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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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Steve Rogers, The Man On Fire

Hey y'all, as Pride month draws to a close I would like to post this fic. It's been in my drafts for a month and I finally today found the motivation to finish it. This is special to me for many reasons, one of which being that I'm proudly a part of this community. Some of the anger written in is my own. I think a lot of people will resonate with it. I really hope you all enjoy this and happy Pride Month <3

This was based loosely off a headcannon and once I re-find it I will credit!

Synopsis: Steve is freshly thawed, queer, and pissed | A.k.a. Steve's experience in 21st Century America

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mentions of Bucky Barnes, (loosely a Stucky fic but Steve thinks he's dead here)

Warnings: Angst but not bad, Steve Rogers being volatile and chaotic (we love), poorly written accents (I literally read this with an accent in my head), literally a 2k monologue

Word count: 5.1k

Steve Rogers came out of the ice angry.

No— not angry— Steve Rogers came out of the ice fuckin’ furious.

He came out of the ice with his hands curled into two fists, with his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were liable to snap, and with a bone to pick with every damn reporter and historian and too loud opinion on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He came out simmering— no, erupting— like the serum in his blood couldn’t keep his body from hibernation all those years ago but it sure as hell won’t keep him from setting the entirety of New York on fire now. He’ll burn it all down if he has to and rebuild it the way he remembers it— the way Bucky would have remembered it— and at the end of it all no one— not the bigots or deniers or the homophobes that seem to be the only thing that came with him from the forties— will be able to say that Captain America can’t love whoever he wants.

No one will be able to say that Steve Rogers didn’t love James “Bucky” “the man I’ve loved since twelve years old” Barnes with everything he had and then some.

No one.

So he starts with the museums in Washington— because sure it isn’t New York but where else would a relic like himself belong more?

He still has hope when he enters the building. They didn’t make them like this when he was a kid— they had science fairs in the town hall and culture fairs in the backstreets near the docks but never anything this grand. No tall marble pillars or enough stairs to make him wonder if he would have been able to climb to the top when he was half the size he is now. It’s strange. It’s kind of wonderful. Yeah, the Smithsonian museums make Steve Rogers feel small for the first time in a very long time and that gives him hope.

That hope doesn’t last long, though, because soon he’s wandering through the halls, following the signs that say Captain America: The First Avenger— what the hell is an Avenger? Is that what they’re calling soldiers these days? Now he feels small and old.

Turning the corner is like landing on another planet, one devoted entirely to him. His picture is everywhere he looks, his name is in lights, even his damn uniform has been replicated and presented on a little stage and he hates it. The rage is back, sparking at his fingers— he’s a match and lucky for everyone this building is made of stone because if it wasn’t he’s sure it would be reduced to nothing but ash by now.

It only worsens as he begins reading through the plaques and the paragraphs flashing across screens on the walls— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The more he reads, though, the more he wonders if the stone is really, truly safe from the fire in his blood. He doesn’t think it is.

He surely isn’t at least— he feels like he’s going to explode. This isn’t him— none of this is him. War hero. Martyr. Golden boy. He has to stop reading that plaque— clearly no one did their research. Clearly no one dug up his medical files— or his police records. Brawls at the pub, disorderly conduct behind Mr. De Luca’s sandwich shop, public nudity at the beach that one time— thank you Bucky for the best night of his god damn life. Golden boy— ha.

Golden nobody with the black eye and broken hand is more like it.

For a moment he thinks he’s fine— he thinks it can’t get worse than this. Then he gets to the early life section and for an even longer moment his tongue tastes like gunpowder.

Steven Grant Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his friend James Buchanan Barnes—

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence— not when they already got the most important part wrong. Friend. Friend? No, no, no. No! There are a million words in the english language that Steve could use to describe Bucky and ‘friend’ will never be the first one.

How about best friend?

How about partner in crime?

How about soulmate who loved Steve so much that every night for the past forty-eight days since he woke up in an era that Bucky doesn’t exist in he’s cried himself to sleep with the same cherry cola taste of his ‘friend’ on his tongue.

It’s the final straw— Steve loses it.

“Anyone got a marker?”

The museum is quiet before he speaks but when his voice— steadily rising and taking on that New York headiness that his troops used to jazz him about— cuts through the exhibit— his fuckin’ exhibit— it’s silent. It’s dead, almost as dead as Buck— Nobody dares move a muscle as he rips his ball cap off his head and throws it at the statue of himself. Everyone knows who he is— everyone is going to know who he is so help him god.

“I said—” he tries again— “does anyone have a marker?”

It takes a moment for the people around him to pick their jaws up off the floor and he allows them that moment with a smug grin starting to tug on the corners of his lips. Finally— they’re starting to get it.

He’s not a hero; he’s a supernova of every scrawny, queer kid who’s ever gotten beaten to a pulp for kissing who they want.

Maybe then it’s fitting that the marker— when it’s finally produced and placed in his waiting palm— comes from a teenage girl with a shaved head and a blue, pink, and purple denim jacket and a busted lip. She doesn’t say much— only a mumbled here you go— but her eyes say everything that her words don’t. Give em’ hell, Cap. For the first time since waking up he flashes a genuine grin back— yeah, this one’s for you kid.

Steve wastes no time uncapping the sharpie— he’ll look that one up later— and scratching out the error. The blasphemy to his unholy name. It takes him a little longer to decide what to write in its place. There are a million words, sure, but somehow none of them feel right at this moment. None of them are enough. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though— how much nothing feels like enough anymore without Bucky.

Finally Steve settles on a word and he scribbles it as neatly as he can given the fact that he hasn’t had to write anything in eighty years. When he takes a step back, feeling alive for the first time since waking up, he beckons over the girl with the shaved head and points to the place where he’s taken it upon himself to correct history.

“Hey kid, why don’t you go ahead and read that outloud for everyone here.”

He allows another moment— this time because she deserves the time it takes for her eyes to light up and the smile to stretch across her bruised mouth.

Steve laughs— a rusted, croaky laugh; another first in forever— when her head whips around, facing him as she loudly proclaims: “It says boyfriend. Steve Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his boyfriend Bucky Barnes!”

“Damn right I did—” he mutters to the kid before taking a step towards the crowd of gaping mouths. “Did you all hear that? Don’t worry if ya’ didn’t— I’ll say it one more time. Boyfriend. Bucky was my boyfriend and if he was here today he would be my husband. If any of you have a problem with that then feel free to take it up with me. I took on half of Brooklyn for that man and I’ll do it again.”

When no one says anything Steve nods, turning to hand the girl back her marker and to thank her— he may be angry but he hasn’t lost all his manners— but when he looks at her she doesn’t look back. Instead she takes the same step forward that he had, one of her hands balled into a tiny, shaking fist at her side and the other wrapped around a cell phone that’s pointed towards the crowd. He doesn’t understand the mechanics but he thinks she’s recording.

“You hear that?” She parrots the super soldier with a wavering but fierce voice. “Captain America likes men! And none of you can deny it!”

This time it’s his mouth that drops, watching as she shakily turns the camera off and spins back around. Before Steve can say anything, though, she’s talking again, this time hastier, and he can’t help but think that she sounds so much like him. All flushed and scrawny and pissed.

“I’m sorry, I’ll delete the recording if you want but, I jus’ know these bigots are gonna’ try and cover everything up and that would be a fuckin’ shame. I don’t know if you know how many kids need to hear this. I did— and I think they should too. Only if you want, of course.”

He doesn’t answer right away— he can’t. It’s like looking at himself at fifteen. Suddenly he’s back again, his feet hanging in the water as his boyfriend paces behind him, asking if he’s ready to have him look at his knuckles yet. He didn’t get that many good punches in— the scrapes are mostly from the pavement— but Buck always worries too much so it doesn’t matter. The protective idiot.

Steve shakes his head, blinking away the sunset lingering behind his eyes. “Bucky woulda’ loved you, kid.”

The next time he loses it— the next time he turns into more flame than man— is after he saves the city he’s been trying to burn down for three months.

It isn’t long after that day in the museum when Nick Fury decides it would be best for everyone if Steve goes back into the field. Of course, no one really asks him what he wants— they pretty much just shove a new suit into his hands and tell him to get training, Captain— but what else is new?

