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moxfirefly · 3 years

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Ssssooooo I'm gonna keep the "only one bed" trope train and ask for it with maybe Heisenberg? I know you're obsessed with him dont even deny it uwu

*vibrates excitedly* oh BOY!!!!! Thank you Dia, you always gimme the prompts my little heart wants. Shout out to @akumaalert I hope you don’t mind but I wanted to include Karl’s powers being on the fritz due to, sensations, and that wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for your brilliance!

I’m going off the friggin rails here so,

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

There was a voice in the back of your head that sounded too much like your mother.

It kept yelling at you that this was unsavory, that this wasn’t modest of you and your teachings. Who were you to lie with a man? A man you weren’t bound to, a Lord on top of it. All those sinful talks in the big black book circled your mind like vultures.

But he had offered, no?

It was pouring out after all, a big bad storm complete with thunder and gusts of wind that would’ve blown you away probably.

The nature of this friendship? Complicated, very very complicated. You had racked your brain over it as you had buttoned up one of his shirts and climbed into his bed just as another clap of thunder sounded. It made you scurry, somewhat not as elegantly as you may have liked but nevertheless it didn’t stop him from laughing at you.

For such a large factory it only housed one bedroom which just so happened to be his own. He had every intention of sleeping somewhere else, some way, but you had insisted that it wasn’t fair. The storm wasn’t his fault or your own, the living accommodations weren’t either.

So here you were.

In bed with Karl Heisenberg.

Falling a sleep had proven quite difficult, the insistent slide of pencil on paper, the storm and its monstrous sounds. There was a distant revving of something you couldn’t quite name.

You turned to face Heisenberg with every intention of passing the time.

Or at least to help yourself to ogling him.

Your mother voice rang again.

Unsavory, so unsavory.

But he was there, shirtless, sturdy, muscle in his arms and missing those damned shades for once. Whatever he was scribbling had his undivided attention, as you snuck a glance you saw drawings instead of words.

He could draw?

Rather good too.

“What is that?” You tried to lift your gaze but a large hand fell on the page to obscure your snooping. “Nothing, just ideas” He flipped the page, the white of it begging for ink.

“My apologies… I didn’t know you could draw though” He could still see curiosity adorned in your gaze, a noticeable silence falling as your stared up at him. You wanted something, that’s all he could tell.

“…What do you want me to draw?” He huffed out, even if you excitedly sat up in bed and rested against the headboard with a big smile. “Hmm, surprise me or maybe draw me?” You chuckled but went quiet when you watched him scoot down to the end of the bed onto his side. He flipped open the note book again and squinted at you.

“How opposed are you to taking your clothes off?” He smirked and in turn you rolled your eyes.

“Depends, let’s see how well you draw me first” You shot back with every intent of dishing out what he was. Heisenberg chuckled before picking up the pen to start on the newest blank page. “You better keep your mouth shut about this, don’t want villagers lining up to get my works of art” His movements seemed almost mechanical, eyes occasionally lifting to meet you as he did. “There’s enough pictures of your mother in everyone’s homes, hm?” You watched his eyes roll again but he remained silent, he stole another glance at you, eyes roaming your chest now.

Something about that made your skin warm, a nice blush found itself onto your cheeks.

“You draw everyone woman you get into bed?” You asked rather quietly, the small pin prick of jealousy manifesting in your fingertips.

“No, much to your surprise I don’t have all the women of this village in here for sleepovers” His gaze fell to your now exposed legs and the urge to cover them increased but he was quick to tap the end of his pen on your approaching hands. “Stop moving,” He returned to the notebook with a concentrated chew on the inside of his cheeks. The strands of silvery hair fell in front of his eyes and you wished that maybe you too possessed the ability to draw and capture him.

He was handsome.

Those pesky sinful thoughts found you again and with that came the urge to do something about it.

“You better fucking like it, this is reserved for projects after all” He let the pen rest on the bed and flipped the note book towards you.

Your eyes went wide.

It was a sketch, not polished but there in the scribbly lines of black was your face and your body. The messy details perfectly representing you. Your drawn eyes stood out to you, the slight fall of his shirt on your shoulder stood out to you, the way he took more time to detail your legs stood out to you.

“Is that stunned silence? It’s shit isn’t it?” He glared at the page, eyeing up all its faults but you were quick to move and shake your head. “It’s not shit! I’m just- Karl this is beautiful, you’re talented” You observed the image again, a small crinkle at the corners of your mouth.

“I’d ask to keep it but-“ He took the notebook back, not relenting even as you pouted. “Nope, I like this, all I usually have on here is ugly inventions” And corpses, he obviously left that out. He continued to admire the drawing before he grinned, letting hazel eyes fall on you from above the notebook. “Well?” He simply asked and you knew.

“Might come back here for the nude study if you’re going to make me look this nice” You shamelessly flirted back. Heisenberg laughed, a true sound with not ill intentions. “Well I’m sure arrangements can be made” He closed the note book but his eyes soon found your own, close enough that he could smell the oils that had touched your skin this evening. With a bite to your lower lip and a steadying beat of your heart you leaned in close to him. Heisenberg’s lips pursed momentarily, the anticipation of your lips coming down on his own making something electric pulse inside of him.

But you stopped, an inch away from his lips.

His brows furrowed at being denied and that fact that you found that so endearing made you muffle a laugh between your tight lip smile.

Of course, he had to make you shudder, rub his knuckles across your cheek and dig his fingers into he back of your head. “What, pup?” His voice was barely a whisper, the sounds vibrating against your bottom lip and chin. The gentle nudge to close the distance left you breathless.

His lips were surprisingly soft, the scar noticeable against your lips but the bumpy tissue only served to make you melt against him. It was short, several gentle touches that made you shiver as you felt his nails scratch into your scalp.

Pressing your forehead to his own you sighed, want was there and he could feel it, taste it against your lips, feel it in the shiver on your flesh. A small zap hit your skin and the small yelp that escaped you only served to make him chuckle. “Did you just- was that electricity?” Your skin felt prickly suddenly, he only grinned more like a mad dog. Heisenberg wrapped an arm around your waist and yanked you beneath him, the series of shrieks you let out only making him laugh more. “You can be such a beast” They way your hands landed on his bare chest to smack him was short lived.

Some retaliation was to be had. So you scratched your nails down his body before landing on his waist. The tremble of his arms as he held himself above you made you smile. With a gentle nudge of your knee you trapped him in between your legs, pulling him down onto you by his waist. He huffed, hair falling and obscuring his heated gaze. It was instinct, to wrap your arms around him and feel his so warm and soft and strong against you. The scratchiness of his beard was felt at your neck, along with that his teeth meeting warm skin.

He sucked a bruise onto your neck with a roll of his hips.

“Do you want me?” He grumbled against your pulse, tongue soothing the bruise.

You nodded, digging your nails into his waist before dragging them up his back.

“No, no, pup” He nosed your ear, teeth finding your lobe with a gentle tug. “I need to hear it, use your words” It was almost a purr, enough to goosebump your skin and lift your hips.

