?” Chloe asks as she stands up, tossing her cloth into the nearby bathtub.

“It better not be something lame like a butterfly,” Beca manages to grumble as she retreats back to the bedroom area.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” Chloe chirps as she catches Beca by the elbows to stop her an arm’s length away, right in front of her. “On three?” she says, hooking her thumb into the right side of her shorts.

“On three, or after three?” Beca teases; her ability to think returning is a welcome relief.

“On,” Chloe says, and then her eyes widen. “I just realized we’re not going to be able to see our own tattoos because of where we got them.” Then she nods resolutely. “I’ll have to read it to you.”

“Read?” Beca asks, her heart picking up speed. “Mine is words?”

Chloe covers her mouth like she just revealed a spoiler. “Describe. I meant describe it to you. To each other.”

Beca feels uneasy at Chloe’s sudden bout of nerves because Chloe’s rarely nervous. “Right. So…” Beca hooks her own thumb into her shorts, “one?”

“Two,” Chloe adds.

“Three,” Beca says and they both tug their shorts down and crane their necks to try to see but Chloe was right; it’s impossible to make out the detail of the script that’s on Beca’s hip, surrounded by what look to be vines. It’s only a few inches wide. “Well?” she says, suddenly eager and forgetting for a moment about Chloe’s tattoo. “What does it say?”

She lifts her head and sees the nervousness in Chloe’s eyes. Chloe seems so still, now, that it’s unsettling, until she finally blinks, a fluttering of eyelashes that steals Beca’s breath.

“It says,” Chloe finally says, then pauses to clear her throat, “it says, ‘You’re my everything.’”

Beca really wishes she could get just one good lungful of air but nothing about their time home tonight has allowed for it. Now is no different. Worse, even.

Her throat tightens because, surely...surely that’s not what it says? But Chloe’s staring at her with such conviction, had spoken the words directly into Beca’s soul, that Beca knows it’s real and the words are true.

“What about mine?” Chloe asks and Beca can see tears welling in her eyes. She takes a step forward out of sheer instinct, the need to comfort her overwhelming as always. “What does it say?” she repeats. “I can tell it’s words.”

Beca glances at Chloe’s tattoo—not because she’d forgotten what it said, but out of the need to look away just for a moment to be able to speak. She wets her lips. “It says…” She looks up again and the tears in Chloe’s eyes have fallen, streaking down her cheeks to drip off her chin and she’s trembling. “It says,” she starts again, “it says…‘I love you.’”

Chloe’s exhale is quick and then she’s rushing forward to pull Beca into a hug.

It almost knocks Beca off her feet, but Chloe doesn’t let that happen. Instead, she pulls her close and Beca can feel the kiss Chloe’s pressing to her cheek and the warm skin of her bare back beneath Beca’s arms.

“I love you, too,” Chloe whispers in her ear and Beca’s knees weaken so she holds on more tightly to Chloe. “You’re my everything.”

It all feels like a fever dream. An out-of-body experience. She feels tears on her own cheeks and despite it all, despite Chloe’s words and the way she’s holding her, Beca can’t help but wonder if Chloe just means Beca’s her absolute best friend.

“Chlo.” Her voice breaks over the name and she feels Chloe pulling back, though she doesn’t let go of Beca.

Chloe’s smiling when her face comes back into view. Beca’s about to muster the nerve to ask exactly what Chloe meant when Chloe’s leaning in and this time, there’s no questioning her meaning.

Chloe’s lips are soft and warm against Beca’s, just as they’d been on her hip, and Beca hears her sigh. She understands, can relate to the relief. Beca feels it, too. Years of tension, of frustration, of worry melting away as their lips meet again and again.

She’s only somewhat conscious of their feet shuffling toward their bed because as soon as they move, Chloe’s tongue skips across her lower lip before slipping past it.

They’re just finding their rhythm when Chloe suddenly drops away. Beca opens her eyes, startled, to see Chloe sitting on the edge of their bed looking up at her. She’s smiling and her cheeks are pink.

“Join me,” she says, tugging on Beca’s hands, but the tiniest shred of clarity slips into Beca’s foggy mind.

“Wait, wait,” she says, pulling her hands away and managing to turn away from Chloe to grab her lotion off its shelf. “I just...I mean, yes,” she says, only then noticing how out of breath she is. “But I want it to heal well.”

It takes Chloe a second or two to understand what Beca means and then she’s nodding and grabbing the bottle out of Beca’s hand. “I’ll do it.”

“Whoa,” Beca says when Chloe slips Beca’s shorts down her legs, this time all the way, and Beca’s instinct is to immediately shield herself with her hands but Chloe gets in the way. She leans forward to kiss Beca’s stomach, then rests her forehead there for a few seconds as though she’s gathering herself, and all Beca can do is bite her lip to stop the moan that threatens and run her fingers through Chloe’s hair.

A few more seconds pass until Chloe sits back and Beca watches her squeeze a dollop of lotion onto her fingertips and lift her hand to Beca’s hip.

“Cold,” Beca hisses when the cream touches her skin, but then she feels Chloe’s fingers through it, gently coating the fresh marks of Chloe’s declaration of feelings for Beca.

“Sorry,” Chloe says and Beca watches her set aside the lotion and bring her free hand to Beca’s knee to trace a slow line up the inside of her thigh. She stops before she travels too far and looks up at Beca as she traces the soft, sensitive skin. “Better?”

“Mhmm,” Beca manages. Chloe’s touch is slowly driving her insane and she’s about to crumble when the touches disappear and Chloe’s moving further back onto the bed until she’s lying down.

“Do me?” she says with a wink.

It shatters the intensity around them and Beca’s relieved. It was getting to be suffocating, and though she still feels the electricity flowing between them, she feels immeasurably lighter.

“Now, what makes you think I want to do that?” Beca replies, smiling as she crawls onto the bed until she’s reaching for Chloe’s shorts to ease them down past her tattoo, but, like Chloe, this time she slips them all the way down.

“This,” Chloe says, fingers grazing just above her tattoo.

Beca laughs as she moves to sit astride Chloe’s knees, lotion in hand. “You might be right.” She leans forward to reach the fresh ink and watches Chloe shiver at the first contact of lotion against her skin. “Cold?”

Chloe nods and Beca can’t help but notice the way her fingers are curling into the quilt beneath them.

She follows Chloe’s lead, letting her free hand slip between Chloe’s legs, much higher than Chloe had stopped, though not quite touching the blue and white striped cotton. She’s never touched that spot of warm, smooth skin before. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Chloe breathes as her eyes fall closed and her hips shift. “So much better.”

The End

#bechloe #bechloe fic #fanfic #beca mitchell #chloe beale #idiots

219 notes · View notes

wowweeharrystyles · 4 years

Text

Part 4 | Ripped Trousers & Giving In | 8.5K

‘Sequins & Zippers’ Summary: An internship with Harry Lambert transformed into a job of a lifetime - Aurora Del Gatto finds herself touring the world with the one & only Harry Styles as his ‘Head of Wardrobe.’ Aurora is nothing but nerves & excitement as she packs her bags & almost 100 custom designer suits that belong to an unbelievably kind rockstar. She never thought she’d fall in love on top of it all.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Masterlist

A/N: these videos from HSLOT18 inspired me a LOT to write this chapter sooooo x x x x (let me tell you... these videos... whewwww)

“I didn’t get a chance to bet against you…. so I still get to keep my job yeah?” Aurora asks waving a folded piece of paper as she walks towards Harry. Harry laughs before pulling her into a hug.

“Only get to keep it cause I need ya to tie to those damn bows on my shirts. Remind me why we chose so many shirts like that?” He gives her a cheeky smile when he leans back to look at her, his hands clasping at her lower back. Her laugh fills the space of the empty coffee shop and Harry’s smile grows bigger. Aurora pushes the lone curl that has fallen onto his forehead back up to fit in with the rest of his curls.

Harry’s clad in his favourite slim fit black gucci trousers and a worn in white t shirt. All Harry’s note had lead on was that they’d be walking a bit, noting to wear“comfortable shoes” and then the name of the coffee shop he’d meet her at.

“So what kind of plans do you have up your sleeves?”

“How do you feel about museums?” He laughs when he sees her face light up. “Guess you like them?”

“Is it that obvious?” She giggles as her hands fly up to cover her face.

“Yes.” She groans at his eager response. “But it’s kinda cute, if I’m honest.”

“Come on, you’ve got like a 30 second window before I get so embarrassed about my excitement to go to a museum in Barcelona that I bail on you and spend the rest of the day watching my entire iTunes movie collection.”

“You will have plenty of time to watch ‘This Is Us’ later.” Aurora rolls her eyes at him as he grabs their coffees from the barista and leads them out of the shop.

They spend the majority of the afternoon walking through Fundación Joan Miró. Harry’s hand rarely leaves the small of Aurora’s back the entire time through the museum. During those rare times, he’s towing her along with her hand in his. Harry is thankful for the time they get to spend together on a free day, a day neither of them have to work. He tells her this repeatedly as they admire the art.

| | | | |

They’re tucked away in the corner table on the patio seating at a local restaurant harry picked out as the sun is setting that evening. Aurora can’t help but admire the way the lighter green flecks in Harry’s eyes sparkly from the reflection of the fairy lights that line the trellises of the patio.

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry asks before sipping his wine. Aurora fiddles with the stem of her wine glass for a moment.

“Hm?” She shakes her head. “Nothing really.” Harry raises an eyebrow at her.

“Seems like something,” he says softly, leaning forward.

Aurora scrunches her nose with a small smirk trying to maneuver her thoughts. “Today was just really nice.” She sips her wine so she doesn’t say more.

Dinner is full of small glances and sweet smiles. Harry, like the gentleman he is, walks Aurora to her hotel room door and gives her a kiss on the cheek when they finally say goodnight.

| | | | |

Aurora is sitting on the counter of the sink while Harry finishes getting ready for the show tonight. She’s admiring the way his hair is sitting perfectly and the way that his suit sparkles even in the fluorescent lights of the arena bathroom.

“Hand me the Tom Ford bottle there, love?” Harry’s question pulls her out of her daze. She hands him the bottle after taking a look at it.

Helene gives Aurora a look. Aurora spilled everything to her on the flight to Spain and she’s been teasing and shooting her cheeky looks relentlessly all day. While Aurora was steaming Harry’s suit earlier and Harry was going on and on about the museum they went to yesterday as Ayae messed about with his hair Helene couldn’t help but giggle along with the two of them. Harry was exaggerating Aurora’s excitement about the museum and she was fighting him about it. “Thought she might faint from excitement” he told Ayae like Helene and Aurora weren’t right there with them. The 4 of them were comfortable and carefree together before shows. Harry liked to keep a light mood while he gets ready. Once he starts brushing his teeth though, he gets all serious. Aurora finds it quite entertaining to see the stark difference.

Harry continuously jokes with the girls and picks fun at Aurora. He just HAS to bring up Aurora’s movie collection too. When he starts listing off the movie titles in her collection Helene and Ayae burst into a fit of laughter. Aurora rolls her eyes, something that has become a normal occurrence in any conversation with Harry.

Now, here in the bathroom the conversation has settled down and Harry is generally silent. He’s already brushed his teeth and is now just taking the time to focus and calm down his recurring nerves that pop up every night. Besides Harry’s question, the only other sound that echoes in the empty bathroom is the click of Helene’s camera. Harry’s spraying his cologne on his neck when Helene’s shutter goes off again. “I’m gonna go grab a different lens for the show. Good luck tonight, H!” and at that Aurora and Harry are left alone in the echoey bathroom.

Aurora draws her attention back to Harry who is setting the Tom Ford bottle back on the counter. He runs his hands lightly through his hair, turning his head slightly so the strong line of his jaw is emphasised. Aurora reaches out towards him, tugging on the bottom hem of his jacket. Harry turns towards her and raises his eyebrows at her. A small smirk appears on his face as he sees the smile on Aurora’s face. He takes one step closer to her and fits himself between her legs. Her legs that were once swinging freely off the counter now completely still as his hands land on her thighs near her knees. Harry reaches his head down to her level and a lock of curls fall out of place and catch on his eyelashes. Aurora first reaches for the curls, swiping them away from his eye but they fall right back. Then, she uses her pointer finger on the side of his chin to turn his head back to the angle that showcases his jawline so well. She places a soft kiss at the hinge of his jaw. Harry giggles lowly at the light touch. When Aurora pulls away to get a good look at him Harry opens his mouth to say something but before he can get a single sound out Harry’s named is getting called repeatedly from the hallway. Most likely Jeff looking for him. Harry’s head drops back on his shoulders and a light groan comes from the back of his throat.

“Always thinks I’m gonna be late,” he comments. “Gonna watch from the audience tonight?” Harry asks. Aurora nods.

“Absolutely. Gotta see how this suit sparkles under the stage lighting,” she says, pulling the edges of the jacket together. She buttons it closed for him.

