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woodstockbtswriter · 4 years

Text

Deeper

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Author’s Note: This is one of several stories inspired by these kissing story prompts. This is also heavily inspired by the song Serendipity, and is a tiny bit of a departure from my usual writing style, so I hope you like it! 💕

Prompt: Kissing Jimin in the water because you confess your feelings.

Requested by @bucky-thorin-winchester

Deeper

Standing on the seashore with your toes sinking into the wet sand, you felt like you were balanced on the edge of a precipice. If you took a step forward, everything would change. One step forward, and you would fall. And if you fell, you would eventually land. There was a significant chance the landing would be hard, that it would break you into a million pieces. But there was also a chance that someone would catch you. He was just waiting for you to take that step.

“Are you coming? Or are you going to stand on the beach all day?” Jimin called back to you, already waist-deep in the lapping water. Sunlight reflected off the water droplets on his shirtless, toned back, giving the impression that he was shimmering.

Sighing, you grasped the hem of your coverup and pulled it up over your head. Tossing your garment aside, you lingered at the water’s edge in your swimsuit, still trying to decide what to do.

Jimin was up to his chest now, and was turned around to face you. His eyes were narrowed against the bright sun, but you could tell he was observing you carefully. His penetrating gaze made you feel naked and exposed - body and soul.

With a deep breath, you made up your mind, and took one step forward.

The clear seawater swelled around your ankles, pleasantly cool and refreshing, and you looked up to find Jimin smiling encouragingly at you. So you took another step. And another, wading further and further into the aquamarine depths, hoping with each step that you were in for a soft landing - and that you hadn’t just made a devastating mistake.

As you drew near to Jimin, he paddled toward you, meeting you halfway.

“Everything all right?” He asked, still wearing a smile, but there was a hint of amusement behind it now.

You nodded insincerely, your toes barely brushing the sandy bottom as you slowly kicked your feet, treading water.

Jimin immediately picked up on your mood. He slipped closer, his grin fading as his eyes slowly filled with concern.

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Not of the ocean.” You mumbled.

Jimin lifted a hand out of the water, reaching for your face. He touched your cheek lightly, wiping a few drops of saltwater away before lowering his hand again.

“Don’t be scared.” He tried to comfort you. “I’m right here, and I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

You didn’t say anything, and the silence grew heavy as you both bobbed in the gently rolling waves. Jimin was so close, your legs nearly tangled together beneath the water as you tried to stay afloat. He was looking so deeply into your eyes, you felt like he could see right through you.

Jimin’s presence was overwhelming, the radiant beauty of his bare face even more apparent from this proximity. You tried to calm yourself, but each breath you took was shallower than the last - and Jimin’s heavy breathing only added to your difficulty.

After a long moment, Jimin’s eyes finally broke contact with yours, and his gaze traveled down to your mouth. Slowly, the space between you began disappearing, until Jimin’s face was only a hair away from yours. You suddenly realized what he was about to do, but before his gloriously full lips could brush yours, you stopped him.

“Don’t.” You exhaled.

Jimin paused, then pulled back the slightest bit.

“Don’t what?” He asked, his breath warm on your face.

“Don’t get my hopes up.” You replied, sinking down in the water, letting the surface reach your chin.

Jimin smiled faintly, but his furrowed brow betrayed his confusion. He tilted his head, waiting for an explanation.

“Don’t kiss me if you don’t mean it.” You clarified.

Jimin scoffed in surprise, his eyes widening.

“You think I would kiss you if I didn’t mean it?”

You shook your head.

“No, that’s not… I’m not talking about how you feel in this moment. Maybe you do really want to kiss me right now but... if it’s only a kiss to you, and nothing more… I’d rather you didn’t kiss me at all.”

The corners of Jimin’s mouth turned down.

“Is that what you think? You think I would kiss you so carelessly?”

“No, not intentionally… I know you never mean to hurt anyone, but…”

“But what?” Jimin asked, his expression so open and innocent it tugged on your heartstrings.

“I have feelings for you, Jimin.” You found yourself confessing before you could think better of it. “Real feelings. I have for a long time. So unless you really mean it, please… don’t kiss me. Because I don’t think my heart could take it.”

Jimin blinked slowly. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.

“You have feelings for me?”

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

Jimin touched your cheek again, turning your face to look at him.

“And what makes you so sure I don’t have real feelings for you?” He breathed, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Your heart throbbed at his words - and at his touch.

“Because that would be too good to be true.” You admitted, not understanding why your response made Jimin’s smile grow.

“Haven’t you noticed how I light up every time you… every time you look at me? Every time you touch me?” He lifted his eyebrows.

You shrugged, looking away again.

“You act that way around everyone. It’s just how you are.”

Jimin giggled lightly.

“Is it really so hard to believe that I’m in love with you?”

Your breath caught.

“Love?” You checked, when you remembered how to inhale.

Jimin’s eyes sparkled, and he nodded.

“Yes. I’m in love with you. So in love.” He confirmed, color blossoming on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner… Much sooner. But I was afraid you didn’t see me that way.”

Your kicking feet slowed to a stop, and you unconsciously held onto Jimin’s shoulders to keep yourself steady in the water. His hands held your arms securely.

“I’ve always seen you that way.” You told Jimin, sure your incredulity was plain on your face and in your tone. “I thought you didn’t see me that way.”

Jimin smirked, leaning in as he spoke.

“I guess we were both wrong.”

With his eyes falling shut, he let his hands glide across your skin. Wrapping his arms around you, he held you against his body as he lowered his head.

But just as before, you didn’t let his mouth reach yours.

“Wait. Are you sure?” You laid a hand flat on his chest, holding him back. “I mean, if you kiss me… Everything will change between us. There’s no going back.”

Jimin let go of a held breath, his eyes opening.

“I know.” He agreed. “I’m nervous, too.”

Feeling his heart beat forcefully against your palm, you knew he was telling the truth. Your heart was pounding just as much.

“As sure as I am about my feelings, there’s no knowing what the future holds.” Jimin continued, his hands massaging your back beneath the water. “It’s possible we’re better off as friends, and we might ruin our friendship if we take this step.”

You nodded solemnly, the idea of losing Jimin’s friendship causing a knot to form in your stomach.

Jimin carefully removed one hand from your back, churning the water as he moved. He wrapped his fingers around your hand, gently pulling it from his chest.

“But it’s also possible we’re meant to be more than friends. That the universe brought us together. And that thought excites me as much as it scares me.” He said, lifting your arm to place a kiss on the inside of your wrist.

The sensation of Jimin’s lips on your skin made you shudder. You drew in a shaky breath.

“So what are we supposed to do? If we’re both scared, and knowing those are the possibilities?”

Jimin looked into your eyes, sliding your hand behind his neck.

“Just let me love you.” He murmured, drawing near once again, his nose bumping your nose and his breath mixing with yours.

But this time, when he tried to kiss you, you didn’t stop him.

This time, you welcomed Jimin, guiding his face until your mouths carefully connected.

And just like that, your whole world changed.

Though your walk into the water had been a metaphorical step over the edge, this kiss was a running leap. But as you’d secretly hoped, Jimin was right there to catch you. And he was holding on tight.

His arms fully encircling you again, Jimin pressed your lips together tenderly, kissing you slowly and sweetly. Wanting to be even closer, you wrapped your legs firmly around his waist, clutching his neck, and you both sank down until Jimin’s feet touched the ocean floor. The water’s surface covered his shoulders, but neither of you were concerned. You were too lost in each other, your mouths moving together like they were always meant to meet. And when Jimin tangled his fingers into your hair and delicately licked your lips, you opened yourself up to him, inviting the increased passion.

The deeper the kiss became, the deeper you fell, and the farther all your worries and fears fled. Being with Jimin in this way felt natural, effortless, and right - and so amazingly good. His lips were softer and smoother and gentler than you’d ever imagined, and you could feel how he was pouring his heart into showing you how much he meant everything he had expressed. He loved you. He really did. And you loved him, too. With everything you had.

It was true you couldn’t know what the future would bring, but in the same way Jimin pulled you tighter as he kissed you, refusing to let you drift away in the water’s current, you knew he would never let you hit rock bottom. Knowing he loved you, you believed that he would always be there. You trusted that he would ensure a soft landing for you.

All you had to do was brave the fall - and just let him love you.

#bts fanfiction #park jimin #bts jimin #jimin x reader #request #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts drabble #bts fics #bts one shot #bts fic #kiss prompt

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enigma-im · 4 years

Text

Mr. Sandman

Rating: General Relationship: Dream Deity X Female!Human Warning: Relationship Confrontation, one-sided relationships, Dream symbolism, non-subtle symbolism

Word count: 2789

A dream deity is having doubts in his relationship and confronts his girlfriend in her sleep to get some honest answers

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I lay in bed with my arm curled around my girl, stroking her shoulder as she sleeps. She is spooned to my side, facing towards the bathroom. She never rests her head on chest, something I hardly noticed when we first started dating. I stare up at the ceiling in thought, something I've found myself doing a lot lately. Always after spending the night with her, I manage to wake before she does and just gets lost.

Lately, or perhaps since the beginning, she hasn't been all there with me. We rarely go out for dates that aren't typical of newly dating couples. Every date feels like a first date more than anything. Always movies or cheap dinner, nothing special. In the beginning, I cast it off with my own insecurities of being a deity. Perhaps she didn't want to draw attention to me which is hard to do with my looks. I tend to stand out in a crowd and my career as a dream therapist makes me a sought out man. Still, even months later she feels like she is at a distance. Does she actually want to be here? Even now looking at her back, seeing her refusing to cuddle makes my doubts arise.

I talk myself in circles for another hour till she rouses from sleep. I watch her in silence knowing she doesn't care for conversation after freshly waking. Though my mind raced with thought it's when I look at her naked legs and ass that I will admit I lose my train of thought for a little. Once she is in the bathroom I get out of bed and head to the kitchen with a pair of pants I wore last night. I start a pot of coffee for her as I fish out some breakfast. I make her favorite microwave breakfast biscuit then finish getting dressed.

The morning is routine, I make breakfast and wait on her before I leave for work. I sit at the dining room table on my phone, listening for her quiet footsteps.

"Morning," I call as she sits across the table. Even when we share a meal she sits as far away as she can.

"Morning," she grumbles over her coffee. I listen for her content sigh and smile to myself when she does.

"I need to head out early, Mrs. Peterson is coming in before eight," I say as I shoulder on my jacket," Love you, have a good day. I'll text you during lunch." as I walk by I kiss her head.

"You too," she answers back. I try to pay it no mind as I head to the door. I reach for my keys on the side table, stopping when I see my things. Stacked neatly on the table is my toothbrush I forgot sometime this week and folded pajamas. The sight grates on me more than it uses to. My line of thinking lately is seemingly fueled by her normal actions. I grit my teeth as I decide to leave them and head out.

The whole day is spent in spiteful thinking. I begin to notice every little thing she does or doesn't do. Now that I think of it I can't remember the last time she even said that she loved me. Of course, it's not a problem, if she doesn't want to say it then she doesn't have to but… she has never been affectionate, which is fine, I guess. She hasn't been the one to plan dates or initiate anything besides sex. Damn, that line of thought is alarming. Is she just using me?

I torture myself for the rest of the week, feeling more and more distant from her now more than ever. I try to bring it up but she shuts it down immediately or spinning the conversation to something else. Its classic reflection tactic, if this was anyone else I would use some dream dissection to find the root of the problem. Yet doing this with her seems wrong, like a breaking of trust to enter her head like that. Still, that might be the only way to get some answers. I can't live like this, not knowing if she really cares or just stringing me about.

With the decision made I hold her close that night, preparing to dig up some problems.

Entering dreams is easy and the participant is always open to the experience, another talent of mine I fear. The scene plays before me, an empty beach on a sunny day. I find myself playing along, standing beside her.

I walk with her on a beach, noting the happy place she has created. The golden sand warm from the sun above. The white noise from waves crashing on the shore. I watch her from the corner of my eye, almost feeling bad about what I'm about to do. It needs to be done, for both of us.

"So what do you think about our relationship," I tilt my head towards her. Within an instant the beautiful blue sky changes to a light red. The sun setting over the ocean. I take note. Looking her over I see her posture is stiff, rigid.

"good," she answers simply. She won't look at me, which solidifies my thoughts of her being scared. I have to keep reminding myself this has to be done. Tough love is needed

"Just good? I thought its been going fairly well, but I am curious about something," I lay the bait. The sky gets a little darker, becoming a mix of purples and reds. Her gaze hasn’t left her own feet and the waves are becoming louder.

"What are you curious about," she chews on her cheek. It pulls at my heart but it hurts more to know she is nervous because of what I'm asking.

I look her over, preparing for the worst," why don’t you ever leave anything at my place? Also, why do you pack my things by the door?" she stops walking. The air feels tense, clouds forming off the horizon. The waves are white-capped and angry. She takes a moment to think.

"Why do I not leave things at your place?" I nod," I just haven't brought anything that I would forget." such a cop-out answer. I sigh before turning towards her. I hear the thunderclap from behind me, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

"What's stopping you," I finally ask. I'm not here to play games. She snaps her head to me, open and worried.

"What stopping me?"

"Yes, you aren't fully here with me and I want to know what's keeping you," I explain. She looks away again, the air is electric as the storm approaches.

"Nothing, this is just how I am," she tries to lie. I can practically taste it in the air. The bitter feeling in my mouth from her attempts to dissipating the conversation.

"What's stopping you," I ask firmer. I'm done being subtle and nice. This is my life too, my time she is wasting. If she doesn’t want me then she has to decide that now.

She looks up at me, meeting my eyes. I can see her determination, the attempt of looking strong. It hurts that she feels she needs to do that. I can hear the thunder, see the flashes of lighting. Her breathing is getting harder, the sound mixing with the crashing waves.

She drops her shoulders, sighing as she looks away. The sky turns dark as the night sky. The clouds cover the full moon above. The waves relax but I smell the rain.

She takes another breath," I'm scared." something wet splashes on my cheek. Then another on my head. Soon it's pouring. I don’t let it deter me, taking a step closer to her. As I do a soft sound of thunder plays above us.

"scared of what," I ask softly. I know this has to be a challenge for her. I never wanted to be the reason she was sad, or scared. I just want her happy. In some twisted way, I know this confrontation will.

"scared of being lied to and left behind," she answers. The waves lap at my ankles, shocking me with it's cold.

"Why would I do that," I reach out and tilt her chin up. I want her to look at me when she accuses me of other's past transgression against her. She looks between my eyes, trying to map out my feelings. I can feel hers, the biting rain flattening my hair and clothes. The ocean lapping at my ankles. The bright flashes of light streaking across the sky.

"Why wouldn’t you? I don’t want to commit when there is a chance that you don’t actually care. That you will use me," she shivers. The wind picks up as she spoke, turning the rain sideways. I couldn’t pay it any mind, her words hurt. To think that she even partially believes that I couldn’t care about her. I would traverse the tallest mountains and deepest oceans just to see her smile. It's like someone is clenching my heart in a death grip when she says that I would use her. If she truly believes that then why be with me?

"Then why are you here," I drop my hand. I do what she does, folding into myself. If she really thinks that I would use her then why even bother?

She wipes the rain from her eyes, or maybe they were tears. She glances behind me to the rocky sea. I give her a moment to think of an answer, praying that its an honest one.

She sighs, "Because I can't let go, I want you and it scares me to want you." my heart gets squeezed again. I want to crumble at her feet and confess my devotion to her. I wish to shower her in praises and gifts until she understands how much I cherish her. I know it will do no good, it would just make her feel worse. This is her problem, her decision.

I take a step back, a bolt of lightning hits the sea behind me," make a choice." with that I leave. I sit on the sidelines and watch her happy place become a battlefield. I look over the dark storm clouds that pelt her with heavy rain. Looking over the angry sea, waves pushing higher and higher on the shoreline. Stopping just before it touches her feet. I have to clench my eyes when I see her fall to her knees. Her hands run through her hair as she weeps. I feel awful but this had to be done. I have to have my answer even if it means this. I cant be strung along just because she can't make up her mind.

She sits in the sand, the waves rising higher and higher till she is engulfed. Drowning herself in her own feelings. She sits there, allowing herself to wallow in her own fears. I feel a warm tear trail over my cheek. I don’t care, I just sit on the precipice of fear and emptiness. I love her, and it's killing me.

I watch her for what felt like hours. Hating every second because I know she is deciding if she could trust me. Fighting with herself over and over. It hurts to think someone you love might not love you. It's an impossible ache, a terrible pain. I'd rather be drowned over and over than deal with this. Be stabbed repeatedly than watch my love debate if I'm worth it.

A while later the waves recede and the clouds part. The moon illuminates the beach in a beautiful glow. The waves slowing to a crawl and reflecting the light. It’s a serene sight, very different than a moment ago. I watch as she sits up from the sand, flipping her wet hair back out of her face. My stomach flutters at the sight never used to how beautiful she is. She stands, dusting the sand from her body. Once she runs out of things to do she just looks over the ocean. The moon moving to sit on the horizon just for her.

"Teo," she calls out. I startle, my heart racing as I show up. I stand before her, finally seeing her puffy face. I try not to react, my eye twitching for a second. I don’t want to persuade her either way, this is all on her. I can't even bring myself to speak as I look at her. Keeping neutral, my hands behind my back.

She studies my face, almost suspicious like. She timidly takes a step forward, the wet sand around her feet sinking. Raising her hand she takes a deep breath. I don’t even breathe. She touches my face, confident as she takes another step forward. Everything is still. The waves have frozen behind me as well as the ocean breeze.

"I'm sorry," she starts. A chill runs down my spine and my throat clogs. I cant hear this, I thought I was ready but I'm not. I cant hear her reject me over something as petty as fear. I won't lie and say I could give her everything but I can say I would damn well try. I try to fight through the icy grip over my heart, closing my eyes as I take in the warmth of her hand.

I startle when I feel something touch my lips. I suck in my first breath in minutes as I realize she is kissing me. I don’t push my luck, I can't, and let her take the lead. She is confident in her movements, grabbing my hand as she presses her lips firmly to mine. Her fingers intertwine with mine, taking another step forward. I can't help but squeeze her hand, grabbing her and pulling her closer.

Noticing my greed I lean back, needing more than anything for her to speak. I could stand here and kiss her all day. Yet, I have to know what she chose.

I meet her eyes and look through them. Taking in my surroundings to get any clue. The waves have resumed their movement, barely lapping at my heels. I watch her, she looks determined like before. This time it isn't trailed with fear but with comfort. She even tilts her head and smiles a small smile. She looks over my face, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight. The determination is still there but now she is giving affection.

She pets her thumb over my cheek," Teo."

"Yes," I answer. She bites her cheek as she thinks on her words.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. My heart clenches again, this time I don’t hide the fear. Her eyes open wide before she wraps her arms around me," I'm sorry I've been stringing you on. I'm sorry I haven't been all there for you. I'm sorry I ever made you doubt your feelings for me. I promise to be better this time." she clenches me a bit tighter. The wind picks up as does her panic. I hardly notice from the heavyweight being lifted off me. She promises to be better this time. This time.

"A-are you-," I can't finish the sentence.

"I'm going all the way, I trust you to catch me unlike everyone else, I love you," she sniffles near my ear. I rub my hands up her back, snuggling my face into her neck. I don’t say anything, I cant. She is actually choosing me, I hardly believe it. I barely hear the waves crash as her anxiety rises. "Please say something," she whimpers.

I don’t answer. I pull her back, looking into her worried eyes. I give a toothy grin before crushing my lips to hers. Taking all my own fears and worry and casting it aside. I press my love and devotion to our kiss. Answering her with actions pushing the elation I feel into her. She returns in full, molding her mouth to mine.

I startle when I hear a loud bang overhead. I pull back and stare at the sky just in time to see an explosion of colors. I watch confused as a skinny trail of light shoots into the sky before bursting in a scattered circle of color. They are fireworks.