“Want you, want you so much, please…” You exposed your neck more for him, felt his lips find your throat. “Good pup” His hands found the neck of the shirt and with one fluid motion you heard and felt all the buttons pop off. He pulled it apart to reveal your chest, he hummed at the sight before him. “Now I should draw this some day” His grin made your cheeks flush again, even more so when he pressed his face against your chest, a rub of his cheek scratching your soft skin.

Lips pressed, tongue drawing patterns as you muffled a whine and grabbed his hair and gave it a gentle tug. “Ka-oh god!” A particular hard bite at your ribs made you grip silver locks with more intention. He groaned at the rough handling of his hair, the strain on his neck as you tugged hard enough that he could see your pupils blown wide for him.

When Heisenberg leaned back, allowed space between both your heated skins, you ached.

Visibly ached.

You followed those talented scarred hands to the front of his trousers, watched as he unbuttoned them slowly. But you couldn’t stay away too long, fingers itched to feel him, to touch every part of him and find out what made him tick. You unrolled what was left of your his shirt and tossed it somewhere off the bed. When he saw your hands go between your legs he palmed himself at the sight of it.

“You want your hand, mhm? Or would you much rather prefer my cock?” He emphasized with a tight squeeze of his hardened length and wordless you replied by removing your hand and reaching for him once more. Ever the asshole, he gripped your hand away and raised his brows, he wanted those verbal answers.

Bastard.

“Your cock, please” Intertwining your fingers with his own you gently brought him back down to you for a long and sensual kiss. Against those lips you whispered, “Inside, want you inside now” just as another clap of thunder hit.

There were more clothes gone, scattered across the room unwanted and unneeded. Heisenberg had every intention of feeling you come apart around him when he entered you slowly. Each hiccuped whine shooting your arms more tightly around him, pressing him down closer to you. The heat he was already exuding was making you break out in a sweat, you felt his hands slide beneath you with a groan the further his slid into you.

He was buried to the hilt, tight heat so perfect he growl against the bruised flesh of your neck. “Fucking good little pup, taking me so good” His filthy words fell against your ear, short but pronounced thrusts making you dig your nails onto his back. “Yesss, don’t be afraid, don’t break so easily baby” Heisenberg leaned his head as far as he could to catch your gaze in all its lust blown glory. He kissed you again, more ferocity, more purpose, all tongues and teeth and demanding bites. The heels of your feet rested at his back side encouraging him deep into you with every thrust he delivered.

Being at the end of the bed doing this felt weirdly interesting, each thrust he gave you made the bed creak, lean away from the wall just a bit, it’s increasing squeak joining the chorus of the storm.

When you dragged your nails down his back, right towards his rear and gripped and moaned loud enough to have him shake, you saw something lift from the corner of your eye. You eyes squinted at the spoon suddenly mid air, you weren’t unaware of his gifts but why was he-

You train of thought was lost to you when he angled his thrusts just the right way to hit your sweetest of spots, every possible question was being tried and language had fallen at the bottom of your list of abilities. You arched into him, neck on display for his teeth to once again find, that tight hold on his rear remained and he seemed to really enjoy it by the sounds and sensations of his heated grunts. “Puppyyy, such a good pup, could stay buried in this hole all week” Oh you would let him, you wanted him in fact, why go back to the village, you’d rather put your days on this bed.

No matter how many dangerous items kept floating about, no matter how his skin felt almost electric as he thrusted into you more feverishly, this is what you wanted.

You wanted him.

“Then do it, oh god just do it please!” He hooked his arms beneath your knees and locked you beneath him either every intention of making your moans louder than the rain. Heisenberg unceremoniously pounded you, every hit making your toes curl and your voice choke up. “Gonna fuck a mess into you, you want it? Mhm?” Dangerous dangerous dangerous!

But you did.

Whimpered a series of broken yes yes yes, at his ear. The bruising hold proved necessarily, you felt your legs shake and stiffen all at once, heard several things sort of just go pop! It dawned on you that it had been the lights but that couldn’t have been the storm-

Your orgasm snuck up on you, quite literally hit you smack in the gut with Heisenberg at his tail end as well, it must’ve been seconds apart from one another. He moaned right against your ear, hips drilling into you with every intention of making you lose your god damn mind. Several objects clattered around you, startling you and in the process making you hold onto him.

His amused chuckle came out in breathless pants, the now darkened room only having a lone candle as the source of light. He gave your hip a gentle tap, “It’s okay, just shit that happens” He sounded somewhat sheepish as you both still panted. You reached up and cupped his sweaty cheek, fingers mapping a crias crossed scar. Here in the dimly lit room he still managed to be the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You wanted him again.

Wanted all the madness that came with him.

You pulled him down again to show him just that as you kissed him.

#ask #dianounais #re8 village #re8 #resident evil 8 #karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #heisenberg x reader #re8 heisenberg #re8 karl heisenberg #karl Heisenberg #Heisenberg #lord heisenberg x reader #lord heisenberg #fanfic tropes #ns*w

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maybedefinitely404 · 4 years

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Day 1: Logince

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 1: Your soulmate’s name is on your wrist.

Content: Flower/Tattoo Shop AU, background character death (unspecified cause, none of the sides), that’s pretty much it, it’s just soft Logince.

Word count: 2.7k

A small ding from the store entrance pulled Roman out of his thoughts, and he groaned softly. It was nearing the end of his shift, almost closing time, and another customer at this time would probably mean he was staying after hours again. All he wanted to do was go home and watch cheap reality TV in his sweatpants while shoveling handfuls of hot cheetos into his mouth. So sue him, it had been a long day. But nooo. Someone else had just walked in, probably someone with a very specific style that was out of season and they would argue for half an hour, no matter how many times he explained that tulips aren’t blooming right now, Vanessa!

Sure, usually his customers were great. Nervous first anniversaries, eccentric brides, all that romance stuff. He loved it. And they were usually all too willing to give him a budget and a color scheme and let him go wild, which was the best part about his job. He was good at it, too. His boss had seen his eye for style and almost immediately gave him solo shifts, which meant decently good pay and hours alone to belt out songs amongst the flowers and daydream to his heart’s content. It was a small enough business that the only mandatory part of his outfit was a green apron, so he could wear whatever he wanted, and he didn’t need a pesky nametag. Those had always weirded him out just a bit. So yeah, he loved his job, but right now, he knew himself too well. He had awful luck.

With a forced customer service grin, he poked out of the backroom and began his usual spiel of, “Thanks for coming to The Rainbow Bouquet, what can I get started…”

His words died in his throat at the mere sight of the man before him. Never had he been so equally attracted and frightened at the same time.

He was tall, probably just taller than him, but he held himself in a way that made Roman feel miniscule. Both arms were covered in tattoo sleeves, the left one a flurried mix of black and white and color, beautiful strips of pink and blue galaxies blending with grayscale skulls and clocks. The other had more order; shadows of a forest growing from around his wrist, shimmering mist curling up over his bicep and ending with a full moon stamped on his shoulder like a crest. A corner of something peaked up around the collar of his torn vest, and if Roman had to guess, there were most likely plenty more tattoos that were covered by his ripped black jeans and blue Nasa shirt. Not that his mind was going there at all, no siree.

Once Roman’s brain had screeched to a halt back in his body, he spoke again.

“What can I get started for you today?”