No one really comments on his outburst besides that either. Can you really call it an outburst when you’re just trying to reclaim the parts of you that have been stolen? Sure, the press gets a hold of the story and, true to what the kid had said, tries to twist it into something more digestible, but no one actually addresses it up with Steve. Apparently when someone saves the world as good as he does no one cares that they kiss men.

Or that they don’t wanna’ to actually save the world anymore.

See, in those three months— between the training and training and even more training that Steve Rogers begrudgingly obliges— he has time to catch up on the world. More importantly, he has time to catch up on what the world thinks of him. He scours a plethora of documentaries, scholarly essays, and whole books of information about his time as Captain America. Well— his time as Captain America when it mattered. In all his scouring he learns one thing: everything written about him is wrong.

It’s all so fuckin’ wrong.

Just why the hell would he want to save a world so bent on destroying who he is?

The Smithsonian exhibition was nothing compared to what’s been written in the eighty years he spent in the ice. Better yet, nothing compared to what hasn’t been written about him. They’ve taken an eraser to every part of his life that doesn’t fit with the golden image that they constructed for him. A.k.a. every part that matters. His relationship, his past, every little thing that made him supposedly perfect for the role he was given. Gone. Erskine told him he was a good man— apparently he was the only one who thought so.

Apparently being a good man isn’t good enough.

They only wanted the perfect soldier. Yeah, well, they had one and they fucked him over too. Don’t even get him started on what they did to Bucky— Steve doesn’t want to think about what Winnifred— Winnie for short— Barnes would do if she saw the history books erasing her baby’s Jewish roots. Or his relationship. It wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure. If ever there was someone more protective than Bucky it would have been his mother. Not that there’s a damn note about her in anything either though.

Maybe that’s the final straw that does him in this time— watching the place that Mrs. Barnes loved more than almost anything else in the world crumble, while also knowing that the world no longer gives a shit about the two people she loved more.

“Mr. Rogers, this is where you grew up, is it not? Is there anything you would like to say about what took place here in your home city today?”

Maybe he pretends not to hear the last part— maybe he really does only hear up until where the reporter asks him if there is anything he wants to say. He’s been around quite his fair share of explosions; it would make sense that his hearing is a little off. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, though.

Scratch that— he definitely doesn’t care anymore.

And why the fuck should he? He does have something to say and propriety be damned he’s going to say it.

Steve stares into the crowd of faceless reporters and flashing cameras with a scowl on his grimey face. Around him stand the other Avengers— his ‘team’. The last time he had a team the historians screwed up the history for every single member. Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Sawyer, Juniper, Pinkerton. Barnes. All of them were brave men with families and sacrifices and all of them were treated like jokes by ‘reporters’ just like the ones in front of him now. He really doubts there’s a difference between old and new journalism.

The only difference is that now he’s here and this time he’s not going to let them write anything but the damn truth.

“It is—” Steve muses, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead— “I’m surprised you know that though.”

The reporter cocks his head, clearly confused, and it makes the super soldier’s blood boil. “Come again, sir?”

“I said I’m surprised you know where I was born, kid.” This time when he says the word— kid— it’s derogatory. “Ya’ know, considering how you all seem to know nothing about me otherwise.”

Steve almost smiles at the way the crowd tenses. He actually would if it weren’t for the white hot rage coursing through his veins, mingling with the last of the adrenaline leftover in his system. It gives him an extra kick— not that he needs it. Even when he was just a runt from the wrong side of the tracks he needed nothing more than an offhand comment to raise his fists. Fighting to Steve Rogers has always been intoxicating— the aftershocks of winning the battle just makes it more thrilling now.

Who knew, right?

“Sir I asked—” The reporter sputters and Steve simply holds a hand up, silencing him before he can start again.

“Yeah I know what you asked, alright. You want me to talk about the battle here in New York today and how I am more than happy to have risked my life to save it. But I can’t do that, kid. Because I didn’t save it for you. I didn’t save it for any of you.”

Steve feels his team tense— maybe were it any other time he would stop talking. He would just leave it, let the issue go, because Bucky would tell him too. They aren’t worth it, bruiser, he would say, they aren’t worth your blood. Maybe he would listen to his boyfriend because usually he was right. Bucky was always right. So yeah, maybe he would list—

Who is he kidding; he knows he wouldn’t.

Not then and certainly not now— not when Bucky isn’t here to defend himself against everything Steve has been reading about. That’s exactly why he doesn’t stop talking. Someone has to defend him and who better of a person than him? So, yeah, he keeps going, even when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You wanna’ know who I did save it for? James Barnes, that’s who I saved it for! You see, just around that corner there is a bookstore. Rickley Books. That was my boyfriend's favourite bookstore. You know, the man who gave his life to stop a train in Austria from reaching the enemies? Yeah that was him. That train was filled with supplies. Had it reached their headquarters, who knows if we’d be standing here today. If there would be a New York at all. Not that you would know that. But who cares about that dead sergeant from the 107th, right? There’s plenty just like him.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly— a move he picked up from the very man he’s speaking about— but he spits his words at the reporters with enough venom to cancel out any peace that the action brings. That’s his own move.

He keeps going. “You know who else I saved it for? His mother. Yeah, his mother Winnie Barnes. Wonderful lady. She used to run a soup kitchen a couple blocks from here. Kept the rift raft like myself from going hungry most nights— I was a brawler, you know.”

A couple of reporters in the crowd laugh at that and Steve flinches, his vision tinting red as he cranes his neck, seeking them out.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you? You think I’m joking? I’m not. You ever been backed into a corner, son? Had people hurl slurs at you that I can’t even repeat today? Ever been beaten up for loving your best friend? No, I bet you haven’t. You weren’t a queer kid in the thirties. That’s hard— that’s borderline impossible actually. I only made it because of people like Winnie Barnes. That woman was a saint but nobody talks about her either.”

Steve has to take a deep breath, clearing the rasp in his voice that rises as he dwells on the woman he called his second mother for so long. She wasn’t just a saint, she was an angel. He can’t cry here though, not now. Not even as his throat begins to tighten.

“Winnie was the type of lady who didn’t let anyone walk over the little people. She used to sit me down and say Stevie you gotta’ fight for what you want because ain’t nobody gonna’ give it to you. She told me that I shouldn’t have to but that there were going to be people who would try to tear me down just for being me. And she was right— just like her son— because that was the era, you know? But now, here in the twenty-first century, you’re all still trying to tear us down.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, small fingers tugging at where his suit has begun to tear. Natasha Romanoff. He meets her gaze quickly, neck craning to stare down the red head, and in the few seconds their eyes meet it’s like Bucky is next to him. Somehow the blue in her irises catches the falling sun just like his used to. Steve can hear the gruff of his voice in the depths of his mind. Back down, bruiser. The sentiment is echoed across Nat’s face.

Steve shakes her hand off him, turning back to the reporters— don’t they know that he can’t?

“You all say you care about me, huh? That I’m a hero? You know nothing about me— you don’t want to. Before I was a soldier I was a kid. A queer kid. I said that already but let me repeat it. Queer. Did you write that down? None of you certainly did before. That’s how I know that you don’t care— because in an age where being queer is infinitely more accepted you still don’t bother to write it down.”

He pauses for another breath, shutting his eyes against the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’re like little demons, always watching his every move. Recording. Everything’s always recorded these days. Will he ever be used to that? Bucky was the technology guy, not him. Not then and not now.

When Steve picks up again— eyes open and shoulders freshly straight— it’s on a new note— a clear note.

“You don’t care about me— you certainly don’t care about the real heroes of the war because if you did you wouldn’t erase our history. Do you know how much it would have meant to Bucky to see our relationship accepted? The man who died for you? How much it would’ve meant to his mother? You can’t just pick which of our stories and our sacrifices are worthy and which aren't.”

He hasn’t spoken this much since he’s woken up, not all at once at least. Maybe he should have, though— maybe if he had then he wouldn’t feel like ripping the heads off everyone in front of him right now. Call it fight or flight. Call it revenge. Hell, call it whatever you’d like because it doesn’t really matter. Either way he feels like a kid again— again— backed into a corner behind the deli with his fists up and his teeth bared.