"What," I start before I look at her face. Her smile is wide and her eyes filled with love. I grin just as wide, chuckling as another firework shoots into the sky. "I think the fireworks are a good touch," I kiss her again.

"I thought so too," she rests her head against my shoulder. We both watch the fireworks go off, holding each other close.

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This is based on a dream i had that touched way too hard on my inabilities to commit in relationships. only difference was he was a demon and i was in a dream in a dream while he texted me the questions. then when i woke from the dream in a dream i ended up doing a sacrifice because the next step in every relationship is murder.

Check out my Archive| Masterlist | Main Blog

#Dream deity #deity #monster boyfriend #Enigma-IM #deity boyfriend #confrontation #dream therapy #symbolism #teo #exophilia

77 notes · View notes

kunstpause-archive · 4 years

Text

From the scrap pile

Thanks to @elveny and @kittimau for tagging me ❤

This was surprisingly hard bc even though I scrapped easily over 100k words over the course of our big DA2 fic alone I keep reusing small bits and pieces in odd places and the stuff I totally throw out I don’t like enough to show to anyone really

But I did find something. This is from 2018, it was set pretty early on in our story Precipice of Change and was the original first meeting between Cullen and Cassia, before we heavily reworked the story.

I don’t know who did this already so feel free to ignore me but tagging @captainderyn @tishinada @curiousthimble @cornfedcryptid @faerieavalon @sharkapologists @fandomn00blr @serial-chillr @wardenari @ranawaytothedas @midnightprelude @charlatron @anchanted-one

Under a cut for length-reasons. :D

Cassia had underestimated the way towards the Gallows, it seemed. ‘They are really serious about this whole separation thing’ she mused while waiting for her boat to cross over. She had never been even near this place before and for good reason. The closer she got the more daunting the huge statues looked. All of a sudden, she could understand Adriene’s refusal to take any work that would require going here a little bit more. But on the other hand… they needed the money and the pay just seemed too good to not at least try. She only hoped she would get anywhere after her sister had already turned down the offer. Rather colourfully apparently, or so Cassia had heard.

When she stepped into the courtyard for the first time, she couldn’t suppress a small shiver. There were tranquil around, selling wares. Some mages walked briskly, not looking around much. And templars. So many templars… She wasn’t sure she had ever seen so many templars in one spot before, and there was an eerie feeling in the air for some reason.

Cassia was used to hiding among regular people. Non-mages. Even hiding in front of templars at the chantry. It usually involved looking either as unassuming or as disarmingly open as possible for her. Light clothes that made it obvious she wasn’t hiding anything underneath, a bright smile and most importantly: no staff. For the first time, the absence of the most trusted weapon was something she could almost physically feel, though, before she shook her head. It wasn’t as if it would do her any good even if she had her staff with her. Under this amount of vigilance and raw power, she wouldn’t even get one spell off before they took her down. She shook off the sense of doom that seemed to permeate the very air in this place, put on her brightest smile and went up to the next patrol, asking for the Knight-Captain who had made her sister the oh-so-well-paid offer earlier.

Cullen had been deeply immersed in the report on his desk when a knock on his door pulled him out of his concentration. “Yes?” he called out, trying not to lose track of where he was on the document.

“There is a Serah Hawke here to speak to you, Knight-Captain,” came the muffled voice of one of the recruits on guard duty from the outside. Irritation went through him at the reason for the disturbance.

“Tell her I don’t have time,” he called out again. He didn’t know what it had been exactly but something about her had made him slightly uneasy, even though she had been a great help at the coast.

“She is standing right next to me and insists,” the recruit called through the door again, and Cullen felt the irritation grow even stronger.

“Fine, send her in then.” What in the world did she want? She had made her disdain of templars in general quite clear only a few hours ago, and he had no desire for a repeat performance.

“What do you want?” he sighed impatiently. “Because if I remember correctly, you said something about never wanting to set foot in the Gallows ever again rather loudly not that long ago.” With an impatient glare, he looked up from his documents at the intruder in his office only to be met with a pair of raised eyebrows that definitely did not belong to the woman he had met earlier that day.

“I get the feeling I have to apologise on behalf of my sister, Knight-Captain,” the woman standing in his office said in a light and slightly amused voice. “I am Cassia Hawke, and I am here about a job you offered her.”

Sister? His first thought was that he had probably never seen siblings look less alike than the two of them. They looked like complete opposites of each other. And from his first impression, they sounded like it, too. The woman in front of him was nothing short of charming, not a trace of the hostility her sister had shown him.

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” he introduced himself even though he was certain she already knew that. “Forgive my reaction, but I am somewhat confused, Serah Hawke.”

The information she had gotten from Fenris had not been much. Adriene hadn’t been willing to listen for very long, it seemed, but she was certain he had said Knight-Captain Cullen had been the one offering said job. She gave him a careful once-over. He looked… younger than she had anticipated. In her head, the Knight-Captain of a city as big as Kirkwall had been someone more seasoned. More looking at home behind a desk. Knight-Captain Cullen looked like he was around her age, maybe even the slightest bit younger. Like he should be out there, on the frontlines instead of in here, doing paperwork. He must have had a steep career to end in such a prestigious position at this part of his life already.

“Confused about me asking for a job?” Cassia had put on her best, most pleasant smile for the occasion.

“Yes, given that not long ago your sister told me, rather colourfully, her stance on working for us or even considering it,” he said drily.

Cassia nodded in understanding. “Adriene has very strong opinions on several subjects,” she said, sounding as diplomatically as she could.

The way she phrased it made Cullen think that their differences definitely went beyond the physical appearance.

“And you don’t?” he asked skeptically. She laughed softly, and he was surprised at the thought that it was a rather pleasant sound.

“Oh, I do! They do not always coincide, however. Which is why I am here.”

“So you decided you want to help us, despite your sister feeling so strongly about the templars?” Cullen was still not quite convinced, too strong had the reaction of her sister been when he offered her the job.

“To be quite honest, Knight-Captain, helping you is more of a side benefit,” Cassia shrugged. “I heard the pay is good and that working with the templars is quite reliable here.”

When Cullen didn’t immediately say anything, she went on.

“You don’t believe me? Maker, what did Adriene say? No, don’t tell me, I can guess. But no matter.” She sighed. “Look, we came here from Ferelden, fleeing from the Blight. We had to leave behind everything, start over completely here. If we ever want to get somewhere, hard work is the only way. So, there you have my motivation.”

Cullen gave her a speculative look. She sounded honest, surprisingly open in her explanation. Another complete opposite from her very guarded sister it seemed. Her sister who seemed to have been in a constant state of battle ready. Cassia Hawke meanwhile looked… soft. Her braids had flowers in it and she was wearing a simple, but very becoming dress. At first glance, he could not imagine her taking on fights in back alleys if it came to it.

“I’m not sure this job is right for you, Serah,” he started carefully. “You look… Not like a mercenary if I have to be honest.”

Cassia smiled brightly. “I dress for the occasion,” she said with a hint of mischief in her voice. “I am here to get a job, not to pick fights with people after all.”

“A fair point,” Cullen relented. It wasn’t like everyone who could carry a weapon did so all the time after all. “I apologise for the assumption.”

“Oh I’m not offended, don’t worry,” she said almost immediately before she gave him a calculating look. A hint of playfulness appeared on her face. “On second thought, maybe I am,” she said slowly. “Terribly offended actually!”

Cullen raised his eyebrows. “Terribly offended?”

“Yes. It’s awful, really.” Cassia did her best, putting on her most practiced fake upset look. But she couldn’t quite quell her own amusement as she spoke. “I fear, only a job offer might be able to smooth this over…”

Her gamble seemed to pay off, the Knight-Captain definitely looked amused by now. “Would it now? And if I were to leave you in this offended state?”

“Then I would have to storm out of here in a huff and never talk to you again.” Cassia was delighted about his willingness to play along. She had expected someone stuffy. Someone she’d have to formally apologize to and who would probably give her a dry talk about appropriate behaviour towards authority in regards to her family. This was the opposite. This was something so much easier to work with. She gave him a coy look. “That would be such a shame really, you seem so fun to talk to.”

“I seem fun to talk to?” He gave her another skeptical look. It seemed he was almost thrown off by her more direct approach.

“Don’t let it flatter you too much,” Cassia assured him, “The last person I worked for was so incredibly drunk he could barely even sit upright. Second time I met him, he fell asleep while paying me.” She gave him a playful wink. “The bar for decent conversation is remarkably low these days.”

Cullen couldn’t help himself but laugh quietly. This conversation had been something he never would have expected. But to his surprise, he found it utterly delightful. “Glad to see I place above the inebriated and the unconscious,” he said dryly but not bothering to hide his amusement anymore. “But what would I lose out on really?”

There was a glint in her eyes that made them almost sparkle. “Why, my remarkable problem-solving skills of course. There is a reason there is much less work in Lowtown since I got here after all. And I’ll have you know that I am also fun to talk to.”

She was definitely right about that, but nonetheless, he gave her a most skeptical look, enjoying her small huff in obviously fake indignation.

“I am a delightful conversationalist!” she insisted. “And you have been smiling for the past few minutes when earlier you looked like you ate a shipload of citrus just before I got here.”

This time he had to laugh out loud. “Indeed you are,” he agreed. Cullen wasn’t sure when the last time he had had this much fun talking to someone even was. “Alright, we can give this a try.” He took a small pile of papers and letters he had put together for this job and handed it over to her. “Here is all the information you need, I expect you can find your way around the notes.” She was already flipping through the letters he gave her, looking a bit more serious. “There is a certain level of discretion advised,” Cullen added almost as an afterthought.

“I see, of course,” Cassia murmured as she went over the names and dates, starting to see why they would hire a mercenary for this. “None of these people would talk to a templar.”

“Or any authority even,” the Knight-Captain added. “That’s why we need outside help for this.”

Cassia folded the papers carefully, putting them away into her pockets. “Luckily I am as far away from being an authority as you can probably find in this city,” she gave him another bright smile. “I am definitely the woman you need. For this job, I mean. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

And with a good-natured but polite good-bye, she left the Gallows behind again, feeling considerably less anxious about the place than she had when first coming here. It still was a place she wouldn’t want to set foot in voluntarily, but she had gotten what she came for, and it had been easier and far more pleasant than anticipated. Now, she only had to get this thing done as quietly and as quickly as possible. And who knew, perhaps this could open a door for more well-paid work in the future.

The task was surprisingly simple for her. Cassia could see why a templar would have not gotten most of the relevant information from any of the people she talked to. After a while, she was almost glad that Adriene had turned the offer down. As much as she loved her sister, she could imagine that Adriene’s approach to this would have had the potential for more than one altercation. Cassia had always preferred to talk herself out of any situation if needed, and she knew she was good at getting people to see things her way, even the ones that needed a bit more convincing. ‘Why pull out a weapon when a well-placed compliment or a vague hint of a promise could do the trick’ had always been more her style.

Normally, she and Adriene complemented each other perfectly in that regard. Cassia managed to avoid them some fights while Adriene was always ready and never missed a beat in situations where that simply wasn’t possible. It felt almost wrong now for Cassia to do this on her own, fully aware that she didn’t have a very well thought-through backup plan if things didn’t work out the way she wanted them to. But it seemed she was lucky this day, managing to get everything she needed without any major incidents. Well, almost without.

It was dark already but still busy on the streets when she was done and made her way back to the Gallows, this time finding her way to the Knight-Captain’s office almost directly.

“Good evening, Knight-Captain,” she greeted politely after knocking. He seemed surprised to see her again.

“Serah Hawke, back already?” Cullen had not expected her back this day. Not even the next one if he was honest, not with the amount of information he had sent her out to find, yet here she was, in his office again.

“Please, call me Cassia,” she smiled. “Otherwise I’ll always think you’re talking to my mother. But yes, here is all the information I could find.” She handed him a staple of notes and he gave it a quick once over.

“Impressive. And you did all this in a day?” He flipped through the pages after pages she had filled with all the things she had found out. On first glance, it looked like she had done a very thorough job. He couldn’t help being impressed.

“One of the notes sounded rather urgent,” she said with a shrug.

“It was, I thank you,” Cullen agreed, putting the papers aside to work through their content later. He took in her appearance. She looked different. Her hair was in a bun, and while she was still wearing a dress, it seemed to be a different one than before. “And I see you even had time to dress for the occasion again.”

Cassia looked down, for a moment looking confused before she smiled at him. “Naturally.” She shrugged. “But that was more of a necessity this time. Two hours of walking around town and my clothes still hadn’t dried.”

Cullen felt his own eyebrows run up. “Dried? What happened?”

She held up a hand as she assured him, “Nothing relevant to the investigation, don’t worry.”

Cullen couldn’t help giving her a skeptical look. A look that sent her into a small bout of laughter.

“I’m telling the truth,” she said between laughs. “It’s… you’re gonna laugh, but there were some very angry ducks. And a pond.” He felt his eyes widen. “And perhaps a person you may or may not have hired for her skills who had a slight issue of paying attention.” She shook her head, giving him a pointed look. “It was not a very graceful event, let’s just keep it like that.”

Cullen hadn’t been certain what to expect from any of this, but her little story definitely hadn’t been it. He tried his best to not laugh out too loudly, but his efforts were in vain.

“And now you are laughing at me!” Cassia sighed. “I should have left it at the change of clothes. Kept some of the mystery.”

Cullen shook his head, forcing the laughter to calm down. “I have the feeling there is plenty of mystery left with you, Serah… Cassia,” he corrected himself.

“I have to disappoint you,” Cassia grinned, feeling pleased at his use of her first name. This was only their second time meeting, but she had a good feeling about this already. If she played her cards right, she might be well on her way to find an in with the templars here. Adriene would probably throw a fit if she heard about any of this, but Cassia could try to deal with that later, make her see the advantages. “No mystery at all,” she said, giving him her best ‘I have nothing to hide’ look. “I am an open book.”

Cullen still seemed amused, but there was a hint of something she couldn’t place in his voice as he answered. “In my experience people who say this usually aren’t. Not really.”

The conversation was still light-hearted, but there was something underneath that was almost intriguing to Cassia as she smiled. “I see I have to change tactics then.”

Cullen didn’t answer immediately, giving her a strange look. Was there tension in the air or was she imagining it? She was still deliberating when he broke the silence.

“I may have a follow-up job for you, depending on where this leads. Maybe come back in a couple of days?” he said, sounding a bit more formal again. His voice had lost some of the lightness from earlier but his eyes… His eyes seemed to look almost right through her. ‘Be careful Cassia’, her inner voice that sounded, not surprisingly, a lot like her sister said. ‘Don’t underestimate this one just because he has a nice smile.’

“I will. Thank you Knight-Captain,” she said simply.

He nodded, and it seemed like they were done when he suddenly added. “If you insist on me calling you by your name it is only fair I insist on you doing the same.”

“You want me to call you by my name?” The words had left Cassia’s mouth before she had even thought to think about how wise it would be to crack jokes right now.

Cullen gave her an almost unreadable look and Cassia grinned at him apologetically.

”I’m sorry. I have a sister who never stops joking around - it leaves a mark on you sometimes,” she explained before smiling again, making her way to the door. “But I appreciate the offer, Cullen. And I’ll see you in a few days then. Have a good night.”

#From the scrap pile #Da2 #Dragon Age 2 #Precipice of Change #cullen rutherford

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sugarfreecapsicle · 4 years

Text

old magic (3/3)

A/N: okay, I owed y’all this months ago - I hope this finale doesn’t disappoint! Also, because I’m nowhere near an accessible desktop excuse the lack of a read more cut until I’m able to fix it later ❤️ written for and with lots of support from @moonstruckbucky and her Halloween writing challenge! As always, huge props to @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan for beta-reading, helping me when I’m stuck, for adding the read more cut while I’m limited to mobile and for this gorgeous moodboard!

prince!bucky x reader

warnings: powdery words full of romance and mush, pining

DISCLAIMER: this is in no way a reflection of anyone who identifies, practices or otherwise affiliates with witchcraft. I bastardized some basics and ran with it. Please don’t come for me and correct my poor development of a fake magic system.

Bitter cold pricks at his exposed cheeks and eyes in the dark of night. The heavy sword at his hip comforted him less than the metal arm secured tightly to his shoulder - he’d spent the better part of his months away learning its intricacies. The prince would have to demonstrate his gratitude.

If only he could see a few paces in front of him, he’d feel less disoriented. Heavy leaves and branches canopy around him, brush and shrubbery catching at the fabric of his layered coat and trousers. Snow gathers around his boots, frigid wet seeping through to his feet. James thinks of the fire in your hearth, the ever present warmth of your bed, and he drives onward.

Months ago, he’d awoken in your hut alone and confused - hadn’t his time with you been some lucid dream? Nearly falling out of your covers to the shoddy floor, his stomach turns at the thought of his betrothed and rushes as quickly as he can into clothes and out your door.

That had been the last time he’d considered Sophia. Even at the castle, even in her presence. James knew his rightful place, had been fed regurgitated spittle of duty, honor. Nonsense. Utter nonsense because none of their machinations included you.

Many nights passed in fervent scrawlings, some kept in tight binding while others were tossed into the flames. Too used to the betrayal of others, any communication with you would meet the fate of their earlier drafts. Only one method of delivery could guarantee you knew of everything.

So he trudges through snow and muck to find you again. He follows the smoke until the sky blackens in velvet blue. Then he follows the stars until he smells the telling scent of jasmine and lavender.

Just the sight of it, a silhouette in the dark, pulls at him - moth and flame. Not in the same way as before. Not some careless response, but a yearning. His heart is a pendulum between his stomach and throat, bobbing in tandem with heavy steps.

He knocks three times. Solid. Firm. Intentional.

Footsteps tap their way to the door, in the opening it whines and then there you are. In all your sleepy splendor. He breathes, forgetting that exhaling was necessary for the next inhale.

“Madam,” he says quietly as if volume may make you dissipate before his eyes as his breath in the winter air.

“What are you doing here?” You’re trying too hard to sound cold and distant, he can tell. You’re failing miserably. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, I should,” he’s still gentle in reply. “May I please come in?”

Obligation tugs on your nerves - there’s ice in his beard and he’d catch his death outside if you refuse. And you can tell by the glint in his eye he’ll curl up outside your door if you say no. He’s not leaving until he says his piece.

“Answer my question,” you say as you shut the door and James shakes off the snow.

“I have a delivery for you from his royal highness,” he answers simply. “It couldn’t wait another day.”

The letters are bound in brittle twine bulging around the thin string. Hesitantly, eyes never leaving his soft gaze, you take them and loose them quickly. The first letter anchors your heart to the floor.

Darling, would that I could write poetry about the way you simply are yourself, unabashedly your own, under no rule or design of another. Would that I could be a part of your painting, the brush in your hand, soft touch, pressure, the comfort of your nearness. Oh, to be yours and at your whim. I would be your humble servant, madam, entirely and eagerly.

The spell was over, of that you were sure. Were the gods so cruel to punish you like this? To mock your pain?

“You’re lying,” you whimper, hands shaking, letters threatening to fall and shake loose to the floor. “You can’t - you didn’t before, it was the spell-”

“I’m under no one’s thumb but yours without magic involved. Not your practice, at least.”

“My sister-”

“Sophia is unharmed socially, physically and in any capacity. She knew. The night I came back to her, she knew. I couldn’t look at her the way she wanted. I’m not sure I did before you came along. She’s made a promise to another and will be well cared for by someone who can appreciate her, love her. In the way I am unable to for her.” James watched your manic search for a trick in his words, clumsily scraping against the precipice.

“It’s not for her, not in your world. It’s for the country, for the people.” A small piece of your resolve visible breaks. One brick from your walls now gone.

“I’ve given my life for my country. You know that better than anyone. I trust they will allow me to choose a wife of my own volition and without political theatre involved.” James’ tone remains even, resolved. Perhaps he mapped this exact conversation - the thought crumbles more brick.