The man swallowed with difficulty, taking in the rows and rows of flowers surrounding him. He definitely didn’t look in his element.

“I need an arrangement for my mother. She’s in the hospital.”

Ah, the part of the job that Roman didn’t enjoy. Probably half the orders that came in were for sick people or funerals, and those were always a lot harder to arrange. It was always hard to find joy in creating for something so dismal.

“I’m sorry to hear. Did you have anything specific in mind? Does she have a favorite flower?”

“Daisies. She likes Daisies,” He murmured, still admiring the space around him. Roman couldn’t help but smile at the man’s expression. It was just a little awe inspired, a little bit of childish wonder, under that rough exterior. It was a gorgeous shop, that’s one of the reasons Roman had started working there.

“That’s good, it makes it a little easier for me to design something when I have that to go off of. Do you have a budget, or…”

He shook his head weakly, finally turning to look at Roman. “Price isn’t an issue. This is one of the last things I’m going to be able to give her.”

“Oh,” Roman whispered, slowly putting down the pen he’d been writing with, “I’m so sorry.”

“It can’t be changed. There’s no point in losing sleep over it.”

“Just because it’s going to happen doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. You’re allowed to be sad about it.”

The man narrowed his eyes, giving Roman a once over before lifting his chin slightly. “I don’t need advice from a stranger.”

“Of course you don’t,” Roman quickly corrected, remembering he was still at work, “My apologies. When did you want to pick it up?”

“I’m visiting her tomorrow at noon. Could it be ready by then?”

“You bet. Can I have a name for the pick up?”

“Logan.” Roman’s pen skittered over his notepad, almost falling through his fingers.

Having a common name on your wrist was a curse in and of itself. And poor him, the hopeless romantic that he was, had met countless “Logan’s” in his day, and consequently fallen for most of them at first introduction, only to figure out quickly that they weren’t destined for a “Roman”. As inconspicuously as possible, he tried to glance down at Logan’s wrist, only finding a mass of swirling tattoos covering his skin. Dammit. There were some people born without soulmates, or had their soulmark fade to nothingness when their person passed away, and he tried not to think too terribly hard on which one Logan was. He tampered his rush of excitement as quickly as it had arisen and turned back to his notes, ignoring Logan’s raised eyebrow at his sudden stop.

Roman scribbled down the name and phone number as it was given, setting down the notepad with a customer service smile. The man spent no time dawdling, immediately starting towards the door, only to hesitate before walking out.

“Her favorite color is yellow.”

Roman nodded, the fake smile slowly morphing into an authentic one. “I can work with that.”

It was now a week after Logan had picked up the bouquet, a somewhat awkward interaction filled with small compliments towards the arrangement and Roman nearly dropping the flowers as their fingers touched while passing it over. As he was ringing up the total, he’d been able to uphold a brief conversation where Logan revealed he was a tattoo artist (no shock, considering he showed more inked skin than plain), and Roman showed off his rose tattoo on his upper arm. It would have been fine if the conversation ended there, but no, Logan had to reach up tentatively to brush his finger along the edge of the piece, commenting off handedly about how the color had started to fade.

“How long ago did you get this done?”

“Probably ten years, give or take.”

“You’re what, mid twenties? There’s no way you were legal ten years ago.”

“Who said I was?” It was said with a small wink that made Logan pull his hand away, an action that immediately dampened Roman’s mood.

“If you ever want it touched up, come by the shop. It’s just down the road.”

Roman had promised to consider, pulling the collar of his long sleeve shirt back up over the rose and bidding the man a good visit to his mother. Even now, a full week later, he couldn’t help his thoughts that were so centered around the tattoo artist. So maybe that was why Logan walked back into the shop the following Wednesday. I simped so hard I summoned him, Roman thought weakly as the gorgeous man strode straight up to the counter, leaning on it like he owned it.

“I have a question.”

“What’s your question?

“A client asked me yesterday to design a tattoo for her. A bouquet, seen from the top, and all she specified was it should feature hydrangeas, and she asked me to, quote, ‘go nuts’.”

“This isn’t sounding like a question so far.”

Logan sighed apprehensively, adjusting his glasses, “I was hoping you could give me some ideas on how to start. All the tips I found online contradicted each other in some way or another, and the arrangement you created for my mother was so well done…”

He trailed off, giving Roman a look that clearly said I need your help but don’t make me ask for it. Chuckling slightly, he leaned onto the counter as well, his face inches away from Logan’s. For the first time, he could see the small piercing on the man’s tongue as he sighed again. God, that’s hot.

“I’ll help you. On one condition.”

“Being?”

“Help me design my next tattoo.” In full honesty, he hadn’t even considered a second tattoo until that second.

“Deal.” There was no hesitation in his answer, and he took Roman’s offered hand, barely shaking it in the small space between them.

“Alright!” Roman pulled back, satisfied but disappointed as their hands separated, “Let’s talk flowers!”

And talk they did. For hours, in fact. It started with Logan’s tattoo dilemma, and Roman’s skillful eye and creative mind solved that problem in a flash, crudely drawing out a bouquet idea that fit all the criteria. The tattoo artist took it from there, using the notepad paper and Roman’s sketch, along with a quick round of the shop to see what the recommended flowers, fillers, and greens would all look like, and drew out a detailed piece that put Roman’s own art talent to shame. After explaining that his shift was done at the parlor and he had the rest of the afternoon free, Roman invited Logan to stay for a while longer, seeing as his day had dragged on customer-less so far, and he was bored. Plus, now was as good a time as any to pay back the favor. Two mugs of breakroom coffee later, the two were huddled around the counter, Roman describing his ideas and Logan sketching them like there was no tomorrow. Maybe half way through the brainstorm, the conversation switched to Logan’s mother (which he talked about hesitantly), then to Roman’s family, slowly changing to the absurdity of satin couch cushions, then to their favorite foods, and finally ending with a loud debate on whether pineapple deserved to be on pizza.

“It’s a fruit, Logan! Why the hell would you put fruit on a pizza?!”

“All I’m saying is that the sweet flavor of the pineapple balances out the tanginess of the marinara sauce, and adds more to the plain crust!”

“That doesn’t make it right!”

Logan had to go soon after that, wanting to visit his mom before visiting hours ended. He left with a begrudging smile on his face and a promise to come back another day, drawing an ear to ear grin from Roman. He’s just a friend, he reprimanded himself sternly, all the while sliding the drawing of his next possible tattoo into his phone case with startling reverence. No use getting attached to some who wasn’t his soulmate.

Yet, he still couldn’t help but feel saddened as a week passed again, then two, then a month. His job had returned to it’s boring normalcy, with only the flowers and no cute boy to keep him company. Even when he sat at his little desk next to the counter, hands working effortlessly to string together order after order, he couldn’t help the occasional glance at the door. The hope that his prince charming would waltz back in, piercings and ripped clothing galore, never faded.

A month and a half later, the little chime above the door dinged, and Roman glanced up from his handful of Baby’s Breath (seriously people, there are other fillers). Immediately a huge smile pulled at his lips and he dropped the half finished bouquet onto his table.