“All you care about is seeing my suits on stage…”

“Quite like to see the person wearing them too,” she mumbles. That earns a kiss to her cheek and both of his hands squeeze at her knees. Harry’s name is called again but much louder now. “Good luck,” she presses a kiss close to his mouth, only being able to reach her neck up so high. Even with sitting on a high counter, he’s still much taller than she is.

| | | | |

Aurora finds her favourite spot in the audience, the back of the pit but still close enough to the crowd of fans that she can feed off their energy and hide her dancing if she needs too. From here she also gets an amazing view of the stage but her absolute favourite part of standing here is when the show starts and the screen rises up. Harry’s comment earlier was partially right. She does love seeing how his suits look on stage but what she loves most about it is the crowd’s reaction. She loves hearing their speculations before the show starts, she loves how the screams heighten when they get a little glimpse of him and she really loves seeing friends turn to each other, smiles covering their entire face, yelling some sort of comment to each other. Tonight she makes out a few screaming comments along the lines of sequins, glitter, and sparkly. Someone standing nearby comments about his hair and Aurora nods to herself with a laugh. His hair becomes somewhat of a thing throughout the entire performance. The stray curl she repeatedly pushed away from his face throughout yesterday and today fell into his eyes repeatedly throughout the show. Helene found Aurora once Harry launched into ‘Anna’. Harry’s adorn in a rainbow flower lei and one of the many pride flags draped around his shoulders. Harry’s incredibly carefree on stage and Aurora admires that about him so much. He’s goofy, and playful, and giggly but still puts on the best show he possibly can. Helene and Aurora sing along to ‘Anna’ and laugh at Harry’s dance moves during ‘What Makes You Beautiful’. They see Harry turn to Mitch and say something on stage, all while reaching down to the inside seam of his pants.

“Did he just rip his trousers?” Helene asks Aurora in disbelief.

“Oh god. He did, didn’t he?” Aurora rolls her eyes and her head falls back on her neck, a short chuckle leaving her mouth. “Well… guess I gotta go handle that. He’s got one more before he walks off yeah?”

Helene nods. “Good luck.”

Aurora shows her pass to the security at the edge of the pit, then again to another guard at the curtain that leads backstage. Aurora can hear Harry finishing the final chorus of ‘Sign Of The Times’ when she gets to the mini makeshift dressing room that’s located underneath the stage. Aurora is sure to stand out of the way of the entrance and gets her needle, thread and scissors ready. Harry’s laugh fills the small room before he’s even there.

“Ror!” he exclaims when he sees her.

“Ripped your pants huh?”

“Don’t need to fix ‘em now, love. Only got 3 more songs, I’ll be fine.” He’s all smiles and still in the midst of his concert high. He’s also not logical when he’s like this.

“Yeah, 2 of which are Chain and Kiwi. Your pants will not last through 10 seconds of either of those songs.” Aurora laughs at the look on his face then juts her empty hand out. “Come on, just give me your pants, they’ll be fixed in a second.” Harry rolls his eyes but starts to unbutton his pants anyways.

The sight of Harry running to the bathroom in his suit jacket, boxers, tall black socks and boots was even funnier than the fact that he ripped a damn hole in his insanely expensive pants. She laughs as she starts to stitch up the hole. Harry’s back in less than 30 seconds and he’s chugging down his 2nd water bottle since he left the stage. He leans down and presses a kiss to Aurora’s cheek. Then another. With the 3rd kiss he wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“Harry, I can’t fix your damn pants with you like this,” she whines.

“Sorry,” he whispers lowly in her ear before stepping away from her.

Aurora knots the thread as best as she can so hopefully he doesn’t rip them again in the next 30

minutes. Harry slides the trousers on carefully and Aurora goes to leave so she can see the rest of the show.

“Thank you, love,” Harry says grabbing onto her hand. When she turns around he’s much closer than she thought he would be. That one curl has fallen in front of his eyes again. Aurora reaches up to move it back into place. She can feel the weight of his hands at her waist and for a brief moment both of them are able to block out the deafening screams and the chanting of his name coming from a few feet above them. Harry presses his forehead to Aurora’s and she feels slightly dizzy. He smiles at her lightly and she remembers the smile he gave her while he was singing “Ever Since New York.” He’s started to give her the same smile during the exact part every show. That one smile makes her feel like she does right now in this tiny room. Somehow in a room of thousands and thousands of people he can make it feel like it’s just her and Harry. Without a doubt, goosebumps arise on her skin.

Harry’s name is called by the stage manager and they’re both brought back to the reality in front of them. Harry presses a kiss to Aurora’s forehead before thanking her again and running up the stairs. She peeks through the curtain at the bottom of the stairs. The single spotlight casts a shadow down the stairs as Harry stands at the mic, center stage. Harry’s voice matches the simplicity of the guitar that opens ‘From The Dining Table.’ Aurora’s heart drops every time she listens to him perform this song. The exclusive view she has right now adds to the experience and she catches herself choking back a few tears. His music is the first thing she fell for and she’s constantly reminded why. Before she knows it, the beginning of ‘The Chain’ echoes through the entire arena and Aurora makes her way to the side of the stage to watch the rest of the show.

| | | | |

“Wish you would’ve come out with us last night,” Harry comments as he walks with Aurora down the hall of the arena in Madrid. He has his arm swung around her shoulder and is telling her about how Mitch was telling this outrageous story and even got up and reenacted it all for the group. Aurora laughs along with Harry’s story.

“Maybe next time, Harry,” she offers, hoping one day she’ll actually get the courage to say yes to

going with.

“I’ve gotta meet with my trainer, but I’ll find ya later okay?” He offers her a lopsided smile, “could watch a movie or something before we have to get to work.” Aurora nods at him with a smile before he’s off down the hall.

| | | | |

Helene is going through some of the photos she’s taken the past few days on the couch with Aurora. They’ve been the only ones in their green room all afternoon. A lot of the crew took the chance to sight see or sleep in so the arena isn’t too busy yet.

“Aurora!” Helene squeals, “Look at this one of you and Harry.” Aurora looks up from her phone to Helene’s computer screen.

“Of me and Harry?” She questions. and to her disbelief, on the screen is a photo of Harry and Aurora from last night. It’s nearly identical to the photo Helene choose for Harry’s social channels, but instead of seeing Harry’s reflection in the mirror, the photo was taken from a slightly different angle and you can see Aurora’s frame seated on top of the counter. Aurora face is soft and Harry has a slight smile on his face.

“Imagine if we posted this photo on accident?”

“Helene!” Aurora yells. “That would be an absolute mess and I would have to change my name and leave the country. Hard pass.” Then their both in laughing fits.

“That would stir some shit up,” Helene comments when she can finally catch her breath.

“Ror!!!” Harry’s voice booms through the nearly empty room. “What’re you two up to?” He questions when he sees them trying to suppress their giggles

Helene and Aurora look at each other and burst into laughter again, Aurora can’t stop soon enough to stop Helene from showing Harry the photo of the 2 of them. She has the urge to stop him from seeing the photo, from seeing the way she was truly looking at him in awe while he was getting ready. She doesn’t ever remember making eye contact with him in that moment and Helene must have snapped the photo so fast that she caught the perfect moment.

“Oh,” is all that comes out of Harry’s mouth the second he sees it. Aurora doesn’t know what to do in the moment and she just waits to see how Harry reacts. A smile starts to tear at his lips and within the same second he pulls his lips in by his teeth, doing his best to hide the smile that threatens to cover his entire face. The dimple that still shows up regardless tells all. He huffs after a moment. “Would ya send that one to me, Tiny?”

‘Tiny’, what Harry’s nicknamed Helene, nods and quickly sends it over, Harry’s phone dinging in his pocket. Harry ignores it but thanks Helene before asking her if she wants to grab snacks and watch a movie with Aurora and him. She kindly declines and when Harry isn’t looking at her she winks at Aurora. Aurora thinks she might get a headache from all the eye rolls she has to do on a day to day basis.

| | | | |

Aurora is having trouble keeping her eyes open when Reese Witherspoon as Elle Woods pops up on her computer screen dressed in a hot pink suit. She told Harry when they pressed play on the movie that she was pretty tired and honestly didn’t think she would last an entire movie. She suggested they watch an episode of ‘friends’ instead but he insisted on playing Legally Blonde. He pulled Aurora by the waist and situated her in front of him on the couch, pulling her shoulders back so she could lay her head back on his chest.

“Don’t mind if ya fall asleep on me,” he had whispered into her hair when the opening titles came up.

Now, Aurora’s eyes are fluttering shut, not able to fight the tiredness off any longer. She lets go of the last bit of her weight she was supporting herself and is limp against Harry’s chest. Harry only tightens his arm around her waist when he smiles, noticing she’s finally given in to the sleep her body needed so badly. Harry can’t pay attention to the rest of the movie and he’s a bit sad that they didn’t get to watch and quote along to both of their favourite part. Instead, as Elle Woods repeatedly makes note that the daughter took a shower, he presses a kiss to her hair, breathing in the so uniquely Aurora scent. He can’t put his finger on it, but it’s something floral and coconutty with a hint of woodsy-ness to it. Harry tries to focus on the ending of the movie, his eyes start to well up at the end, without a doubt, a good distraction from Aurora’s sleeping body on top of him. He focuses on the small huffs of air that she lets out and rubs his thumb into her forearm, leaving behind goosebumps. He slumps down the couch a bit further, still holding her tight against him. He lets the end credits roll and once the room is silent, Aurora starts to stir. She mumbles an apology and he’s shushing her while she rolls her over so she’s facing him. Harry’s lips graze over her exposed ear and he presses light kisses down her jaw.

Aurora’s still groggy from her mini nap and his lips on her skin is a feeling she can’t describe. Harry takes over all of her senses so quickly. His chest pressed against hers and his lips roaming her face is a bit overwhelming.

“Hey,” Harry says with a short giggle, his nose scrunching up when he meets his eyes with hers. His nose brushes against Aurora’s, earning a short giggle from her as well.

“Should probably start getting everything ready…” Aurora whispers. She’s peeling her body away from his, as much as she just wants to stay right where she is. Sitting up on the couch is like pulling away 2 magnets, with Harry’s hands pulling on her waist and the added warmth quickly leaving her body, it feels wrong pulling away. She taps her computer, as the screen has gone dark now, it’s much later than she thought. “Harry, I really gotta go get everyone's clothing ready.” Harry’s sitting up beside her now. He lets out a loud sigh, knowing Aurora is right.

“Jeeze,” he agrees when he sees the time, “but just like 2 more minutes,” he says as he wraps his arms around her waist and wiggles his face into her neck, his breath hot on her collarbone.

“Harry,” Aurora whines, trying to pull out of his grip.

“Rory,” he whines back.

“Seriously Harry, we both have jobs to do…” she reminds him.

“Ugg,” he groans, “why must you be such a hard worker? Never forgetting anything, always 10 steps ahead of everyone…”

“Hired me for a reason, didn’t ya?” Harry raises his eyebrows up in agreement, loosening his grip around her waist. “Come on, you’ve got sound check.” Aurora offers her hand out to him, pulling him off the couch.

Later on, after Harry has finished soundcheck and eaten, he finds Aurora back in his dressing room, but instead of being sprawled out on the couch like earlier, she was working on getting his suit ready for the show. Harry pauses in the doorway, not making a noise and simply just watching her, she’s bopping around a bit to the music she’s got playing on her computer. A smile erupts on his face when he really pays attention to the music that’s playing. Aurora whips her head around, after setting the steamer down of course. Harry didn’t realise he let out a loud chuckle, making his presence known.

“Whatcha listening to there, love?” Aurora’s heart sinks for a moment then a nervous, embarrassed laugh come out of her mouth. She hadn’t noticed that an old One Direction song came on shuffle.

“Wait,” she starts to defend herself, “I just had my music on shuffle! Didn’t even notice it was playing!”

“Uh huh, whatever you say, Ror.” He shakes his head at her. “Your dancing proves otherwise.”

“You’re an absolute menace, ya know that right?” She rolls her eyes and turns back to the suit to finish what she was doing before being interrupted.

Harry smirks at her before sitting down on the couch. “Quite excited for this suit, if I’m honest,” Harry offers, changing the subject.

“Me too,” she agrees, smiling to herself. She can recall the first fitting of this specific suit and remember loving it. Not just the style or design but the way it fit Harry perfectly. He’s done frills and glitter, the whole nine yards, but this look was different. High waisted trousers, cropped jacket and his TPWK tank. Aurora remembers it fitting so perfectly she was antsy to see him perform in it.

Before she knows it, it’s time for him to slip in to the suit. Ayae leaves the room after Claire requested that she needed some help cause she messed up her hair since Ayae had done it earlier. Aurora’s grabbing his boots from the crate and when she turns around she freezes.

“Uhm,” she stutters out, “Uh, uhm, here-here’s your boots.”

“Everything alright, Ror?” Harry questions as he finished tucking in the white tank to his pants.

Aurora shakes her head, “Uh, yeah,” she pauses, “guess I just forgot how good this suit looks.” Harry raises his eyebrows at her, surprised at her confession.

“Oh,” is all he lets out. She swears she can see a blush colour the tops of his cheeks.

“I mean, they all-they all look good,” Aurora tries to back track, she’s cursing in her head, but gives up. “But, like, this one…” she trails off. She likes the surprised look on Harry’s face from her confession. “This one is just so… I don’t know,” she trails off shaking her head. “Anyways… put your boots on.”