He feels feral again.

“So now you just want me to save the world like I did— like Bucky did— all those years ago— or maybe jus’ New York— as if that’s any better— and you don’t even bother to write a proper article about me? Hell, I never even asked for an article, let alone a whole exhibit! I’m just a soldier— and before that I was just a kid. If there’s never another article written about me I’ll be grateful. But now that I’m here, standing in front of you, I’ll say this—”

Just as Steve’s voice is cresting into a shout that would no doubt be heard regardless of whether or not the microphones were in front of him, Natasha tries one more time, her fingers slipping between his.

Her voice is a dull buzz compared to his, only reaching his ears by sheer will. “C’mon Stevie— we gotta’ go now.”

Like before he’s stunned but this time instead of seeing Buck— instead of hearing him in his head— he hears Winnie.

You fought good, honey. You fought good for us. You can rest now.

It’s jarring and it’s not lost on him the handful of awkward seconds that it takes for him to respond. That’s just the effect Winnie had on people though— still has, apparently. Steve shakes his head— I know, mama. But I gotta’ finish this fight.

“No, Nat— I’ve got to say this.” Steve mumbles— voice just beginning to waver despite how hard he clenches his jaw— before sneering at the crowd one last time.

“If I ever read an article from any of you that discredits Bucky Barnes, our relationship, or myself just know that I’ll come for you. I’ll come for this city. Don’t you ever forget who I saved it for. James Barnes, Winnie Barnes, and every queer kid who’s ever felt erased because of people like you. The bigots in the forties couldn’t stop me. The Nazis couldn’t stop me. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could stop me. So don’t think for a second that any of you could either. Have a good day.”

With that Captain America turns, marching off the impromptu stage and beginning the trek back to his apartment. He doesn’t bother looking at his team as he passes them— he can imagine their stunned faces well enough on his own. No doubt he’ll be getting another assignment from Fury soon enough to make up for this ‘outburst’ too. Still, he feels a little bit better. There’s an ache in his shoulder, and one under his ribs too, but he still smiles as he passes Rickman and Sons Books. That must mean something good.

The last time Steve Rogers burns he doesn’t burn the way he’s expecting to— he doesn’t vandalize his own name or blow up at a reporter. No, the third time— the final time— that Steve Rogers burns it’s with nostalgia— and with a damn good cup of coffee in his hand.

“I had no idea this place was even here.” The girl across from Steve muses, tiny hands shifting the steaming cup back and forth.

Her name is Ellie, he learned that back at the museum after asking for a copy of the video she took. He barely knew how to use his phone back then, let alone his email— hell, both still confuse him more often than not— but she had been patient. A little awestruck and a little riled up too but he took it in stride— easily. It’s not hard being nice to the spitting image of him.

“I’m glad I’m good for something other than making the news.” Steve chuckles and this time he means it— there’s no malice or ill intent, only humor. “O’Malley’s ‘s been here longer than I have. Looked a little different then—” he takes a moment to let his eyes wander the old coffee shop and it’s new appliances— a moment to feel his age catch up to him— “but I guess I did too.”

Ellie’s laughter joins in there and it’s strange— strange that he hasn’t laughed with another person in seven, almost eight, months; strange that her laughs sound so much like Bucky’s when they were younger; strange that Bucky isn’t here to hear. Here to laugh, too. Because he would have.

He would have called Steve an old man, would have wrapped his arm around his shoulders, would have asked— no, demanded— that Ellie try the plum cobbler. They always made the best cobbler. Bucky always had the best laugh. All grit and breath and him. Steve feels warm just thinking about it.

“Well thanks for letting me in on the secret, I’ll make sure to guard it carefully.” She even has Bucky’s warm sarcasm.

Maybe it’s not so much like looking in a mirror as it is looking at what he wishes he and his boyfriend could have been back then.

“And thanks for letting me interview you—” Ellie continues, setting the cup down but not before nodding at it, her eyes wide— “wow. You weren’t kidding about the joe, huh? Anyway— thanks for scheduling this. I know you’re probably super busy— and that there are more well established people you could have gone to.”

Steve sets his own mug down too— if he hadn’t there’s a possibility it would be more puddle than porcelain. “Well established means nothin’, kid. Not when you don’t have heart. They’re parasites, all of ‘em. The press couldn’t care less about me.”

Ellie nods, lifting the lid of her laptop. It’s a little bit dented and slathered in stickers, not quite the newest model— he would know, he has the newest one and it’s still sitting in his apartment in the box. Yet another testament to how little the people around him truly know him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, can I get you a side of classism with that commercialism?”

Now she sounds like Winnie too.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?”

She shrugs, tilting her head, a lopsided grin glued to her face. “Once or twice— I never know if they mean it or if they just want me to shut up. I never do so I guess we’ll never know.”

Steve sputters out another laugh because; “I guess we’re the same then— never give them a moment, kid. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He pauses— again— he supposes it’s going to be a day of pausing— he supposes it’s about time he pauses— before adding, “Bucky would’ve scolded me for saying that.”

Ellie’s fingers, swift and deft over the machine— Steve hadn’t even seen her begin to type— pause too as her smile softens. “What would he have said instead?”

Her question shouldn’t catch off guard— this is why he asked her to meet him; to finally, properly write his story— their story. Still he pauses— Steve’s empty hands feel hot, his shoulders warm; bare— what would he have said? It doesn’t take long to hear his boyfriend’s voice, not there but somehow loud in his ear all the same.

Just relax— they aren’t worth it. It’s too nice out to care about anything but the water— are you coming in or not? Summer doesn’t last forever, you know?

It’s impossible but Steve can feel the sun on his back and on his ears again, like he’s there— like he’s back, sixteen and on fire. Those were the days where everything made him cold. The days where his skin burned no matter the season but especially in August which was when the ocean was warm enough to swim in. It never stopped him from joining Buck— nothing could have stopped him. His cheeks warm, too, at the thought.

Steve blinks, his own smile— perhaps a little lopsided in it’s own right— shaping over his mouth. “He would have told you to relax— and to try the plum cobbler. It’s fantastic.”

With another giggle— and a reiterated comment— has anyone ever told you you’re funny, Steve?— they fall into a conversation, just a kid and a relic, about life. It’s not an easy conversation— but then again those kinds never are. It’s real, though, and unedited. Unfiltered. Just the way Erskine and Winnie and Bucky would have liked it— the only way Steve wants it. It’s not perfect but, hell, Steve has never been perfect.

He’s never wanted to be.

Maybe Steve doesn’t know everything his boyfriend would say— and maybe he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t blow up once or twice after today— but he can confidently say that he gave Brooklyn a run for her money— twice— and lived to tell the tale. He can say then when it mattered, he burned. That he still burns. That he will until he doesn’t— until he’s extinguished.

But, hey, though Summer doesn’t last forever, not even the Atlantic could extinguish the flame that is Steve Rogers.

That’s what he writes— in Sharpie— on the card he writes to Ellie— the one attached to the computer he knows he’ll never use.

#Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Stucky #steve x bucky #Queer!steve rogers #Queer!Steve #Queer!Bucky #Queer!Bucky Barnes #Captain America #pride month #Steve angst #steve fluff #Marvel cinematic universe #Mcu #mcu fic #steve fic

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onrainynights · 3 years

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why you can't compare buddie to destiel (from someone who ships both)

this is kind of addressing the recent negativity in the buddie tag, but it's also a collection of my thoughts and reasoning for being buddie-positive despite my experiences with destiel and spn in general. the text of 911 is not really discussed at all, and this is relatively spoiler-free, so if you're thinking of watching 911 I encourage you to read it. if you haven't seen both shows it probably won't make perfect sense, but I wrote this with spn fans who haven't seen 911 in mind, since that's most of my followers (and also seems to be where much of the negativity was coming from) pretty long post under the cut to save your dash

I just want to prepare y'all for the fact that buddie could be the slow burn will they/won't they mlm romance we've been waiting for practically forever.

at this point it's not fair to call it queerbait because where their relationship is now fits the characters and their development. this is not like destiel, where there were many moments over the years that could've ended with them getting together and it would've made sense with the story. buddie right now is in this sweet, wholesome pre-relationship kind of place, which on its own is a compelling dynamic and so fun and good to see. a resolution of it right now would feel out of character—they both still have some development to do before that would feel natural. and so, I don't think we can really call it queerbaiting unless the characters get to that point and there is still no resolution.

also I'd like to point out the overall positivity from the cast when it comes to buddie. both Eddie's and Buck's actors have said (I'm paraphrasing cast statements in this post unless they are in quotations) positive things about the pairing, and Buck's actor has said that he likes the interpretation of Buck as queer, and he would be happy if the writers took his character in that direction. also Eddie's actor with "that's what they all say" when buddie was referred to as a "bromance". Jennifer Love Hewitt, who plays Buck's sister (another main character), is very supportive of buddie, saying she's "rooting for it", that it would be "amazing", she doesn't "see how it couldn't happen one day". this was in response to hearing that a fan insists Buck and Eddie will be a couple. She flat-out said "I think so, too." She jokes about buddie with Buck's and Eddie's actors all the time. Also, my favorite bit from the video of her saying all this, "Let's manifest it together!"