“Logan! What took you so… long…” His expression morphed into one of worry as he took in the other’s appearance. Gone was the usual grunge attire he was so prone to wearing, replaced with a black hoodie and beaten up Vans. His eyes no longer held that dangerous glimmer that had intimidated Roman so much when they first met. He just looked… small. Logan had never looked small before.

“My mom died last month,” He whispered.

Roman was over the desk in a second, pulling the man into his arms before he could protest. It took Logan a second, a long, awkward, stiff second, before he let his arms wrap around his waist, allowing his forehead to rest on the florist’s shoulder.

“I thought I’d be okay when she died… it was inevitable. It was her time… so why does it still hurt so bad?” The desperate whisper shattered Roman’s heart.

“You’re allowed to feel sad, Logan.” He felt him merely shake his head in response, but he said nothing to push the topic further.

Logan didn’t cry as they stood there, though he clung to Roman almost desperately. If he had to guess, the poor man was probably already cried out. He looked exhausted, and his unusually slumped posture only weakened more when Roman tightened his arms ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. You were probably waiting.”

“Hey, no apologizing.”

“I just… didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“So what changed your mind?”

Logan shrugged, still not pulling away, “I couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it. And I needed someone who wouldn’t laugh at me. If our few interactions were anything to go by, you were that person.”

Roman decided to ignore the blatant implication that Logan didn’t have anyone except a practical stranger to go to. They could talk about that later, if he decided to stay for a while. Roman really hoped he did.

When the tattoo artist finally pulled out of the hug, many minutes later, he pushed his sweater paws under his glasses to scrub at his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t cried, but he sure was close to it.

“I’m sorry-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I don’t even know your name, and I-”

“It’s okay, stop-” Roman reeled back slightly, eyebrows shooting into his hairline, “Oh… sweet Zac Efron. I never told you my name! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“It felt too late to ask,” Logan smirked subtly despite himself, letting his hands fall back to his side.

“Oh, my sweet summer child.”

“I am none of those things.”

Roman sighed in soft exasperation, smiling at the barely perceivable glimmer in the other’s eyes. Ah, there it is. “My name’s Roman. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

He was instantly concerned with the way Logan’s face fell into one of total shock. Shit, what did he do wrong? The fear was quickly replaced with understanding, however, as the artist’s hand drifted to his right wrist.

“What are the chances that your wrist says my name on it?” Logan said it like he was scared to be hopeful, like a happy ending was just not imaginable for him. Roman couldn’t comprehend all the emotions he felt at one time; elation, shock, fear. He answered in a choked voice, smiling all the while.

“One hundred percent.”

The both upturned their arms in near harmony, Roman pulling his gardening glove down to reveal the name. He squinted at Logan’s wrist, finally noticing the small writing that just barely stood out underneath a grayscale (anatomically correct) heart. No wonder he missed it before, it almost blended in with the outline.

And then Logan did cry, but so did Roman, so it was a little more okay. He seemed more confused than anything as Roman pulled him back in, holding him even tighter than before.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I’m so unused to… well, feeling. I’m not usually like this, I believe I’m just sleep deprived and worn out from-”

“You never, ever need to be guilty for feeling, you absolute punk stereotype.” Roman pressed a long kiss to the other’s temple, letting him unwind in his arms. “We’ll work on that together. I promise.”

A muffled affirmative hum was all he got in response. He pressed another kiss to the top of Logan’s head as his crying slowed, breathing out heavily into the man’s hair. Together. That’s all that mattered.

Peep this gorgeous art piece for this fic

#lywrites #tsshipmonth2020 #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #ts soulmate au

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angelofthequeers · 4 years

Text

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Chapter 19 | Chapter 21 | AO3 link

“She’s coming!” Alix hisses to everyone. Immediately, Adrien and his classmates, dressed in their best casual party clothes, scramble to assemble under the Joyeux anniversaire Marinette! banner. Adrien brushes down his pale green button-up shirt and black pants, then adjusts the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and ruffles his hair, making sure he looks his absolute best and pointedly ignoring Nino’s smirk.

He’s just in time for Alya to lead a blindfolded Marinette over to them, and his heart does a backflip at the sight of Marinette in a pretty off-the-shoulder pink dress with a chunky black and white belt, her black hair in a loose side plait. He’s about ninety-nine percent sure that Plagg would be snickering like a little shit right about now if they weren’t around other people.

Okay, so visiting Marinette a few nights a week for the past two months may not have been the smartest idea. Sure, they’ve both have grown to anticipate the visits, but it hasn’t exactly done wonders for his crush on her. If anything, he’s only fallen for her even harder after seeing how competitive she can get over video games, and how she sticks her tongue out when she’s concentrating on her sewing, and how her smell of strawberries comes from the shampoo and conditioner she uses; a fact he’d learned after she had a quick shower during one of his visits. The vanilla must come from living around bakers, then, unless she’s got vanilla-scented soap or body wash – and nope, that’s an avenue he does not want his brain to go down, not when he’s a teenage boy catching up from years of being sheltered –

“Happy birthday, Marinette!” everyone around him choruses. Adrien blinks and yanks himself out of his head just in time to see Marinette’s wide-eyed look of delight as she takes in the party that they’ve set up for her, thankfully not seeming to notice that Adrien had been a little too preoccupied to remember to join the collective happy birthday.

“Thank you, thank you!” Marinette bounces on the spot. Before his brain even knows what he’s doing, Adrien’s feet move without his permission and he’s pulling Marinette into a hug, trying not to bury his face in her hair like a creep to get a stronger whiff of strawberries.

“Happy birthday,” he says when he lets her go. Marinette’s answering smile is brighter than the sun.

“Thank you!” she says.

“Presents!” Kim bounds over to the pile of presents like a little kid on Christmas. “Open presents first!”

“Or we could actually party for a few minutes,” Alix drawls.

“Presents! Presents!” Rose follows Kim’s example, while Juleka just shakes her head and smiles at her girlfriend.

“Then we can party!” Max says. “Opening presents first will heighten the excitement and lead to more enjoyment throughout the rest of the party!”

“Yay! Presents!” little Manon cries.

“How can we deny such a cutie?” Lila says and ruffles Manon’s hair, making her giggle.

“Okay, okay! Presents!” Alya announces. Everyone cheers and crowds around the pile of gifts, ready to wade through and find their presents for Marinette until Ivan acts as a buffer and hands out everyone’s presents to prevent them from being tossed around and squished. “Let’s see…Mylène, you first!”

Beaming, Mylène gives her gift to Marinette, and Marinette gasps and hugs Mylène tightly when she unwraps a book, although Adrien can’t quite make out the cover.

“Thanks, Mylène!” Marinette says.

“Adrien next!” Alya says, and Adrien jumps and smile when Marinette looks at him. Before he can give his present, however, something yellow pushes through the crowd.

“How about me next?” Chloé says as Sabrina stops just behind her. No one says anything. “Wow. Hi to you all too.”

“What are you doing here?” Nathaniel says. Chloé rolls her eyes.

“I’m nice, remember? Obviously, I’ve got a present for Dupain-Cheng, even if I wasn’t invited to this…uh, lovely little party.” She thrusts a small yellow gift at Marinette, who looks just as taken aback as everyone else but quickly recovers. Adrien can’t help the small stab of annoyance at being upstaged by Chloé, but he shoves it down with the reminder that Chloé is being nice like he’d wanted.