“Why are you doing this? Do you enjoy seeing me hurt for what I did to you?” Where James stands firm, you break. Tears well first in your throat, voice watery and simpering in anger. You could hate him. You could.

“I’m not lying to you. No tricks, no ulterior motives. I love you.” The last of the wall gone - James cannot falter.

“Why?”

Crackling fire pops into the quiet of James’ thought. He shifts, waits for you to allow him to take a step closer. His heart leaps when your eyes finally let him in.

“Because I watched you take care of the creatures and woods of this place better than anyone else. You don’t take advantage of the bounty around you - you give back to it. You care, and you love, and you have joy that I envy. Seeing you in bliss...there’s nothing in this world that made me happier. To spend the rest of my days proving to you that the only spell you have me under is love is all I ask of you. That’s all. Not your potions, not your witchcraft. The magic of you. You protect this kingdom by letting others take from you, distracting them from the hunt, diverting waste and flame and flood. You care for this place in a way I cannot. And I will not remain blind to it. How can I be?”

James kneels before you slowly, studying the way you lurch as if you stop him. His knee finds solid ground, and he breathes in peace.

“You’ve given me life in more ways than one - there is life for me here, with you. If you��ll have me as your humble servant, husband, partner.”

The same weighty silence falls between you again, his heart in your hands of his own true doing. Should you crush him, he would mourn you the rest of his days. Should you accept -

“Are you certain I could-“

“There is nothing in the kingdom not the world that could stop you, my darling. I am yours, wholly and entirely, and everything that I own is yours.”

You swallow tears, kneeling at eye level with your prince.

“I care not for your material possessions - for all that I own of you, you own of me now, too. My body, my soul, it belongs to you.”

His hands cradle your face, a hungry kiss smeared over your lips in salty sweetness. His own tears mix with yours, and a quiet laugh mingles between.

“None before me have known such joy and honor as you have bestowed upon me, my wife.”

#my fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #bucky fan fiction

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olicitysecretsanta · 4 years

Text

uncanny valley (pg, 1972 words, Bratva AU)

A very happy and hearty post-finale (because I refuse to say “farewell”) Olicity wish to this wonderful fandom, and especially @nikscaroline, who asked for jealous/possessive Bratva!Oliver. I haven’t written a lot of him in that space, so welcome to this AU (inspired in part by this image, which I’ve been hanging onto for, oh, a year or so? Thanks for the great prompt to finally use it, Irvane!)

By @effie214

Summary: In aesthetics, the uncanny valley is the relationship between the degree of an object’s resemblance to a human being and the emotional response to such an object.

The bite of the Boston winter is not unlike that of Russia.

What’s unfamiliar to him, however, is the light he sees when he lays eyes on her for the first time. It’s not from the waning colors of the mid-December sun as it sets, nor even the light emanating from behind her in the room in the second house from the right in Fall River. He doesn’t see the blonde hair that he’ll catch wisps of in the corner of his eye as she eliminates his blind spot entirely; doesn’t see the blue eyes that will look up at him at first in fear, then in meditation, and finally in a trust that shakes him to his core with a chill more biting than any snow could ever muster.

He does not see the hands that the Bratva have tracked here, to Felicity Smoak and her ridiculous boyfriend, as they nearly – and, he’s sure, unintentionally, but if there’s anyone who knows that all roads to each hell, for there are many, and their devils multifaceted, it’s Oliver Queen – brought down one of the outfit’s most brilliant money laundering schemes through fake student loan payments and “donations” to various colleges and universities. He does not see the fingers that will shake first as he enters her house unannounced, the ones that will scratch and claw and tear at him the way fear will do the same to the soul he thought he’d buried in the South China Sea when she stupidly – brilliantly, for even in her folly, she will be his guiding genius – pushes him out of the way of a bullet aimed for a heart that, were it still there, would by that point belong to her. He does not hear the voice screaming into the silence for help, the one that sounds like his from so many last chances ago, lost in the echo of the waves and a recoiling gunshot. He sees nothing, feels nothing, hears nothing of this place; only knows the emptiness Anatoly has trained him to be in order to survive. He is as empty as a valley, but as he stands in the darkness that knows his name better than he does, he looks up to that light, and the shades of grey fall from his eyes as he sees the stars that he will come to understand reside in hers – not of fancy or fantasy, but of unshakeable strength even the hardest men he knows will cower beneath. He sees a precipice, a choice he’s somehow going to be given even as he plans to take away hers. He somehow sees something that shakes him from his stone: she in her uncanny nature will breathe him back to life, and he gasps against it; not the salvation, for no person – even as important as she will become to him – will ever give him that, even in the wee small hours and the tiniest sighs of hope. No, he does it because he knows – somehow he just knows – she will make him man again, instead of the many mistakes he is built of. In his old life, the one built on so much promise and so easily parted with, it had been easy to turn Judas; run from the things he was too small for. Even as he’s been warped and weathered like storm season on the island, even as he has been laid bare and barren as the Siberian winter, alone because there is no strength found in numbers, only vulnerability, somehow he looks upon her and see the Atlas to his Sisyphys, the one who will roll his truth and all their consequences up a hill of his own making.

He cowers in that already towering presence, palms burning not from frigid temperature but from the feel of her waist in his hand as they work undercover, the pink silk of her dress crinkling easily beneath his possessive hand as she tries to charm their latest mark to get her into his study, when the jealousy becomes too much and he gives into the basest of instincts to tell the world she’s his. His ears sing not in the winter wind but with the forgotten feeling of calmness that slides down his being with her voice in his ear, the only one he trusts – a partner, even if he cannot say the word. It will start first with short, angry reminders of her nut allergy, then with clipped efficiency as she talks him through his missions. A surprised, soft “thank you” that will come when he brings her a cup of coffee every time he refills his own mug as she runs search programs and he reads the results; the adorably offended laugh that unintentionally escapes her when he effortlessly makes an omelette for her at three in the morning after she goes through almost an entire dozen trying to do it herself; the gentle, soothing words as she prays in Hebrew that he doesn’t know but understands all the same – even if it terrifies him to realize one night during Passover that he’d kept his eyes open and on her the entire time, enchanted by her face lit by flames of her belief instead of the ashes of his own aftermaths.

His eyes tear not because of the plea he’ll see in hers when the Bratva captains try to make him think Interpol has struck a deal with her so he’ll banish her long and far enough that they can take her out, because they don’t trust her as Oliver does – with the life he only thinks might be worth saving when he hears her tiny sigh of relief when he returns each time from wherever he’s been, to that place called home that he hadn’t even realized was there until he walks into her upstairs office and she does the same to his life, changing everything – and she stands toe to toe with him, manicured, brightly colored fingernails poking him hard in his chest as she screams with as much volume as she’ll do in mere minutes when she calls out for help that will not come that she’d never give up on him, no matter how much he’d already given up on himself. “You are not alone,” she’ll spit vehemently, “And I believe in you.”

His lips are chapped not from the night as it settles itself in navy over him, but of the future memory of finally pressing his mouth against hers in a hungry revolution, a shot across the bow and the one that will restart that heart she saved, a resolution that they are in this together, even if they have no goddamn idea what this even is.

No, by then they’ll know: by then, he’ll have told her to go, in as quiet and heartbreaking and shaky voice as she’ll ever hear from him, that he refuses to make her a regret. Coward that he’ll be until she reminds him that the only easy day is yesterday, words that will propel him forward into a future as unknown as the destination has always been, he won’t be able to look at her when he tells her he’s sorry, that he’ll get her out, that this was a mistake. He’ll turn only when her hand finds his face, not in the slap she’ll give him when he tells her to stop getting in his way, but instead bringing him forward; bringing him to her light. “You may have forced me to leave, Oliver, but I’m choosing to stay.” She’ll shrug, those slim shoulders that hold up his world moving so easily as his lungs cannot in that moment. “There’s really no choice to make.”

(He’ll want to fall into bed with her then, claim her and let her know he’s hers as much as she’s ever been his, but then he spots the red dress and heels she buys during a girls’ day out with the medic called Sasha – because Felicity Megan Smoak not only ends up getting the Bratva to do her bidding rather than the other way around, but makes sure to prove time and again to anyone in her sphere that she’s both hellbent and heaven-sent – and though he’s sure to the very heart she put the beat back in that the evening will end up with a grenade launched from a rooftop across the street from the restaurant, the only explosions that happen are in those wee small hours he looks so forward to now are the best ones either of them can even fathom.

They’ll fall into bed time and time after that, fall into each other and three words that should be so easy to say, especially given his increased time around her verbosity, but they don’t come until she’s elbow deep in flour, has butter on her nose and there’s what’s supposed to be fondant on the ceiling when he walks in on her in the kitchen where she’s told him about her bubbe’s latkes and he about Tommy and Thea and where they’ve hashed out his moving from an enforcer to a kapitan – as they try to relive and also rewrite the narrative of the story they’ve both found themselves and the best parts of each other in – trying to make him a birthday cake.

They’re not so hard to say after that; in a world of fools and falsehoods, she truly is his felicity. When she looks at him in utter disblief, instinct driving her “you don’t…”, this time it is he who finds the words quickest: “Don’t ask me to say that I don’t love you.”)

He stands still against the New England quiet, the same kind that will not just echo but follow as they run from their pasts but with each other, hiding from the outfit and her father and Cooper Seldon; as she pretends to be someone else, working in a Tech Village under a carefully built and maintained identity, only herself when they are together; when they share a tiny last egg over a candle on its last millimeter of wick, and when they cuddle together under a blanket on a mattress on the floor as they disappear into a dingy Hong Kong walkup and the only thing that has ever felt like safety. He is unmoving against it, the way they’ll both be in the darkest hours, first when her tears belie her loneliness, and when his deeds catch up to him in his dreams. When she forgets who they are, or supposed to be, or something in the middle, he’ll kiss the top of her head and say, “I know who you are. Whether you’re in a ponytail or those terrible khaki pants, you’re the one thing I believe in.”

When they sit on a plane on their final forged passports, hand in hand with fingers adorned with rings bought with cash in suburban Vancouver, slipped over still-brightly colored nails and now healed knuckles and with whispered “for better or for worse” and “I’ll go anywhere with you” inscribed in the metal as the flight attendant welcomes them to Starling City, because they have decided – chosen, that holiest of holies – this mission to save his city in the same way they’ve saved each other. “Because this is what we do,” she whispers as they touch down and she presses a kiss against his shoulder. “Because this is who we are.”

He’s not met her yet, but she’s already under his skin; more a part of him than anyone or anything else.

He knows going in he’s not ever going to let her go again.

The beauty of it is, as he takes that first and ultimately final step, toward her door and their shared destiny, he also knows she won’t, either.

fin

#arrow #olicity #olicity secret santa #goodbye olicity #submission

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phantoms-lair · 5 years

Text

I’ll Face Myself part 2

He probably seemed calm on the outside, but that was because he had too many emotions vying for control. Arthur kept his eyes glued to the path as he navigated the van, trying to hit the magic balance between speed and a smooth ride that would get the other him to the spot where the ambulance was (hopefully) waiting with making his other self’s injuries worse.

And that was something he really didn’t want to think about. He was going to cling to the idea of some sort of alternate timeline thing happening, because he really didn’t want to think time travel. That what he saw was how he was going to die, shunted into a portal to the past without his Vivi or Lewis.

Almost half a dozen times he opened his mouth to suggest turning the van around. He knew if it were him (and it might very well be) he’d prefer to risk death if it meant not just up and leaving Lewis to die. Sure Mystery was with him, but what could one small dog do against a monster like that? The only thing that stopped him from saying it was he knew if it was another Lewis or Vivi lying back there, he’d never even think of it, so he had a feeling Vivi wouldn’t take the suggestion well at all.

What he finally settled on was “When we meet with the ambulance, go with him. I’m going back for Lewis and Mystery.”

“Are you insane?” Vivi hissed, pressing her scarf and sweater against the gaping wound, “That thing was trying to kill the other you.”

“Exactly, it would focus on me, which would give Lewis and Mystery a better chance of escaping.”

Vivi growled. “Arthur Kingsmen listen up, because I am only going to say this once. You are not expendable. You are not bait. We are not going through all of this to save a different version of you just for you to get yourself killed. Me, Lewis, and Mystery are in considerably less danger. So you’re going to be riding in the ambulance and I’m going to be going back to help.”

“And I’m not willing to lose the two people who matter most to me just to save my own skin.” Arthur snapped. “What if the reason Lewis wasn’t with him was because he died tonight, Vi? What if Lewis died protecting me while I ran away?” He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to give voice to the fear he was deeply trying to bury.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?!” Vivi choked back a sob. “You think I don’t know that Lewis could already be dead?” “Lewis-” The other Arthur seemed to come around a little. “I need to find Lewis. I need to-” his voice broke off. “He threw me off a cliff…” the desperation in his voice gave way to a broken quality. One Vivi never wanted to hear out of any Arthur ever again. “Why Lewis? I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

Vivi wanted nothing more than to hold him, to run her fingers through his hair. But she needed both hands to put pressure on his wound. “Arthur, that thing wasn’t Lewis. I don’t know what it was, but Lewis would never try to hurt you. He’s our gentle giant. You know that, right?”

Other Arthur blinked slowly. “You remember Lewis?”

“Of course I do.” How could she not?

He smiled. Well, the tips of his lips twitched, but that was probably the best he could do. “Your memory is back.”

Well that raised even more questions. But an idea occurred to her. “It’s coming back, but it’s not all there. Arthur, you said you had to find Lewis. Where did we lose him?”

“The cave...where I lost my arm.”

There was another topic she really wanted to get into, but not now. “The cave with the purple fog?”

“No, the green one. We took the high road, you took the low one. Then no Lewis, no arm. Just nightmares about the monster.”

“The skull monster?” Vivi prodded.

“No, the one with the teeth. He’s like Mystery, only big and with too many tails.”

Arthur and Vivi breathed a collective sigh of relief. Whatever happened to other Lewis, it hadn’t happened tonight, in this forest, or at the hands of the skull monster.

A small mercy at best, but they’d take what they could get.

“He is not worth your protection.” The Wraith spat at Lewis.

“He’s worth every bit of it.” Lewis retorted. “Arthur’s my best friend. And death may have rotted that knowledge out of you head, but not mine.” Lewis knew there was little he could do to physically stop a wraith, he could simply fly over his head for crying out loud, so he had to keep it engaged, keep it talking. He didn’t think he could even feign sympathy for this monster, so riling it up was the only way to go.

“Best Friend?” The wraith scoffed. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. “The chupacabra case, right? The one that turned out to be a bear with mange?”

“Apparently.” Crud. His wraith self had lived through this, which made it all the more likely the two did come from the future. He hated the idea that this thing was what he would become. He just hoped this was something like Dicken’s Christmal Carol, where seeing his dark fate would help him escape it.

“And you haven’t noticed your so-called best friend has been pulling away. That he’s been putting a wall up between himself and you. That when he is spending time with you he’s quiet and surly.”

Lewis opened his mouth but shut it. Looking back it was true. He couldn’t even completely say he hadn’t noticed since now that he was thinking about it the memories were there. He just...hadn’t mentally flagged it as important. His heart sank a bit. Something was wrong with Arthur and he’d let it be. Was that the first step in becoming this monster? “Did you ask him what was wrong?”

“I didn’t have to. It was obvious. HE WANTED VIVI FOR HIMSELF! THAT’S WHY HE KILLED ME” The wraith’s rage roared to life, his hair becoming a purple conflagration.

Lewis was stunned to silence for a moment. “Are...are you completely insane! That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard” Lewis threw his hands up. “Arthur...have you met Arthur? I mean you’re me, so yes, but what the actual fuck? For one thing, Arthur knew Vivi before I did and had plenty of time to tell her he liked her if that was the case. Also you honestly believe Arthur is capable of killing anyone, especially me? He’s the most non-confrontational person I ever met, even when people are trying to hurt him. But sure, he totally would kill me, his favorite person to hide behind.” The sarcasm dripped like ichor.

“Behind me is exactly where he wanted to be.” the Wraith said darkly. “And it turns out he didn’t need much protection. He’s managed to escape my attempts to burn him alive, run the van off a cliff, or throw him down the same precipice he threw me down.”

Lewis felt his blood go cold hearing the version of him recite his murder attempts. The sheer ludicrousness of Arthur throwing him down a cave aside, the fact that his dead self had made at least three attempts at Arthur’s life was chilling, especially since there was still a chance the last one might have succeeded. But there was something else almost as bad in there

“You know, Arthur told me something after we found him." Lewis said coldly. “He was in pretty bad shape, but managed to get something out.”

"What was it?" The Ghost scoffed. "Excuses? Platitudes? I don't care about anything that comes out of his mouth."

Lewis didn't like the feeling that bubbled up inside him. It felt too close to the hate that this other self of his was made from. He watched the wraith closely as he repeated Arthur’s message. "Vivi was in the van too."

He wasn’t proud of the satisfaction he felt to see the wraith pull up short. His hair snuffed out and the mania gone from his eyes.

“No. No, she couldn’t have been.” Fear and worry suffused it’s voice.

“Did you even check?” Lewis couldn’t keep the growl out of his voice. “Or did you just try to kill Arthur without even thinking that maybe his best friend might be right there with him?”

The ghost made a small whining sound before turning and rocketing through the portal. Lewis let himself relax. Mission accomplished. The wraith was gone and wouldn’t be pursuing Arthur for a while. He could follow the path the van took and meet up with the others, presuming one was waiting for him and Mystery after the ambulance.

Only...Lewis glanced at the portal. On the other side was a possibly badly hurt Vivi and for all he knew the only one there to help her was the monster who’d hurt her in the first place. Could he trust his wraith self to take care of her?

No. He wouldn’t trust that idiot to care for a plant.

“I’m going after them,” He informed Mystery. “I need to make sure Vivi’s okay.”

“We don’t know how long that portal’s staying open,” Mystery warned.

“If you want to stay-”

“Of course I‘m going.” he cut Lewis off. “I couldn’t live with myself if I thought a version of Vivi might have died because I did nothing.

Lewis nodded. And together they headed into whatever future awaited them.

#MSA #I'll face myself #Ghost Writing

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butihavejoy · 5 years

Text

Leaving

A little Stony drabble for @rayguncole and @ships-to-sail because they let me wordvomit my Stony feels at them.

Set during Endgame. Somewhat canon-compliant. Former Stony.

“I updated my will.”

Tony’s voice was quiet in the otherwise silent room where he and Steve lay side by side, not quite touching. “Why?” Steve asked, equally soft.

“You know, seeing as how we’re going through a whole time-hopping, dimension bending thing-y tomorrow.” Steve couldn’t see Tony but he knew that tone well, the attempt at humor to always keep what he was really thinking or feeling at bay. “Wanted to be sure my, uh, affairs were in order.”

Steve flinched. “This isn’t an—” he started, because it wasn’t, because whatever had been between them before, he would never — and for that matter, neither would Tony.

“I know,” Tony interrupted, rolling over onto his side to face Steve. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

In another universe, before Thanos, before Bucky, Steve would’ve taken Tony’s hand and squeezed it to tell him he understood, or would’ve kissed him lightly to get him to shut up long enough that he could get to the point.

He did neither of those things now and Tony cleared his throat before continuing, “I’m leaving everything Stark Industries related to Pepper and Morgan, and everything Avengers-related to everyone who survives this suicide mission.”

“This suicide mission that you came up with,” Steve couldn’t help but remind him.

He could just make out Tony’s smile in the darkness. “Yeah, which is the only reason why we might actually make it back and render this entire conversation moot.”

“Well, if you’re looking for my approval—“

Tony shook his head. “I’m not. I’m leaving you something as well. Just in case.”

“Tony—“

“I’m leaving you the suit.” Steve went completely still, staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

Maybe they both had.