Harry makes his way to the large bathroom to brush his teeth and Aurora follows along. She plops on the counter again, her new favourite place to observe him as he finishes getting ready. Aurora is admiring the way the high waisted trousers fit perfectly and then her eyes catch his arm full of tattoos that are still on full display. The black ink in contrast to his light skin is mesmerizing and she doesn’t think she’s really ever paid as much attention to them as she would like to. The ones that scatter his forearms and lower bicep are familiar but the ones at his shoulder and chest are almost brand new to Aurora. She lets herself study them in detail while Harry brushes his teeth. The A and G on either of his shoulders are delicate and she wants, in the worst way to trace over them, all of them, with the pads of her fingers. The swallows that peak out from the top of the white tank top he’s wearing are driving her insane, she thinks. The white tank not only displays his tattoos but also shows of the ridges of his muscles. Harry’s not absurdly muscular or buff, but the definition that is there is obvious. Aurora doesn’t get it, she’s never seen someone’s muscles look so hard and strong but soft at the same time. His bare skin draws her in more and all she can think about is how his bare skin would feel wrapped around her.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, Aurora. Slow the fuck down.

She’s starting to lose her mind a bit over the view in front of her. She doesn’t know what’s going on with her. Aurora forces herself to peel her eyes away from him and it’s harder than threading the smallest needle in the world. She takes the time to look down at her hands and reground herself. Her mind is running a mile a minute and if she were to voice anything going on in her head nobody would understand because it would come out as gibberish. Aurora is finally able to focus on something besides Harry standing barely a foot away from her. She notices her nails could really use a fresh manicure and she thinks she’ll have to get a fresh one in the next city she finds herself in.

Harry’s hand squeezes at her knee and she looks up to him.

“Y’alright?” he questions. When she meets his eyes she offers him a small smile and his eyes quirk up in a question.

“Mhm,” she hums, “lost in thought, I guess,” she answers, surprising herself.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing important enough to bother you with,” she lets out with a laugh.

“Never a both to me, love.” The nickname rings in her ears and her brain is no longer consumed by anything else. She nods at him silently.

He sprays his cologne, the last step of his routine. Aurora appreciates his consistency and thoughtfulness when he gets ready for a show. Everything he does is done just so. She shakes herself out of her thoughts and pushes herself off of the counter. Before she can even say her good lucks and make her way out of the door he’s got a strong grip on her hip.

“Hey,’ he barely whispers. Aurora avoids making eye contact. “Saw ya wandering eyes this entire time,” he teases. His free hand comes in contact with Aurora’s chin and tilts it up so she has no choice but to look at him. Sometimes she hates how forward he is. She’s nothing like him. She shakes her head at him lightly once both hands are on her waist. She lets her hands fall on to his chest in fist and her head hangs low. She voices an apology, quietly, but speaks nonetheless.

“Don’t be sorry, don’t mind it one bit.” Harry places a soft kiss on the top of her cheekbone. Aurora lets one of her hands reach for the ‘G’ inked on his shoulder and trace over it like she had wanted to minutes ago.

“Was admiring your tattoos,” she whispers, her eyes trained on the ink.

Harry doesn’t say anything, he just lets her delicate fingers graze his skin. Aurora can feel her heart beating and it sends electric like shocks through her entire body. Her hands feel like their on fire and she can’t figure out if it’s because of the nerves or the heat radiating from Harry’s skin. Aurora’s brain turns off she thinks because before she knows she’s reaching her neck up and kissing the edge of Harry’s jaw softly. When her lips leave his skin she can actually hear Harry swallow.

“I know we agreed to take it slow, but I’m having a real hard time trying not to kiss you right now.” Harry’s voice is deep and Aurora can feel his hot breath fan out across her face. She sucks in a breath, her hands reaching to the waistband of Harry’s high waisted pants that she’s been fawning over silently since he put them on a half hour ago. She breathes out his name as she shakes her head. Harry presses her into the wall, his hips square on hers. Aurora busies her hands at the belt loops before she realises what she’s actually doing. Harry’s lips land on her cheek and then again at the soft spot behind her ear.

“Harry,” she voices again, trying her hardest to stop his movements. It’s not that she doesn’t like it or anything like that. It’s that she likes it too much. That it feels so unbelievably good. That she doesn’t want him to stop. But she has to stop him, she’s still not ready to take whatever this is, further. “You’ve got a show to do,” she whispers. This is a can of worms she cannot tackle right now.

“They can wait,” he whispers into her neck.

“Harry, please,” she almost begs, but she doesn’t know what for, “please,” she’s trying her best here, but his hot breath and his soft lips grazing over her skin repeatedly makes it hard and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to say no to his pouty lips and puppy dog eyes when he brings his face into her line of sight. “Slow, we said slow,” she finally says, using her hands to push him away barely an inch. “And-and, and the way these trousers look on you right now are really not helping,” she says quickly. She shakes her head at herself when she realises what she had just said aloud. A half chuckle, half huff leaves his mouth and she can tell he’s fighting a smile without even looking at her.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, right,” he says the second he locks eyes with her. “Sorry, don’t know what it is about you,” he shakes his head, “driving me crazy.” He smiles softly at her. A slight feeling of relief washes over her now knowing that they’re on the same page with all of this. He sighs. “Got a show to do, I guess.”

Aurora laughs at him and he thinks his heart swells to double its size, just as it does every time she laughs. He shakes his head again, trying to get her out of his mind for just a short moment so he can get himself stage ready. Aurora slides herself out of the way of the door to grab his jacket. She instantly feels like she’s missing something now that he’s not consuming all of her senses. When she turns around Harry’s already halfway out the door.

“Babe,” she’s walking towards him, “need your jacket.” Harry nods and he’s in a trance when she helps him slide it onto his shoulders. “Good luck, even though you never really need it.”

He thanks her and smiles at her. The entire walk from his dressing room to the last set of doors to the stage, all he can think about is Aurora calling him ‘babe’. Normally before a show he can focus and get his mind in check but his brain is full of Aurora right now and he’s doing nothing to stop it. Using her as a flame to ignite his energy and drive this show he’s about to put on. He’s in deep and he knows it right in this moment. He knows that he’ll do anything she says, anything to put a smile on her face, to hear her breathe his name against his neck just as she had a few minutes ago. Harry’s willing to go as slow as humanly possible if it means that tomorrow, or the next day or 3 months from now or whenever, that he gets to call her his.

| | | | |

The first glimpse Harry gets of Aurora while he’s on stage is only seconds into “Only Angel.” Aurora had taken a moment to collect herself before making her way into the audience to watch the show. Harry sees Aurora walking from the side of the stage into the audience and an instant smile grazes his face as he sways from side to side to his music. The lyrics that come out of his mouth, he thinks, are so perfect for this moment - “She’s an angel” - an angel is what she is to him. He shakes his head, hoping that he could shake Aurora out of his head.

Everyone in the arena is feeding off the energy that Harry is exuding on stage, like a how a flame thrives on extra oxygen. Harry is nothing but smiles and cheeky smirks, dimples on full display the entire time. Aurora doesn’t stay in her normal spot, nor does she seek out Helene. She finds herself on the outskirts of the pit on stage left. Her mind drifts while Harry moves swiftly across the stage. From the angle she’s looking at the stage from, she’s got a perfect profile view of him. She curses to herself when she realises she’s fawning over how he looks in those high waisted pinstripe trousers. At first she thought she was gushing over the trousers themselves, the construction, the styling, the way the fabric drapes at the hem, but she catches her mind drifting towards how Harry looks in them. His legs look like they go on forever, the white trouser stripe accentuating the fit of the leg. Aurora’s eyes trail up to his torso and all she wants to do is wrap her arms around his waist. She wants to run her hands along the smooth, shiny fabric and the more she thinks about it, the more her mind wanders. Shit. Aurora is overwhelmed by the thoughts traveling through her brain. The thoughts of her hands roaming his torso, sliding lower when they reach his back. She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the thoughts. He’s technically my boss. But he’s also, just Harry. This is a fight she has in her head about a million times a day now.

Aurora is surprised when the intro to “The Chain” begins. She enjoyed the show, that’s for sure, but she feels like she blinked, daydreamed about those damn high waisted trousers, and then he was starting his encore. Aurora can’t help but gaze up to him on the stage, she’s in the midst of admiring his confidence and power in his voice as he rocks back onto his heels and his shoulders follow suit, only accenting the way the suit fits.

Harry hoists his shoulders up to his ears, both hands on the mic as he belts out. He lets his head fall back, eyes closed, a look a pure bliss falls across his face. Aurora sighs to herself and basques in the idea of bliss falling across his face when he’s with her. She’s fucked at this point and she knows it. She’s in too deep to go back now. Curses fill her head as the song ends and “Kiwi” starts. Harry’s jacket is unbuttoned and he’s fiddling with the waistband of his pants on the side closest to where Aurora is standing. One sly look from Harry to Aurora tells it all. She’s in for it.

Aurora is bewildered by the fact that Harry is able to communicate with her in the audience. It’s escalated as each show has gone on and every single time he’s on stage he can find her in the crowd at any given moment.

Reckless is the best word to describe Harry performing ‘Kiwi’. He’s let just about all of his guards down, his hair is no longer in the perfect place that Ayae had done earlier, and there’s a light layer of sweat that covers his exposed skin. Harry’s stealing glances at Aurora no matter where he is on stage. When he makes his way closer to where she is standing he lets himself dance a bit in front of her before he regrets doing so. Harry is instantly reminded how tight his pants truly are and that he’s gotten himself in a tight spot now. Anyone paying attention to Harry can see him pull at the crotch of his pants quickly as he walks towards his mic stand. He laughs to himself as he clicks his mic back into its stand. He takes a glance down to his trousers again, reaching down he goes to pull at the fabric that is sitting much too tight against his bits. All while pulling at his trousers, he searches for Aurora quickly and gives her a look that he hopes relays everything that is going through his head. He hasn’t broken eye contact with her and she can feel the heat rise up to her cheeks. Aurora’s thankful that Harry can’t see the colour her face right now. Her jaw drops at his actions. She wasn’t prepared for him to be so bold and obvious up on stage. He seals the moment with a slow motion swipe of his tongue across his lips. Aurora is left dumbfounded. Before she thinks he’s through with the act he’s putting on for her, he runs a hand through his hair. Though he’s not looking at Aurora, she knows every single action he does in the next few minutes is for her and she can feel the tips of her ears heat up now.

It’s New York baby always jacked up,

Holland tunnel for a nose, it’s always backed up,

When she’s alone she goes home to a cactus,

In a black dress, she’s such an actress.

Harry runs his hands from his hips down to his thighs and then brings his hands up to his head, bringing all his focus to his hips moving side to side. Aurora drops her head back on her shoulders with an eye roll. She doesn’t know what to do with herself right now.

I’m gonna pay for this.

He looks directly at her and the look on his face is best described as helpless. Aurora is frozen for a moment before she lets all of her guards down and loses herself in the music.

| | | | |

Harry’s taking a sip from his new bottle of beer when he hears the light chime of the bar door. He thinks it might be his 3rd or 4th but hasn’t been keeping count. He’s out with the Adam and Mitch again and some crew members tagged along as well. Harry’s reaches for his phone for the millionth time in the past 30 minutes to see if Aurora’s texted him back. She hasn’t. He’s been pouting about it all night. After the show, Aurora was quiet, but much more hands on than normal. They both were pretty quiet in Harry’s dressing room. When Aurora hugged Harry once he got back to his dressing room she let her hands wander his torso like she thought about the entire show She also pressed a handful of kisses to the underside of his jaw before giggling and breaking away. She apologized, mumbling about not being sure why she was acting like this. Harry responded with a squeeze at her hip and then mirrored her mumbling and spoke about him hoping she would get like this. Aurora takes a step away whispering “slow” as a reminder but she doesn’t know if it’s just to remind herself what they agreed on or to remind Harry. Probably both.

Harry’s too busy checking his phone to notice that the bell at the door was the result of Aurora walking into the bar. Harry wishes he could bring himself to enjoy the time with his friends but he can’t stop thinking about her. When he asked Aurora if she wanted to come out with them she kindly declined, again. He texted her once he got to the bar hoping to get her to change her mind or try to convince her to meet up with him later.

Aurora and Helene walk into the bar, arms linked and smiles on their faces. Once Harry left the arena, Helene found Aurora and after a few glasses of wine, Helene convinced Aurora to go to the bar and surprise Harry.

“What if he doesn’t care that I’m here?” Aurora whispers to Helene.

“Doesn’t care?” Helene questions in disbelief. “Was I the only one who saw him on stage tonight or?”

“Oh stop,” Aurora hushes. They’re both giggling again. They’ve giggled a lot tonight as a result of a bottle of wine shared between them.

Harry recognizes Aurora’s laugh and his head shoots up, hair falling in his face from the quick movement. He can’t help the smile that covers his entire face when he sees her leaning against the bar. Harry slides out of the booth nodding his head towards Aurora at the bar when Mitch questions where he’s going.

“Add their drinks to my tab, Rob,” Harry tells the bartender. Helene lets out a laugh, shoots Aurora an all knowing look, and thanks Harry before walking away to find Adam and Mitch. “What changed your mind?” Harry asks as he takes a step closer to Aurora. She shrugs her shoulders, suddenly nervous, the confidence from the wine already gone. She reaches for her Whisky Soda the second Rob slides it to her. She takes a hearty sip before she shrugs her shoulders, avoiding meeting his eyes. “Well,” Harry continues, “thanks for coming,” he offers shyly.

“Show was pretty great tonight, thought I should celebrate with you,” she finally answers. Harry quirks up an eyebrow. She can see the smirk that compliments his raised eyebrows from the corner of her eye. She focuses on the drink in front of her, watching a drop of condensation rolling down the side of the glass and hit the bar counter. Harry steps closer to her, not even close to touching her still but her hair stands on end across her arms and a shiver rolls down her spine.