It's safe to say this is a VERY different environment to spn. I don't think I've ever seen a cast this positive about a show's main non-canon queer ship before. NEVER. I think it's safe to say that if/when buddie is canonized, the cast will be just as excited as the fans—at least JLH will be! Add into the fact that the show's PR seems to be leaning into bi buck and buddie right now, it's a VERY different vibe than spn had, definitely. There's no gaslighting of the fans here, at least not that I've seen. also, although 911 has a large casual viewership, I think it's safe to say the GA would not be upset by buddie—there are only 3 serious, long-term romantic relationships involving main characters in this show, and one of them is a lesbian marriage with two children. And yes, the characters are shown being lesbians, it's not just a stated fact; the audience is privy to their relationship (and their interactions with their adorable kids). I think it's safe to say that buddie would go over well with the fans, even the casual viewers (of which there are many). buddie doesn't seem to be a huge divider in fandom like destiel is, either. reactions generally seem to be either "I ship it" or "I don't care either way."

Also I'd like to point out that while yes, it's possible that buddie is only bait (which would be disappointing), there's a reason queerbaiting works. people WANT to be queerbaited, because it's nearly indistinguishable from a slow burn will they/won't they queer romance. queerbaiting allows fans to make theories, create fan content (including fic), and keeps them engaged with the dynamic and the show. fans who are vulnerable to queerbaiting want a slow burn will they/won't they queer romance, which is currently an almost completely untapped market. spn could've tapped it, but despite the huge fandom they did not. there are SO MANY people outside of spn fandom who want a slow burn mlm romance, one that keeps the audience guessing, one that's will they/won't they, one that is not guaranteed, and that is why queerbaiting works so well. the audience doesn't just want the payoff, they also want the build-up. the longer the build-up, the higher the payoff, and the suspense of the build-up is gone if you know from the start that the payoff is definitely coming. that's part of why malec from shadowhunters didn't fully tap this market—there was no question of if, only the question of when (which wasn't really a question either, given there was an episode in season 1 literally titled "malec" when they got together.) the characters were always queer, the show being an adaptation of a book series where they were in a relationship and eventually had children together.

this was why November 5th was such a big deal—fans were so far past the will they/won't they aspect of destiel, firmly believing that destiel would always end as a "won't they" and not a "will they" that when cas confessed his romantic love for dean, destiel trended on Twitter over the US election. you all know that story, but maybe not everyone reading this knows that after Nov. 5 there was a case of hundreds if not thousands of spn fans experiencing love sickness because of the confession scene. the payoff of making destiel fully canon (and reciprocated, in English) would've been huge. fans would've been throwing their money at the c/w.

which leads me to the possibility (this is not at all me saying that I think this happened or even is likely, just that it's one possibility that /could/ have happened) that buddie started as bait, that the writers never intended for them to be a couple, but saw fan reactions to buddie during season 2 and started to lean into it in season 3 (and 4 so far, but it just started so I don't want to make any generalized statements about it) possibly still as bait or maybe not deciding yet if they'll go anywhere with it. and then maybe they saw destiel trending on November 5th, realized just how BIG the market for a slow burn will they/won't they mlm romance is, and said "hey, we already have the foundations for one of those. why not go for it and draw in all those viewers who clearly want one so badly?"

if buddie goes canon, because the cast and PR have been so positive about it, unlike spn, and because of the text of the show itself, the show's creatives could VERY EASILY claim that they were never baiting, that it was all an intentional slow burn will they/won't they romance from the beginning, and most people would believe them; there isn't really any evidence to the contrary, although I am sure there would be at least a few fans convinced it started as queerbaiting, and there might not be any evidence to refute that, either.

the point is that 911 is currently sitting on a gold mine. if they play their cards right, and execute buddie well, they will monopolize this market that old straight white men serving as network executives have failed so far to really tap into. they queerbait without the payoff, which gives the show a reputation among those in the market who haven't seen it, guaranteeing they will never watch it. shows in this vein: sherlock (huge reputation for queerbaiting and a finale fans didn't like) and spn (huge reputation for queerbaiting and a finale fans didn't like). spn got so, so close with cas's confession but then continued to gaslight its fans, and PR did not lean into destiel AT ALL. if 911 did buddie? the PR team would be all over it. it would be a moneymaker, big time, and Fox knows it. if buddie, or even just bi buck, went canon, tumblr would be all over it. viewership for the show, which is already impressive, would skyrocket. 911 would monopolize this market, because fans wary of queerbaiting would watch it with the knowledge that the payoff is there, and there really wouldn't be a competitor until other shows saw the success of buddie and followed suit with their own pairings, and given the fact that the market specifically wants /slow burn/ queer romances, that might take a couple years. that puts 911 in a really good position, where suddenly the fandom of the show, not just the GA, is very large and likely very dedicated to the show. the success of canon buddie might just change the landscape of TV in the coming years, showing execs that while queerbaiting does work, actually going through with it is really where the money is. 911 would not just monopolize the market for a while; it would pioneer it.

if buddie never goes canon, I would probably be a bit disappointed at the wasted potential, but unless the characters get to that point where canon buddie seems like the most logical outcome and they /don't/ go for it, I won't be truly upset because I don't think it's fair to claim its queerbaiting until then. I can't tell you how likely it is that buddie will be canon at some point, but it seems FAR more likely than destiel /ever/ did, and we ended up getting cas's confession in the end. I have hope, despite being hurt so badly by spn. 911 is a genuinely great show with some fantastic writing, and they don't leave chekov's gun unfired, unlike spn.

really, it comes down to this: if Jennifer Love Hewitt is allowed to clown for buddie, then so am I, and I'll enjoy this show—which is amazing even without canon buddie—while I apply my clown makeup.

#9-1-1 #spn #buddie #tagging as #destiel #so anyone with that tag blacklisted can avoid this post #unfortunately I have seen w/ncest shippers in the buddie tag so that's just a precaution so I don't get attacked #posts for puck #I might add more to this later who knows but I think this is a pretty good collection of my thoughts #buddie positivity #911natural

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devildom-dedicated-daydreams · 4 years

Text

Afterstory (Diavolo)

Arc 3: The Cursed Witch Seduces the Wild Prince

@karmaaf @mac-the-oregonian @imagine-my-hero-and-vills @lady-naho @viptrash @cinnamon-bisquit xxnio-chanxx @pen-observing I wanna be friends with you, too <3

“Princess … ”

Diavolo cradled your body closer to him. Your warmth seeped out with each second. Stale blood dripped from your wounds.

Diavolo chuckled drily.

Those gentle hands that would pat his head, the calloused but lovely fingers that drove him crazy with each touch--he will never feel them again.

Chuckling became laughing.

His flames blazed brighter and pitch-black smoke rose from earth. Rising higher into the sky, Diavolo’s wings grew and stretched so far they covered the sun and engulfed the city in darkness. From his flames swung out a tail with scarlet scales. It swept across the buildings, killing hundreds and destroying everything.

“Beast!” The humans screamed. “The witch summoned a beast!”

“Witch?” Diavolo repeated.

His maniacal laugh thundered throughout the city.