“Thank you, Chloé!” Marinette says. Chloé rolls her eyes again.

“Sure, sure. Just open it already. I’ve got places to be.”

Chloé’s present is a small gold bottle of perfume; Joy, to be precise. Adrien raises an eyebrow. Sure, Chloé’s a princess who doesn’t do ordinary, but he hadn’t expected her to spend that much money on her archrival. Then again, they’ve been far less hostile to each other lately, so maybe that’s changing.

“I’ve never worn perfume before,” Marinette notes, examining the bottle from all angles.

“Of course you haven’t,” Chloé says. “And there’s no way I’m allowing your introduction to perfume to be some cheap, common stuff. Ugh, get off me!” she cries when Marinette hugs her. Adrien can��t help but grin at the sight. Maybe Chloé really is changing for the better! But he can’t be her friend again until he’s absolutely certain that she’s genuine; not until he’s sure that he’s not the only reason she’s being nice.

“Here’s my present!” Sabrina holds out a thin purple box, which contains a pack of good quality sketching pencils. Her reaction to Marinette’s hug is much more enthusiastic, smiling until Chloé pulls her away.

“Okay, okay, fun’s over. Come on, Sabrina.” Chloé grimaces and says, “Happy…birthday…Dupain-Cheng.”

Before Marinette can reply, the sound of singing shatters the air, and everyone whirls around to see a green-skinned woman with vivid red hair and a witchy black catsuit descending on a broomstick-shaped flying motorcycle, accompanied by a faceless woman with dark hair and angel wings. Adrien’s stomach sinks; judging from her clothes, the angel woman can only be Sabine Cheng, and one look at Marinette’s horrified face confirms his guess.

“La Befana comes at night on her shaky broom in flight! She gives candy to those who are dandy!” The witch woman – Befana – jumps off her motorcycle at the end of her song and approaches Marinette, parting the students around her like water.

“Nonna?” Marinette gasps.

“You lied to your nonna, Marinetta,” Befana tuts. Adrien’s rooted to the spot, torn between jumping in to protect Marinette and running off to transform. However, when Befana shoots a ray of red light from her gun and only hits Mylène due to Marinette ducking out of the way, Adrien’s able to force himself into action. He’ll be able to protect Marinette and their classmates far better as Chat Noir than as himself, so he sprints off to hide behind a tree, looking over his shoulder to make sure that he won’t get zapped into a crumbly black statue like Mylène.

“We didn’t even get in on the buffet!” Plagg complains when he zooms out of the pocket of Adrien’s pants.

“Party’s over, my friend. Plagg, claws out!”

“It’s rude to leave while Befana’s still speaking to you!” Befana points her gun at Marinette, who’s trapped between her and the fairy Sabine, but Chat Noir lands on one of the speakers and knocks the akuma’s aim off with his baton.

“Hey, I never knew grandmas could be so nasty,” he quips when Befana looks at him. She tuts and aims at him.

“You would look wonderful in white, my pretty kitty.”

Chat Noir jumps out of the way, but only barely misses being turned into a fairy like Sabine. “Eh, not convinced. I’m much more into black – makes my eyes stand out, don’t you think?” He resists the urge to wink at Marinette, which turns out to be a life-saving move as it allows him to dodge Befana’s subsequent shots and leap up behind a nearby chimney without being distracted.

“Take care of this pesky pussycat!” Befana orders Sabine.

Great. As much as Chat Noir would love to protect Marinette, he can’t exactly do that when her corrupted mother is on his tail, tackling him down to the pavement.

“Chat Noir!” she calls. The distress in her voice makes Chat Noir’s stomach churn.

“Stay put, I’ll be right there!” he calls, dodging Sabine again. Her next attack catches him in his worry for Marinette, sending him flying into a tree. “Uh, soon!”

The worst bit about being a superhero, he decides, is when he’s unable to do his job and help people. In the background, he’s very much aware of Alya, Kim, and Lila being turned to coal and Rose into a fairy, but he can’t exactly do much to save his classmates while he’s fending off Sabine. Finally, he catches a break and kicks Sabine away into a tree, then leaps over to Marinette’s hiding place.

“Sorry I kept you waiting. We need to find you a better hiding place. Shall we?” He winks and holds out his hand, pulling Marinette to his side when she takes it, although he can’t for the life of him figure out why her face is so red when he slips an arm around her waist to secure her.

“You’re really calling Dupain-Cheng a spoilt brat?” Chloé’s scoff reaches Chat Noir’s ears. “Lavillant might be an airy-fairy princess, but she was actually right for once. Dupain-Cheng’s so disgustingly nice that she makes me want to hurl.”

Huh. Now that, Chat Noir hadn’t expected from Chloé. Chloé gets a faceful of fairy ray for her trouble and floats up next to Rose, but Chat Noir can’t help but feel that she would think it totally worth it. Anything to sass a supervillain, even in Marinette’s defence, and especially because Chloé didn’t even cause this one. Really, as selfish and cowardly as she can be, Chloé also seems to have no sense of self-preservation when it comes to the chance to diss an akuma. Probably because Ladybug always ends up saving her in the end.

Speaking of Ladybug, where is she? Never mind. First things first: get Marinette out of here and away from Befana, then focus on where Ladybug could be. With the help of his baton, Chat Noir rises back up to the rooftops with Marinette, then smoothly swings her into a bridal carry as he retracts his baton.

“Marinetta is getting away with the kitty! Catch them!” comes Befana’s cry. There’s no sound of flapping wings growing louder, so something must have happened to Befana’s fairies, but Chat Noir resists the urge to look over his shoulder in case he stumbles and dooms both himself and Marinette.

“You must be a real cool girl if your friends are protecting you like that,” he says as he dashes across the rooftops in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. If there’s any good hiding place around here, it’s there. “Not that I didn’t know that already. So, why’s your grandma flipping out, princess?”

“I think she wanted me to spend more time with her,” Marinette says, her mouth drooping. Thankfully, Chat Noir arrives within baton-leaping distance to the Eiffel Tower at that moment, so he can focus on swinging through a gap in the metal rather than on Marinette’s sad face.

“Don’t worry,” he says when he sets her down on the viewing deck. “I promise to get your real grandma back safe.” He bounds over to the railing and hops up on it, then stops and turns back to her. “Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Marinette. Sorry I didn’t get to swing by and give you anything.”

“You got me a tour with a view!” Marinette gestures out towards Paris with a grin. “What more could I ask for?”

Chat Noir grins back and salutes, then jumps off the railing and leaps through Paris to find Befana. Not that he needs to look for very long; it only takes a few minutes before he hears her singing, and another moment before he catches sight of her turning an annoyed driver into coal.

“La Befana comes at night on her shaky broom in flight!” the akuma sings. “She gives candy to those who are dandy, and only gives coal to brats with no soul!”

Rolling his eyes, Chat Noir extends his staff across Befana’s path so that she crashes into it and goes hurtling through the air, needing Rose and Sabine to catch her before she crashes into the ground.