Harry dips his head into the crook of Aurora’s shoulder and he pauses before letting his lips fall to the sliver of bareskin between the trim of her tshirt and the base of her neck. Another shiver runs down her spine and Harry lets a chuckle vibrate against her skin.

“You know, we should probably take a look at some of my trousers, they seem to fit a bit tighter than before,” he says casually when he pulls away. He takes a swig from Aurora’s drink nonchalantly. His calm demeanor and confidence frustrates Aurora and she shakes her head lightly. “Why’re you shaking your head?” Harry asks through a light laugh, setting the glass back down, now substantially less full.

Aurora sighs and purses her lips in thought. She finishes off what’s left of her drink before speaking, needing all the courage she can get to say what she really wants to say out loud. “I could give you a list of reasons why your pants fit differently, babe.” Making eye contact with Rob she signals she needs another drink. Harry’s mind draws completely blank when Aurora reaches over and hooks her finger in one of his belt loops, her fingers grazing along the fabric and stitches. “But, it seemed like your dancing was the culprit tonight…” Aurora adds, continuing to mindlessly run her fingertips lightly of the stitches on the waistband of his trousers. Harry huffs at her, finally focusing on her face instead of her hands.

“Think it was more than the dancing,” Aurora’s eyebrow raises at the sound of Harry’s voice. It was deeper than normal, it sunk to her bones and she’s now consumed by the mixture of his voice and the look in his eyes. His pupils have expanded and even in the dark light Aurora could tell that his bright green irises are only a small ring around his dark pupils. One of Harry’s hands lands on her thigh, “I think I have you to blame for tonight.” Aurora’s entire body stills, her hands loosely grip the belt loop and she lets out a shaky breath. She wasn’t expecting him to be so bold but then she remembers the events from earlier that night. Memories of Harry on stage flash across the inside of her eyelids as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She shakes her head before reaching both of her hands up to Harry’s neck. He complies with her movements and leans down closer to her.

“Ror.” Harry’s breath fans across Aurora’s face. Aurora voice is stuck at the bottom of her throat and she hopes that she’s relaying what she’s feeling and thinking through her eyes. Before she can think any longer she lets her lips press against Harry’s. They’re both hesitant, relishing in the moment. Aurora grips at the shorter hair at the back of Harry’s neck when his lips press a little harder into hers. She can feel Harry’s shoulders relax as he continues to kiss her. His hands find grip at her waist as his hot breath fans over her face when they break apart for barely a second. Their noses bump slightly before Aurora connects their lips again. The various sounds of the bar are drowned out completely and they don’t know how long they stay kissing at the bar counter.

Harry pulls away first and Aurora finds herself chasing his lips. Harry chuckles at her actions, endeared by her confidence in the moment. “Hey,” he whispers when she opens her eyes.

“Hey,” she whispers back, her lips almost close enough to brush against his again. Harry grabs their drinks from the counter after taking a moment between them.

“Come on,” he says motioning his head towards their group sitting at a large corner booth. Aurora is taken off guard by Harry’s casual transition. When Aurora doesn’t move Harry reaches down and presses a quick kiss to her lips. “Come on, love.” Aurora huffs and jumps off of the stool she was sitting on and reaches for the crook of his elbow. Harry smiles down at her as they walk towards their friends.

It’s as if nothing had changed. They slide into the booth and fit into the conversations that were already happening. Harry’s complementing a story Adam is telling with a quick witty joke when he moves his beer bottle to his other hand and places his now free arm around Aurora’s shoulder. Harry can feel Aurora’s chest rattle when she gives a good laugh at his jokes. He smiles as he watches her join into the conversation. She even lets a hand rest on Harry’s thigh, squeezing it every so often. Harry presses constant kisses to her hair or behind her ear.

Aurora’s got her 3rd Whiskey Soda in front of her and she turns to look at Harry as he finishes a story. Mitch takes over the story for Harry, going on about one of their crazy times in Jamaica and Harry takes the opportunity that is presented in front of him. With all the attention on Mitch and Aurora still gazing up at him, he connects their lips. They’re both smiling into the kiss. It doesn’t last long, a quick peck, before they’re both engrossed in the story being told.

The night escalates and somehow Harry gets everyone to stand up and dance around the bar. They’re the only group left and they’ve taken control over the sound system. As “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran blast through the speakers, Harry grabs for Aurora’s hands and is dancing her around, twisting her this way and that, throwing in a few spins, and pressing their lips together whenever he can. Aurora’s cheeks hurt from the wide grin that’s been on show majority of the night. She throws her head back while singing along to the song and Harry can’t think he’s been much happier than he is right now. He thanks the alcohol that’s running through both of their systems but also acknowledges that it’s pushed both of their guards down.

Harry asks Aurora to come back to his hotel room when they leave the bar. She kindly declines, even after Harry drunkenly clarifies that he just wants to sleep but doesn’t want to say goodnight. He never wants to say goodnight. Harry walks Aurora to her own hotel room instead. He’s said something that neither of them can remember but has put both of them into an absolute laughing mess outside Aurora’s door.

Harry takes Aurora’s face in his hands, gently once they’ve both taken a breath and stopped laughing. Looking at her eyes then her mouth, then her eyes again, he finally closes the small gap between them. The kiss is kind of messy, but neither mind in that moment. Harry furthers the kiss taking Aurora’s bottom lip in between his and sucks lightly, a small whine coming from Aurora. He likes her reaction and does the same action with her top lip. Another whine. Aurora’s hands roam Harry’s broad shoulders and Harry’s hands move down to her waist, leaning her against the hotel room door. When the door rattles slightly their both reminded that they are standing in the hallway of the hotel. Harry pulls away with regret.

“I’ve got an early flight to Italy,” he says because he actually cannot think of anything good to say that will compare to this moment. He shakes his head in an apology knowing he broke the moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, okay?”

Aurora nods, dizzy from the whiskey and Harry’s lips. Before she closes her hotel room door behind her Harry kisses her cheek and gives her an eye wrinkling smile. It’s safe to say that Harry and Aurora both fall asleep with grins etched into their faces. There are no traces of regret or worry in Aurora’s thoughts from the events that happened tonight and she finally feels at ease.

I hope you enjoyed !!!! Comments & feedback ALWAYS extremely welcome !!!! Share it with your friendsssssss :)))) love you mean it.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #sequins & zippers #aurora on tour #harry styles fanfiction #one direction imagine

177 notes · View notes

jovialjudgebonkalmond · 4 years

Text

Inevitable, Ch 1

Aight. So, I got crotchety and decided to write a fic. Obvious disclaimer, I don’t own the characters or universe in which the story takes place - yes internet I am that old, thank you.

Summary: Monty is alive, in jail. A recounting of his experiences and memories and basically all those flashbacks we weren’t given in season 4 that I am butthurt about. It is AU in the sense that he is still alive whilst Clay & Co are attempting to frame him for Bryce’s murder. Obvious spoiler alerts if you haven’t seen season 4.

Pairings will be Monty x Winston mainly. So far this is all from Monty’s POV but that may change down the line.

Warnings include violence, sex, drug use, rape, murder, and basically everything graphic and bad you can imagine. Will absolutely contain smut. Oh, and swearing. Yay, debauchery.

Word Count: 2,963

Another warning: I haven’t written fanfiction for like...15 years guys. Go easy on me. Also, please excuse the shitty username. I didn’t pick it and I am far too lazy to change it.

Another another warning: This is from Monty’s point of view. Clearly he didn’t view his actions with the totality of how devastatingly monsterous they were. I condemn his actions, he’s a rapist and deserved jail time. As we saw in s3 and in snippets of s4 he didn’t share that point of view. I think Monty is a dynamic character that’s interesting and I relate a lot to his back story. That’s why I was motivated to write this.

The air was thick, heavy, and moist. It had that stench of too many bodies crammed into an enclosed space, like the end of the night at a house party and you're still sober and all you can smell is stale sweat and the old farts that people pretend they aren't sneaking out when they're grinding on each other.

Not that I have much experience with being the sober one at the end of the night.

Montgomery de la Cruz kept his jaw clenched and shoulders squared as he walked to the dining hall. As he passed other men, all dressed in the same ugly orange jumpsuits, he made brief eye contact. Walking with your eyes down here was a sign of weakness and he had a target on his back from the moment he arrived. His shoulders, back, and ribs ached with his movements. It hadn't taken the other inmates long to get acquainted with him, a matter of hours really. The urge to hunch his shoulders and put a hand to stable his broken ribs was overwhelming, and fighting it made the vein in his neck throb annoyingly in cadence with his pulse and footsteps.

White, black, brown, gnarled, wrinkled, scarred, baby-faced youth, tattooed or not.... Monty silently made an inventory of their faces and features. One way or another, they were all just fucking assholes waiting for their opportunity. It was baffling just how much it reminded him of high school. The dining hall even had the same layout as a cafeteria, the same dull drone of a few hundred pricks all talking at once. He scanned his I.D. and settled into the end of the meal tray line, leaving an arm's length of room between himself and the back of the inmate ahead of him. He was a slight, wiry Latino with a snake tattooed from his shoulders up his neck. Only moderately safer than lining up behind someone else. Race dictated almost everything here.

But his charges changed the rules. Sexually assaulting a minor carried out its own price in jail. He wasn't even safe within his own demographic.

Which was fucking bullshit anyway. Tyler was basically the same age and it wasn't fucking sexual assault for fuck's sake.

Not that anyone here gave a fuck.

Oh, and then there were the murder charges. Fucking Clay Jensen. He grabbed the plastic tray from the stack. It was the same ugly beige that the cement walls were painted. There were slits for windows close to the ceiling like a low-rent basement suite in the wrong part of town, with that cage wire in-between the panes of glass. So small even a tiny bitch like Standall wouldn't fit through them. It was incredible how much the human body craved the fresh air and cool breeze of an open window the moment you realize you may never feel it on your skin again.

Lunch was by far the best meal of the day. The food wasn't...terrible. Today it was plain lettuce chopped up as a 'salad', sliced ham on white Wonder Bread, and some kind of from the bag frozen brown slop passed off as soup. The silver lining was the butterscotch pudding. It reminded him of the milk cake his mom used to make him on his birthday, sort of. He stopped at each station and watched the inmates who worked the kitchen plop the items on his tray. The kitchen work was reserved for the favourites, for the most part. After all, what else are you gonna do on the outside with a record?

He looked for an empty table and dropped his tray on it with a soft clacking of plastic on poured concrete. The tables and chairs were rows of picnic style benches made out of concrete and steel, bolted into the concrete floor. They were hard, cold, and uncomfortable just like everything else in this fuckin' place. He supposed that was the point. Everyone here was just in the grown-up version of a time out corner... from life, possibly for life. He sat down, the cold, hard seat digging into the bones in his ass.

It was unnerving, intimidating... and so terrifying he had been breathless since the moment he arrived. Like a white hot fist was clenched across his whole chest, suffocating him with the weight of his fucking mistakes. So many fucking mistakes. It made his head spin like he was living in some kind of alternate reality or a fucking nightmare. Although, if he was honest...he always knew it would end up like this. Especially without Bryce around to clean up his fucking mess this time.

The hot night air whipped his face as he pressed on the gas pedal, the stars flashing by above him as he sped down the empty road. Justin reached between them and turned the volume up, blasting the music so he felt it pumping through himself like a weird tachycardia.

"I fucking love this song." He yelled, sparking up a joint. He took a few puffs off of it to get it started before passing it over. When he exhaled the air around them swilled with the familiar skunky aroma. Monty laughed, guiding the old Jeep with one hand and reaching for the joint with the other.

"Of course you do, its a shitty fucking song." he chuckled, inhaling in a slow pull. It burned at the back of his throat. He held it in for a few seconds before exhaling and shaking his head and passing it back.

"That's cheap shit."

"Well yeah, I'm not fucking Bryce Walker." Justin laughed, the streetlights illuminating his black eye. His mother had a new asshole boyfriend who picked tonight to use Justin as a human punching bag...and well that's what brothers were for. It's not like Monty had anything better to do, anyway. He flipped his signal to turn right and pulled into the parking lot by the rocky beach. They could throw rocks and sticks into the water, maybe set some shit on fire and get shitfaced. Justin took another hit off the joint and pinched the end out with his fingertips, rubbing the ash into his skin like a salve.

"Neither am I, man, neither am I..." he muttered. Justin and Monty weren't the most unlikely of friends. Justin was a bit worse off than him in the family department, sort of. But Bryce Walker? Sometimes he wondered if not for the team what was the thread that held them together.

"Fucking Bryce." Justin muttered as Monty cut the engine. The silence without the music was sudden and deafening. "Of course he's out of town with his dad on vacation."

"Probably getting laid." Monty added, laughing. Justin laughed too. Justin Foley was like...allergic to being alone. The fuckin' guy had kicked puppy written all over his face, always needing a lap to curl up in...and in the absence of that there was always a powder or a needle to get him through til the next adoption. But he was such a drag and a honest to god pain in the ass on the field when he was in withdrawal or detoxing. So. Monty was here to pick up the pieces before it jeopardized the team. And he didn't mind. It was better than being at home...

He pulled the keys out and stepped out. The California summer air meant he didn't need the doors or the top on the Jeep and he enjoyed the freedom. Justin matched his footsteps as they silently walked on to the rocky beach. His trademarked puppy dog eyes were mournfully eyeing the skyline where it met the ocean. Monty casually reached down and picked up a rock, watching it skip across the waves when he tossed it. Justin stuffed his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket.