“You killed her for that?” The woman he loved was a soul who would never use her magic selfishly. You never turned away a patient even when they disrespected you.

The red dragon tenderly gazed at the lifeless body in his hand.

The skin had lost its vigor, scratches covered your face, and the arms …

How long did you suffer? How much did you suffer?

If only … if only he stayed with her.

“Unholy beast!”

Diavolo’s thoughts were interrupted when the human soldiers started shooting arrows at him. One arrow flew past his claws and almost hit your corpse.

The red dragon roared into the sky.

The large city that once bustled with life was reduced to ashes in less than half a day.

Diavolo flew back to your home. When he found the squatters wearing your clothes and the kids trampling the flowers you adored, he almost sent them to the next life. But he sensed the mana that radiated from them. It was your mana.

“Take off the clothes that aren’t yours and leave behind what belongs in this house,” he ordered with glowing eyes.

There were a foolish few who disobeyed by pocketing a ruby Diavolo gifted. They were two kids, the ones who threw rocks at you--

Half their faces were melted off.

“A saint touched your souls so I won’t kill you,” Diavolo said. “But don’t test my patience.”

The refugees ran for the mountains and Diavolo was left alone.

“I’m here,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here, princess, so come back soon … ”

Gabriel and Lilith arrived a few weeks later. They’ve only now just heard the news.

Shock didn’t begin to describe what they felt at the scene that welcomed them.

Your humble mud house was transformed into a wooden cottage. The tiny patch of soil you proudly called a garden was bigger, lining the side of the river with herbs and flowers and other plants.

Life seemed to overflow

Gabriel barged inside the cottage.

The crown prince of hell sat on the edge of a bed. He was wiping the feet of a corpse, his eyes full of mad love while telling a story about how big the pomegranates were.

“I promise I didn’t use any magic. When you wake up, let’s make some dessert with them--”

A fist flew and Diavolo landed on the ground.

“You crazy … ” Gabriel’s chest heaved. He didn’t even know where to begin.

Luckily, Lilith was there. She patted his shoulder before approaching the prince. “Cousin, this is wrong.”

Diavolo lifted his head, eyes empty before focusing on Lilith. He grinned mechanically. “Oh, I didn’t notice you coming in.”

The angels exchanged glances.

“Do you like the house? I built it myself.”

“Diavolo--”

“I was giving princess a bath, she’s so spoiled--”

“Diavolo,” Lilith cut him off. “Diavolo, MC is dead.”

“She’s sleeping, Lilith. She can’t be dead, she’s going to be the queen of hell. We promised we’d be together so there’s no way she’s dead.”

“Oy,” Gabriel stepped forward, glaring at the prince. “Stop running away from this, bastard. MC is dead. She’s gone.”

“Gone,” Diavolo repeated with a whisper.

Your soul was gone.

But that’s not possible. When you became one, he reinforced his seal so you would be bound to him forever. But your soul was gone. You weren’t just dead, your soul was gone. He couldn’t feel it anymore. Your soul vanished like a whisper in the wind.

Gone--

You were gone.

Diavolo clawed at his chest, cutting skin and drawing blood. His insides twisted. He buckled down and threw up.

“Right--” He croaked as angry fat, angry tears blurred his vision. He pulled on his hair. “She’s gone. She’s gone … Even Barbatos said her soul … she’s gone.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Lilith knelt down and looked straight into his eyes. “Diavolo, think again.”

“A soul is immortal. She may be lost,” Gabriel said. “But she’s not irretrievable. And when she comes back is this how you want to greet her?” He gestured at the ice-cold body.

Diavolo chuckled wearily. “What do you know?”

“I know that you didn’t deserve her--”

“Gabriel--” Lilith tried to calm him down again but he shrugged her off.

“--I know that she deserves more than a pathetic, sobbing mess who avoids responsibility.”

The demon prince couldn’t bring himself to retort. Gabriel was right, he was pathetic.

“I know this doesn’t sound much from an uncultured girl like me but … but I want to work together with you. I want to be a partner who can help you with your problems.”

Your words echoed in the back of his mind and Diavolo laughed again. With a tearful smile, he looked out the window and into the clear morning sky.

“You win, princess. You always win.”

Meanwhile, in a roofless room surrounded by stars and with walls that stretched so far you could not see the end, two men played a game of chess.

The one who held an ebony pawn sighed. It was King Drakul of Devildom.

His opponent, a man with greying hair crudely dyed purple at the tips, quirked an eyebrow. “Something wrong, old friend?”

“I was just thinking--it’s very hard being a father.”

“Oh.” His opponent nodded in agreement. “I feel ya. Lately, Lili has taken an interest in the human realm and Levi…the one with the bowl haircut keeps messing with the time warps. He’s already reading literature that shouldn’t be in existence yet.”

“First of all, their names are Lilith and Leviathan. Secondly, my case is different from yours. Diavolo--”

“It’s about time Diavolo fixes his behavior.”

“I suppose … ”

“Cheer up, Drakul. Our plan worked, or rather, it’s going to work. Ain’t that right, Barbatos?”

Barbatos appeared with a burst of green smoke. He refilled their teacups. “You are correct, Lord God.”

Drakul sighed again.

“Hey now, you can’t start regretting it now,” said Lord God. “I went AWOL for an extra five thousand years just for this moment.”

He disappeared for millenia, causing conflict among the angels, and then arrived in time to stop a full-scale war. Not to mention, he had to create a random body and puppeteer it from the sidelines while waiting for a Host.

“You can’t soften up now. Otherwise all that effort to educate Diavolo would have gone to waste. Think of those poor souls who failed and got sent to punishment worlds because of him, think of those humans he killed when he went feral the other day--think of how many loops Barbatos has gone through--and the beating Diavolo almost gave him!” Lord God dropped a sugar cube into his cup.

“I know, I know … But those 2430 souls are on you. You could easily have asked Barbatos who would be the successful Host.”

“You know I don’t roll like that. It’s boring to know everything—why do ya think I sealed away my powers?” Lord God added another sugar cube. “Ah, speaking of, what do you think of my newest recruit? The second genius I’ve encountered since I started this gig.”

“Hm, let’s see.” Drakul grabbed a flower-shaped cookie. “Sharp-witted, competent and ruthless. I say, they’d be an excellent queen.”

Lord God spat out his tea. “You can’t--cough--you can’t be serious.”

“You can't deny that there is a possibility." He turned to his butler. "Right, Barbatos?”

A mysterious look ghosted over Barbato's eyes, then he grinned subserviently. “It is as you say, sire.”

Author’s note:

If you know me from Tumblr then you already know that I have this headcanon: In the past Diavolo was a wild, rebellious blood knight but now he is desperate to maintain peace in the three realms because he fell in love with a human in the past and patiently waits for her reincarnation so he can welcome her as his queen. Also, he's only the crown prince in the Obey Me! storyline because he refuses to become king without his beloved.

Man, I know I poke fun at him for being a reckless idiot in the story, but damn.

And imagine all the crap he deals with for uniting the three realms--all that effort for a soul who didn’t even look back when she left. 🤧

(To have that kind of power on a man... Ate MC, paturo naman po. Charot lang. We must aspire to be good people haha)

Oh, and by the way--

I would like to clarify something since you guys keep making so many conspiracy theories.

Regarding the characters from the fictional worlds and the real world:

The Obey Me! Characters that manifest in the fictional worlds are treated as separate entities from those in the Real World. E.g. Lucifer from the CEO’s arc is different from the Lucifer in Diavolo’s arc/Real World, so if the same character appears twice, our MC will not compare their names, appearances, etc. Think of it as a perception filter. However, you can say that they are still connected because they are alternative selves of each other. So residual affections felt by CEO!Lucifer will be felt by Real World!Lucifer.

What was the third party interference at the end?

Unless the above story wasn't clear enough, the interference was Diavolo.

Will MC have a harem?

Who knows.

Hope that makes things clear :D

(And please keep up with the praise, this madam would sell her firstborn for more praises from you guys.)

Until the next arc, my dear readers!