“Chat Noir comes in to…unexpectedly…” Chat Noir blinks and pauses mid-song. “Uh, how do you make that rhyme?”

He’s answered by a red blur landing next to him and singing in a melodic voice, “Fighting evil with his lady!”

“Of course!” Chat Noir grins at Ladybug. “Not bad, bugaboo!”

A purple mask appears over Befana’s face and Chat Noir tenses, wondering what Hawkmoth’s saying to her.

“You didn’t say the magic word!” she scolds. Chat Noir blinks and exchanges a look with Ladybug. “Much better, Hawkmoth. Now!” Befana points at Chat Noir. “You little thief! Where have you hidden Marinetta?”

Chat Noir shrugs. “I forgetta.”

Ladybug snickers at his joke. “Watch out or you’ll be getting a time-out of your own!” she says to Befana, swinging her yo-yo. Befana just scoffs.

“Take care of these little villains,” she orders. While her fairies attack Ladybug and Chat Noir, she races in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, and Chat Noir’s heart rises into his throat.

“We can’t let her get to the Eiffel Tower! That’s where I hid her granddaughter!” he cries.

“Wait, no, she’s –!” Ladybug shakes her head and bounds after Chat Noir. He can’t help but wonder what she was going to say, but the worry for Marinette that curdles his stomach wins out and he just focuses on getting to the Eiffel Tower and Marinette before Befana does.

Chat Noir wishes he could say that he’s surprised when Ladybug’s Lucky Charm gives her a tuba after they've tied the fairies up in the Tower elevator, but he honestly can’t; not when they’ve had far weirder. With a nifty use of Cataclysm to disintegrate a fire hydrant and the tuba to send the water gushing in Befana’s direction, they manage to trick Befana into turning herself to coal when she tries to shoot the water as it touches her gun.

Miraculous Ladybug sets everything to rights, though, and Ladybug is soon swinging off with a, “Tell Marinette happy birthday from me!” called back at Chat Noir. He waves at her, then turns to Marinette’s grandmother, who’s still looking rather dazed after shedding her Befana skin.

“Are you okay, Mrs Dupain?” he says.

“Oh, please, it’s just Gina,” Mrs Dupain – Gina – says. “Where’s my Marinetta? What happened?”

“I’ll go find Marinette now and she’ll be able to tell you everything that happened,” Chat Noir says. His ring beeps. “Are you okay to get back to the park by yourself? I’m going to transform back soon.”

Gina turns and spots her motorcycle, and she nods and strides over to it. “Thank you for protecting Marinetta, pretty kitty,” she says, pulling her helmet on.

“Of course.” Chat Noir preens at the “pretty kitty” comment. “You’ve got a real special granddaughter.”

Gina beams. “I know.”

Once Gina’s speeding off, Chat Noir leaps up the Eiffel Tower until he’s on the viewing deck. “Marinette? Where’d you go?”

“I’m here!” says a voice from behind him. Chat Noir turns and can’t help but grin at the sight of Marinette unharmed, smiling at him. “Ladybug helped me hide somewhere safer. Thanks for saving Nonna.”

Chat Noir bows and kisses Marinette’s hand. “My pleasure, princess. Now, let’s get you back to the park. You wouldn’t want to miss out on your own birthday, would you?”

Marinette giggles and lets him pick her up. He’s admittedly a little selfish as they head back to the park, taking a scenic route, but she doesn’t seem to mind. It does mean that he has to leave the moment he deposits Marinette back at her party, though, and he doesn’t get to tell her that Ladybug said happy birthday; but hey, Ladybug probably already told her when relocating her. Once he’s detransformed, he rushes out to join the others and makes up a story about getting hit by Befana in his hiding place.

“Of course you’d be hiding,” Chloé scoffs. “It’s not like you were in the action like moi. Ladybug would be so proud that I stood up to that tacky akuma.”

“She sure would!” Marinette says. “Chloé…do you and Sabrina want to stay for the party? None of us would mind.”

Her classmates immediately school their faces into totally neutral expressions.

“Oh, no, of course we don’t mind,” Alya says with what looks like a painful smile.

“Yeah, you’re totally welcome,” Alix says through gritted teeth. Chloé smirks around at them, no doubt able to tell that it’s causing them great pain to pretend that they don’t mind her being there.

“Well, I suppose I can cancel my hair appointment this time,” Chloé says. “I’ll stay, Dupain-Cheng. It’ll be…nice.” Her face twists.

“Yay!” Sabrina claps her hands.

“Oh! We never finished opening presents!” Lila says. “I think –”

“Adrien, give her yours!” Rose cries before Lila can finish her sentence.

“Yeah!” Manon squeals. How she avoided Befana, Adrien has no idea; the kid probably has superpowers of her own, for all he knows. Everyone crowds around Adrien, and Rose hands Adrien the small blue box that had been dropped in the Befana crossfire, which he holds out to Marinette. Her eyes widen when she unwraps it and finds a small yellow and green charm bracelet inside.

“I always carry the lucky charm you gave me with me wherever I go, and I think it works pretty well.” Adrien’s stomach does a flip-flop at the smile that spreads across Marinette’s face. “I figured it was my turn to make one for you.”

“It’s gorgeous!” Marinette tucks it into her purse, taking extra care to make sure it’s secure. Then she pulls Adrien into a hug, and he gulps and tries not to spontaneously combust on the spot. “Thank you, Adrien!”

“No Marinette – I mean – no problem,” he stammers. Over Marinette’s head, he catches sight of both Alya and Nino smirking, and he rolls his eyes at them. For the tiniest fraction of a second, Lila looks downright murderous, but then she’s grinning and winking at him and, well, what else can he do but brush it off as a trick of the light? Why Lila would even look so angry in the first place, he’s got no idea.

“Hey, stop hogging her!” Alix complains. “We’ve still got presents to give to her too, Agreste!”

With a laugh, Marinette releases Adrien and turns to Alix. All Adrien can think is that he’s so screwed.

Later that night, once the party’s over and everyone’s cleaned up the park and headed home, Adrien transforms into Chat Noir again and bounds across Paris to a familiar balcony. Marinette’s sitting on one of the seats on her balcony, a light on overheard to illuminate her sketchbook as she makes good use of her new pencils from Sabrina. She’s still wearing her party dress, but she’s put on a white fluffy cardigan due to the slight chill, and she’s so radiant in the soft yellow glow that Chat Noir can’t help but smile at the sight. She looks up when he lands on the balcony railing, then gives him a smile in return.

“Hey, Chat,” she says. “Thanks for saving me today.”

“But of course, princess.” Chat Noir gives an exaggerated bow. “I’m your knight in shining leather, after all.”

Marinette snorts, then gestures to the second chair, which Chat Noir spins around so that he can straddle it in reverse and lean his chin on the back. “I didn’t know that you made a habit of checking up on people after akuma attacks.”

“I’ve been visiting you for the past few months, Marinette,” Chat Noir says. “And you said I could drop by anytime. I’d say you’re a lot more than just “people”.”

Marinette’s cheeks flush dark, and she bites her lip and ducks her head. Chat Noir’s insides flutter at the sight.