“Well, Pepper will still have hers, obviously,” Tony was saying, as if he hadn’t noticed that Steve wasn’t saying anything, “and Rhodey will have his, and since Morgan’s already smarter than I was at her age, I don’t doubt she’ll figure out how to make her own, but the rest of it — the blueprints, the schematics, the tech and every suit still out there — it’s all yours.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

“I know,” Tony said and Steve’s head snapped up in surprise. “That’s why I’m giving it to you.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “Why—“

“Because you’re the only one who understands.” Tony said the words simply, easily, like he’d given this a lot of thought, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder how much he had thought of him over the past few years. “You understand what it’s like to be made into a weapon, and what it’s like to turn that weapon into something more. Something better.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see it before.”

“See what?” Steve asked, almost in spite of himself.

“That’s what you were trying to do with Barnes.”

It wasn’t an apology for everything that had broken between them, and it certainly wouldn’t heal the rift in trust that still stretched like a chasm between them even as they lay in the same room.

But it was something.

Which was more than Steve thought he’d ever get.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it, either,” he said, honest with both Tony and himself for the first time in longer than he cared to admit. “When I asked what you were when you took the suit away—”

“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, if memory serves,” Tony said lightly, and while Steve could hear the smile in his voice, he refused to let himself get distracted.

“No,” he said firmly. “Take the suit away and whatever else you may be, whatever else you may be left with, you’re still a good man.”

For a long moment, long enough that Steve almost worried he’d gone too far, Tony was silent. Then, in a voice so quiet that Steve almost didn’t hear him, he said, “Being Iron Man is what made me a good man.”

Steve shrugged, even though he knew Tony couldn’t see him. “Maybe,” he said evenly. “Or maybe being a good man is what allowed you to become Iron Man in the first place.”

“Maybe,” Tony allowed, but Steve could tell by his tone that he was only humoring him, and despite himself, despite knowing he shouldn’t, despite knowing they couldn’t, he reached out to trace his fingers lightly through the stubble along Tony’s jaw. Tony leaned into the touch, though there was something almost pained in his voice when he whispered, “Steve…”

Steve pulled his hand away, letting it fall to his side. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t quite sure whether he was apologizing for touching Tony or for pulling away.

Or for what he was about to say next.

“I can’t take the suit. I can’t—” He broke off, trying to put it into words that Tony would understand. “I can’t be responsible for Iron Man’s legacy. It’s too much for me.”

Tony’s expression was impossible to read in the dim light. “Ok,” he said finally. “I’ll give it to Banner, then.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” Tony interrupted, something fierce in his voice. “Don’t apologize. Not to me, and not for this.” He paused and Steve wondered if he too was struggling with what to say, with the enormity of all the things between them that they had left unsaid as they stood on the precipice of what tomorrow might bring. “You’ve fought more wars on more fronts than anyone should ever need to. I should never have asked you to fight this one, too.” His tone turned bitter and Steve knew Tony’s expression was twisting in the way it did when he turned his most self-deprecating. “The war for Tony Stark’s legacy.”

“No.”

Tony seemed taken aback. “No what?”

“Not Tony Stark’s legacy,” Steve said. “The suit is about Iron Man’s legacy.” Tony started to interrupt but Steve didn’t let him, moving closer to him as if he could convince him through sheer proximity alone. “Tony Stark’s legacy is safe. You’re a good man, and at the very least, I promise I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.”

Again Tony was silent but this time, Steve wasn’t worried about what he might be thinking. He had said his peace, and that was what mattered.

He was surprised, however, when it was Tony this time who reached out, who cupped his hand on the back of Steve’s neck, where it had rested so many times before just before tugging him down for a kiss. There was no such movement this time, but that didn’t matter.

The touch was enough.

“Thank you,” Tony said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against the fine hairs on the nape of Steve’s neck. “Though if we both die tomorrow that promise may not mean a helluva lot.”

Steve rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh. “Leave it to you to ruin a moment,” he said, and Tony laughed as well. Steve caught Tony’s wrist before he could pull away entirely, holding him in place. “Tony—” he started, before pausing.

There was too much to say.

And yet here, now, even without an apology for the last six years, even without saying what had lingered between them, Steve knew he didn’t need to say anything.

“Get some sleep,” he said instead, though his tone was a little too gentle to make it a true order, and he let go of Tony’s wrist.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Tony murmured, too soft also to be the sarcasm he likely intended.

They both lay in silence for a long moment until Steve felt like he might finally be able to drift off.

Just as he did, he thought he felt Tony’s fingers brush against his and without even thinking, without even hesitating, he turned his hand just enough to lace their fingers together.

Tony gave no protest, made no move to pull his hand away, his breath evening out as sleep took him. Steve was close behind him, comforted in ways he could never even hope to understand by the feel of Tony’s hand in his.

Comforted, perhaps, by the knowledge that Tony was here, comforted by the warm weight of Tony’s hand that proved he was still alive, that this entire conversation was a hypothetical.

Because as much as he had meant what he had told Tony, Steve knew that a world in which Tony’s legacy was all he had left of him was not one he ever wanted to see.

#stony #steve rogers #tony stark #iron man #captain america #stony fic #my fic #my writing #posting this on here until I figure out which pseud I wanna publish it under on AO3 #mcu #avengers endgame #i feel like we're well past needing this but #endgame spoilers #canonical Tony x Pepper

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tragedybunny · 4 years

Text

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 10

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Lady Montrose has an old family name, an old family Manor, and an even older idea of how society should function. She also has a vast fortune to put behind her ideas, which is why most of them have flocked here. Of course these days the once great lady is a mere puppet for her grandson, Augustus. It is he who greets the guests and acts as host, a child playing dress-up, pretending to greatness.

“Ah, Grand General, Sir, Grandmother will be most honored.” He’s worse than a mere useless nobility fop, he’s spent so many years in scholarly pursuits, he now believes himself truly intelligent.

His eyes genuinely light up when he greets Kat. “Katarina, it’s been forever, you look lovely.” He takes her hand, kisses it, and lingers entirely too long. There were rumors once about the two of them. I should ask her about it, it could prove useful. “We should talk later, it will be good to catch up.”

We move along, further into the cavernous, ancient hall. “Be careful what you say to him. I don’t trust him or this situation.”

She just shrugs. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“That’s beside the point. And not entirely true. I trust you don’t I?”

She stops, she can’t hide the faint smile on her lips. “Fine, one exception.”

“I mean there’s one or two more, probably.”

“You’re not really making your case any better.” We’ve moved out of earshot of the boy, and she stops to whisper viciously at me. “Do you really think I’m an idiot though? Just look at him, he’d stab his own mother in back. In fact, that may have literally happened. You really think I’d trust him for a second?”

She has a point. “No, that was reactionary.” I kiss her forehead, she leans into it. “Do stop trying to pick a fight though, you’ve been doing it since…” Right, her mother. I take her arm. “Earlier. I don’t want to spend all night arguing with you.” I keep my voice level, trying to prove my point. We continue moving.

We cut through the overdressed crowd, wealth for them displayed as a show of strength, thronging between the overly plush parlors and the lavish ballroom. The lamps reflect off jewels at every turn, laughter flowing with the wine, and again they gossip and whisper as we pass. I pay it no mind, I’m here to achieve something, a step forward for Noxus.

Kat’s voice cuts through the din. “Sorry for being difficult, I wasn’t expecting what happened earlier.”

I’m slightly taken aback at her honesty. “Would you feel better if I found you someone to stab?”

“Maybe.” It was supposed to make her smile again, but her response is a soft monotone.

We pause again, stepping out of the flow of the crowd around us. I lean down to kiss her, pulling her against me, feeling every one of her curves pressed against me through her dress. “Or maybe we should wander off and find some place secluded.”

She’s wrapped herself around me. “Wouldn’t that be too undignified for your position? Imagine the Grand General fucking some harlot in an abandoned hallway.” Her lips graze my ear and she has no idea how close I am to recreating that moment. There are more pressing matters however. She sighs softly, not pulling out of my arms. “I don’t really want to fight with you.” Her words are uncharacteristically tinged with sadness.

Frequently she’s angry or annoyed or irritable, she’s never sad. It strikes me as wrong somehow. I reach up to cup her cheek and brush my thumb along it. “Then let’s not.” She nods and lets me continue leading us toward our goal, stopping to grab a glass of wine from a passing servant.

I spy Argos, engrossed in some conversation and looking as uncomfortable as ever. When he looks up and his eyes meet mine, I signal for him to follow. We come at last to a back parlor, buried in the depths of the house. The horde of guests has thinned out, leaving the area much quieter. Inside, Darius is already waiting with Augustus’s younger sister, Coraline.

Argos looks around quickly, clearly trying to ascertain if the situation bids him ill. Coraline senses the tension and gestures around her. “Do take a seat.”

The plush couches arranged in a semicircle are faded with age and fraying, the gilding is wearing off in some spots it would seem. The lamps are set low to attract less attention. “Is she here?” I look to Coraline.

“Of course. Thankfully my dear brother let me handle some of the arrangements for this evening.” She rises to speak in hushed tones to a servant just outside the door.

I take a seat directly across from Argos, Darius to my left. Kat remains standing behind me, draining another glass of wine she acquired from somewhere. In moments a short woman with sun-kissed skin is shown in by the servant.

Coraline introduces her to our small group. “This is Amara Whitney. For those of you unfamiliar with our purpose here tonight, she has a most intriguing proposal for a strategy to quickly and reliably produce black powder weapons.” Argos and Darius lean forward, suitably invested in the revelation.

“Correct.” The strength of her voice is disproportionate to her sleight frame. “By combining parts made to exact specifications and the rifled barrel, we can make unlimited, accurate, black powder weapons. With the steam engine providing power to machine those parts we can do it quickly and efficiently.” It’s a beautiful image, the forces of Noxus, armed with endless black powder weapons. It’s needed as well. The vision in the North gave me the first hint, but there have been others since, some conspiracy is establishing itself. I have an intimation who is agitating it, but it’s been frustratingly mostly chasing shadows. I know the Generals I have put in place will keep the army loyal though, and I may need it to be as deadly as possible. Just one of many security measures I’m working into place.

“If funds were provided to set up the operation in small scale, you would guarantee your results?” I stare her down, searching for any sign of hesitation.

She holds fast. “Of course, all that’s needed is funding.”

“Your input?” I look to Darius and Argos.

“That would be quite the advantage. Hextexch is near impossible to acquire in large numbers and we already control most of the black powder production on the continent.” Argos is eager.

“It needs to be funded. High Command will be skeptical of taking that on.” Darius has a point.

“I know, that’s why we need private investors.” Of course, I’ll be involved, but as promising as it is, I will not be bankrolling it solo. If it all works out though, selling the arms to the Empire should net a nice profit. There’s a reason I turned the family fortune from lands and estates to finance and investments.

“So we need to decide who to go to. This may be too forward thinking for some of my more traditional peers.” Coraline looks pointedly at me and Kat, still standing behind me. “I will be happy to contribute, provided Augustus is not an obstacle.” That is the conundrum, as stuck as they are in their ways, the Nobility still has plenty of resources. There is an alternative.

“Why involve them at all?” All eyes turn to Kat. “They are rotting in their ways and traditions while the bankers and merchants thrive. Why not go to those who have been making their own fortune, at least they can see the future.”

I turn my gaze toward her, stunned she involved herself, and more than a little impressed that she cut to the heart of the matter. “That’s exactly the solution. We don’t need them.” I haven’t been trying to convince her she has more abilities than just being an assassin for my own amusement. I reach up and put my hand over hers. “Very astute observation.”

All eyes are still on her. “Right, I’m bored now. I’m going to find another drink.” She turns her back on those eyes and exits briskly.

“She’s been spending way too much time with you.” Darius grins like he knows some hidden secret. “If she’s not careful you’re going to make her completely boring.”

“Moving on. Coraline, secure an exit for our new friend. I’ll count on you to get meetings with the right investors. I’ll see to it that your brother isn’t much trouble at all”

She nods, looking perfectly satisfied at my last words. “I will be in touch.”

Finally, this night is nearing a conclusion. Although it has been enjoyable parading Kat around at my side. “We should all go out and fulfill our social obligations before leaving.” I look pointedly at Argos. “Let’s not make things too obvious for now. Darius, try not to drink our host dry.”

“Kat’s probably already beat me to it.” I should find her before that gets close to being true.

We exit one by one, slipping back into the sea of guests. I make the rounds, exchanging empty pleasantries, listening to numbing prattle, and keep an eye out for Kat. I know how she can get when the wine starts flowing, and she already hates crowds.

There is no sign of her after I’ve passed through nearly every room that’s occupied. Honestly, if she’s left on her own, we’ll have words later. Finally, hemmed in by some weasel faced little bureaucrat on the edge of the lavish ballroom I spot her, dancing with Augustus Montrose. I feel my jaw tighten, I explicitly warned her about him.

I keep her in my sight, determined to see them separated without this turning into a scene between the two of us. I’ve never had the opportunity to see her dance before. Every step is elegant and perfectly measured, reflective of her other skills. The idiot leans in and says something and she laughs, looking absolutely carefree. Why is that almost anyone else can do that so easily?

A huge shadow looms over me and the poor, sniveling fellow trying to engage me vanishes. Darius gets uncomfortably close, a wine glass in each hand. “You know, instead of glaring at Montrose like you're going to murder him later, you could just ask her to dance?”

He’s entirely too fixated on this. “Are you implying I’m jealous?”

“I’m not even implying, I saying it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s free to do as she pleases. I just don’t want this having any consequences later.” I don’t need everyone here connecting the two of them.

He rolls his eyes and continues drinking as a response. The music ends and Montrose walks her off the dance floor, finding another drink to pass to her. When she looks in my direction we lock eyes and she immediately looks down and away. Neither walk away and he continues to hover around her. That’s it, the pampered little fop has had enough of her time.

I start towards them. “Nope, not jealous at all,” Darius mutters behind me.

The music begins again. “One more dance?” His voice exudes artifice and practiced charm.

I clear my throat behind them. “Apologies Augustus.” At least her apology wasn’t sincere and now we can finally be done with this. “I owe one to someone else.” She smiles and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the dance floor with surprising strength. This wasn’t what I had intended in the least.

“By all means.” He bows graciously but stares daggers at me. Idiot.

We find ourselves in the midst of a waltz, at the edge of the dance floor, perfectly visible to everyone. “Now everyone’s staring again.” Her cheeks are flushed, though if it’s the wine, the warmth of the room, or the attention, I can’t tell.

“That’s because I don’t typically dance.” And I don’t know why I am now.

“I can tell.” She laughs in that same carefree manner she had with Darius earlier. And like her smile at home, it’s been far too long since she laughed like that around me.

“I’m not that bad, you’re very mean.”

“Don’t worry, I’m good enough for both of us.” She’s right, I am terrible at this, but I struggle through. My timing is completely off and I step on her at least twice, but her hand in mine leads me on. The scent of violet perfume that surrounds her is almost intoxicating. It combines with the heat of the room and makes it difficult to draw breath. It’s a little bit of delirium, and dangerously I let the room and the crowd fade away in my mind until there’s just the two of us, just for a second. Then reality pushes back in and the foolishness of it seizes me. The waltz concludes and she lets out a little sigh. At least this has served as distraction enough that no one will remember her and Augustus. “I imagine you’re ready to leave.”

A strand of her hair has come loose, I reach out and brush it behind her ear. “We could stay if you want.” She seemed so content.

She closes her eyes. “No, let’s go, I’m done with all this.”

She leans her head on my shoulder the whole ride home, eyes half closed. I can tell she overdid it when I wasn’t watching. “So, when do you want me to kill him?” She finally breaks the silence.

I hesitate, that was the last topic I expected. “Later.” I don’t want to worry about plots and plans and grand schemes for the rest of the night. “It can wait.”

“Pretending to be somewhat pleasant tire you out?” Her lips brush my cheek softly, in direct opposition to her little jab.

I pull her tighter against me. “You always insist on pushing your luck with me, don't you Kitten?”

We finally come to a stop and I help her step down from the carriage. The snow has begun falling again, wet and heavy, blanketing the walk. She missteps and wobbles a bit, my arms wrap around her, keeping her on her feet. “Most dangerous assassin in Noxus, can’t walk in the snow.”

She starts to dissolve into that soft giggling that only comes out when she’s like this. “Shut it! It’s this stupid outfit I’m stuffed into.”

“And you’re tipsy. Do you need me to carry you?” She continues to laugh while playfully swatting my hand away. She looks breathtaking with the snow falling around her and her eyes lit up with genuine mirth. I wonder for a moment if we could always be like this. Could she be all happiness and smiles if I tried? Would she want that? Just to make life easier for both of us.

The servants are all asleep and I keep her from waking Gwen when we get upstairs. I’m tired of being around other people. “Who’s going to get me out of this damn thing?”

“Be patient for a few seconds.” I take her shoulders and turn her away from me. I get to work on the tiny little buttons, followed by the lacing, their precious nature preventing me from using my left hand. She waits patiently, letting me take my time undressing her, finally sighing softly when my fingers trace her bare skin. I help her with the little pins in her hair, admiring the way it cascades down her back when freed.

She turns and her arms entwine me as she leans in to give me a teasing kiss, lips parted ever so slightly, her intention obvious. “Not tonight my tipsy little Kitten. Straight to bed with you.” She pouts, as per usual when she’s been denied something, but makes her way to bed.

When I join her under the covers she's already mostly asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed. “Move over.” I try to gently push her toward her side.

She mumbles something sleepily but gives way, turning her back toward me. I take my place beside her and make sure the covers are pulled up around her, I know she hates it when she gets cold. My arm wraps around her waist and I lay a light kiss on her shoulder as she relaxes against me. “Night Jericho.” She whispers softly, eyes closed.

"Goodnight Kat." Sleep eludes me though as I lay here, holding this moment in my mind. It means more than it should, her curled up next to me, content in my arms. I can’t puzzle it out, I tell myself to let it go. I kiss the top of her head and finally begin to drift off.

#swain #jericho swain #swain league of legends #katarina #katarina du couteau #katarina leau #lol katarina #lol swain #swain/katarina #swain x katarina #League of Legends #league of legends fanfiction #the blade's edge #my fanfiction #my writing

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cinnamonrollstark · 5 years

Text

Whumptober Day 1: Shaky Hands

Brief ouch ouch warning. Hurt my soul to write this but he he we love making ourselves wanna die, don’t we? Alrighty. You’ve been warned. Yee yee. Let’s get started now, shall we? Also CW/TW for suicide.

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A descent upon piano keys, Tony’s fingers drum against ivory planks. The tune is “Goodbye Until Tomorrow/I Could Never Rescue You” from The Last Five Years. It’s melancholic, plaintive in the hollow dark of the hall. A steady intake of breath, and then he hums, warm air vibrating against his lips. The fingers glide, and he pretends to be okay.

It’s been two weeks, now. It’s so odd, to find that distance, to toe the line between Peter living, and Peter gone. Of course, Tony would prefer to find himself before that line rather than after it. There is comfort within the confines of his imagination, and in its tracks, delusion. But it only leaves him so much room: the more welcoming the lie, the more obvious the truth.

I stand on the precipice,

I struggle to keep my balance,

I open myself

I open myself one stitch at a time

There are memories. Memories of pain and also laughter, the good and the bad so inexplicably mixed and undefined. They mix and tremble and threaten to fall away. In grieving, the memories all become sources of pain in spite of the love and joy they may have once created. A reminder, really, of what has been lost. Far more lost than what was gained; Tony was often reminded in his times of bereavement that everything happened for a reason, but he knew enough to see through that. What reason could there be for this? What possible greater cause would erase such a young and vibrant life from the universe?

Tony wants to believe he is numb to it now. He should be used to this, in all he has experienced. Mother, father, friend, and-

What can he call Peter? What must he remember him as? It feels terribly intrusive, to claim him as a son or anything more than a mentee, one-sided, in Peter’s absence. Yet, this is the association in feeling, the same emotion produced when Morgan skins her knee or hits her head, multiplied with mourning. The pain it elicits can best be described as an empty space, a lead balloon settling within his ribcage like a foreign organ, a third lung whose purpose is solely to steal all the air from his body, leaving him breathless. He should’ve expected this. Nothing great ever truly lasts forever.