#obey me #obey me swd #shall we date #diavolo #diavolo x mc #diavolo x reader #afterstory #lore #obey me backstory #headcanon #imagine #scenario #angst #angssst

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blkmxrvel · 3 years

Text

Haven’t Forgotten My Way Home (24) - [CONVERTED]

Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Female!Reader

Summary: In the D/s society of National City, men and women abandoned by their Dom/mes or otherwise deemed unfit for life “outside” end up at the Mount Overland House for Orphaned Submissives. It is here that Kara Zor-El finds Y/N Hastings, broken and fearful from mistreatment at the hands of her former Dom. Can Kara coax Y/N back into the world that once so terrified her, and show her the true meaning of care and submission?

Warnings: Domestic Violence (Flashbacks, Mentions and Descriptions), Misogyny, Domination/Submission.

She had expected the courtroom to look… just like that, a courtroom. A vast expanse of rule and punishment, dark woods and a high bench in the center from which the judge would condemn them all.

She had probably watched way too much television, Kara decided, or it could be because only the major cases were tried in the main courtroom down the hall. Most, such as domestic disputes or “severed claims” (such a distasteful phrase, Kara thought) were heard in 203Left. It was little more than a boardroom, with 3 tables pushed together in an open-ended square, and the gallery was three or four rows of metal chairs sat towards the back of the room. Two members of the council sat in the very back row, a presence Kara noticed with a slight tinge of fear.

“Are you sure I can’t go up there with her?” she whispered to Lena, who was sat beside her in the first row.

She looked so vulnerable, Kara thought, flanked on either side by her lawyer and Sam… and him directly in front of her.

James Olsen didn’t look like a man capable of making a young girl’s life a living hell, and that, Kara knew, was because Alex had done a good job prepping him. Clean-shaven, hair cut short. His suit was dark, but not so dark as to give off the impression of “bad guy,” impeccably tailored and well-fitting. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood table the only indication that he was the accused.

He looked, Kara thought, like a little boy in a man’s clothes. And that, she knew, was what had started it all.

She shook her head and turned her attention back to the girl who mattered most, the girl who was staring at her with eyes wide and somewhat fearful. Kara smiled reassuringly, wishing with everything she had that she could go up there to her, to hold her in her arms and whisper that it was all going to turn out all right.

Except she didn’t know if it would.

Sam had helped Y/N dress for the trial as well, a move that Kara knew was just as calculated as Alex’s. She didn’t like it, because the white short-sleeve peasant shirt and black pants, along with a simple pair of black tennis shoes and Y/N’s hair held back on one side by a bow-shaped clip, made Y/N look even younger, smaller, more lost than what Kara knew she was.

Even if, just two nights ago, she’d been afraid Y/N had become lost to her forever.

Kara had known, from the moment she’d walked down the hall to her bedroom and found Y/N staring at her collection of punishment implements, hand held fast but shaking against the cabinet door, what the young woman had been thinking of. It had tempered Kara’s anger, somewhat, at her things having been gone through without permission, but it had been exacerbated, too, by the fact that Y/N still didn’t trust her.

It had made her irrationally frustrated, in those few short seconds standing there watching Y/N struggle with her own emotions, that after all this time, after all the care and devotion Kara had thought she’d provided, Y/N was still afraid of her. Hadn’t she done well? Kara thought to herself, after Y/N had gone to the living room and she was gathering up the paddle, the belt, the strap, the hairbrush, the crop in her hands and walking back down the hall herself, formulating the plan in her mind. Hadn’t she praised Y/N at every turn, hadn’t she made sure to call her good girl after every punishment, hadn’t she held her and loved her after every punishment, made sure that Y/N knew it was a clean slate, that everything was forgiven?

Hadn’t she been unlike James Olsen at every possible opportunity?

She’d wanted to call Lena, to call and ask what she should do, because why should she have to keep proving herself over and over again? But she knew what Lena would say, yet another lesson Kara had learned while kneeling at the woman’s feet.

A Dominant will prove herself worthy every day if her submissive needs it. Because the submissive deserves nothing less.

Kara hadn’t meant for things to be as intense as they were with Y/N’s punishment. She’d even momentarily forgotten the significance of the fire, until she’d taken the blindfold off Y/N and the poor girl had reacted to it with a heart-rending moan. Kara would have ended it right there, but she had to prove a point; she had to make Y/N see that Kara was determined never to be like him.

And then Y/N had safe worded.

Later that night, after dinner and as they lay together inside the blanket fort, Y/N had become uncharacteristically quiet. They had been talking and laughing together, making plans for the next day, but then Kara had lain down and taken Y/N into her arms. What she had thought was blissful, comfortable silence was apparently Y/N lost in her own thoughts, thoughts that she wasn’t inviting Kara to share. Kara had waited patiently, content to hold the girl close to her, rubbing her back gently and offering the occasional soft kiss, but still Y/N said nothing.

“Out with it,” Kara had finally ordered gently. “What’s bothering you?” Y/N shook her head.

“Y/N.” There was a note of warning, an edged reminder of the consequence of defiance.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Kara said, tipping her chin up to kiss Y/N again. “And I said you were forgiven for going through my things.”

“No. Not about that.”

Kara tilted her head. “Then…?”

It hurt when Y/N rolled over on her side, away from Kara, drawing her knees up and curling in on herself as if she was remembering being asleep on the floor, with nothing but a thin sheet for comfort. And then Kara was alarmed, because the quiet sniffling even as she reached out for Y/N told her the girl was crying.

“For safe wording.”

She didn’t pull Y/N back around to her; instead, Kara wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist and scooted herself closer so they were pressed back to front. “Why,” she asked softly, nuzzling her chin onto the girl’s shoulder and breathing in the scent of the shampoo that still lingered, “Would you apologize for that?”

“Because i-it made you angry.”

Now Kara was even more confused, and she wanted to roll Y/N over so that she could see her face, search her eyes for something, anything that would be the reasoning behind the girl’s emotions. But she knew Y/N, knew her boundaries, and knew the girl was lost inside something that it would be dangerous to pull her out of too soon, so Kara simply held her.

“I couldn’t be more proud of you for safe wording,” she explained. “You finally understand that it’s okay to safe word, that you have that right, that you will always have that right. And that makes me so happy.”

“I wasn’t a good girl.”

“What?”

Y/N drew herself up further, so that her knees were practically at her chest. “You always say I’m a good girl… after. This time, you didn’t. Because I’m n-not a good girl.”

“Y/N, no-“

“I safe worded. I’m weak, I didn’t trust you. I’m a b-bad girl.”

“No.” This time, Kara did turn Y/N over in her arms; Y/N didn’t protest, her limbs slack like a rag doll’s, and Kara sighed inwardly. She moved up against the pillows so that Y/N was laid a little lower than she was, with her head against Kara’s chest; Kara tightened her arms. She took a deep breath, letting go of the thoughts of how could I have been so stupid? and allowing her nature to flow through her, to take control. The need to dominate and care, to protect and train. She ran her fingers through Y/N’s hair, loosely, lovingly.

“For a person who has never had a safe word,” she said firmly, “and who has always been afraid to use a safe word because she thought it might result in worse punishment, to actually use a safe word…” Kara shook her head; this was no time for a lecture with big words.

“You’re the bravest girl I know,” she whispered, lowering her lips to the top of Y/N’s head, holding her close as the girl shook with silent sobs. “You’re the bravest girl I know, and the strongest, and I am so proud of you.” She cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, raising it so the girl was looking at her. “Don’t ever let me hear you say you’re a bad girl again, is that clear? That is unacceptable. You may be naughty, you may make bad choices, but you are never bad. Do you understand me?”

Y/N swallowed, her eyes locked on Kara’s. “Yes, Miss Kara.”

“I am so sorry for forgetting to say it,” Kara said, regret coating her voice. “Even a Dominant can make mistakes, and forget things. I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Y/N was looking at her with an expression of wonder; Kara knew it was because a Dominant actually apologizing was a foreign concept to her. Still, she nodded, slowly. “I forgive you, Miss Kara.”

Kara smiled, and kissed her. “What a strong, brave, good girl you are,” she affirmed, and kissed her again. Y/N offered her a watery smile in response, and Kara brushed the tears away from her cheeks with her thumbs. “Good girl,” she cooed, tucking Y/N’s head back against her chest. “My good girl. My good, good girl.”