“I got you a birthday present,” he blurts out. He reaches into one of his suit pockets and pulls out a small black box, then presents it to Marinette.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Marinette protests, but she still accepts the box and snaps it open. She lets out a small gasp when she sees the contents, and it takes every ounce of Chat Noir’s willpower to not preen when she lifts out the silver bracelet as delicately as if she was holding a newborn child.

“It’s not much,” he says quickly. “And it’s not handmade or anything like the scarf you made for m – for Adrien. But I saw it and I…thought you’d like it, especially because you can add more charms to it later…but if it’s not your style, I can –”

“How about you shush and put it on for me?” Marinette says, holding out the bracelet. A little silver cat’s paw dangles from the chain, inlaid with tiny green gems; really, how could Chat Noir not have gotten it for her? She rolls up the sleeve of her white cardigan, allowing him to lean forward and drape the chain around her wrist, and it takes a few tries of fumbling with the clasp, but he finally gets it secured. Marinette holds up her wrist to examine the bracelet from all angles, the smile back on her face.

“I’m guessing you like it?” Chat Noir shifts in his seat. He’s really not good at this whole birthday present thing, after a lifetime of being sheltered and only ever attending parties thrown by Chloé and maybe a few other rich kids. Shopping relatively inexpensively had been the biggest struggle of his life, only because giving Marinette something worth a fortune would’ve no doubt handed her a big clue as to his identity. Blond hair, green eyes, super rich? Yeah, who else could that be?

“No, I hate it,” Marinette says sarcastically. “I generally make a habit of wearing things I hate.”

“Fine,” Chat Noir sniffs. “I guess I’ll just have to take it back. Good thing I kept the receipt.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Chat. It’s beautiful.”

“Just like you.” Chat Noir’s blood turns to ice. Did he really just say that? Out loud? To Marinette? The gobsmacked look on Marinette’s face confirms that yes, he really did say that out loud. “Damn it. I – uh – didn’t mean to say that?”

The corner of Marinette’s mouth turns upward. “Don’t worry, kitty, I’m an expert in no brain to mouth filter. The things I used to say to Adrien make me want to curl up and die when I think about them now. Um…thank you, by the way.”

Chat Noir groans and hangs his head. Fine. He’s messed this up, so he might as well go the whole mile and lay his cards on the table for Marinette. She deserves to know the truth, in case she’s not exactly okay with a dorky guy in leather having a massive crush on her.

“What’s wrong?” Marinette says. “Was it something I said?”

“More like something I said.” Chat Noir looks back up at Marinette, then rests his chin on the palm of his hand and attempts to look as casual as possible. “So. I…might…like you? A lot? Just so you know. So…I meant what I said just then. I just…didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

Marinette’s cheeks once again darken in the soft yellow light. “Chat Noir –”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Chat Noir says quickly. “Seriously. I just…thought I should tell you before I make a bigger idiot of myself than I just did, so you don’t sit there thinking “gee, he’s acting so weird, does he secretly hate me or something?” And no, I definitely didn’t get that from cheesy rom-coms, so you can just shut it –”

“Oh my god, you’re such a dork,” Marinette says. “Look, Chat…I think I like you? I’m not entirely sure yet. After the whole Adrien thing, my feelings have been a bit…gosh, all over the place. I still love him, even if I’m not stumbling over myself anymore, but I also love you and I can’t figure out what that even is yet, so then I worry that it’s a rebound thing or whatever, and oh my god, my life is such a mess –”

“Join the club,” Chat Noir laughs, cutting off her rambling. It’s as though a freight train has been lifted off his shoulders, telling Marinette how he feels and knowing that she has strong feelings in return, even if she doesn’t necessarily return his romantic ones. “You don’t have to stress, princess. Seriously, take all the time you need. It’s just a relief to know that you’re not going to utterly reject me.”

“Now why would I do that?” Marinette reaches out and ruffles his hair. “That would be animal cruelty. I couldn’t possibly abuse a stray cat like you.”

“Ha, ha. You know…” Chat Noir pauses, searching for the right words. “In a way, I’m kind of grateful that Ladybug rejected me. Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to be with her – she’s an amazing girl, I’ve always thought that since she literally fell for me –”

Marinette lets out a rather unladylike snort.

“– but, well…being rejected and getting lectured by my kwami about not taking her friendship for granted was just what I needed.”

“I’m actually kind of grateful that I’ve stopped trying so hard to be with Adrien too,” Marinette says. “Especially after he learned about my crush. We’re such good friends now, and I know I wouldn’t have done any of this stuff with him before because I would’ve been too busy choking on my own words to say one thing to him. And even if we do end up together in the future, we’ve got that solid foundation…you know?”

“Yeah, I think I get what you’re saying,” Chat Noir says. He looks up at the half moon in the night sky, then sighs and swings himself out of his seat. “I should get going. I’ll get the third degree if they find that I’m not in bed.” He makes a face. “Early morning commitments and all that.”

“Gross.” Marinette wrinkles her nose. “Sounds like Adrien. He’s got another photoshoot on tomorrow morning. I wish I could go and make it less of a drag for him, but my parents actually think that school comes first.”

“Lucky girl,” Chat Noir deadpans, forcing his laughter under lock and key so that he doesn’t have to fumble for an excuse as to why Adrien having early morning commitments too is so funny. He reaches out to take Marinette’s hand and kisses the back of it. “Happy birthday, Marinette. And seriously, no pressure about the feelings thing. I’m happy to wait, even if you decide that you don’t feel the same way.”

Marinette tilts her head and smiles. “Go to bed, kitty. I should sleep too. Although I’ll probably still end up late for school.” She stands up and approaches him. Before Chat Noir can even process what’s going on, she cups his right cheek and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his left cheek. “Thanks again for today.”

She opens her hatch and drops down onto her bed, then closes it after one last wave and smile. Chat Noir’s left standing on the balcony, blinking again and again as his brain buffers and then reboots itself.

“Holy –” He touches his cheek, then heads for the balcony railing and leaps home in a daze. Even when he’s in bed and drifting off, his fingers remain glued to his cheek, where he can still feel the ghost of Marinette’s lips brushing his skin.

He is so, so screwed. And judging by Plagg’s regular bouts of snickers, the little shit knows it too.

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #alya cesaire #miracuclass #befana #adrinette #adrienette #marichat #adrien you lovesick dork

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vateacancameos · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Words:1629 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, vague depictions of domestic abuse, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Tattoos, Healing Series: Part 2 of Tattoo My Name On Your Heart Summary:

Prequel to Secrets Are Mine to Keep.

Martha Hudson needs to heal after leaving an abusive situation. She stumbles upon a Sherlock at the beginning of his tattooing career. He helps cover more than scars.

This can be read as a stand-alone, but works best when read in conjunction with the previous story in this series. If reading this before Secrets Are Mine to Keep, just know that Sherlock is a tattoo artist instead of a detective.

(CW for mentions of domestic abuse)

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

Martha Hudson married young, but that didn’t make her stupid. She knew the likelihood of Frank being The One was highly unlikely, but she was in love and he had a great car and a gorgeous body.

There might have been a chance at some long-term happiness if they’d stayed in England, but Florida did her husband no favors. It started with a bad crowd and moved to late-night drug deals and a few people being permanently hushed. But Martha liked an exciting life, so she went along with it, if a little uneasily.