Goodbye, until tomorrow,

Goodbye till I recall how to breathe,

And I have been waiting,

I have been waiting for you.

He’d found Peter on the floor of the bedroom closet. The hanglight, a bulb with no cover, sent a soft glow across the boy’s paling cheeks. Most days, Peter seemed so small, a miniature hero to protect, to cover, to save. That morning, he took up the whole length of the closet, made grown by a struggle undisclosed. Tony squeezed the boy’s hand, felt for a pulse on the wrist, then shortly after on the neck. Peter’s skin was already cooling, and there was no denying his death; it was then that Tony noticed the eyes, still half open, hazel brown reflecting slivers of light overhead. Although he wasn’t sure why, Tony shut the lids before beginning compressions.

Palm to ribs, elbows straight, chest rising and falling with forced air in between the jolted movements; this went on for half an hour. Desperation gave way to grief, to denial. Then, a spark of hope: a pulse is found. Tony rejoices.

Finally yes,

Finally now,

Finally something takes me away,

Finally Free!

Finally he can cut through these strings,

And open my wings.

Tucked in that bed, like a child, a tube protruding from his throat, breath, still not his own, pushed in through the tube and out again. Tony stroked Peter’s hand, rubbing circles in the soft skin. He was warm now, warm again. A heartbeat, precious, melodic, announcing itself every two seconds or so. Denial, personified, a figure carved so perfectly to look like the boy, his boy, that if Tony did not inspect him so closely, he would not have recognized the absence of something greater, whatever made Peter, Peter.

“I know this isn’t something you’d like to think about right now, but it’s important that we take advantage of the time we have. Is Peter an organ donor?”

The nurse was blurry to him, then, and in that, she drifted, lost at sea. Waves, crashing down around them with each pointed lie of Peter’s heart.

Tony nodded. In truth, he didn’t quite remember, but he knew what Peter would want.

“Okay,” continued the nurse, joining him under the surface of the water as it rose. “It is vital that we get started with the process as soon as possible. I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. Is there anyone we can call to be with you, after we take him?”

He’s already been taken, thought Tony. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, the word, too large to fit past his throat. “I’m all he has left.”

I could never rescue you

The nurses and doctors and staff formed lines against the walls as they walked to surgery. They called it the walk of honor. Tony did his best not to make eye contact with them; not that he could’ve seen them if he tried, tears streaming down his face and into his beard. He swallowed the ugly sobs that threatened to spill, feeling observed but overwhelmingly thankful for the many that are gathered to honor Peter’s post-mortem sacrifice. His lungs would be given to a thirteen year old, his liver to a thirty year old. Then, the heart- god, Peter’s heart- would be given to a young child, a ten year old girl. Peter’s heart would save her life. All this, he tried to remind himself as they neared the end of the hall. The doctors wheeling him stopped before the double doors and gave him space to say goodbye.

All you ever wanted

Tony kissed Peter’s cheek and sighed into his skin. It was then that he gave way to the storm, the ocean boiling within him, and sobbed as he held him tight. “I love you Peter,” he choked out, “so, so much.” The boy’s chest rose and fell with make-pretend life, and Tony breathed in tandem. It was several minutes before he pulled away, wiping his own tears from Peter’s cheeks. “We’ll be okay, Pete. You can rest now.”

He let go, then, and watched as they wheeled the child away.

But I could never rescue you

No matter how hard I tried

When Peter was finally gone behind those doors, Tony collapsed in on himself, for a moment, so terribly alone on that hospital floor. Then, one by one, the hands of strangers, kind strangers- those that stood for the walk of honor, pressed against his back, his head; embraces from a dozen men and women.

All I could do was love you hard,

And let you go

Peter had killed himself. It felt pointless, really, and Tony was fairly sure that would never change. Fingertips to warm piano keys. He takes a deep breath in, and lets it out. There was so much he would’ve done, if he’d known in time. How he would’ve listened to the boy, held him when he needed it. It didn’t matter that he’d been there, that he’d loved him. That he’d been there. He hadn’t been enough, he was sure.

Light floods the kitchen across the hall, and the piano music stops.

“That you, Morguna?”

He swallows the dry emotion as Morgan’s small frame sends shadows across the archway.

“It’s pretty daddy.”

Tony smiles, sadly. His eyes are still wet, red. He prays she wont notice.

“You’re sweet, Morgs. You wanna play?”

She grins and nods excitedly.

He would’ve tried even harder had he known. Tony already loved him endlessly as his own. Yet, there was no changing the past, only the future. As Morgan makes her run towards him, a shadow of what could’ve been and now, could be, traces behind her like a lagging video. He takes a breath as she leaps onto the piano bench next to him, and wraps his arms around her. Although he cannot save Peter, now, he can preserve his memory, and nurture the trust of understanding with Morgan, a freedom to talk and confide in all that hurts her and weighs on her mind.

Morgan props herself up against him, and he offers up the backs of his hands. She sets her tiny palms against her father’s, and he begins to pick up the final notes one more time.

“Daddy,” she whispers, giggling. “Your hands are all wobbly.”

He smiles, softly.

“Sorry, sweetie.”

His hands shake as he realizes the weight of the future he holds. He plays through the uneasiness, and closes his eyes, Peter’s smile at the back of his mind.

No matter how hard I tried,

All I could do was love you,

God, I loved you so.

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until-we-fall-in-love · 5 years

Text

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn: chapter two

Read the Prologue - Read Chapter One -

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader if you squint

Summary: You play careful games in order to lead Fury and Natasha in the right directions.

Warnings: light smut, mentions of abuse/Bucky’s torture

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello again!! thank you to those who are giving comments and feedback and whatnot!! it means a lot to me!! i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think!!

Read on Ao3

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Chapter Two: Sublime

2015

Two years of gathering information on Project Insight, on watching it slowly, painstakingly be built in the belly of SHIELD, masquerading as good, leaves you feeling restless. As if you are waiting for something to explode and expand in your face. You’re on some sort of precipice, a calm before the storm.

Pierce grows weary of Steve. You have befriended him in some way over the years, though tried to keep him at a distance after the first night. With all that you know, it feels too strange, too much like betrayal.

But occasionally, Steve surprises you. And you surprise yourself. It’s hard not to give into him at times. You remember fleeting moments, when he’d gotten too close to kissing you, when you’d gotten too close to kissing him. And the occasional moments that the distance had closed entirely between the two of you, left you trembling and full of adoration or desire for him, near desperate to be so close to him again. But then thoughts of Bucky would flood your mind, overwhelm you, threaten to choke you. All of those secrets you have tucked so deeply inside of you suddenly sit heavy on your shoulders, press hard into your back.

And as if Steve can tell, he asks you, pensive and soft;

“What’s holding you back?”

“What are you shouldering, sweetheart?”

“Do you want to talk, honey?”

And each time, you tell him it’s nothing, each time you tell him you’re fine. You don’t know how to explain why you fight your draw to him, the way you try and put distance between the two of you. You know it confuses him; the way in which you recede from him after almost falling into his arms, into his bed, into his love again and again.

It’s so damn tempting, when he looks at you like you’re valuable and dear to him. As if you could nearly be the whole world; a devotee. Loyal until the bitter, fading end of it all. There’s a desperation between you two, one that you hadn’t known existed inside of Steve. There’s a hunger in him for you, a little darker than you’d thought; he tastes too similar to Bucky sometimes, in those sparse moments that you give in to your sudden, sparking need for him.

You remember when he’d asked for your birthday, something you hadn’t mentioned to anyone since your sister had died. There was never a celebration, barely a happy birthday, if you even saw her that day. And Bucky didn’t even know the decade, you wouldn’t bother him with something as trivial as your birthday. But Steve had asked and you’d told him. You expected him to forget, you expected nothing. However, when the day rolled around, he’d caught you in your office.

You’d been about to leave to meet with Pierce, standing in front of your desk, gathering papers to bring to him when Steve had walked in. You’d turned at the sound of the door, found him with a small cupcake in his hand, a candle standing tall from the lightly blue frosting of it. And surprise had flickered through you, heart squeezing because you-- you didn’t think you had ever blown out a candle on your birthday. No wishes, no dreams, no hopes for you in your world without stars. Only wide, empty darkness.

But here Steve was, remembering you. Giving you a wish, a flash of brilliant, aching hope.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He’d said all soft and fond and he’d gone in to press a kiss to your cheek.

But you’d been so caught up in your sudden emotions, so overwhelmed with the thought of being remembered, of feeling suddenly cared for that you’d turned and caught him in a proper kiss. And he’d made a noise of surprise, set the cupcake off to the side of your desk and eagerly, hungrily, kissed you back.

And it was as if a key slid into a lock; you opened for him, let him in.

You hadn’t been ready for the full force of him, of his desire. His hands were everywhere then; on your cheek, dragging to cup your jaw, the back of your neck. Into your hair. Pulling you flush to him, gripping your waist tight. As if you’d disappear if he didn’t. Maybe you would.

Your head had spun with him, with the desperate nip of your bottom lip, the way he pressed you into the edge of your desk, knee going between your legs. You’d whimpered, swallowed by the deep kiss he gave you.

You were heady with him, dizzy, control slipping, and when you pulled away, his eyes were fever bright before his lips slid to your neck. Claiming, sucking kisses and bites made you cling to his large frame, dig nails into his shoulders.

One hand slid between your legs, right beneath your skirt that was now rucked up high on your thighs. His fingers were quick, slid against the fabric of the lace of your underwear and you’d squirmed, jolted under his bruising grip.

Faintly, you’d wondered if you were only human, would his grip be too tight? Would he be hurting? It didn’t matter now-- not as you arched into him, hips pushing needy into his willing hands.

“I’ve missed you,” He had said low, into your neck, “I can’t get you out of my head.” He half-growled, as if you drove him insane, and he gave you a firmer stroke of his fingers.

And even if you wanted to agree, to keep rocking your hips into him, to show him just how much you appreciated the cupcake, the kindness; a flash of guilt had hit you like lightning. His words forced you to recall Bucky, the way he always sang praises, told you he missed you, that you were his. Your heart had dropped into your stomach with it all then.

“Steve,” You’d gasped, warning in your voice. He seemed to have sensed it because he’d gripped you a little tighter.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” He’d near begged and it could’ve been your undoing. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

You almost gave in, almost said fuck it, but you sucked in breath, forced your head to clear. “Steve,” You half-pleaded with him, voice dropping to a whisper, “I can’t.”

And that seemed to lift the haze of desire from him, letting his hand fall from between your legs. He stayed near for a moment, though, still crowding you against your desk. You didn’t want his warmth to leave, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky. “Okay,” He’d murmured, accepted your rejection like everything he did; with a sense of grace, of honor, and respect. Your heart twisted.

So he stepped away from you, cheeks tinged pink. He’d looked at you then, eyes still strangely bright, feverish with you, opened his mouth to speak again--

But now Pierce looks at you with beady, blue eyes, dragging you back to the present, memory lifting like a thin haze of early mornings. “I want you to keep an eye on Captain Rogers, do you understand me? I don’t want him getting in the way of anything.”

You’d blinked up at him, eyebrow quirking.

“Can you handle that? Or does your relationship with him jeopardize that?” Pierce snaps and it makes you bristle. You hate that Pierce knows of anything between you and Steve or you and Bucky. You want to covet your relationship with each, keep them safe, guarded and tucked away.

But your face remains aloof, save for the slight roll of your eyes, “There’s no relationship for me. This won’t be an issue.”

Pierce considers this, “Does he trust you?”

“He’s very trusting.”

“Good.” Pierce decides, “Good, we could use that perhaps. Keep it, then. And watch him.”

“I will.” You promise, though know now that you need to pay a little visit to Nick Fury.

Which you do, almost directly after Pierce has left you. You walk into Nicky Fury’s office unannounced and you aren’t intimidated by the way he levels you with a slight, irritated glare. You stand tall regardless. Unfortunately, Natasha is nowhere in sight. She trusts you more than Fury does. Regardless, you have at least some of Fury’s trust because you are Pierce’s assistant. He has no idea the betrayal that lies beneath him. You intend to change that.

You know that Pierce has not only tasked you with the job of watching Steve and being sure he stays out of HYDRA’s way. You know Agent Rumlow is also keeping a keen eye on the Captain and that makes your skin crawl.

You want to even the playing fields.

“Pierce has requested a shadow on Captain Rogers, for his own safety.” You say, “He tasked me with finding an agent we trust to do so. Any recommendations, Director Fury?” Your lie comes easily and you pray it doesn’t wind up coming back to bite you. If Fury brings anything up to Pierce…

“Why is he concerned with Captain Rogers safety?” Fury asks, scrutinizing you. You don’t flinch away from his gaze.

“Precaution. You know Alexander.” You reply easily, “He fears that Captain Rogers attracts far more attention than the usual field agent given his...status as an Avenger.”

Fury considers this, silent for a moment. You try to remain open faced and casual as you stand in front of him.

After a moment, he says, “I’ll enlist one of my agents.”

“Do you have one in mind? I’d like to let Mr. Pierce know who it is.” You lie, you have no intention of telling Pierce, but you need to be sure Fury chooses a SHIELD agent, not a HYDRA one masquerading as such. You want at least one more person keeping an eye on Steve. If anything happened to him and you knew, and didn’t try and stop it--

Nick sighs, leans back in his chair a moment. “I do.” He finally says, and then, “Tell him I’ll enlist Agent Thirteen to look out for Captain Rogers.”

You think back, wracking your brain for a moment to place a face to that name. Honey blonde, dark eyes. Sharon, is her name, you think. Sharon Carter. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, worry unfurling from your chest. She’s SHIELD through and through.

“I’ll tell Mr. Pierce. Thank you, Director Fury.” You respond, and move to take your leave. But just as you are about to leave, you pause by the door, “And sir?”

He picks his head back up and looks at you once more.

“Do you, by any chance, know where Natasha is?”

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You find Natasha in one of the gyms, where she is seated on a bench, water bottle beside her. Her hands are wrapped, her face glistening with sweat, hair tousled and pulled away from her face. You are a stark difference from her at the moment, in your pencil skirt and heels that click and echo on the gym floor.

She picks her head up, green eyes lighting up when she sees you.

“Natasha,” You greet, give her name the lilting, Russian pronunciation it was meant to have.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She asks, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

You move to sit beside her on the bench, primly, folding your hands into your lap. You cross one leg over the other and tilt your head, gazing at her, “Can’t a friend visit a friend?” You ask.

“Are we friends?” She replies, mischief glittering in her eyes. And though she is part teasing, part cheshire, there is another genuine question that hangs between you both. Your relationship predates SHIELD, predates all of this and you remember her in fleeting, smoky memories; sticky, lip gloss kisses and smeared lipstick down your neck, skimming knives tucked away on her body and sly, smirking lips. Rolling, dirty Russian words husked between kisses, between bodies.

You’re both definitely….something. Not quite friends, not quite exes, not quite lovers. Your moments with Natasha in the past were quick and surreal, like some sort of far off fever dream. There was no distinguishable beginning or end with your relationship, it simply appeared when she did, disappeared when you did.

But you know odd quirks about her. You know she has a wicked scar on her shoulder blade, another on the top of her right thigh. And of course, the one Bucky gave her on the lower part of her waist. You’d kissed it soft when you’d found it; it’d been still pretty new at the time. She’d told you of her encounter with the Winter Soldier afterwards, entirely clueless to your connection to him.

You were glad it had only left a scar.

“If you’d like to be.” You respond aloofly.

Natasha hums in amusement at your response, “And would you like to be?”

Your instinct is to say yes. Desperately, you realize, you want a friend. Need a friend. You wished you weren’t so alone in all of this. Your chest tightens, loneliness and frustration claw at you, tear you apart from the inside out. You wish you could tell her everything suddenly, wish you could let go of all the secrets you’re keeping so tightly coiled inside of you. You swear you’ll burst one of these days;

SHIELD is actually run by HYDRA.

I was made from the same serum Steve Rogers was.

I’m not Pierce’s willing assistant. My sister was killed for him.

The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s old best friend.

And I’m caught between them somehow--

“I could use a friend.” You admit carefully, giving her a sideways glance.

“Just a friend?”

“Just a friend.” You exhale, turning to look at her. And maybe there’s something in your eyes, something she catches, because she asks very bluntly;

“Is it Rogers?”

You blink, heart swooping low inside of you for a moment, “What--”

“Is it Rogers that you’ve got on your mind?” She presses and you can’t tell if she’s curious or jealous or both. Maybe neither.

“We’re just…” Your voice trails off because are you friends with him, too? Can you say that? “There’s nothing between us.” You half-lie. You aren’t even sure if that’s true, but you force yourself to believe it. You have Bucky, you can’t have Steve, too. Or even Natasha.

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, but regardless, she drops the topic. Maybe she can see how conflicted you are, the distress that creeps over your features, the guilt and emotions that roll deep inside of you.

How many more secrets can you keep? How much more entangled can you become with all of them?

These secrets won’t last forever. You only hope that if they’re going to leak, if they’re going to come spilling out like a flood, you’ll be able to make it out with Bucky. Steve and Natasha will be able to escape fire, too. You don’t know when they became so important to you, too, but you need to ensure their safety. So after a moment, you speak to Natasha in Russian;

“I need you to be cautious.”

Natasha cocks a brow at you, “I’m always cautious.”

You swallow. Some deep, intrinsic part of you knows you can trust Natasha not to let anything you say slip-- or perhaps you’re so desperate to share, you convince yourself of it. Regardless, you turn to face her.

“Do you know how I got to SHIELD?”

Natasha quirks a brow at you, then shrugs her shoulders in a slow rise and drop of them, “The same as me, maybe.” She guesses. It’s logical to assume that.

But you shake your head the slightest amount, almost as if you hadn’t moved at all. Natasha catches it, and presses, “Then how?”

“Find out.” You tell her, unable to look at her. Your heart thuds dully inside of you; this is the closest you have ever come to admitting any of this out loud. This is the closest you have ever come to even uttering that you have not had control of your own life for decades. Your fingers squeeze, tighten where they are clasped together in your lap. Your breath comes in shallow and you feel suddenly lightheaded, panic threatens to constrict you--

Natasha sees this, eyes tracking you fast. “Calm down.” She murmurs, “Breathe. Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Precaution.” You respond clipped and quick, exhaling through your nose, and trying to regain your composure. “Find out.” You urge her again, turning to face her for a moment, catching her startling, green eyes.

But before she can respond, mouth opening and closing, searching for words; you stand, and flee from the gym, from Natasha. You only hope that she pulls on the thread you have given her.

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There is a night when Bucky goes to you; he’s supposed to be on a mission for Pierce. He isn’t supposed to be sitting in your bedroom when you return home late one night. The sky is devoid of moon, devoid of stars. A dark nothingness that engulfs the room. The drapes around your window flutter, window opened, night breeze cooling your room. He doesn’t startle you when you flip on the light to your bedroom, revealing him to be seated in the armchair in the corner.

You do pause, though, wary. This could get you both in a severe amount of trouble. The unflinching, vacant gaze that he gives you indicates you’re talking to The Winter Soldier and not Bucky.

“Does Pierce know you’re here?” You ask, shutting the door behind you. You don’t fear him, not even with all the weapons you can see on his body, made for violence and brutality. Usually, you are stripping him bare; no weapons, no strength, no soldier. But now he is before you in all his brutal, cutting glory.

“Net,” He replies in Russian. No.

You wade further into your room, step out of your heels gracefully, settle them at the end of your bed. You begin to unclasp your necklace, take out your earrings. Just as you do every night.

“You could get in trouble.” You caution as your last earring falls into your waiting palm. You set your jewelry on the nightstand before glancing at him. His eyes are fixed on you, dark, and shadowed.