"Sometimes I wonder why he even fuckin' bothers with a couple of fuck ups like us." He muttered, casting his eyes down.

So that's what we're gonna do, Monty thought, we're gonna mope... fuck that.

"Now Justy, imagine how fucking boring his life would be without us. Just an endless string of bitches to rail and expensive scotch." He skipped another rock and glanced over, leaned in and gently knocked his shoulder into Justin's, knocking the other boy off balance. Justin laughed and locked eyes with Monty for a moment.

"I guess you're right about that yeah." he laughed. It was a small, unsure laugh at first but Monty saw the sorrow break a bit in his eyes. He was good at noticing these subtle things, noticing things was often what saved his ass. If you knew to watch when someone's eyes changed, or the way their muscles tensed and moved you could easily predict what they were going to do. Quite often this was what was between him and a clenched fist to his face.

Monty and Justin had similarities, Monty could admit that, but where Justin pulled inward and consumed himself, brought himself down, Monty hardened and clenched his fist right back at the world.

If he was honest, he thought Foley was weak. But that's what brothers are for, they protect each other. The strong look out for the weak, especially in their weakest moments.

"I mean, who are we kidding," Justin said, "He's going to go off to like Stanford or Princeton or something..." He leaned down and picked up a rock, running his fingers over the smooth, cold surface.

"You couldn't pay me to go to one of those stuffy ass places anyway." Monty countered, kicking at some of the rocks by his feet, scuffing a small trench into the sand beneath. "I get sick just thinking about it."

"Yeah." Justin agreed, "I just... all these fuckin' rich kids..."

"Yeah. And their tight pants and cardigans." Monty snorted, watching Justin's face break into another smile.

"Fucking cardigan's. Like a fucking grandpa."

"I'm not going to live long enough to get old, so I can't relate." Monty said loudly, almost like forced bravado. He liked being obnoxious, to smile out of spite.

"Yeah," Justin laughed, "You're gonna die in prison with a fuckin' shiv between your ribs."

Monty laughed, watching Justin release his rock with a flick of his wrist. It skipped once over the glassy surface before falling into its inky black depths.

"And you're gonna die with a fuckin' needle in your arm...or-" His face cracked into a grin.

"Maybe you'll get the fuckin hiv."

Justin laughed loudly and gave Monty a shove.

"It's H-I-V, dumbass."

"Yeah, but hiv rhymes with shiv. We'll both get ivved." He crowed proudly, shoving Justin back lightly with both his hands. Justin took a half-hearted swing at him, but he dodged it easily and picked up a piece of driftwood as he ran by, swinging around and walloping the other boy in the ass. Justin's legs buckled and he took a few steps, laughing and chucking handful of small rocks at him. They pinged over his broad chest like hail on a shitty day.

"Fuck you, Monty!"

"Ohh wouldn't you like to though, Justy." Monty countered, turning around and dropping his pants off his cheeks. He bent over and smacked his own ass, "I'm waiting!" He laughed, his face breaking into a slightly demented grin. He felt the stinging welt of a stick being whipped across his bare skin and jumped, yanking his pants back up. He yelped, turning around, the grin not leaving his face.

"Fuck no, you'd like it too much. Perv." Justin pointed the stick at him. Monty picked up the stick he had dropped before and aimed for Justin's thigh, but Justin blocked it and whacked Monty again, this time in his side. They continued to chase, smack, and poke at each other, delighting in the mutual torment.

"Fuck you're relentless." Justin declared in defeat, dropping his stick with a laugh and holding his hands up with surrender. He was panting, his pasty skin clammy in the moonlight.

"It's one of my more endearing qualities." Monty said with a devilish grin as he bowed. "That and my abs."

"Fuck your 'roid ass abs." Justin half wheezed. "Think Bryce will read our obituaries from his penthouse drinking his fucking scotch?"

"Nah man," Monty laughed with a shake of his head, "They don't write obituaries for shitheads like us."

Monty was yanked out of his drifting memories when another man sat across from him with a thump that rattled the table. The boy stared at the man for a moment, one triangular quarter of his shitty dry sandwich poised in his hand as he was about to take a bite. He bit down and chewed, watching the intruder with feigned disinterest. He was good at this. Putting on a front.

Until he couldn't anymore, that is. Until the mask slipped and revealed the scared, desperate pile of shit inside.

The man was at least six feet tall, three-and-some hundred pounds, white as mayonnaise with a big ol' swastika on his bicep. He had an earring in one ear and some scars down his face, chest, and arms. Scratches. Wounds made from desperate, terrified women in self defense. He was bald as a gummy walnut, his scalp weirdly wrinkled and beginning to be dotted with age spots. He was at least mid-fifties, Monty figured. Total skinhead. Asshole. Word of mouth said his rap sheet was a few miles long, most recently connected to a decent string of raped and murdered girls and women. Almost all of them were involved in the sex trade, women or girls of colour. He was a truck driver who used his profession as a tool to evade the police, making it hard to pin him down because he changed locations across different jurisdictions. The varied age and ethnicities of his victims didn't help the police either. Some were as young as 12 years old, and others as old as mid 40's. He, too, was awaiting sentencing. Obviously whatever happened, he'd end up in a maximum state prison.

Couldn't fit the stereotype more if he tried, Monty thought, disgusted.

That's the shit end of the stick awaiting sentencing in a county jail. You get petty crooks like Tim Pozzy who likely won't even get real time, and then assholes like this behemoth pile of trash.

Monty chewed his food, watching silently as the neonazi asshole reached across the table and took his pudding. His fingers were fat, like pale bloated sausages. He opened it, maintaining eye contact with Monty. His eyes were an icy blue, and they seemed devoid of anything. They say the eyes are the window to the soul... and there was nothing there. It sent a shiver down the 18 year old's spine and made the hair on the back of his neck tickle. He smiled, showing that he was clearly in desperate need of dental care. He didn't have many teeth left, and the ones that remained were brownish-greyish nubs of rot. Monty thanked whatever god or demon that might be listening that he couldn't smell this guy's breath. It just looked like it would inevitably stink. The whole time he felt the old familiar build up, the inevitable time bomb tick, tick, ticking through his veins. His blood sounded like thunder in his ears.

How is it that I fuck with Ty-ty, just some fucking hazing, not a big deal...and I get labelled a pedophile and a rapist - a fucking rapist for fuck's sake - and this guy...this guy basically runs this place...

It's not like he wanted to fuck Tyler. That's disgusting. He wanted to hurt him, and he could admit that was wrong. Sure. But the little creep had ruined his life, and for that he had to pay. It was simple.

This asshole, though, was the real pedophile. The only difference was Monty had the audacity to target a white male, the untouchable. And this guy stuck to the easily forgotten targets.

He stuck out a surprisingly short, wide, tongue that looked like it was covered in herpes lesions and licked the foiled plastic lid of the pudding. Monty felt it come alive inside of him, blinding and electric. White hot rage boiled through his veins, exploding in his head and lighting every muscle in his body so that he had to move or it would consume him. He couldn't have stopped himself if he had wanted to try, and he didn't bother with the wasted effort.

In a swift, smooth motion he grabbed his lunch tray with his free hand and backhanded the other man up the jaw with it and stood. Before the asshole had time to react, he used his other hand to grip the top of his head - ham sandwich and all, and slam his face into the concrete table and the pudding. Blood and pudding spurted in all directions like a moneyshot of rage jizz and he felt relief hearing the echoing crack of the larger man's skull. He didn't even have time to bask in the afterglow of his violence before he felt the familiar thud of knuckles to the bottom left of his jaw, the blow eliciting a sickening pop and sending him reeling out of control. He stumbled, losing his balance as vision went static like a television without a connection. He tasted the all too familiar coppery flavour of blood filling his mouth. He spat and staggered and threw a blind fist out, feeling it connect to something, but what he wasn't sure. The immediate agony and crack told him it was in fact the fucking table and he probably broke some fingers. That's when he took a second, devastating blow to his head and everything went black.

#13rw #fanfic #monty de la cruz #montgomery de la cruz #monty x winston #winston x monty #13rw fanfiction

36 notes · View notes

sigynpenniman · 5 years

Text

Saving the Targ - A Lighthearted Little DS9 Adventure

Julian, Miles, and Garak combine their skills to repair one of Molly’s stuffed animals. Sweetness ensues.

what if, I wondered at 2 am, Garak, Julian, and Miles had to team up to repair one of Molly’s toys? And so, here we are.

A little over 2,000 words. Fluff/slice of life. Hints of Garashir? Also seeking to solve the UNFORGIVABLE fact that Molly and Julian never actually interact on the show. They’d have to be close, right?

“Daddy? Can you fix him?”

Chief Engineer Miles O’Brien looked up from his work to see his young daughter standing before him, holding a stuffed animal. No - it was what looked to be 2 identical stuffed animals.

“Oh, honey! What happened to him?”

Molly handed the stuffed items to her father. It was now obvious that she held not 2 identical stuffed animals, but a stuffed targ, and his right front leg, which was now a completely separate object.

“His leg came off!”

Miles O’Brien may have been an expert engineer, but he was not a seamstress. He was, in fact, fairly sure he had never picked up a needle and thread in his life. He was also a man who was physically incapable of disappointing his daughter. So against his better judgment, he took the injured toy from her with a dutifully serious expression.

“Oh no! Yes, of course daddy can fix it. Why don’t you go play with your other toys, and I’ll bring him back to you good as new in a little while.”

Molly leaned over and gave the stuffed toy a kiss and pat.

“See, I told you daddy would make you better.” She said to it, and ran off. Miles was sure he felt part of his heart breaking. If he didn’t have to fix this before, he absolutely did now. Where, on a space station, was he going to find someone who knew how to sew?

Right.

Miles scooped up the damaged targ and headed for the door.

“Miles!”

Keiko’s voice rang out from behind him. Miles turned to his wife.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“I’ve got to see a Cardassian about a targ.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

“GARAK!”

Garak wondered if Miles knew how to say his name without sounding angry.

“And what can I do for you, Chief?”

Miles heard his own voice in a moment of self clarity and softened his tone.

“I need your help,” he said, much more kindly, producing the injured targ.

“Molly brought me this today. She was heartbroken over it. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a seamstress. I promised her that I could fix him but it’s not even something I can begin to do. I’ll give you whatever you want. You want plans for the power conduits on this entire station? I can get them. But only if you can fix the targ.”

Garak took the stuffed toy and studied it carefully, turning it over in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Chief.” He began. “Those plans do sound ever so tempting. But this is…a little out of my skillset. Altering clothes and attaching legs are two very different things. This is a very different kind of sewing. Sewing on something like this requires different skills. Fabric, you can see both sides of. This thing has…” Garak held up the targ’s leg demonstratively. “...thickness.”

Mile’s face fell. He could see Molly’s precious little face in his mind, a single tear running down her cheek. The image was unbearable.

“If you can’t help me I have no idea what I’m going to do. She was crushed. That targ was her favorite toy in the world.”

Garak smiled, mischief apparent in every inch of his face. He handed the injured toy back to Miles.

“Attaching legs isn’t really a tailor’s job, is it? For that kind of work, you’d need, at the very least, curved needles. Though…” Garak paused for effect. “They’re more often known as surgeon’s needles.”

Miles’ face betrayed a complete self disappointment in not having thought of it before.

“Julian!”

“Julian indeed. I do believe the dear doctor may be of more assistance to you than I ever could be. I think he has far more skill re-attaching legs than I do.” Garak thought, for a moment, about Kukalaka, sitting on a shelf in Julian’s quarters. He wanted to mention the bear, to provide the chief some hint of reassurance. Miles looked utterly panicked about the state of the small stuffed animal, and there was nothing Garak wanted more than to promise him that Julian was more than skilled at putting stuffed animals back together. Unfortunately, that meant concocting a way to mention this without inviting questions as to how he had any idea of anything that was in Julian’s quarters. That wasn’t a conversation he was in the mood to have – not with the Chief, and certainly not right now.

“In fact, I seem to remember the doctor mentioning once that his very first patient when he was a child was a stuffed bear. I’d wager our dear doctor has attached plenty of stuffed legs in his time.”

“I owe you one.”

Miles collected the injured toy and headed out of the shop in the general direction of his friend’s infirmary. He almost jumped when he felt a presence behind him and realized Garak was a half step behind.

“Did you need something else?” he asked, annoyance beginning to rise in his voice again. The tailor may have just been a help to him but no amount of gratitude was enough to change that his patience for Garak was always a little…thin.

“Forgive me, Chief. I always was a bit sentimental at heart. Observing the Doctor performing surgery on a stuffed animal is a sight I simply cannot pass up.”

Miles barely contained the urge to roll his eyes. He quietly rolled his soul instead. He couldn’t very well tell the tailor to go away, no matter how much of a frustration he sometimes was.

The two men stepped into the infirmary. Julian Bashir was leaning over a computer console, a trademark look of confusion on his face.

“Julian!”

Julian looked up from his work.

“Miles! …Garak?”

“In the flesh, doctor.”

Julian took an inquisitive step towards his visitors.

“I’m tempted to ask what the two of you are doing together, but I have a feeling I am about to get that question answered.” He said, amused.

“We have a patient for you, doctor.”

Julian looked the two men up and down. Neither looked injured, and he saw no sign of anyone else accompanying them. Miles presented the targ.