Even then, she might have loved Frank until the end, except that he decided that running a drug empire meant he should start testing the product himself, and like Florida, drugs did her husband no favors. The first time he hit her, she passed it off as a one-time thing. He’d been stressed already, and then she’d nagged him about some chore he’d forgot to do. It wouldn’t happen again, though. They loved each other.

Except that it did. Not often, and nothing so bad that a little makeup or a long-sleeved shirt wouldn’t hide it, but a couple of times a year, it did happen. And yet she stayed. Because Frank needed her. Because where could she go? Because their friends would side with Frank. Because she had no formal education and no skills beyond book keeping for a drug lord.

In the end, fate got Martha out of the bad situation she had found herself in. Frank learned about the warrant for his arrest two hours before the cops arrived. It was enough time to accuse Martha of tipping them off. Two hours later, he left in a cop car with blood on his hands. Martha left in an ambulance with blood on her back.

***

read the rest of the story after the cut or on ao3.

When Martha met Sherlock Holmes five years later, she saw in his eyes the moment he understood what had happened to her. She walked into the shop on a whim because she wanted to cover the scars. Sherlock was finishing his apprenticeship and was given the walk-ins. He’d been stiff in his greeting, and Martha almost walked back out again. But then he’d looked, and he’d seen her, so she stayed.

After his knowing look, he asked only one question, very softly. “What did you wish for?”

A thousand regrets clamored in her head. There were so many moments she could have ended it. But what came out of her mouth was “I wish I’d flown away.” It was a silly, childish wish and not at all what she’d been thinking, but Sherlock only nodded.

“I need to see them.” They were in a private room, but Sherlock was a young man and Martha was from an era where you didn’t just strip off your shirt in mixed company (unless in specific situations involving exotic dancing). But she was doing this to learn to be brave and to forget her past, so she took a breath, turned to face away from him, and lifted her shirt.

Sherlock’s hands were gentle and warm. He was a perfect gentlemen as he measured her and asked a few questions about placement.

“I need time to work on some ideas,” he finally said, and her heart dropped. She didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to do this if it was drawn out. But then he continued. “Come back tomorrow at noon.”

She settled her shirt back in place and turned to face this solemn young artist she’d been assigned. Looking at him, she could tell his past was no rosier than hers. Despite their differences, she felt a kindred spirit, and her courage came back.

“Alright.”

***

The sound of smashing ceramic and an angry shout almost had her bolting back out of the door, but she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the shop. The young man behind the counter rolled his eyes. “Ignore the freak,” he said, pointing to the room where Martha had met Sherlock the day before. “He’s a toddler sometimes.”

“Oh. I have an appointment with him …” She fiddled with the strap of her purse and frowned at the man’s words. ‘Freak’ was a little harsh. These creative types were always overemotional. You’d think people working in a tattoo shop would be used to that sort.

The man sighed again just as Sherlock stomped into the front area. His fierce walk stuttered to a stop when he saw Martha. “Ah, yes. Just a minor setback. Let’s … um, go out.” He exited as quickly as he’d entered, but he was back a moment later wearing a dramatic coat and carrying a sketchpad. He nodded for the front door, holding it open for her (such a gentlemen) as they exited.

“I’m afraid I’m having … difficulties visualizing your art,” he explained after they’d found a nearby café and sat with their drink. He frowned down at the cover of his sketchpad. “Normally …” He shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his wild curls.

“Everyone gets … what’s writer’s block but with art? Artist’s block?” She patted his hand. “It’s alright.” Funny that she was the one comforting him. She did that a lot.

Sherlock scowled. “Not to me. I see a person, and then I visualize their tattoo. It’s what I do. My process has never failed me before.”

“Can I help?”

“What? No. How could you help?”

Martha shrugged. “What else do you need to know? Should I tell you my favorite colors or my childhood dreams?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Purple and dancing. That’s no use.”

She sat back, startled. “Oh. Well. That is impressive.”

He raised his eyes from where they’d been focused on his cup. “You’re not scared I’m some sort of stalker?”

She laughed. “Oh pish. No. You’re observant is all. You said so yourself. So. Tell me what you need to know so you can design my tattoo.”

He sighed dramatically. Oh, yes, this boy would be a handful.

She smiled. “Fine. I’ll just start talking until you tell me to shut up.”

And she did. She told him about her childhood best friend, the stray cat she took in right after she got married, how the weather in Florida always felt wrong. She talked about her wedding day, her older sister, the uncle sent to prison for making moonshine during American Prohibition. She talked and talked, and Sherlock never stopped her. She wasn’t sure he was always listening, but she could see that his brain was working, so she figured she was doing something right.

“And then, they ended up arresting Frank on tax fraud, of all things! He shot a man’s head off and there wasn’t a word, but the moment the government wasn’t getting its due, they raised a fuss. Oh, America. Such a strange country.” Odd how she could talk about that without feeling a thing. And it really was funny, when you thought about how it all went down, minus the hospital visit.

Sherlock’s head shot up. “They have the death penalty in Florida, correct?”

“Oh yes, but not for tax fraud.”

“But for shooting a man’s head off, they would.”

She nodded half-heartedly. “They can’t charge him for that, though. He’s very good at what he does, my Frank.”

“So am I,” Sherlock replied slowly.

“Well that remains to be seen. Seeing as you’ve reneged on our deal to have a sketch ready by today.”

“No, the other thing. I help the police with cases sometimes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really.” It was sort of sweet how he tried to talk himself up. The poor boy must not have received enough love growing up. Her heart broke for him. He needed someone in his corner.

“Fine, I’ve helped a policeman. Once. And I was sort of high at the time.” He waved a hand. “But that doesn’t matter. I am capable of doing what the detectives do. And far better.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m going to put your husband on death row.”

She stilled. Despite the glib tone, she knew he was serious. At least serious about trying. And yes, they were talking about death, which should never be mentioned lightly. But really, if Frank was put on death row, it was only his own fault for not following American laws. He should be bound by those punishments, shouldn’t he? But it was Frank, and no matter what he’d done, she did love him still, in a way. But …

“I can’t afford to pay for both a tattoo and a detective …” she began slowly.

He leveled a disbelieving look at her. “You took care of his books for years. As if you didn’t squirrel away some money of your own or find a way take the bulk of his fortune after he, well, after.”

“Well, I never.” But she was smiling. He really was very good at his job. Well, one of his jobs, it seemed. She could do worse than to believe in him.

***

In the end, it took less time to find the necessary information to put Frank away for good than it did for Sherlock to design Martha’s tattoo. Still, she couldn’t complain. Her freedom was worth more than some pesky scars she only rarely saw. More than that, Sherlock made her feel comfortable with herself again. The poor boy needed someone looking after and believing in him. And she needed to keep busy.

By the time he’d come up with the final draft of the tattoo, they’d become business partners, opened a little tattoo shop, and Sherlock had moved in upstairs. And truly, the tattoo was worth the wait. She might not be able to fly, but the wings on her back made her feel like she could do anything.

#sherlock #mrs. hudson #fanfic #ao3 #meagan writes #domestic abuse #tattoos #friendship

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