You reach around for the zipper of your slim dress at the back of your neck. Your back arches, fingers grasping for it. He stands silently and you feel your heart nearly stop, stutter, as he moves to stand behind you.

There is an eerie, gentleness that overcomes him as he carefully, slowly pulls the zipper down, over your shoulders, the slope of your spine. Your back, vulnerable and unguarded is bared to the Winter Soldier. Metal fingers that are cool and a little startling make you gasp as he eases the dress from your shoulders. It falls forward, reveals your collar bones, the skin of your chest, which rises and falls quick, and fluttering, until the fabric falls away and pools at your feet.

The brush of rough leather, tactical gear, and metal against your back makes you shiver. His fingers are still gentle, cold to the touch, as he unclasps the back of your bra, pulls it from you with a measured, slow move. He’s barely touched you and you're already breathing quick, a flush slowly gathering despite the goose bumps that erupt over your skin. The warmth of his general body behind you is a sharp contrast to the cool night air, to his fingertips.

Your bra drops to the floor.

And you barely breathe as his metal hand makes contact with your ribs, glides over the bones beneath. The gravity of the touch is not lost on you; the usual violence that his hands commit, now being used to touch you so delicately, so strangely soft for him. (The gentleness almost reminds you of Steve, the way Steve’s roughness almost reminds you of Bucky. Your heart twists, struggles).

But he’s sublime. Terrifying and extraordinary and intoxicating.

His hand slides to your waist, hooks in the line of your underwear and pulls them off with a slowness and patience you don’t seem to have, because you squirm, trying to ease them off faster and he grabs your waist with his other hand. His grip is tight, a little punishing, forcing you to stay still. You gasp lightly at the suddenness, at the jarring roughness, but you understand the message; don’t move. Not unless he wants you to.

So you still yourself as he slowly drags off the last article of your clothes, sliding down with them, until he drops to his knees. His hand touches your calf, soft, and you step out of your dress and underwear for him.

He turns you then, to face him and you look down at him in the soft, faded light of your bedroom. The sight wrenches, bends, twists something inside of you into desire, into flame, and love, and brilliance. His hands skim up the outside of your legs and you shiver. When he glances up at you, his eyes are still stone and ice and unseeing. But he leans in, brushes his lips to the tops of your thighs; not in anything so firm as a kiss, but only skimming, sliding by.

“Sidet,” He commands, voice rough and soft against your skin.

And you obey for him. You sit back, at the edge of your bed and he eases between your legs, shoulders them apart with his broad body, all muscle and hard lines. His nose skims along the sensitive, delicate part of your inner thigh. Your hands drop to his hair, tangle in it, tighten as your breath shudders.

“James,” You exhale, excited and apprehensive and feeling breakable in the best way possible. You want him to fucking shatter you.

His eyes flutter at his name but he doesn’t recognize it, and he scolds you with a harsh bite that makes you yelp, sudden and high. Your fingers flex in his hair. It ebbs into a slow, sucking kiss that makes you arch. Warm mouth, cold hands that suddenly grip your waist and tug you close.

His lips ghost over your center and you are seconds away from begging, feeling suddenly unhinged. Your heart is a trapped bird in the cage of your chest. He’s some strange, new creature of delicacy and viciousness and you love him-- you love him but you think he’s going to ruin you.

“Ty prinadlezhish' mne,” He tells you with sudden bright, sudden sharp eyes that peer up into your face. He looks all predator. Monster. Killer.

But you agree quickly, “Yes,” Half-begging, “I’m yours.”

He rewards you now, opens his mouth against where you need him most and tightens his hold on you to near painful. His eyes soften, warm at the whimper you let out, as if some part of his very soul knows the sound. And he looks perfect. Angel. Savior.

And he makes you cry; he doesn’t let up, he doesn’t make this easy and soothing. He forces you into hypersensitivity, begging and gasping in English, in Russian, in nothing half-words because he is cruel and awful. But you love him. You need him.

He needs you, too. You can tell by the way he pushes into you later, the way he holds you as if you're something to be coveted, tucked safely into his chest, right beside his heart. He rumbles in Russian about how you’re his and you’re perfect and you’re everything. He likes your tears, kisses them sweet, bites your neck sharp.

By the end, it feels as if you’ve been torn apart, cleaved open with brutality, and delicately kissed with tenderness. He doesn’t stay, disappears in the pale, graveyard light of the city below your apartment like a phantom.

When you see him again, it is after Pierce has gotten ahold of him. Bucky’s temples are bright and angry. He’s vacant and hollow and you can’t help the sinking, souring thought that he’s been caught for straying from his mission and punished more severely for it.

You hold him against your chest in the shower, hurt and pity and fear burning through you for him, leaving a gaping, vulnerable hole in your chest. Hateness and bitterness for Pierce roll around inside of you, too. For anyone that has ever touched him. You feel monstrous with your anger and vengeance. Predator. Killer.

“Ty prinadlezhish' mne,” You tell him, kissing the ache of his temples, reverent and gentle.

He slurs “Yes,” Then calls you perfect. Angel. Savior.

And he makes you cry; wishing with all that you have inside of you for your brighter futures, for the small, kernel of hope and fury you have grasped at over the bitter, horrible years of it all.

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The STRIKE team is employed alongside Steve and Natasha to a SHIELD ship taken hostage. You know better. And you suggest to Fury slyly that perhaps it is wise to investigate a little, to pull information. You almost pray that the small seed of suspicion you have tried to plant in him has taken root.

Natasha returns with a little too much (hidden) information. Fury looks at you differently. And you are certain that suspicion has begun to blossom.

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

“1991,” Natasha says one day, catching up to your brisk walk down the halls of SHIELD. Your heart drops straight into your stomach. You glance around to see if anyone important has heard. No one has, you don’t think. Regardless, she continues, “That’s all I can find on you. Some HYDRA project in 1991.”

You turn to face her, but before you can speak, she presses, “I don’t say this lightly, but you’re a hard girl to trace.”

“Who do you think brought me to SHIELD?” You carefully guide her.

“Fury?”

You shake your head quick and small.

Her eyes light up when she finds the answer and your breath catches, excited and hopeful and scared.

“Pierce.” She corrects herself and disappears from your side as if she’d never even been there at all.

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

“Bucky,” You murmur one night, under the pale lights of the shower. He doesn’t respond, but his flesh hand continues to draw strange, swirling patterns into your back. The water cascades over you both, steam warming and curling around you. His head is dropped onto your shoulder as you stay in his lap.

You venture into unknown territory with a shaky question, “Do you remember Steve Rogers?”

He stirs, blinking wet lashes against his cheeks, looking up at you. “Steve?” He repeats in a startlingly fragile and small voice. Your heart cleaves straight down the middle. “I-- I don’t--” And he looks so painfully lost and searching that you put your hands on either side of his face.

“I can’t--” He blinks hard, eyes glittering with sudden tears. His breath comes in sharp and sudden, “Did I-- Steve--”

“Hey,” You try to hush him, to calm him, “It’s okay,” You murmur, pulling him back into you. “It’s okay.” You try to soothe, but you have a sinking, awful intuition that this is going to cost you dearly in some way.

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

Fury approaches you one day, in your office. He observes you as if he is seeing you for the first time. You hold his gaze, and hope that he does see you newly now.

“You’ve been leading me towards something,” He says quiet and low. You swallow. And here is your precipice, you think, here is that edge you have being anticipating and fearing and desperate for. You race towards it. For you. For Bucky.

“Yes,” You agree.

“Who can I trust?” He asks as if he knows, and perhaps he does. Or perhaps he only knows partly or next to none of it. Regardless, it is a good question to ask.

“Steve,” You tell him, “Natasha, too.”

“Anyone else?”

You shake your head and he allows that to settle inside him, as if he accepts it slow. You know there are others but-- but right now, those are the only two you want him to trust.

“How much more can you lead me?” He asks then, shoving his hands into his pockets.

And you don’t get to answer, because Pierce enters now, eyes flickering between the two of you. Your stomach rolls anxiously, flipping over itself horribly. But you and Fury remain calm. Your eyes flicker, subtle, to Pierce and then to Fury.

Whatever Fury sees in your eyes, he nods behind Pierce’s back. And you smile, “Mr. Pierce,” You say, but you feel predatory, as if he has walked into your trap, right into your waiting jaws and jagged teeth. You are hungry.

But you ask, luring and mild and tempting;

“What can I do for you?”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanficiton #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #my fanfic

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stedes-black-bonnet · 5 years

Text

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 30

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: life, guys; sorry this took longer than expected.

Warnings: Swearing? Bad driving?

Abstract: The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, The Seven Year Itch, Sabrina...

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

Jim Hutton had always wanted to drive Roger’s Alfa Romeo. But, when the cards were down on the table, who didn’t? Jim wouldn’t have described himself as a gear-head. He might have said he was a good Catholic boy from Ireland who had a perchance for good bar-tending skills, barber-y, and cater-waitering. He wasn’t into cars as a hobby, and for Jim there was a clear class divide between people who drove cars for necessity and people who collected cars. Collecting cars was something people with money did. For fun. Purely for fun; this wasn’t always a concept Jim easily wrapped his head around: spending money for fun. And, until Freddie, Jim had never been in possession of having enough money to really peruse the finer things in life. A car for Jim had always been a means to get to and from work and never as an instrument of enjoyment. And Freddie, generous to a fault, never ceased to shower Jim with everything he had been denied or had denied himself through strict duty of survival. Roger, who maybe had seven cars all told (that Jim knew about), had names for each of them, claimed they all had personalities, different capabilities, and loyalties, saw cars companions.

“Roger?” Jim said, living his best life, top down, having really opened up the goddess in red. They were doing about 80 mph.

Roger moaned. His blond hair was whipping in the breeze, his head hung over the side of his door; he had already vomited once. His blazer had been abandoned. Come to think of it, he was feeling abandoned himself. Abandoned by his own abilities of perception and common sense. He kept thinking about Deacy. What he had said. And why. And that he’d give anything to fix it; he’d give anything to fix Deacy, and had. He had been the one to see her body, after all. And he’d do it again, if the choice came his way again. He was always willing to torture himself at the expense of others. And boy, he had really outdone himself this time. He knew exactly the right words to say to destroy his best friend, and he had said them, without a second thought, without caring, with the desire to harm. It hadn’t been his finest moment. I mean, he had dazzled; the audience had been captivated, and he had always loved that unique feeling, the feeling of holding a group of people in the palm of his hand. It was a rush like no other. It was one thing to do it how Freddie did it, with his vocals and his acrobatics, but it was an entirely different enterprise to do it with the tone of your voice, the flick of a wrist, and a well placed designer suit. So, in a very real sense, it had been one of his finer moments, but in an entirely different sense, it had been his worst. What have I done? He couldn’t dance around it any longer.

“Hey, Roger?!” Jim repeated, ready to perform, trying his hardest to reach Roger.

“Not again...” Roger sighed.

Doing his best John Travolta, Jim said, “Why it could be Greased Lightnin’!”

“Jim, no; not again, mate; I’m begging you.” Roger said, swallowing hard. “If you sing that song again, I’ll throw up on you--I swear. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Rog—it’s my prime jive.”

“Never. Ever. Say that again.” He wasn’t finding the humor in any of it.

This was their fifth or sixth time around the roundabout. And there was no end in sight. Jim could keep this carousel going all night. He had nowhere else he’d rather be, and nothing else better to do in this moment than to bring Roger back from whatever precipice he was currently gazing into. The void was calling Roger’s name, and it would be quite simply over Jim’s dead body for Roger to reach it.

“Can we please get off this thing?” Roger shouted over the sounds of skidding rubber. “I think you’ve made your point.”

“You know very well I’m not taking us off until you laugh--a real, honest to God laugh. Those were the rules. I can play games, too.” Jim, grinning, kept driving. He hoped he was also driving his point home. He wasn’t so sure, though. And he was terrible at playing games, but that’s what Freddie loved most about him. He was pure, well-lived, hard-worked, and entirely devoted to people.

“I don’t think you’re understanding my predicament here.” Roger moved with gravity and speed, leaning into Jim, leaning out of his mind.

“Oh, I understand it perfectly; you’re the one that isn’t understanding it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Roger hated it when someone presumed to know him better than he knew himself.

“You’re being a child for starters.” Jim said, checking for cops.

“A child?!” His voice was higher than usual; this was a good sign; it meant Roger knew he was being a child, but was trying to hide it from everyone--including, and most importantly, from himself.

“Yes.” Jim confirmed. “Causing all this drama because you fell in love and couldn’t handle it.”

“But Jim--!”

“But Jim nothing. Childish! That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard; causing a scene worthy of Billy Wilder in the restaurant back there; breaking my heart and breaking poor Johnny’s, too. Not to mention the meat grinder you’ve put your own through. And for what?” Jim was shaking his head, irritated beyond belief; he took the goddess in red up to 85 mph. “Love is a gift, you fucking idiot.”

“Jim, listen--!” Roger was holding on for dear life in more ways than one.

“No, you listen here Roger Meddows Taylor; grow the fuck up. And stop telling me what to do or say; if I want to sing every God-blessed song from Grease, I bloody well will.”

“But--!”

“I solve my problems and the see the light!”

Roger groaned loudly and melodramatically; this was, perhaps, for a singer himself, the most perfect torture to endure. Jim’s voice wasn’t perhaps the best suited to belt the Frankie Valli hit, but he was enthusiastic and determined, which was really half the battle when singing any song. A talented singer, though, Jim was not. Not that it would ever stop him. Nor should it. Freddie always told him it didn’t matter how he sounded, but what he felt. Jim always held that in his heart, and applied it confidently throughout his life.

“We’ve got a lovin’ thing, we gotta feed it right.”

“Jim, you’re killing me.” Roger didn’t want to see the light; color was light after all, only reflected light; he didn’t want to see the truth, he didn’t want to feed his love, he didn’t want Lydia. Not really. Maybe. Fine, he wanted her. He loved her. But. Well. The unavoidable fact here. The one undisputed fact traipsing through his mind was this: What if Lydia ended up like Veronica? What if she died? Terribly? Suddenly? And Without rhyme or reason? It could happen to anyone. It had to Deacy, and it had completely ruined him. For years. What if Lydia died like Veronica had?

This fear was keen, deep-set, and so ingrained at this point it had driven him to a life of perpetual bachelorhood and luxurious cad-ing around. It was perhaps so hidden in his heart and mind he didn’t even know it was there until now.

“No--you’re killing yourself; love is a gift, and it won’t be wasted on you if you accept it.” Jim took a deep breath and continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There ain’t no danger we can go too far; we start believing now that we can be what we are. Grease is the word!”

Laughing, Roger said, “I will give you this car if you stop singing.” He had laughed. It was the sound of thin ice breaking in early March. It was the sound of coffee. The sound of velvet.

Jim immediately switched gears and slowed the goddess in red. The laugh had been genuine and light; accidentally won when Roger had least expected it. Roger hated losing. Usually to a fault. Something about this didn’t entirely feel like losing, though. He still wasn’t sure he liked it. Jim did seem rather proud of himself, very smiling, very pleased, maybe a little too pleased.

“I’ve always wanted this car; thank you, Roger.”

“I was joking.” Roger smiled at Jim. “I was joking! There’s no way I’m giving you her.”

“Oh, I think this will be fine payment for saving your life, reuniting you with Lydia, and helping you fix this mess with the band.” Jim wasn’t giving an inch.

“I don’t deserve your help.”

“Not more of that; I can open her up again if you’re going to just slip back into that bollocks.” His eyebrows danced, hand on the gear shaft, ready to pounce.

“No, no!” Roger yelled. “I just mean...I don’t know what I mean.”

Roger was a loquacious kind of fellow. He wasn’t often in the position of not knowing how to express himself or what to say. Words were failing him, like the colors had. Like he had failed himself. What if he said it out loud? What would happen? If he gave song to his fear? What would go down? Would Jim understand? Probably. Would the world end? Probably not? Roger wasn’t sure he could trust logic anymore; he wasn’t seeing colors, and logic couldn’t explain that. Maybe there were some things that logic couldn’t explain. The heart has reasons the mind knows not. Some French dude said that once, and Roger really felt those words. He hoped he lived by them. He wanted to live by them. He used to think if he could trust anything, it would be his heart, and recently, he had really failed himself on this account. He had been doing anything and everything to not listen to it. And now, he had to find his way back to it, if he could.

“Let me do for you what you did for Johnny once.” Jim said. He let the words hang in the air for a bit, because they were important; Roger needed to remember he was oddly noble and desperately loyal. Or that he had been. And that he could be again. Jim hadn’t been lying before: when he had first been introduced to the band and met Roger, he had been somewhat disappointed by this seemingly vacuous and vainglorious blond trash. Over time, Jim saw how much of it was an act of sorts; yes, Roger was emotional, yes he was volatile, yes he said what was on his mind no matter what it was; but, Roger was also the most caring person he had ever met, the most perceptive, and the most unwilling to admit he was a good person.

“Y/N tried to save you, too. In her own way, I’m guessing. But she tried. She stood up for Deacy and for you.”

“About that--How did she know?” Roger asked. His heart rate had increased just thinking about what you had said. “She scared the shit out of me; I’m not ashamed to admit it. She was the last person I was expecting to punch me out. But she did, and with more than her fists. There’s no way Deacy told her about Veronica already. Just no fucking way, mate.”

Taking the deep breath of truth-telling, Jim admitted, “I told her.”

He finally turned off the roundabout and headed towards Garden Lodge. He slowed drastically so he could safely look at Roger’s reaction. Trying to gauge anything flashing on Roger’s face wasn’t the easiest task while driving, or while he was in his current condition. His blue eyes were streaming with tears, whether from wind, his excess of emotions, or from being sick--it was hard to tell. Jim didn’t like to speculate, but he had a feeling it was all three. “Someone had to tell her. And I don’t regret doing it, just as I don’t regret wanting to punch you out earlier, just as I don’t regret coming after you, and saving you now. Though the hell I’m going to take for all it isn’t something I’m looking forward to reckoning with.”

Roger nodded, taking it all in. “I would have told her myself if…” he couldn’t find the words any more than he could find the colors. All he could see was Veronica’s blue Mercedes-Benz. That one had come back; maybe the others could too?

“You would have yourself if you hadn’t been burying your head up your arse?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So...the colors?” Jim asked, trying to peel the onion that was Roger’s psyche.

“I don’t know, Jim.”

Jim loudly rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy that. The conditions were clear: you need to level with me, Roger.”

Roger knew Jim was right.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and he started leveling.

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Tag List: @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love@partydulce @richiethotzierz @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws@just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger@marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump

#john deacon x reader #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy #jim hutton #aaron mccusker #bohemian rhapsody #queen #queen x reader

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kirareykenobi22 · 5 years

Text

Meeting Up - Reylo

The Force was unpredictable. Sometimes is opened the connection between Rey and Ben for hours on end; sometimes only mere minutes. Sometimes they spoke within hours of the last connection; sometimes there were days in between. But never had they gone three weeks without communication. By the end of the first week, Rey was nervous but convinced herself there was no reason to be. After two weeks, she was anxious, nervously pacing around when she had no way to occupy her time. Three weeks left her a nervous wreck, making her sick to her stomach she was so concerned about Ben.

When he finally appeared standing before her, she immediately dropped what she was doing to run to Ben and throw her arms around him. Tears pricked her eyes as she buried her face in his neck, holding on tightly, desperate to keep him for as long as possible this time. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as close as he could. He leaned his head into her as well, her hair muffling his voice as he murmured her name.

Tears streamed Rey's face when she finally pulled back enough to meet his eyes. Her voice was a whisper. "I was so scared. I thought you were hurt or..." She choked on her words.

"Well I'm not," he whispered, stroking her hair. "I'm right here. And I'm safe."

"I need to see you," she said desperately, her eyes widening.

The corners of Ben's lips twitched upwards. "You can see me."