“Is this my patient?” Julian asked, taking the stuffed animal from his friend’s hands.

“I know it’s a bit…unorthodox. Molly accidentally tore the targ this morning and she was completely inconsolable. You know I can’t even begin to sew. I brought it to Garak for help, but he made the point that reattaching legs was more your speed than his.”

“And to be honest, doctor, I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch you in action.” Garak added.

Julian could not contain his smile.

“This has got to be the easiest patient I’ve had in months. Of course, Chief. I’ll be happy to help. I’ll need some time to perform the repairs, though. It’s been a long time since I picked up a needle and thread.”

“Take all the time you need.” Miles nodded. “I’ll be back for him later. I’ll warn you now, I’ll probably have Molly in tow.”

“Noted. I promise to present you with a 4-legged targ.”

Miles stepped away to return to his duties. Garak took a step forwards and studied the stuffed animal in Julian’s hands.

“Can you really fix that targ, or do you plan to employ a little…replicator magic? Neither Miles nor his daughter would be any the wiser.”

“Of course I intend to fix him!”

“May I ask why? You could scan that...thing with the replicator and have this problem solved in a few seconds with a few lines of code.”

Julian placed the targ on one of the examination tables and pawed through a drawer in search of a needle and thread.

“Because, Garak…it’s a little more complicated than that.” Julian tied a series of knots in the thread and began carefully attaching the stuffed animal’s leg. He continued to speak, or maybe ramble, as he focused on his sewing.

“Healing badly injured people is about speed and effectiveness. What’s the most effective treatment I can provide, the fastest, while causing the least pain. But that’s not all that medicine is. There’s a bit of theatre in it. With people who are only a slightly ill or injured, it’s as big of a part of my job to provide comfort and reassurance as it is to actually provide physical care. It’s not just about making people better, but about making those people feel safe, and building their confidence in you. It may seem counterintuitive, but sometimes the fastest, most modern therapies do not seem like enough to the patient. They want something tactile, something they can see and feel.”

Garak listened intently.

“Sure, I can heal a cut arm with a dermal regenerator. And a Vulcan might find that a perfect solution. But some humans would really like a bandage, too. Even if there’s no need for one, it seems to pick up morale a bit to give people a little something to hold on to that helps them to feel cared for, even if it’s completely unnecessary to the actual treatment. This is especially true of children. I have never met a child whose problems were not almost completely solved by a pink band-aid. It doesn’t matter what other treatment I can provide: It’s not the actual healing that helps, it’s the perception of it.”

“And let me assure you, there’s nothing that’s more medical theatre than sewing up a stuffed animal. It’s the only reason to involve a doctor at all. You’re completely right that this issue could be fixed with a few lines of code in a replicator, or just as easily by a sewist who had experience making stuffed animals. Handing a stuffed animal to a doctor is really just a request for reassurance. So honestly, I have no business fixing this toy with a replicator. That is not my job.”

Garak paused to consider all the doctor had said. A mischievous smile spread across his face.

“Well, my dear doctor. If this is all about the theatre, I have some suggestions.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Miles stepped into the infirmary, with his daughter in tow. Molly walked carefully next to her father. She was never quite sure how she felt about this place. Julian turned to the two of them and smiled.

“Just in time! He’s just out of surgery.”

Miles raised a confused eyebrow. Julian winked at him and knelt down to the nervous little girl standing next to her father.

“Hello Molly.” He said softly. “Would you like to see your targ?”

Molly wavered. She was never quite sure how she felt about Julian, either, but her father seemed to trust him, which was generally enough for her.

“…His name is Tim” she said finally, stepping out from behind her father’s leg and inching towards Julian.

“Well then – let’s go see Tim” Julian said with a smile, scooping up the hesitant little girl. Molly’s concern faded as soon as she was in Julian’s arms, and she wrapped her arms affectionately around his neck.

“What are you plotting?” Miles asked. Julian simply nodded to him.

“Come on. You can both see.”

Miles followed his friend into the operating theatre. There, much to the shock of both Miles and Molly, they found Garak, hovering over the operating table.

“Ah! Come to retrieve the patient, have we?”

Molly reacted unsurely to the Cardassian’s presence.

“It’s alright.” Julian reassured her. “He was a big help in healing Tim. Who, by the way, is right as rain.”

Molly looked down on the operating table. Miles saw her face light up with amusement, and stepped forwards. He couldn’t help breaking out into a grin. The injured targ was placed gently in the middle of the operating table, a blanket pulled over it. There was an IV attached to one of its small legs, and a delta wave inducer carefully balanced on its forehead. Julian sat Molly on the edge of the operating table and removed the inducer from Tim’s forehead.

“You should be feeling much better now, little friend.” He said. He carefully detached the medical equipment from the targ. “He says he missed you” Julian added, and transferred him to Molly’s waiting arms. Molly grinned and hugged the stuffed animal. There were smiles all around the room.

“Thank you Daddy!” Molly exclaimed. She surveyed the other two men. “Thank you too, Uncle Julian.”

Julian ruffled her hair. “Any time, sweetheart.” He said.

Molly turned behind her and looked at Garak. “Thank you, Mister Garak” she said, in her small, quiet voice. Garak, for all his carefully performed coldness, nearly melted on the spot.

“Of course, my dear.”

Molly hugged her targ and grinned. As far as she was concerned, she had no problems left in the world. She sat forwards a little and contemplated the distance to the floor, and quietly amended her list. She had one problem.

“…Uncle Julian?” she asked quietly.

“Yes?”

Molly looked down at the floor. “Help” she whispered. Julian laughed when he realized he had accidentally trapped the little girl on the table, and lifted her carefully to the floor. Molly paused to give her father’s leg a quick hug and took off out of the infirmary, targ in her arms. The whole room laughed.

“That was brilliant, Julian. The IVs? Thank you.” Miles said, turning to Julian.

Julian shook his head. “You’re very welcome, but you should know that a good part of that was Garak’s idea.”

Miles looked up at the Cardassian in shock.

“The good doctor was explaining the concept of medical theatre to me. I figured, why not take it all the way?” Garak answered the unspoken question.

“Well, whoever’s idea it all was, it was genius. She’ll be talking about this for days. Thank you both.”

“What are friends for, Chief?”

Miles smiled at both men. Friends, indeed.

#star trek #ds9 #Julian Bashir #miles o'brien #garak #elim garak #garashir #fanfic #Star Trek Fanfiction #deep space nine #Deep Space 9

232 notes · View notes

fairiesherefairiesthere · 4 years

Text

Fraxus Anastasia au #6

With every chapter, we travel further and further away from Anastasia lmaooo. Anyway mdudes, here’s the ao3-link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144866/chapters/58558978

Summary: Once Evergreen lays eyes upon a sign adorned with a quaint little symbol of a needle and thread, her gaze clears up and she enthusiastically points at it. "Look Laxus, isn't this exciting?" He frowns. "A clothes shop?" he asks and Evergreen gasps in offense. "Not just a clothes shop you dunce. This is one of the best tailors around!"

"Nice, but I'm pretty sure we can't afford that." He isn't trying to put a damper on her mood, but he's realistic. "We can't, but our glucose father over there can", she says, puts on a friendly smile and waves at Freed who's out of earshot. Unable to hear their previous conversation, he waves back with a smile that's just as gentle and friendly. "Two weeks ago he couldn't afford breakfast and traintickets. There's no way he can shop at one of the best tailors now."

Chapter below the cut!

A few days later, Laxus is back on his feet and fit for being dragged around (or so Freed rules). The first thing that happens to him after an awesome breakfast is Evergreen clamping his arm tightly and hauling him through the streets of the town they're in. By the way her eyes are scanning the building it's clear she's searching for something in particular, but because he has no idea what she's looking for, he quietly awaits his fate.

Once Evergreen lays eyes upon a sign adorned with a quaint little symbol of a needle and thread, her gaze clears up and she enthusiastically points at it. "Look Laxus, isn't this exciting?" He frowns. "A clothes shop?" he asks and Evergreen gasps in offense. "Not just a clothes shop you dunce. This is one of the best tailors around!"

Evergreen shrugs. "Freed said that there was something wrong with the bank in the previous town, but he doesn't have the same issue here. I'm not going to question it, I'll run when it's time to run", she explains and Laxus has the feeling that the three of them have definitely done that before. "And who am I to complain?" she asks, twirling around and it's then that Laxus notices her new dress and jacket. It looks good on her and he tells her so. "Flatterer", she grins coyly, "You should try those charms on someone else."

Before he can ask on who he should use his "charms", she enters the tailor's, beckoning him to follow. The inside of the shop is very cosy, materials strewn about in an organised chaos. In the distance he can hear the rattling of a sewing machine and the rustling of fabric, coming together in a cacaphony of noises that isn't unpleasant to the ear. A smell reminiscent of the cosy type of dust (the smell of one's old aunties house) hangs in the shop and the entirety of the shop makes Laxus feel comfortable.

Then Evergreen strides over to an old lady in the back of the room, talking to her while gesturing in his direction. The older dame approaches him after Ever's finished her explanation, giving him a thourough once-over. "We could make something out of this", the old lady croons and after that a few dizzying hours follow.

Under Evergreen's watchful eye, as neither Bickslow nor Freed entered the tailor's with them, he's measured, pattern is formed, fitted, amended and fitted again. Evergreen and the old lady talk about patterns, fabrics, silhouettes and other things Laxus knows jack shit about. The whole ordeal is befitting of a royal he thinks, realising he is one and then coming to the conclusion that he feels unworthy of the treatment. He feels like a streetrat getting dolled up to enter a poodle competition. He isn't supposed to be here, these two will notice soon enough and there's no way that Laxus would ever convince anyone that he was a prince. To be honest, he doesn't know if he believes it himself.

"Are you nervous?" Evergreen asks when the old lady is fetching something in the back, eyes and voice piercing through his worries. At first he entertains the thought to lie to her, to tell her he isn't nervous at all. But something tells him that Evergreen wouldn't take kindly to being deceived and more importantly, that she'd see right through it. "Yes", he admits. "It'll only be so long before I meet my grandfather. We'll meet and then he'll see me for the dirt poor fraud of an orphan I am. The thought of meeting him makes me nauseous."

Evergreen's mouth falls open in a small, surprised 'o' and then her expression softens, a smile gracing her lips. "Silly." is all she says, before turning her attention back to her magazine. It's the bare minimum, but the certainty in her voice does a good job of warding of his worries. It's as though the idea of him not being the crown prince is entirely ridiculous to her, an absolute joke of an idea. She too, is an incredibly smart person and so he thinks he'll make the gamble. He'll trust her judgement. After all, Freed alluded to him that he and Ever used to be close. He hopes he can regain that bond, because he finds himself respecting her.

He wonders if he should tell Evergreen this and bravely ends up trying to. However, the words sound clumsy to his own ears and he winces through it. When he's done awkwardly putting his feelings out there in the cluttered, dusty tailor's shop, Evergreen merely stares at him. "Well that was an experience", she dryly states and Laxus hides his face in his hands. Then she throws her arms around him, giving him a hug. Because of her small stature, she's completely buried into Laxus chest. So understandably he has a bit of a hard time making out her words. "God, you're stupid", she says, words muffled. "You big oaf, I loved you when you were an insecure little thing, I'll learn to love you as this tree of a guy. Don't worry about our friendship being lost, it's still there. We'll continue were we left off and build something stronger."

"I'd like that", he says, voice surprisingly rough as he blinks away tears. In the back of his mind, he can sense the edges of memories. Almost smells the little bits of tangerine stuck underneath fingernails on sunny days, almost feels the past fussing over clothes and almost hears the reluctance in her voice while waking him up. Those moments are long gone though and his mind has seemingly erased them, leaving him chasing fragments and pieces now.

Evergreen retracts from the hug and smooths out the worried wrinkles in his forehead. "Don't dwell on the past too much, live in the present for a bit." Laxus mulls it over before shaking his head. "Aren't we all chasing my past together? You three seem to know my past self better than I do. I think I'm entitled to that knowledge too."

The mixture of sadness and fondness on her face morphs into an expression that Laxus can't quite place, but she tells him not to worry about it. "Well your royal highness, let's reunite you with that past then! And to do that, we'll put you in some nicer clothes because God knows no one will allow you to meet with the tsar otherwise."

Finally, they're done. As they exit the tailor's, Laxus notices that neither of them has the clothes that were made for him. Confused, he asks Evergreen about them and Evergreen giggles. "They aren't finished yet, masterpieces like that take a few days. But no worries, we'll be hitting up more shops today. You won't be returning to the hotel with empty hands."

He cringes at those words. "I don't want anything really, I'd even be more comfortable if you didn't spend a single penny on me." Evergreen shrugs. "Too late for that." Then she glares at him and he winces, wondering what he did wrong. "Laxus, that attitude won't do!" she suddenly yells, attracting the attention of quite a few people in the streets. With hands that are none too careful, she turns him around so he's looking straight into a shop window. "What do you see?" she forcibly demands and he cringes as he takes a proper gander at his mirror image.

"A dirty young man, looks like he hasn't slept in years even though he did, someone who sticks out like a sore thumb, a guy who looks like he scavenges trash cans for food (not a pleasant experience, he recalls) and well, someone who looks like they've got a terrible character. The sort of person who'd bully kids for money, you know?"