“She’ll need you more after than during,” Lena said, watching Sam with no small amount of pride on her face. “You know, she’s so hot like this.”

Kara rolled her eyes. “Now is really not the time, horndog,” she said affectionately, then paled when Lena turned to her with a glare in her eyes. “Sorry, Miss Lena,” Kara squeaked.

Really, it was ridiculous that that woman could still make her feel like a 16 year old sometimes.

Lena smirked, and patted Kara’s knee.

Both women tensed when the door to the front of the courtroom opened, and The Honorable Judge Winston Schott entered to take his place at the head table.

Kara knew as soon as she saw him that all was lost.

It wasn’t that he was particularly menacing or intimidating; in fact, with his sweater vest and his unruly, curly hair he looked more like a high school teacher than a judge. But it was in the way he walked, in the way he smiled and greeted James Olsen hello while merely nodding at Y/N, in the way he seated himself and rustled through the papers but not even giving them so much as a glance that told Kara he had most likely made up his mind before he’d even walked in the door.

“Right then,” he said, settling back in his chair and uncapping his pen, tapping it annoyingly against the table. “This is case oh three four dash three two six. I’m Judge Winston Schott; let’s have the introductions, please.”

“Lucy Lane and Sam Luthor-Arias, representation and advocate for Y/N Hastings, plaintiff, Your Honor.”

Kara wasn’t too sure about Y/N’s lawyer; the woman had her hair up in pigtails and was wearing an outlandish jacket topped with a feather boa. But Sam insisted she was the best, and Lena insisted that Sam knew what she was talking about. So Kara pushed aside her nervousness and smiled when Y/N managed a glance and subtle wave at her, then she turned her attention to the men sitting on the opposite side.

“Iris West-Allen and Alex Danvers, representation and advocate for James Olsen, defendant, Your Honor.”

Kara fought back a giggle as she caught sight of Maggie, sat just behind Alex’s table, pointing at her Ma’am and mouthing “She is so hot.” She shook her head at her and she grinned, giving a thumbs up before quickly slipping into what she termed “behave mode.”

Her nerves were quickly getting the best of her though, as the introductions ceased and it was time for the trial of Y/N Hastings-Olsen v. James Olsen to get underway. They were going to lose, she was sure of it, and everything Y/N had to go through would have been for nothing, because James Olsen was going to get a slap on the wrist.

“Right,” Schott was saying, sounding bored. “James Olsen, defendant, Y/N Hastings-Olsen, plain—“

“Hastings, Your Honor,” Ms. Lane interrupted, her tone clipped and determined. “Her name is Y/N Hastings.”

“Mm,” Judge Schott hummed. “Hastings-Olsen, plaintiff. Let’s beg—“

“Objection!”

All eyes turned to her.

“Kara, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lena hissed. “You can’t object; you’re not part of the trial!”

Alex looked as if she was about to come out of her seat at her; Kara sank down into hers, watching as Y/N raised a single eyebrow at her.

That eyebrow was really, really hot.

“There will be silence in the gallery,” Judge Schott reprimanded sternly, glaring at Kara. “Unless you are—“

“Oh I’m not a lawyer,” Kara explained hastily. “Though I have played one in a local theater production.”

Lena dropped her face into her palm as Sam snorted.

“There will be silence in the gallery,” Judge Schott said again with a sigh of exasperation. “Are we clear?”

Kara nodded, embarrassed that she’d let her nerves get the best of her so soon. “Yes, Your Honor, sorry.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded. “We will proceed. As is always the case, the defense shall be presented first.”

Kara managed not to groan; she hated that so far, efforts in court reform had been rejected by the government, and so trials nearly always ended up skewed towards the accused. Proponents of the current system said it actually worked in the plaintiff’s favor, because theirs was the last testimony heard, and would therefore remain fresher in the judge or jury’s mind, but Kara wasn’t so sure she bought that. She only hoped it would be true, for Y/N’s sake.

She noticed that James was leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and his eyes glued to Y/N. She for her part wasn’t looking at him; she was staring down at the table. Kara wondered if she’d ever been permitted to really look at James.

“Hold on, angel,” Kara whispered. “Just hold on.” Lena shot her a look, and Kara quieted so she could hear the questions from James’s lawyer.

“Will you tell us, please, James,” began West-Allen, “How you feel about your submissive?”

“She’s not yours,” Kara muttered. “She’s mi—“

“Kara, shut up,” Lena said softly. “Remember, everything has to go perfectly.”

“I didn’t—“ he paused, as if fumbling for the words. “I never meant to hurt he—“ James Olsen stopped again. “Y/N. Y/N, look at me. Look at me.”

She didn’t, and Kara felt her heart swell as instead, the girl looked at her. She nodded at Y/N, who reluctantly turned back to James.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, and Kara rolled her eyes, only to have her mouth drop open in shock at his next words.

“Y/N, I love you.”

Kara felt sick. She had to lean forward a little, her arms pressed against her stomach; Lena laid a reassuring hand on her back. The words were… everything Kara knew Y/N had wanted to hear from James. Kara knew the power behind those words, knew how much she wanted to hear them herself. But would it make everything okay, she wondered. Would Y/N… leave her and go back to James, forget everything he’d put her through, just because he said he loved her? She sniffed, unaware until then that she was crying; she swiped the back of her hand over her eyes.

“Easy,” Lena murmured. “It’s not going to change anything, Kara. Easy now.”

“Do you deny doing the things that you are accused of?”

James Olsen shook his head. “No,” he said, and Kara heard herself gasp. She’d never expected him to actually admit it.

“But I never meant to hurt her, I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought—“

“What did you think justified your treatment of someone you say you love?”

This was what Kara had been waiting to hear. The explanation, the reasoning behind it all. Not that it would change her opinion of him, or make it all right, but if she didn’t get to hear it she’d be wondering for the rest of her life what had led James to be so brutal to one of the sweetest creatures she had ever known in her life.

She still wanted him to suffer everything Y/N had suffered, but more than that, she wanted to know why.

“I—my dad was a sub,” James said with a shrug. Before Kara had a chance to blurt out what’s that got to do with anything? he continued. “My dad was a sub, and my mom was his Dominant. I mean yeah that’s how it works so of course she was but… and he was a good sub, when he was around. At least what I can remember, I was pretty young when he left.”

“He left?” Mrs. West-Allenpressed, one hand scratching notes onto the pad in front of her, the other playing with the tie at her neck.

“Yeah he… got into some stuff, drugs I guess? I don’t really know, I was just a kid. He’d… go out all the time, come home… different. And my mom, she tried, you know, she’d punish him. Spank him, make him do chores, not let him leave the house. But she was kind of soft, she didn’t like punishing him and he got away with a lot of stuff. So he’d leave anyway.”

“And one day…?”

James shrugged, twisting his hands together as he looked at Y/N. “I love you,” he said, the words sounding gentle. “I love you, and I’m sorry.”

Kara fought back the urge to retch; Lena’s hand was soothing against her back. He didn’t mean any of it. She knew he didn’t. Not after all this time, not after everything he’d done to her. Don’t believe him, she tried to send to Y/N. Please don’t believe him, I love you…

“James.”

“Right, sorry.” Olsen took another deep breath and went on with a glance at Alex, who smiled encouragingly at him.

For a split second, Kara hated her again.

“One day he… went somewhere. Told my mom he was going shopping. ‘I’ll be back with dinner, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Take care of Mom,’ he said.” Olsen struck the table with his fist and everyone jumped; Y/N let out a whimper and in a heartbeat Sam had her arm around the girl, whispering words into her ear. Kara clenched her hands to keep from jumping out of her seat; Lena slipped her arm around her shoulders.

“Be strong, that’s what she needs right now,” she soothed. Kara swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded.

“We waited for hours,” James said through clenched teeth. “Mom paced back and forth, kept saying that this time he’d learn his lesson, this time he’d see that his place was at home with his family. And me, I just sat on the steps watching the door. Must’ve fallen asleep ‘cause when I woke up it was morning and I was still on the steps. Mom was on the couch crying and he never came back.”