She shook her head, her hands moving to cup his face. "No, I need to see you. Not whatever the force is showing me. I want you to be beside me without me having to wonder if you're going to disappear on me at any moment."

He furrowed his brow. "I can't come to you. And you've already stated that you won't come to me."

"Then we'll meet somewhere else." Rey pulled out of his embrace completely so she could pace. "We'll both sneak off, tell no one where we're going." Her eyes lit up. "No Resistance, no First Order, no sides. Just us. For a little while at least."

Ben had begun nodding as she spoke. "But where though?"

Rey bit her lip. "Ach-To. The planet where Luke hid. It's secluded, and no one would think to look for us there. Because no one knows where it is."

"When can you leave?"

"Within the hour."

The hints of a grin showed on Ben's face. "Send me the coordinates, and I'll meet you there."

****

Rey sat with her legs dangling off the edge of a cliff. She hadn't been able to bring the Falcon - Leia had sent Poe on a mission with it - but she'd borrowed an X-wing and R2. They were parked over by the huts, but Rey had quickly grown bored and gone to explore. She knew every inch of this island from her time with Luke, though, so she resorted to staring off at the sky. The longer she waited, the more doubt crept into her mind.

Coming here was a mistake. Rey was just a minor part of the Resistance. Ben... he ran the freaking First Order. There was no way he'd be able to escape without anyone noticing. He probably wouldn't come.

What if he didn't want to come...?

Rey's chest tightened at the thought. She cared so much about him, but what if it wasn't real to him? What if she was only a game to him? What if he only put up with her because the force required him to? What if...

Rey sat on her hands to keep them from shaking. Her instincts screamed at her to go back to her X-wing and fly away. She couldn't give up hope so soon, though. She had to believe he was coming. He'd just been delayed, or perhaps he was coming from much farther away than she had, or maybe...

As the suns fell in the sky, it became harder and harder for her to come up with excuses. She stayed at her spot on the precipice well into the night. Holding onto the hope that he might show up, she couldn't bring herself to move from where she was holding her vigil. When her eyes became too heavy, though, she wrapped herself up in her cloak, lied down, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

When she woke up, it took her a few minutes to process that she wasn't on Yavin 4. She felt a pang in her chest as she remembered. She was on Ach-to, and... Ben was supposed to meet her. He never showed up though.

Clenching her jaw tightly, she folded up her cloak, sticking it in her bag which also held her lightsaber pike. Then she trudged through the morning dew, her heart growing heavier with every step.

Once the clearing near the huts came into view, Rey let out a gasp and dropped her bag. Parked next to her X-wing sat a Tie fighter.

"Ben..."

Leaving her possessions on the ground behind her, she took off running, desperate to see him. She reached his ship to find it empty. At what point in the night had he arrived?

"Rey?"

She spun around. Standing in the doorway of a hut was Ben. There were bags under his eyes and his hair was a mess; he must've woken up when he heard her run by. Rey didn't care what he looked like, though. He was real and in front of her and that was perfect.

Happy tears pricked her eyes as she ran towards him. She threw her arms around him with so much force that he stumbled backwards a step. He held her as close to him as he could as if he were afraid she might vanish suddenly. Rey felt the vibration of his chest as he chuckled. She buried her face in the crook of his neck as more tears fell despite the fact that she was laughing as well.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because," Rey said, finally pulling back to look at him, "you're here. You're actually here."

"Of course I'm here." The edges of his lips turned up slightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." Why couldn't she stop crying? "I'm just used to being disappointed I guess."

"Rey..." His voice was low and husky as he moved his hands to cup her face. She shivered as he wiped away all her tears. "You asked me to come, and I came." He gave a small laugh. "I'm not perfect, but I'd never want to make you that disappointed."

"I know," Rey said, smiling finally. "I shouldn't have doubted you."

Something dark flashed in Ben's eyes, and he averted his gaze, dropping his hands to his side. "I've given you plenty of reason to, though."

Rey shook her head as she stared up at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You're so... good," he said. He looked back at her with wide eyes that laid bare every emotion stirring beneath the surface. "And I'm... I'm..." He shook his head. "Darkness lives inside of me. So why would you trust me?"

"Because you are not defined by that darkness. Light and dark lives inside us both." She steadily held his gaze. "And together." She grabbed his hands, lacing her fingers through his. "We create balance. Just like the old Jedi prophecies said. We complete each other." She smiled at their hands and almost missed his next statement.

"I love you..." He said it softly, barely even a whisper like he hadn't meant to say the words at all.

Rey's breath hitched. She met his eyes slowly. Terror lurked in them as he realized the implications of saying such a heavy statement. "What did you just say?"

He gripped her hand tighter and repeated more surely, "I love you, Rey. And I know I've done a million things wrong that I can never make up for, but whenever I'm around you... I finally feel at peace. You are my light, Rey. Say you feel the same... Please..."

Rey never spoke truer words than when she said, "I love you too."

The beginnings of a smile took on his face like he couldn't quite believe what he heard. "Say it again."

Rey broke out in a wide smile. She closed all space between them, looping her arms around his neck. "Ben Solo, I am completely and hopelessly in love with you. You are the only person who could ever hope to understand me, and you're the only one who can make me smile when I retreat into my darkness. I've seen you at your worst and you best, and I love you regardless of your past. Because I've seen into your soul, Ben, and I love you."

She stood on her tiptoes as she spoke, and when she said her last word, he breath touched Ben's lips. He was the one who closed the last bit of space between them with a gentle kiss. All outside thoughts fled Rey's mind as she focused on one thing, Ben.

Her hands found their way into his hair as the kiss became more passionate, more urgent. His hands pressed against her lower back, keeping her tight against him as if he couldn't believe who he really held in his arms.

How had they gone so long without ever doing this before? Kissing Ben was unlike anything Rey had ever done before. It lit a fire in her, excited her, and at the same time, she felt a sense of peace. This was where she belonged.

When they finally pulled apart, panting for air, they stood with their foreheads still touching. Rey's eyes remained closed, but she couldn't have wiped the smile from her face if she tried as Ben placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Through their bond, Rey felt every bit of truth and emotion behind his words as he again said, "I love you so much."

Rey placed another kiss on his lips in response. "I know."

#reylo #rey #kylo ren #force bond #fluff #otp #last jedi #fanfic #kylo x rey #ben solo #rey x ben

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uneryx · 5 years

Text

The Bridge Between - Ch 1

As promised - some fanfic Fandom: The Dragon Prince Summary: Callum, Rayla and Zym make their way through Xadia. As they continue their quest, they learn more about themselves and each other. Basically a fan season 3, picking up right where season 2 left off and probably diverging from canon. Tags: No warnings, Gen-ish, Rayla, Callum, Azymondias, Sol Regem, Original Characters, Fan Season 3, 2 Nerds and a Baby, Worldbuilding based on speculation, very slow burn

Read on AO3 here

Dawn rose over the precipice of the canyon, illuminating a long, golden form ahead of them, and Rayla’s heart sank. They had made it, hadn’t they? After all the hardship and fighting and heartbreak, finally she had brought Callum and Zym into Xadia, only for their hopes to be dashed.

“Oh no,” she breathed, holding out an arm to stop Callum from plunging ahead without caution. The archdragon before them lifted his massive crowned head, and turned to face them. His eyes were scarred, singed closed by the blast of dark fire he’d endured at his downfall all those years ago. A fallen king, but not one easily forgotten. She named him, reverent and fearful all at once.

“Sol Regem.”

The former Dragon King was, in fact, blind, but Rayla didn’t doubt that his nose or hearing were as keen as ever, if not more. She had mere seconds to act. “Follow my lead!” she hissed to Callum, urgently ushering Zym back into the backpack (which he was quickly outgrowing). The wyrmling whimpered, but with a stern ‘don’t even think about questioning me right now’ glare from Rayla, he curled up and tucked his nose under the feathers of his tail with a sad expression in his eyes.

“I smell humans.” Sol Regem was standing now, his massive form blocking out the sunlight and casting him in silhouette. Callum swallowed hard behind Rayla, and clutched the backpack with Zym inside tighter. For her part, Rayla steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.

“Th-that would be us, your grace,” she replied. Her voice quavered more than she would have liked, so she cleared her throat. “We’ve returned from the human kingdoms and probably reek from our journey.”

Sol Regem’s lip curled as he snarled, a deep rumble that shook the canyon and stirred something animal within them all, urging them to run and hide. “I am aware of what an elf returning from human lands smells like,” the archdragon retorted, voice low and menacing. “And what you have with you is a human.”

“Oh y-yeah?” Callum cleared his throat as his attempt to sound brave came out as a squeak. “Could a human do this?” He drew a glowing blue rune in the air, three concave strokes within each other, and inhaled. “Aspiro.”

Sol Regem sniffed the air as it blew around him. “Interesting,” he rumbled. “That is indeed competent Sky magic, and yet I cannot smell the petrichor and ozone of a primal stone.” He paused, thinking, tail tapping the rock below him idly. And after a brief moment, he bade Callum “Come forward, boy.” The tone of his command left no room for dissent.

At Callum’s panicked glance, Rayla shooed him forward, taking the backpack from him. Don’t keep him waiting, she urged with her eyes. Zym peeked out from the backpack and quietly whimpered, until Rayla shushed him and pushed him back inside.

On shaking legs, Callum stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between him and Sol Regem, the infamous solar archdragon that had razed a human city before the division. He didn’t remember all of that particular history lesson, but Callum DID remember that it had been a human mage – the first dark mage - who had blinded him thus… and who had also drawn his ire. All in all, not someone he was terribly keen on meeting in person.

He swallowed hard as he stood before the fallen king now, praying to whoever might be listening that Sol Regem would believe the lie that, due to having a primal arcanum, Callum couldn’t possibly be human.

The dragon lowered his massive head to Callum, and sniffed. The heat of his breath, the heat of him, instantly put to mind being burnt to a crisp by dragon fire. It was like standing beside a blast furnace. Callum could feel the sweat dripping down his face and sides and he tried to remember to breathe. In, two three, four. Hold. Out, two, three, four, five, six. Repeat.

One final snuff out, with an extra bit of heat to ensure the boy fully understood his place, and Sol Regem lifted his head to regard what stood before him.

“Interesting, indeed.” This close to the dragon, and it was as though the bass timbre of his voice shook Callum’s bones themselves. “You smellthoroughly human. I even catch a faint whiff of dark magic.” He spat out the words like they were rotten meat. “And yet I cannot ignore that you have forged a connection to the Sky Primal, nor can I ignore that you have been caring for a dragon whelp. His scent is all over you, and I smell only happiness and trust, not fear.” Sol Regem then laughed, a cold, mocking chuckle, as he laid back down on the stones and drummed his claws against them. “Your fear almost masked it, but no. How indeed could a human connect to Primal magic and earn the trust of a young dragon? What are you? And do not waste my time with this ‘elf in human clothing’ nonsense.”

Callum glanced back at Rayla for assistance, but she seemed at a loss. This hadn’t exactly gone as planned, after all. Sol Regem wasn’t in her plans, and in the little time she’d had to formulate around that spanner in the works, she hadn’t accounted for the archdragon’s nose being so good he could smell out all their secrets with just a few whiffs. She returned an incredibly unhelpful and panicked shrug.

Zym, for his part, wriggled out of the backpack and toddled his way over to Callum and Sol Regem. He’d been indicated, so there was no sense in hiding in the backpack, right? Especially since Callum and Rayla seemed scared. He nudged his friend in the hip with a reassuring chirp.

“Ah, the little one reveals himself,” Sol Regem said with a chuckle, a bit warmer this time. “What ever was a tiny fellow like you doing in—” He stopped abruptly, leaned closer, and inhaled, sharply, drawing all of Zym’s fluff upwards in the draft. Zym darted behind Callum’s legs with a whine. Then, with an angry snort, the former king drew up to his full height and towered above them, blocking out the light of the rising sun.

“That is Avizandum’s child,” he accused, menace in his voice and the ember of dragon fire brewing in his throat. “There is no storm dragon of that age anywhere in the world, save for the egg that was destroyed. And yet, here is a recently-hatched storm dragon.” He whirled on Callum, his every word a promise of destruction. “You will explain.”

“We found him!” Callum blurted, too afraid to lie. “Rayla came with the other Moonshadow assassins to avenge the Dragon King and the egg, but we found the egg in the dungeons, and we’re bringing him home.”

Sol Regem’s expression narrowed, dubious and critical. “Why?”

“Why… are we bringing him back, or why was he in the dungeon?”

Backlit though he was, Sol Regem’s scowl could be heard and felt in his reply. “Answer both.”

“Uh, well… we think that our- the high mage, Viren, was keeping it for um, dark magic reasons.” Callum twisted the end of his scarf in his hands, thoughts racing as he tried to summarize their adventure without giving too much away. “And since that’s wrong, and the war is wrong, we uh. Want to do what we can to fix things.”

Sol Regem snorted derisively. “Now you decide that dark magic, war, and death are wrong? What makes you think that the Dragon Queen will listen to some petty human apprentice mage, holding her son and reeking of dark magic? Even if you have, for some unfathomable reason, stumbled onto the secret of primal magic, what could you possibly do to persuade the Dragon Queen not to unleash her armies on humankind for their countless atrocities?”

Callum swallowed, and steeled himself, as Rayla quietly panicked behind him. It terrified him to the core, but in that moment Callum realized that if he was going to get past Sol Regem, he was going to have to do so as himself, without secrets. “Because I’m not some petty human apprentice mage.” He drew himself up, standing tall before the Great Solar King. “I’m Prince Callum of Katolis. Prince -- King Ezran is my brother. I destroyed the primal stone I was learning magic from in order to hatch the egg of the Dragon Prince.” Zym chirped in affirmation, standing tall as well in a mimicry of Callum's posture.

For a split second, Sol Regem was stunned by the honest admission. Then, he laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from being completely caught off guard by something absurd. Despite himself, Sol Regem believed the boy, too. Although the mustiness of clothes that had been worn for weeks masked it somewhat, the boy did smell like he came from privilege. And he knew something of the inner machinations of the human kingdoms, knowledge that the average commoner wouldn't know. Granted, in Sol Regem’s cynical view, humans were selfish and deceitful, but there was no way anyone would be foolish enough to tell a lie that ludicrous, that outlandish, and expect to be believed.

So that was it, then. A prince of the human kingdoms had hatched the dragon prince and decided to waltz right into Xadia, hand-in-hand with one who had been sent to murder his family, with the naïve hope that the Dragon Queen would give two figs about their bid for peace.

Pathetic. Adorable.

His laughter died down, and he looked down his nose at Callum. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just eat you now and take young Ayzmondias straight to his mother, without your meddling or the disgusting taint of dark magic you bear.”

“Look, the dark magic was a one-time thing and I almost died, so I’m never doing that again.” Callum took a step backwards, thinking. “I… I just want there to be peace. My brother wants peace. And I want to show other human mages that they don’t have to use dark magic as a crutch. Iconnected to a primal source, and I barely know any magic. I want to show them how, so no one ever even thinks about using dark magic again.”

“Not to mention, he only did it to save me and a dragon that human soldiers had captured anyway,”Rayla interjected. “I’ll kill him myself if he ever tries it again, but I don’t think he would. It was pretty bad.”

“Uh, yeah!” Callum replied, giving Rayla a dirty look at the suggestion that she would personally murder him. “Anyway, can’t work on diplomacy and eradicating dark magic if I’m dead so… Please don’t eat me.”

Sol Regem inhaled once more, considering their words and breathing in the three of them. They were so earnest, so eager, the scent of their sincerity rolling off of them like a cloying perfume. All three of them were only children, with the brash sort of hope only children who haven’t witnessed the world’s cruelty carry within them. They certainly believed in their mission, fruitless and futile as it sounded to Sol Regem’s ancient ears. And the human thinking he could teach other humans Primal Magic was pitiful. It would never work, of course, for Sol Regem knew of the centuries where humans had tried and failed, their inferior natures cutting them off from the sources of magic. But somehow, some way, this particular human had figured it out.

Unless….

The sun king brushed that disgusting notion aside. It was impossible, and if it were true, he’d smell it.

Sol Regem then decided he was more interested in seeing what the world would be like if these children tried to accomplish their goals and failed, rather than their adventure ending in his belly. Someone else would crush their hopes, inevitably. In the meantime, watching them try would be more fun than anything else he’d seen of the increasingly tiresome war between humans and Xadia. And should they succeed, well. It might actually give Sol Regem something to do.

“Very well,” he said, after a pause that was long enough to make the children squirm with discomfort. “I shall not eat you.” The human boy’s sigh of relief was audible, and carried a faint puff of wind with it. How very interesting. “And I shall not inform anyone else that a human trespasses in Xadia. Find some way to keep him more incognito, young Moonshadow. It would do to keep Prince Azymondias's return a secret as well.”

“Oh man, thank you, your, uh, grace,” exuded Callum. “I promise we’ll do our best.”

“Do not give me cause to regret this decision, boy.”

“I won’t.”

Rayla bowed to the archdragon. “We truly are grateful, honorable Sol Regem.”

“See that the prince remains safe,” he rumbled back, and turned away from them, laying back down on his rocky bed. Zym yipped his own thanks, and Rayla gathered the two princes up.

“Come along, you two. Time to find some shade and some sleep.”

The trio strode down the canyon, and around the bend out of sight.

Sol Regem waited until they were out of his range of hearing, and then let a piercing cry echo towards the south. He waited only a few moments before a figure emerged from the rocky precipice above him.

“You called, my lord?” asked the figure.

“Yes. Further along the canyon you will see three children – a Moonshadow girl, a human boy – though he will likely be disguised, and a baby dragon.”

“Uh, forgive me, but did you say 'human'?!”

“Do not question me. He is no ordinary human. Follow them, be my eyes, and send me regular reports on their movements.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah, and one more thing. The wyrmling is... important. Ensure nothing ill befalls him.”

The figure bowed. “I will ensure the his safety, and keep an eye on the others.”

The figure flapped its wings, and ascended to the sky.

Satisfied, Sol Regem gazed westward, the rays of the sun warming his old bones. What funny, irritating creatures. Inferior as they may be, humans were, after all this time, still capable of surprising him.

#tdp fic #the dragon pricne #here we go #IDK how frequently I"ll post this but guys I missed writing fic #tdp callum #tdp rayla #tdp fanfic

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havenoffandoms · 6 years

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My love, my life

Pairing: Sabriel

Summary: They both knew this was crazy. Gabriel had been especially surprised when Sam had ‘proposed’ – if you could call the casually spoken I think we should get married a proposal at all.

Warnings: none

They both knew this was crazy. Gabriel had been especially surprised when Sam had ‘proposed’ – if you could call the casually spoken I think we should get married a proposal at all – considering that Dean would not be there to celebrate it with them. The archangel had been even more surprised when Sam had told him that he did not want anyone to be present.

“It’s not about them, Gabe… it’s about us. You are mine, and I am yours… I want there to be no doubt about that. So, let’s get married”

Gabriel had hesitated. Not only did he have the inkling of a suspicion that Sam would regret not inviting his mother, Cas and Jack – and most importantly his brother – the broken archangel also knew that marrying a human would mean going against Heaven’s most ancient laws. He had told Sam about his concerns, not wanting his lover to regret his spontaneous decision later and resent Gabriel for it. Sam had been categorical on the matter.

“Gabe, we are not even sure if we will manage to get Dean back. I don’t want to wait any longer, I want this. Dean will understand, so will the others. They’ll forgive us, but I would never forgive myself if one of us died and we never got married… please, just trust me on this, okay?”

“What about Heaven, Sammich?” Gabriel had offered weakly, feeling all resistance fade from him.

“Well, technically all Heaven forbids is the creation of nephilims. We are two males… there should be no ground for worry, right? We can’t have a child… and you’ve been having sex with other people for what, centuries now? Surely Heaven doesn’t care if you decide to commit to sleeping exclusively with me for the rest of my life?”