The more he talks, the angrier Evergreen looks and so he just stops talking. "Sorry", he mumbles and Evergreen vehemently shakes her head. "No! You don't have to be sorry for a thing! It's hard to shake thoughts like those off." She takes a deep breath before going off again and Laxus wonders if she's had worries like his before.

"Laxus look at yourself again", she commands and so he does. "Straighten your back and put your chin up. I'm going to tell you something and I'll keep saying it until you believe it. You are Laxus Ivanov Dreyar, future tsar of Russia. You have the right to the throne and you have the right to look the part."

That part of the speech doesn't do anything but heighten his anxiety. Unaware of his rising turmoil, Evergreen continues. "But more importantly, you're genuinely a nice person. You're kind, honest and funny. You won't take shit from the most annoying of people, so please don't allow shit from yourself either. You're a good person and you're allowed to be proud of that. You have the right to be proud of just being you. I know you're feeling a lot of pressure to be someone high and mighty, like how you think a royal should act. But rest assured, the person you're travelling to meet knows you and has no such expectations for you. He merely wants his grandson back and he'll recognise you without a doubt. Please be kind to the self you think of as inadequate. You, Laxus, are a person worth of love of both other people and yourself."

She gives him a pat on the shoulder, firm and reassuring. Blinking away stubborn tears he nods. "I'll try to erhm, work on it", he says, because that's all he's got for now. "I'll beat it into your skull", Evergreen gently threatens, holding up a fist. "I look forward to it", he jokes and she shakes her head in amusement. "I'll hold you to it."

They continue their walk through the streets, hopping into shops that seem significantly less expensive than the taylor's and it makes Laxus feel more at ease. Comfortable with the reasonable pricing, he doesn't feel quite as ashamed browsing through items, scanning them with his eyes. "You can try them on, you know", Evergreen says with a light tone, holding a pink dress in front of her own body. "You think this colour suits me?" she asks, involving him more in the process. "Dunno", he says honestly, aware of his own... interesting sense of fashion.

"What do you think would look pretty on me?" Completely out of his depth, Laxus scans the store before pointing at a red dress with a leopard print and a furry neck- and bottomline. It is adorned with a studded purple belt with yellow details. It's colourful, he thinks and the yellow of the belt and the leopard print complement each other, right? Because leopards are yellow and all that.

"I wanted to buy whatever you pointed at to erase your awkwardness about buying things, but there's no way I will even look at that monstrousity for a second longer." Dejected, he pouts a bit. Surely it wasn't that bad?

It's then that he lays eyes on the biggest, clunkiest, warmest-looking jacket he's ever seen in his life. When he rubs the fabric between his fingers, he's ninety percent sure that it's real leather. That stuff lasts ages and honestly, he'd kill for a jacket that'd last him longer than a few weeks. He's had to brace enough winters without jackets because they simply were too worn-out when the cold really started to appear.

When she catches him staring, Evergreen moves over to look at what exactly he's looking at. Laying eyes on the jacket, she lets out a little pleased hum. "You know what? That's actually not terrible, take it." Aware of his lingering hesitation, she rolls her eyes and pulls it off the rack. Holding it in front of his body, she squints her eyes. "This'll fit fine, I'm going to pay for it." Just like that, she moves to the cashregister and before Laxus knows it, he has a bag with a new jacket in it. As they exit the store, Laxus notices that Evergreen has also donned a similar jacket. "It's comfortable!" she defends herself and Laxus shoots her a smug look. "Sure, whatever you say. I won't judge you if you admit to me having a superior sense of fashion."

"Never in a million years", she shoots back and he gives her a firm headpat, messing up her updo. "Sure, sure", he says as she squeaks in indignation. They run into Bickslow and Freed as they round a corner and immediately Evergreen throws her arms around Freed, whining about how she's being bullied. Freed gives her a pat on the back. "To quote a wise woman: With the way you're acting, you deserve to be", he says cheekily and laughs as Evergreen sputters. "You're supposed to take my side", she pouts. "Don't worry, I'm not taking the other guy's side either. I'm a completely neutral force." At that, Bickslow snorts. "Freed, you haven't been neutral, ever."

"Maybe there's some semblance of truth in that", he says before turning his attention to Laxus. "So, how did the shopping trip go?" Clumsily, Laxus retrieves the jacket from the bag and shows it to Bickslow and Freed. Under Freed's scrutinising gaze, he feels the need to explain himself. "It's warm."

"Why don't you put it on then?" Freed asks, "We can't have you being sick again." As Laxus does so, Freed momentarily takes the bag from him. As soon as the bag is deposited in his hands, Freed frowns and looks inside. "You guys really didn't buy anything but a jacket. Where are the casual pants, shoes and shirts? Gloves and a scarf for when it gets colder? A lighter jacket?"

Evergreen winces. "We we're getting there", she retorts and Freed raises one eyebrow. "You've been walking around for six hours." Handing the empty bag back to Laxus, he tells them to go get some food. "I'll handle the rest of it", he sighs, "because I truly do not think you guys will be able to put together a few outfits in the few hours that remain of this day. Go eat and have some fun instead. We'll be leaving this town soon, after all."

At first, Laxus's a bit miffed that Freed is treating him like a child, but then he's halfway through a really good local dish and he thinks it's alright. The stress of prices probably would've prohibited him from actually buying anything and from what he's seen, Freed knows how to dress well. Bickslow also said that they all should try one of the hotsprings the town has to offer. Because he's never been to one before, Laxus is pretty excited to try it. He's having fun, he realises as he watches Bickslow and Evergreen bicker over the shape of a potatoe.

After dinner, they lounge in their hotelrooms for a bit, waiting for Freed to return. When he eventually does, he as a few bags, a suitcase and a box with him. On the box Laxus recognises the same design as the one he saw on the tailor's sign. "She finished it early, because she was very enthusiastic about the project." Setting all the materials on the floor, Freed opens the sturdy leather suitcase.

"This will last you a while", he explains as he neatly folds the clothes and puts them in the suitcase. From what Laxus can see, there's more colour in there than he expected, but he'll trust Freed's judgement. They continue to peacefully exist beside each other until Bickslow throws himself onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"I can't take this anymore!" he yells, "it's tubby time!" Freed blinks owlishly, packing up the last clothes as Bickslow rolls off the bed, demanding attention by depositing his head in Freed's lap. "I demand that we visit the hotsprings."

"Do you now? We'll be leaving early in the morning, I think it's better if we go to bed instead." That makes sense, but it does make Laxus deflate a little bit. He had been looking forward to it after all. When he decides to stop moping and looks up, he catches Freed looking at him with an expression that could almost be fondness. "I won't be held accountable for your tiredness tomorrow", Freed says as he gets up from the floor and Evergreen and Bickslow cheer in unison.

They have to walk a little while to get to that specific hot spring, but Laxus doesn't mind. The night has coloured the sky dark, but the skies are clear so a million stars can be spotted. It's breathtaking. He thinks he's never felt more at peace in his whole life.

The sound of heels clacking on the cobblestone catches both his and Freed's attention. He doesn't recognise the woman looking at them, but the shift in Freed's expression tells Laxus that the other man definitely does. "Whatever happens, just play along", he hisses loud enough so Evergreen and Bickslow can hear it too. Unsure of what's happening, Laxus nods.

"Al, my dear boy is that you?" the woman asks, slowly stepping closer. A streetlantern catches her in its glow and Laxus is caught off guard by the smooth green hair that falls oh so daintily over her shoulders, combined with the striking blue of her eyes. This woman is one of wealth, she seems like the epitome of nobility. Freed gives the woman a curtsy and motions behind his back for them to do the same. "Lady mother", he politely greets her back.

#fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Evergreen fairy tail #Bickslow #freedxlaxus #raijinshuu #Anastasia au #TheFairyWrites

15 notes · View notes

imaginesrus · 5 years

Text

A Door Left Open

Thank you to everyone who has messaged me about the first part of this fic. It’s so encouraging to get requests and your very kind comments, I hope you all enjoy.

Summary:

A follow up fic to “Patch Me Up”.

Following on from the night Steve and the kids left Reader to save their friends. Steve is still hoping there may be a chance to redeem himself.

Words: 2081

Warnings: None, angst I guess, and a little swearing.

The all too familiar rumble of a car engine, filled the quiet street, and you pulled the curtains closed sharply. You pulled a record from your shelf, placing it on your player, gently dropping the needle as a car door slammed shut outside. As soon as the sound started to pour out of the speakers you turned up the volume, hoping that perhaps the signal that you didn’t want to come out would be clear.

You flopped back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. How the fuck did things get so complicated?

There was a quiet knock on your door, and you reluctantly got back up from your bed, turning down the music and opening the door wide enough to see who was knocking. Ready to give Steve Harrington a piece of your mind if he had managed to sweet talk your parents into gaining access to your door.

“Hey honey.”

It was your mom. She gave you an apologetic smile and you knew what she was about to tell you. You sighed opening the door wider to allow your mom to come in, while you slumped back down on the bed.

She went to your curtains, pulling them back open, a groan leaving your lips as you moved away from the light, closing your eyes.

“He’s here again, honey,” she said, the bed dipping as she took a seat at the edge.

“I know.” You sighed, getting up to sit next to her, intently focusing on the laces of your sneakers.

He had turned up at your house for a few days now, after you had refused to speak to him on the phone. It had been two weeks since he had been delivered to your doorstep by four middle schoolers after getting the shit beaten out of him by Billy Hargrove.

Two weeks since he had left you screaming at him in your driveway, while he drove off into the night.

“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but maybe you should at least hear him out?”

“Mom, Steve and I haven’t been friends in a while, he isn’t the same.”

Neither were you. No longer willing to take things at face value, a question to everyone’s motivations.

“People change, honey, but he was always a good kid. With a hard life. Maybe he lost his way a little, but, like I said, people can change.” She gave your shoulder a nudge with her own, and you groaned.

“Plus I think if he turns up here one more time, your dad is going to lose it.”

Your mom had been remarkably restrained up to this point, she had been about to question you about it that first morning, until she saw the look on your face. Your father had briefly looked up from his paper, a scowl on his face, before he returned to his morning routine.

“Fine. I guess I can talk to him.” You try to ignore the smile that graces her face, always knowing that your mom had a soft spot for Steve, it’s probably the only thing that has saved him from your dad’s wrath.

“I’ll let him up.” She says, getting up from your bed, “Just remember to keep the door open, for your dad.” She added with a wink that made you groan inwardly, your cheeks flushing hot at the implication.

You flop back on your bed as your mind races through what just could come of Steve Harrington walking through that door into your room. The memory of screaming into the night in your driveway was still so fresh. A sick feeling in your stomach that the car that sped down your street was heading for doom. While you kneeled hopeless in your driveway.

You sat up again at the quite knock on the door frame. Your door opening slowly to reveal in the doorway an uncommonly sheepish looking Steve Harrington. He didn’t enter, instead leaning up against the door frame, waiting for an invitation.

He looked infinitely better than the night he had been laying on your couch while you tended to his wounds. The gash above his eye, had healed up, the bruising faded. His bottom lip still slightly swollen and marked.

“You look good,” you mutter while he stands just inside of your room, “I mean,” you examine the laces of your shoes again, “you look better.”

He pushes his hair back from his face, “Yeah. Thanks.” He shoved his hands in his pocket, shifting his position up against the door. “I had a good nurse.” He adds, with a smile, as if if he can smile enough you might just catch it.

You keep your face straight. Trying to quell that feeling in your gut that is relieved to see that he is okay. The deputy had told you as much as soon as you had finally worn them down enough that night to give you some information.

He had gone to the hospital, the police were with him, so were the kids and he was okay. Once that was confirmed you allowed yourself to give into that anger again.

“You going to stand in my doorway all afternoon?” There is an edge to your tone, as you set the rules about just who is in control here. Your letting him in, not the other way around.

He takes a seat next to you on the bed, the bed dipping under his weight as he maintains a safe distance between you both. You note how he chooses to sit next to you on your bed, not the safer option of the chair near your desk. You don’t know whether to be flattered by his bold choice of seating position or annoyed that he thinks he can win his way back so easily.

“I didn’t want to see you again,” you admit, moving away, putting a further distance between you, while you concentrate on the material of your jean shorts. Pulling at a loose thread, near the pocket.

“I know,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair, “But, I couldn’t leave things the way they were.”

“You mean when you drove off in the middle of the night, with a possible concussion in a car full of kids to some undisclosed location, and I had no idea where you were, if you were okay, if they were okay.” The calm facade dissolves giving way to the barely concealed anger. The hurt and betrayal seeping through your words.

“I know,” he repeats, his head bowed, unable to meet your eyes.

“I was so fucking scared.” You berate yourself for the tears welling in your eyes, reliving the moment when you thought you might lose him again. “You just turned up at my door.” You sniff loudly, trying to keep yourself from losing your words to the sobs threatening to take hold.

His hand reaches out to lay over your hands in your lap, stilling your fingers from fidgeting.

“Some really messed up things happened and I couldn’t let you get dragged into them.”

“Tell me.”

“Y/N, we don’t need to-”

“Do you know how many times in my mind I had imagined what it would be like to have Steve Harrington turning up on my doorstep? To go back to how things were.”

It was embarrassing, how much you had wanted Steve, your friend back. But he was another person now, one who had ignored your in the hallways, who had point blank told Tommy he had no idea who you were.

You had cried into your pillow, every night for a week. Your mom sitting next to you, her hand gently on your shoulder, while you refused to tell her what was wrong. What you had lost.