Damn this beautiful moose and his infallible sense of logic. Damn his law student instincts that managed to find what could be considered a fucking loophole in divine law. Sam made it extremely hard for Gabriel to say no.

“Do you know what Sammich, why the hell not. What could go wrong, eh? It would take more than the threat of a fricking apocalypse to dissuade a Winchester”

Gabriel had fully intended the sarcastic undertone; however, he could not help the small smile that appeared on his face at the sound of Sam’s happy, albeit slightly dumbfounded guffaw. The hazel eyes lit up as he met Gabriel’s golden orbs, and it made the archangel’s grace stir contently at the sight.

“So, we are doing it? We’re getting married?” Sam asked, his voice hopeful and pleading at the same time, almost as if he feared that Gabriel would change his mind last minute. The archangel offered a reassuring smile.

“Yes, Samsquatch. Let’s do it”

That’s how they ended up here. At the edge of a cliff overlooking a rough sea in the middle of nowhere, Gabriel had not been precise about their location. Sam was actually not entirely sure if the archangel had not just conjured a romantic, but imaginary setting. The sound of crashing waves travelled all the way up the precipice, a mere rustle by the time it reached Sam’s ears. The noise was soothing and contrasted with the picture of the agitated sea in the background. Not that Sam paid much attention to the scenery.

He had eyes only for Gabriel.

“You did not bring a priest as I can see…” Sam commented casually, trying to hide the fact that he was very much nervous about the whole ordeal. He was getting married … to the angel he loved. After Jessica’s death, he had never thought he would ever love someone so much that he would want to bind himself to them for the rest of his life. This was a big step, and Gabriel knew this.

“You have an actual archangel of the lord standing in front of you… really if that doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will” Gabriel reasoned, his voice dropping an octave as his eyebrows wiggled suggestively, “I could easily change into a priest outfit if that’s what you’re into, Sammich”

“Gabriel!” Sam punched the archangel’s shoulder disapprovingly, blushing at the implication. Gabriel merely giggled adorably.

“You are far too innocent for your own good, Sam. Now, before we begin” Gabriel clicked his fingers and before Sam knew it, he was dressed in a smart beige tuxedo over a white dress shirt, while Gabriel wore something that looked like he jumped out of a Picasso painting. It hurt Sam’s eyes to look at him, but the whole ensemble was so clearly Gabriel that it warmed the younger Winchester’s heart.

“Wow…” was all Sam managed to whisper in an awe-struck voice.

“I know, quite impressive I can pull this off, right?”

“You are… you look really handsome, actually” Sam confessed almost sheepishly, feeling his cheeks flush. Gabriel merely smiled tenderly at him, taking both Sam’s hands in his as he stood on his tip toes and placed a lingering kiss on the taller man’s lips. Sam let out a content sigh.

“You’re doing this in the wrong order…” Sam joked.

“Who says? Hollywood?” Gabriel countered wittily, winking at the human before him. This was the time both of them had been waiting for, and neither really knew how to begin, nor what to say. Sam decided to break the awkward silence that had settled between them, broken only by the crashing of the waves on the beach at the bottom of the abyss. Clearing his throat nervously, the older Winchester struggled to find the right words.

“Uh… Well, Gabriel” Sam addressed the shorter angel, shooting him a pointed look, “uh, I never considered myself a very poetic person, so bear with me if I sound over-the-top-cheesy or whatever…”

“Just go with what feels natural, Samsquatch” Gabriel advised gently, tightening his hold on Sam’s hands which gave the younger Winchester comfort. Sam nodded, offering the archangel a grateful smile. This was harder than he had expected. He knew exactly what he wanted to tell Gabriel, but he could not bring his brain to formulate this in a coherent sentence. Damn, whose idea was it to have vows?

Oh yeah, that��s right… Sam’s goddamned idea.

“Gabriel…”

I’ve never felt this strong

I’m invincible, how could this go wrong?

No, here, here’s where we belong

I see a road ahead

I never thought I would dare to tread

“… you saved me from myself. You really did, and I don’t mean the demon blood, or the PTSD because of Lucifer, or anything like that. You helped me get over Jess’ death, something I never thought would ever be possible. You made me feel like I was strong enough to face my demons. You taught me to love again, and for that… I don’t know how to thank you, or how to show you how grateful I am. I… I guess what I’m trying to say is… I love you, Gabe. And this, as crazy as this wedding is, it’s what I’ve always dreamed of. It’s something I never expected to have, so thank you for giving it to me”

Gabriel tried hard to blink the tears away that were starting to well up in his eyes. Nope, he was stronger than his human emotions. He was an archangel, for God’s sake, he could hold himself back surely. What a warrior he made now, huh? Would certainly made all the other angels laugh if they saw how pathetic the once mighty Gabriel looked like in this instant. After all, was he not the broken archangel Gabriel, who had fled all his life, who had been defiled by Asmodeus in so many ways, who was about to marry a human…

Gabriel would tell all these angels to get screwed nice and deep.

He allowed a single tear to run down his cheek, wanting Sam to see what effect he had on him. It was a sign of trust, and of vulnerability. Gabriel found he did not care what his family thought about him. There was a time where that might have been the case, but Sam had changed this. Sam gave his human side a meaning. Sam had fixed him piece by piece, and even though there was still a lot of work to be done on the whole Asmodeus-trauma front, at least Gabriel knew that he was not alone.

And he would never again be alone.

I held you close to me

Felt your heartbeat

And I thought: I am free

Oh yes, and as one are we

In the now and beyond

Nothing and no one can break this bond

“Samuel William Winchester… nah, screw this. I am not one for soppy love declarations, so I’ll keep this short and sweet, just like me” Gabriel smiled as Sam snorted. The sound his amused moose made was like music to his ears. “You are not like any human I’ve ever met before. True, I’ve met many, and you might argue that I have met a lot of humans who resemble you. You would be correct in assuming so, however… none of them ever had such a bright and appealing soul. From the first day our paths crossed, I have felt my grace being drawn to your beautiful soul. Fair enough, it was distracting at first, especially since I could track your every move… which for the record, I never did”

“Liar…” Sam smirked.

“Alright, maybe a little bit… just to make sure you were safe” Gabriel admitted, not able to look sorry if he tried, “today, I realise that I would not have it any other way. The attraction my grace felt towards your soul, this bond we shared… it was what kept me grounded when Asmodeus… well, did his thing. You say that I saved you, but sugar believe me when I say that were it not for you, I would not be here today to get married to this giant handsome moose”

Sam rolled his eyes at the last comment, but Gabriel noticed the moist eyes and the agitated fidgeting of Sam’s fingers as they rubbed the back of the archangel’s hand nervously. Sam was trying to hold back. He was trying hard not to show any emotion, and Gabriel understood. That’s the way Sam had been raised, and he had learned from being a hunter that showing your weaknesses could get you killed. The teary smile that came from the taller man was all the archangel needed to see.

“Not soppy, huh?” Sam managed to croak awkwardly, chuckling slightly as Gabriel smacked his arm playfully.

“Yeah, well you ain’t exactly an emotionless Scrooge either, pumpkin”

“Do you have more cheesy nicknames like that in your pocket, angel?” Sam teased, pulling a seemingly offended archangel close to his chest and wrapping his strong arms around his waist so Gabriel could not move away. Not that Sam could ever hope to restrain an archangel, but Gabriel always melted in his embrace. It was the younger Winchester’s ultimate weapon.

“I actually do, Samshine. In fact, cutie pie, I believe I can come up with more cheesy nicknames than you own plaid shirts, and that’s saying something considering you could put all the lumberjacks in the world to shame with your collection, sugar cane. Also, honey, how about we put a stop to the soppiness and get down to the actual ceremony, puff pastry? You think that’s a good idea, sugar?”

Gabriel rejoiced in the disgusted look on Sam’s face, trying to fit in as many stereotypical nicknames in one sentence as he could. Despite the younger Winchester’s protests, Gabriel did not relent, making his lover cringe with the sheer amount of fluff that was thrown his way.

“Okay, stop you made your point. Let’s just move on to the actual thing before it starts raining” Sam suggested, shooting a sceptic look towards the sky almost as if expecting the downpour to hit them any minute. Gabriel merely tsked him.

“Have some faith, sugar. I won’t let it rain on our wedding”

Before Sam had the time to come up with a clever remark, Gabriel placed his index over the taller man’s lips, effectively shushing him. Golden eyes bore into hazel ones, nothing but love and adoration reflected in them. Sam felt like he would melt into a puddle at Gabriel’s feet. The archangel interlaced his fingers with his lover’s, and not before long, Sam felt a pleasant warmth envelope him like a cocoon. He knew from experience that it was Gabriel’s grace reaching out for him, but this time it felt stronger, more intimate. Sam could see the shadow of Gabriel’s wings as he gently brought them to successfully shelter him and their owner from the wind. It all felt so right, and Sam knew instantly that he had made the right choice. This is where he wanted to spend the rest of his days.

“Sam… I promise you to love you as much as I love candy, and to not hold your obsession with healthy food against you. I will protect you from clowns, and tolerate your morning jogs as long as you don’t make me go with you. I value my sleep, you know. But most importantly, I promise to love you in this life and in Heaven. I promise you that we will always find our way back to each other. You are mine, and I am yours forever and always”

Sam enjoyed the warmth of Gabriel’s grace and wings around him, the comfort making him feel sleepy. His eyes fluttered shut as he took a whiff of Gabriel’s scent, feeling his muscles relax instantly. When Sam opened his eyes again, he noticed the worried and expectant glance Gabriel shot him and the younger Winchester realised he had to reciprocate the vows.

“Oh uhm sorry… I eh…” clearing his throat, Sam regained his composure before starting over, “Gabriel… I promise to love and cherish you until the end of my days, and when I’m in Heaven… If I go to Heaven…”

“Sam…”

“Not the time to talk about this, though. I love you with all my heart, and I don’t ever want to lose you. God be my witness, if he cares at all, if anything were to happen to you I would give my life in exchange for yours. You are mine, and I am yours forever and always”

The two looked at each other, secretive smiles on their faces as their faces came closer, closing the gap between their lips. Their kiss was sweet, yet filled with the passion they held for each other. Sunshine filtered through the dark clouds, basking the two in a halo of light. Almost like God was watching over them, but Sam knew deep inside that Gabriel was behind this. Not that it really mattered.

All that really mattered was him and Gabriel, lost in each other’s embrace. And that was all that would ever matter in the future.

My love, my life

Are the words I try to find

My love, my life

But I know I don’t possess you

With all my heart, God bless you

You will be my love and my life

You’re my one and only

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boobtubedude · 6 years

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My Top 10 Shows Of 2017

Hi. Here’s a top ten list. People like these, right?

Close But Not Quite: GLOW, Speechless, Insecure, One Day At A Time, Brooklyn Nine-Nine

So what’s 2017 been about? Not about TV, really. Not for me. Hasn’t been the focus. It’s been there, like it always has, but not in the same what. What was an omnipresent obsession turned into something else. It didn’t go away, but it transformed, mutated, evolved, got pushed to the back. But what stuck really stuck, not really programs but lifelines, ways to make sense of senselessness, to realize there was a point to all of this. I didn’t watch nearly as much TV as I had in recent years, but taking a step back meant everything had to count. It had to mean something. It couldn’t be a way to pass the time but a way to define how I should spend it.

10) Wynonna Earp

It was a year in which listening meant more than speaking, when shutting the fuck up was more valuable than trying to articulate anything. Mansplaining my way through this calendar year, whether consciously or inadvertently, would have been the bad way to go. So it was more about looking for blind spots, having them displayed in ways that made me rethink what it meant to be not just a critic but a citizen. Being the former without the latter just means you’re an outsider observer rather than an active participant. Supporting voices that had been screaming to be heard was more important than sharing my own. Even a list like this is probably bullshit, but that’s why I’m not really talking about the shows at all.

9) Jane The Virgin

The shows are important, obviously. They are more than just TV shows but reflections of what’s possible. You can judge shows by how closely they reflect reality and how close they envision how life SHOULD IN FACT BE. I’m not sure there’s a right or wrong way to approach the medium. I do know that shows that simply state how futile it is to do anything other than what’s in one’s own self-interest are lazy and terrible and fairly close to immoral in this stage in history. We all know that life sucks. We won’t need a show to only remind us of that. We need shows that remind us that there’s light in the darkness, that there are options, that happiness is a possibility even when we can’t see it for ourselves.

8) Chris Gethard: Career Suicide

We need to know that other people feel as terribly as we do, and that doesn’t make it freaks but rather makes us human. The idea that we have to hide those kinds of thoughts and vulnerabilities for fear of shame or ridicule cripples us more than we know, and I know this because I’m only this year realizing how long I’ve been this miserable. I chalked it up to “normal” Irish-Catholic upbringing, something that was not worthy of even discussing because relative to so many it’s so fine that it’s not worth even mentioning. And while there are obviously a lot of degrees to this, I chose to just suck it all in for the first 40+ years of my life rather than even contemplate the fact that my left foot taps incessantly for almost every moment of every day I’m awake. I’m constantly aware of how anxiety-ridden and unhappy I am. The very idea of having to go out to meet people at an event I agreed to go to stresses me out, even while being at home all the time makes me wonder why I have so few friends. I can intellectually rationalize the insanity of that contradiction, but I live it all the same. The best stuff on TV doesn’t offer a solution to any of that, but lets me know I’m not alone.

7) American Vandal

We get stuck in routines. We get defined by what others think of us, which in turn reinforces actions that fit that description. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to convince strangers online that I’m a certain type of person, and that has calcified around someone I’d both like to be and mostly hate. All writing is performative to some extent, and it doesn’t matter if I do it in 140 characters or 5,000 words, it’s all a performance to some extent. You don’t see the crusty-eyed, hairy, smelly weirdo that’s typing any of this on his phone or his laptop. You don’t know me, because I don’t want you to, even though some part of me absolutely positively wishes you did. If you ever wondered if it’s exhausting being a narcissist with crippling low-self esteem, let me tell you: It is.

6) Twin Peaks: The Return

Nothing about this year makes any sense, which means that absurdity often reveals more than “real” life ever could. I’m a lapsed Catholic, so the idea of a God watching over everything seems peculiar, but I’ve never lost faith in the idea that there’s more than just the stuff that happens before we shuffle off our mortal coil. We’re connected to something, whatever it is, because without that connection we’re truly in an abyss. People that do the right thing should be judged differently than those that don’t, and I like the idea that the cosmos has some way of addressing that. Whether that’s through mathematics or morality, I can’t say. But we all sense there’s senselessness just around the corner, and even while that’s mighty tempting at times, there’s a fundamental need for order at the heart of existence that transcends mortgages, commuting to work, and the busyness of everyday life. That meaning is reflected on the inside of our eyelids, played across a screen that becomes impossibly vast once we go to sleep. It’s hard to literally interpret, but it’s there all the same.

5) The Good Place

Actions have consequences. As they should. The rising fear in 2017 centered around the idea that causality had been flung into space, a vestigial element of a life that no longer existed. Actions that once had consequences no longer seemed to have any, and the entire agreement between earthly citizen had seemingly been eradicated by those for who shame had been surgically removed. We all knew things were bad, but there seemed to be no mechanism by which to compel those that didn’t feel like abiding by the normal rules of nature to do so. Once that reality set in, nothing felt real, and action after action buried the actions before those. What was strange was how…familiar everything felt, even while nothing was the same. The post-apocalyptic fantasies gave way to benign realities: We still did more or less the same things while also feeling like it mattered less than ever before, or that by doing the same thing we were perpetuating the problem. Hashtags only get you so far. Many of us marched in January but were exhausted by June. We might as well have been arguing with the tides.

4) Review

What’s fascinating about making a bad decision, or indulging in a dark thought, can perpetuate itself and create its own logic loop from which it’s nearly impossible to escape. So people double down on a bad decision rather than admit it was one, and before long you’re so far down the wrong path that finding your way back to the main road is impossible. Mounting evidence of error yields entrenchment, resistance, and a further erosion of trust in anyone else that doesn’t march in lockstep with your worldview. At some point, objectivity turns into a quaint idea, and you can go insane so slowly that you don’t realize that you’ve been scrolling through tweets for the last ninety minutes because the onslaught of bullshit isn’t stopping but in fact picking up speed. There’s a self-perpetuating cycle with enough power to light up the entire United States but instead might just engulf it in flames. Driving off the cliff becomes preferable to looking in the rearview mirror at all you’ve lost on the way to the precipice. We’re ultimately and irrevocably alone in the bubble we’ve built for ourselves.

3) Better Things

That’s not true, but that’s how it felt for a lot of the year for many of us. I have the lottery ticket of life as a straight white American male, and if I felt this bad this year, I can’t begin to imagine a tenth of a tenth of what it was like for anyone else. That doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy, but I can’t pretend to have empathy in a way that’s meaningful for anyone but myself to hear. The world is profoundly different than in was in 2016, but much of that change doesn’t come from something suddenly introduced so much as suddenly pushed into discussion. These aspects of life have always been here, and while it shouldn’t be a surprise to so many to hear them uttered, it is all the same. In that dissonance is opportunity: opportunity for those able to articulate what’s been under an unfortunate cloud for so long to speak out loud in voices both defiant but also hopeful. These are voices that show both an ugly truth but also a better way. These are voices that, now introduced, cannot and should never be silenced again.

2) BoJack Horseman

Instagram is a fairly new app, but the idea of papering over one’s less-than-ideal qualities has been around for, well, forever. We collectively decide we’re not going to talk about it, and we bottle it up, and then we slowly go bald and fat. Or so I hear. I wouldn’t know anything about that, with my luscious locks and 30’’ waistline. 2017 was, for me, a year in which I realized just how corrosive that rot was within myself, how much I was talking about everything other than what was on my mind, with TV a great way to talk about “important” things without having to deal with my own shit. “Of course everyone knows I’m writing about me,” I’d tell myself, usually after a few drinks, and yet I doubt anyone knew or anyone even cared to consider that option. I speak to 28,000 strangers a day on Twitter and have maybe three friends in my life. My family and I love each other and also are the primary sources of our respective problems. I have a wife that used to see me at my best and now usually sees me at my most exhausted. I didn’t see any of this as a problem because I thought I was too privileged to have problems. That doesn’t mean my problems are equal or more or less than anyone else’s. I’m not trying to lump myself in with anyone or anything. I’m just here and realizing how miserable here is and realizing it’s OK to admit that it’s not OK. I don’t know what the fuck to do with this information a month after my forty-second birthday, but it’s still something akin to a breakthrough for someone that’s really good at analyzing theme in narrative television and absolutely awful at looking at the themes that consistently undermine my attempts at anything approximating consistent happiness.

1) The Leftovers

Recently I came across a bunch of handwritten report cards from my high school that my folks saved for me. Each one said something along the lines of, “I don’t know how Ryan does all the things he does and still excels.” These were wonderful things to right and absolutely cursed me to viewing any moment of inactivity as a wasted moment on the path to death. If I wasn’t being productive in some capacity, I was throwing away a chance to maximize my life, as if life was something to be conquered rather than experienced. That message carried through into college, and into my 20s, and once writing about TV became a possibility, drove me through a decade in which I worked on average about 10-14 hours a day. When I took vacations from my day job, I took the opportunity to just do more writing, watch more screeners, do more podcasts. I was here, but I wasn’t here. Not in a meaningful way. I was an outline more than a fully fleshed-out figure. Recently, I’ve been using my weekends to do anything other than something productive. Stepping off the treadmill is antithetical to my nature, and something that I’m admittedly not comfortable doing. I spent so much time wondering what people I’ve never met thought of my writing and almost no time wondering how it’s been a year since I’ve seen cousins that live ten miles away. Television taught me a lot for the past decade, and introduced me to a host of super smart people that did more for me than they’ll ever know. But looking at that screen (and the second screen, for that matter) for this long has come at a cost: It took way too long to see it, but it’s maybe not too late to do something about it. These shows all helped me get to this place in my life, which is why they are my top ten shows of the year.

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