“And it wasn’t even like you were gone, I still had to see you everyday, be invisible to you, and yet still want you to notice me like some … airhead.” You shook your head, embarrassed to let all of this out, but it was as if the floodgates had opened and you were powerless to close them now. Your emotions spilling out of your mouth, you couldn’t stop them now if you tried.

“And then, you asked for me, you came to me and I guess I felt, like maybe, for a brief moment things might go back to the way they were.”

He goes to speak and you put up your hand, stopping him.

“And when you left,” a sad chuckle leaves your lips, “same old King Steve. Using people for what he needs and just letting them go again.”

“What we were going to do that night was dangerous, Y/N. I saw an opportunity to protect you from it and I took it.”

“Protect me from what? Just tell me Steve. You want to make things right, then tell me.”

He took a deep breath, his hand moving to his hair again. As he looked out your window. “You wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” You say determination written across your face.

And he does, the whole thing. The events of the Christmas previous, the lab, the killer dogs and the dirty secret that threatened to consume the town of Hawkins.

You try to comprehend what he has told you. How it could possibly be true. A little concerned that maybe Billy’s beating actually did cause some permanent damage.

“Steve-”

“Honest, Y/N, it’s true.” You meet his eyes. And true or not, he believes it. There is a fear there that is genuine.

“When we drove off that night we were going to try to distract it-them from attacking Chief Hopper and Eleven - the girl from the lab-, and there was a chance we wouldn’t make it back to the surface.”

You shake your head in disbelief, it’s like something out of one of your sci fi novels, so unbelievable that no-one, not even someone with the confidence of Steve, would use as an excuse to why they go driving into the night with a pile of middle schoolers. So unbelievable it has to be the truth.

“You had just helped me, despite everything, I couldn’t repay you by allowing you to involve yourself. To risk having you hurt. After everything I had done.”

“I can’t believe, all this time, there has been this thing around us.” To think that there was this other worldly force in their small town, and that so many people were involved in the cover up.

“It’s gone now though.”

“So things can go back to normal.” You give a nod of understanding. He’s said his peace, apologised and now you can go back to ignoring each other in the hallways. Pretending not to notice each other, not to care.

“Maybe that’s not what I want.”

“What?”

“Since that night, I kept asking myself how I ended up your doorstep. I mean you’re right we hadn’t spoken in two years. But I guess,” he takes a deep sigh, “I needed, to feel safe. The only place that has ever felt like home.”

The look in his eyes, makes your breath hitch. An actual genuine admission from Steve Harrington.

“Steve-”

“I was a massive asshole. I thought I had everything I wanted. I thought people liked me, loved me even, but it was all a lie. One I had fooled myself into believing. But when I was here, I felt it.”

His eyes meet yours and despite the fact that you want to look away, you can’t, this has been what you have been waiting for, isn’t it? You had played this conversation in your own mind so many times, exactly what you would say, and now you can only sit there.

“Not because I was King Steve, or popular, because I was me. Just me.” His hand moves over yours and your heartbeat speeds up, while you remind yourself not to fall back into old habits so easily. “And that that was enough.”

“What do you want Steve?” You ask, afraid of the answer. Afraid of the rejection, but holding onto a hope of something else.

“I thought maybe we could start with ice cream?” He asks, a smile beginning to form on his lips as you raise your eyebrow. “Mint Choc Chip right?”

You manage a nod, still not sure exactly what it is you’re agreeing to, but his warm smile makes you want to take his hand, and see where ice-cream with Steve may lead.

MASTERLIST.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #stranger things imagine #fanfiction #follow up fic

97 notes · View notes

impossible-rat-babies · 5 years

Text

mirror mirror, how tf do you say goodbye?

~1975 words | chargestep (m!ortega + nb!sidestep) | that soft af angst | most below the cut

Pollux hates mirrors on principle.

He’s never liked staring at his own face; not because he’s ugly to look at, they made sure he wasn’t. He’s far from the picture perfect they made him nowadays, but there’s a history in his sunken cheeks and how his nose juts too far out from his face, the curve of it getting worse each time it gets broken. Three parallel lines across his temple and through his ear, a nick in his upper lip.

He hates mirrors for entirely different reasons, for the truths they don’t hide, that they reflect back in gritty detail. They don’t hide his flaws, the bags under his eyes, the limpness of hunched shoulders, the lack of warmth in his chapped lips he chews far too much. How he looks when he strips away each layer, staring hard at his face, whispering and willing his eyes to not make him look so utterly empty.

Pollux doesn’t like when people look at him—really look at him enough to remember, to see how he is so empty. To pick out the details and to know how he moves, how he exists as a marionette with cut strings, keeping the illusion he can move on his own. He keeps his masks well, pretends like his strings aren’t cut, but the masks and strings don’t work when people can see them.

People like Ortega and his static brain like a TV left on the wrong station, a low level nagging at the base of his skull, like reading a book when there are no letters on the page.

Pollux looks away, coming back to the cool tile under his toes, and an oversized shirt and pants that smell like musky cologne. Ortega is always kind in offering him his clothes, but all of his clothing is comically big on him, the sleeves long enough to hang down to knees, the pants a good six inches too long too. At least the shirt covers his arms and the collar is tight enough; he can deal with swimming in fabric.

Ortega insisted he not go back to wearing the clothes he dragged himself in with--not with how the smell of garbage was practically palatable--and Pollux wanted nothing more than a shower at the time. Compromise on the smallest things. Plus it wouldn't be a crime if he smelled like his laundry soap for the next week.

“Fuck, Ricardo!”

Pollux curses and lifts his arm enough to see the bottle of alcohol in Ortega’s hand along with the bloodied gauze and the look of frustration he’s giving him. It would be less funny if he didn’t have to kneel down beside him to reach the nasty cut still oozing blood.

“It’s not that bad, Pollux.” Ortega chides and he goes back to dabbing along the wound and Pollux winces, chewing his lip. It wouldn’t ordinarily hurt this bad, but it isn’t his own hands and Pollux has the right to be whiny for once in his shitty life.

It’s a necessity to show this much skin, shirt half rolled up and held tight, even if his stomach is flipping over on itself; one look, one wrong adjustment of his hand holding up the shirt and even with bumps and twisting paths of scars painted all down his side, there’s still a chance and he isn’t going to follow that train of thought. He only enlisted Ortega’s help because he couldn’t quite get twisted around to sew it up himself.

“It fucking hurts that’s what.” Pollux grumbles and Ortega’s breath is short, dumping the gauze in the sink with the bloodied cotton balls.

“Who did you go and have to pick a knife fight with?” He asks and Pollux rolls his eyes, fingers clenching on the rim of the sink.

“Someone in an alleyway without any sense.” Pollux breathes out as the gentle numbing starts to take over and Ortega sets the numbing cream aside.

“Wait,” Ortega looks up at him a little dumbstruck, “you got into an honest to god knife fight?”

Pollux blinks and he scoffs incredulously. “No it’s a fun new euphemism I came up with today—get yourself into a knife fight!” Ortega is glaring at his joke and Pollux’s face is going to hurt with the amount of eye-rolling he’s doing.

“Yes I got into an honest knife fight and didn’t have a knife. Guy came after me because I didn’t have any cash on me and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Satisfied?”

Ortega tsks, a small “mierda” accompanying it and Pollux bites his tongue before he sighs, drumming fingers against the counter.

“I was coming here if that soothes your concerns.” Another compromise, tempering his frustrations.

“I could have come and gotten you. Saved you the trouble” Ortega huffs and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“No thanks.” Pollux shuts down that avenue without another word and Ortega is giving him a Look again. Pollux stares right back at him until Ortega gives up, eyes falling back to his hands as they thread the curved needle. Pollux chews his lip again and he silently breathes out.

“I’m fine, Ricardo.” Pollux speaks, trying for warm and quiet, but it always comes out like he’s trying too hard. “Seriously, it’s not that bad. Been through worse scrapes than this.”

Ortega doesn’t say anything and Pollux doesn't press, doesn't poke and prod to argument neither of them have the energy for. Ortega will forgive him before too long, content that he came by. Content that he asked for help for once.

Pollux picks at the caulking along the sink, listening to Ortega suturing the wound, the click of the needle and tweezers, a dull pulling sensation. The others only needing gauze or butterfly closures—simple things, ones he took care of when he got out of the shower. It was hard to stare at his own skin, to dissociate from what was staring back, but he needed clean wounds before comfort. Ortega finally ties the last knot, and it only takes a few more minutes to cover it up with gauze and medical tape to hold it in place.

But he doesn’t pull away right away, no. His hand slides down across the peaks and valleys of the vicious scar down his side, brow furrowing like he’s trying to remember if he’s seen it before. He’s touched it in the dark before, traced its grotesque path from shoulder to hip.

It isn’t one he’ll remember, but Pollux lets him think, lets him touch. Lets him keep his head to himself; he doesn’t want to explain how he got it, the fall that lead to that night and the week after, nursing chemical burns and he knows the smell of burnt flesh too well.

He’s got that look on his face, the one Pollux has seen far too much. The wrinkle in his brow, the curl of his lip; landmarks of pain--of blame.

“Ricardo?”

Pollux’s voice is quiet, a gentle call to bring him back around. Keep him from digging into all the what if what if what if.

Ortega blinks and he half smiles, keeping his questions to himself--keeping the pain to himself. Pollux pushes aside the thought of how familiar that is, pulling down his shirt when Ortega stands.

Pollux stands there silent until Ortega has washed his hands, everything either thrown away or cleaned. Like how bandaging wounds isn’t something for the bathroom in Ortega’s apartment, but old habits die hard. Well, not all of them died when he hit the asphalt.

“Hey..” Pollux speaks as the lid of the first aid kit snaps closed.

“Hey...” Ortega repeats and Pollux clumsily steps closer, wrapping his arms around Ortega’s waist, pressing the side of his face to his chest.

“I’m sorry...” He apologizes, resting his chin against his chest to look up at him. Ortega’s brow cocks but he’s quiet, his hands settling against Pollux’s waist. “I don’t say that enough. Also thank you. I don’t say that enough either; need to start saying them more, just so you know. I’m....bad at saying what I should.”

Ortega sighs out his nose and takes Pollux’s face in his hands, thumb brushing across his cheekbones and across the trio of scars cutting from eyebrow to ear.

“You’re welcome, Lux.” He presses a kiss to his forehead for a long moment, gentle, kind, warm. Softer than he deserves. Pollux grips the back of his shirt, just letting the warmth of Ortega seep into him; he’ll be smelling like his soap and cologne for the next week. Might as well soak in as much as he can for now before it fades to cigarettes and lost dreams.

“I could get used to this sort of hug.” Ortega mumbles into his hair and Pollux snorts, fingers twisting his shirt into knots.

“Yeah yeah...” He grumbles, but he doesn’t say no. There have been more of those, more concessions and confessions; vulnerability painted in fluorescent lights or in Ortega’s pitch black bedroom.

“Are you staying the night?” Ortega asks and he doesn’t hide the hope in his voice. Pollux sighs and pushes away the dozens of reasons why he shouldn’t—why he can’t. He doesn’t have the strength to spin around a good reason why he should stay, too tired to convince himself he doesn’t want to be close, too tired to contain his hope that maybe one day things like this won’t be exceptions to his rules.

“Yes, I’ll stay the night.”

The wall opposite the bed is colored in dim orange, filtering in through blinds only half drawn to block out how even late into the night, Los Diablos still shines. Ortega’s mumbling into his stomach, face buried there, arm curled around Pollux’s legs and his fingers trace mindless patterns across the bare strip of skin at the small of his back. Pollux replies quietly to the simple conversation and it’s as mindless as it is comforting. It’s easy to play with his hair when he’s this close and this tired, twisting strand after strand into loose curls, leaving his head covered in them. He ruffles it all back to a mess and starts over, running his nails across Ortega’s scalp. Ortega hums quietly and a few more sweet nothings come out of his mouth and Pollux’s face flushes.

Back in the days something like this would never have happened. Not in this way, not with how he wants to kiss the top of Ortega’s head and mumble sweet little things right on back to him—enough to scare him with how much he needs to say them, to tell Ortega all of it. Counting all the little things he needs to say before everything is ruined. How much he missed him and how scary that is, how much space he already has inside of his heart when he buried all of that away. Can’t make him hate when despair is easier. How terrifying it is that he’s breathing life back into him, back into the places committed to death.

It’ll be easier when he says those things, easier to let him go once and for all when he has nothing left to say, no kindling left for the fire. Nothing but goodbye.

But he keeps finding new things to say, new tiny little things he needs to tell Ortega; terribly sweet things he could never have imagined saying before. It’s all finding and forging new paths, finding a way to be like how it is now then how it was before. That was nine months ago his list is next to endless and they’ve had to reshape old pieces to fit into a new picture and craft new ones as well. Find new ways to paint a picture of what they are...if “they” are such a thing.

Ortega’s breathing has turned slow and steady, his chest gently rising and falling in the hazy orange glow from the street lights below. Pollux paints another set of curls across his head before his eyes get too heavy to keep open. He curls in just so, enough to kiss the top of Ortega’s head, whispering soft words into his hair, ones he can’t say where he can hear--where he can’t know. Because if he knows--knows how much those words really mean and to see his face when he does--Pollux doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say goodbye.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: retribution #chargestep #fhr #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #this has been in drafts for ages so you all get it now #mmmm

25 notes · View notes