West-Allen nodded, looking thoughtful; Judge Schott was staring as if he wanted to cuddle Olsen on his lap. “Can you explain,” James’s lawyer said, “How that affected your relationship with Y/N?”

“My mom… she was such a pushover, you know? She let him get away with everything. She’s the Domme, she’s supposed to be in control, show him who’s boss, but she kept letting him walk out. And I’m just 16, you know? I’m a 16 year old kid and my mom was so obsessed with finding him that… I didn’t know much. But I knew I wasn’t going to do that with you,” he said to Y/N, and she glanced away.

“I’m not weak. I’m the Dom, I control you and you’re going to do what I say. I love you, and I have to keep you safe. She didn’t keep him safe, and now he’s gone. We don’t even know if he’s still alive. You’re not safe out there, you belong to me and your place is at home, and if I have to beat and burn that into you every day then I’m going to fucking do it.”

She’d had enough. Kara jumped out of her chair and ran into the hall, with Lena right behind. She barely made it to the restroom, dropping to her knees in one of the stalls and emptying her stomach of all the contents from breakfast earlier that morning. Lena knelt behind her, holding Kara’s hair back with one hand, again rubbing her back with the other.

“How,” Kara croaked, shaking slightly, “How can any of that justify what he did to her?”

“It doesn’t,” Lena said matter-of-factly. “I don’t care how much of a scared, fatherless 16 year old boy he was, there comes a point when immaturity stops being an explanation and it becomes a get out of jail free card, an unfair justification for despicable behavior. Hey, I can imitate you pretty well, can’t I?”

Kara smiled weakly and stood up, brushing off her clothes and accepting the mint gum Lena held out to her, then allowing herself to be pulled into the other woman’s arms.

“We’re going to lose,” Kara said softly, leaning in.

Lena sighed and squeezed her. “I know.” She pushed back and looked directly into Kara’s eyes. “Which is why I said she’ll need you more after. Come on, it’s almost her turn to testify.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Kara admitted, tugging at the black skirt she wore and nervously adjusting the white top. It occurred to her that she and Y/N had somehow managed to color coordinate, though neither of them had discussed what they were going to wear.

It was… hopeful, she thought.

“Yes you can.” Lena had already turned away from Kara and was walking out the door, her heels sounding loudly on the floor. Kara shook her head slightly, recognizing that the encouragement was also an order, and she quickly followed her back into the courtroom.

Y/N looked worriedly at her as Kara settled back in her seat; Kara just winked at her and waved slightly before realizing that Schott was speaking to her.

“I trust there will be no more disturbances during these proceedings?” he said, once again sounding bored. “Honestly, if you were going to be this emotional you ought to have stayed home.”

Kara growled low in her throat, but managed to sound pleasant as she said, “No more disturbances, Your Honor, you can continue.”

“Well, thank you for your permission.” Judge Schott turned to Y/N’s lawyer. “Miss Lane, are you ready to cross-examine the defendant?”

“Ready, Your Honor.”

All doubts about Y/N’s lawyer’s qualifications disappeared as soon as Lucy Lane leaned forward in her seat, her eyes boring into James’s as she asked “Mr. Olsen… just who the hell do you think you are?” Kara smirked, and she even caught Y/N smiling slightly. Every question was on-point, every counter of his answers left the young man squirming in his seat, and Kara began to think that maybe, just maybe, they might have a shot at winning. By the time Lane said she had no further questions, James Olsen had been reduced to stuttering his answers.

“Miss Lane, are you and Miss Hastings-Olsen ready to present your own case?”

“Hastings, Your Honor.”

Kara’s head shot up at Y/N’s voice, even as a slow smile began to spread over her face.

Judge Schott regarded her coolly. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s Y/N Hastings,” she said, her voice low, but confident. “My name is Y/N Hastings.”

Lucy Lane was smiling; Kara caught Sam pumping her fist under the table and next to her, Lena chuckled.

“Very well, then,” he said, with a dismissing wave of his head. “Can we get on with this?”

“I believe we can,” Miss Lane said. “Y/N?”

Y/N hesitated, and Kara’s heart filled with pride as she looked at her, then nodded. “I’m ready.”

#supergirl #supergirl x reader #kara danvers x reader #kara zor el x reader #kara danvers #madi converts

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flowerflamestars · 3 years

Text

Nesta Under the Mountain part 3: acomaf, the later half

So while some extremely painful flirting is happening, so is plot. Azriel periodically disappears to try to infiltrate the Queens palace. Morrigan splits her time between Velaris and trying to keep Keir remotely in line. Amren and Lucien teach Nesta how to use magic, Cassian readies the legions for war.

So Nesta, unlike Feyre, has multiple sources for her most important questions: What the hell is Hybern doing? Trying to build an empire of old. Reaching for glory that isn’t there, because Prythian is wealthy.

Why Amarantha? Why was she so powerful?

It’s Rhysand who answers her, one day when they’re alone. He’s drinking on the roof- Nesta is inclined to make a comment about lordly behavior but doesn’t because she knows, she knows, from the look in his eyes, that he’s going to answer for real.

Amarantha liked to talk in bed. And Rhysand had, eventually, put the pieces together: Amarantha was the invading force alone, because Amarantha needed to earn Hyberns favor.

What did Hybern have? A kingdom crippled without its slaves. A King who’d ruled so long the world forgot his name. No heir, no other ruler. No son, only daughters.

Amarantha sought to earn her place in succession- with her father’s stolen magical secrets and a taste for vengeance.

Nesta accepts this, and has a drink.

There’s an interim of weeks, while Amren relearns a dead language and Azriel tries his last, worst plans. Nesta is so ready to tear out of her skin- Morrigan succeeds in getting Nesta to go out with her.

Morrigan pulls her over cobblestones to Ritas, and Nesta absolutely doesn’t tell her Lucien had found the place on his first city walkabout and been toasting their bitter victories there every one since.

Cassian, as he tends to wherever Nesta is, appears. They haven’t spoken since she came back with the book. Lucien trickles in with glitter in his hair, Azriel silent, offensively handsome drawing the light by his side.

And Morrigan watches. Cassian will spend the night quietly pressing fresh drinks into Nesta’s hand and glaring like absolute murder at any stranger who tries to get near. She sees how Cassian, her friend for five centuries, is contextualizing this: service, gladly rendered.

Understands he will make it small in his head and it means the opposite- the very opposite- that Nesta is letting him do either of those things for her. That she trusts him, to be near at all.

Morrigan and Nesta have a very different talk afterward than her and Feyre would have. Mor thinks it might be a good idea to make it really clear she herself doesn’t ever want Cassian, in case, that too, is standing in the way.

(Nesta also just...so clearly doesn’t have a single negative thought about Lucien doing...whatever Lucien does. They’ll get insouciant and mean and discuss the attractiveness of anyone. Nesta, unlike Feyre, reacts to queerness without even blinking)

So Mor and Nesta might not enjoy each other, exactly, but they respect one another. When Rhysand poses his insane Nesta you were mortal, let’s meet the Queens on mortal land plan, Morrigan, more than anyone, is the one who listens when Nesta explains that the Queens hate faeries.

Hate magic. Hate, even, it seems, the mortals that live along the wall for existing in proximity to Prythian.

It’s like letting go of a dream- for the chance of something real. Five centuries have passed, and that’s not much for Mor, but it’s everything, to mortals. Their bright lives are so quick, so valuable in an eyeblink- and that’s why Nesta’s here at all.

A mortal heart.

Azriel and Nesta team up- she scoffs that infiltration has fails, laughs outright at the idea she should be a diplomat, and proposes something else. They veritable army of spies, why are none of them mortal? Hundreds of humans work in Court of Queens. Voiceless, unrecognized. None of the magical protections would stop them.

So instead of Keir, or the Veritas, or her sisters- we bring back the lady mercenary. We bring in a whole bunch of lady mercenaries. A new network of information, passed from overlooked woman to overlooked woman, carried in shadows, all the way back to the Court of Night.

There’s no meeting. Because Hybern is already there.

And Nesta thinks its the most insane thing she’s ever heard- they want to live forever?

Morrigan tries to comfort her, Lucien tries to stop Morrigan, because he knows- Nesta doesn’t regret. And she tells them all that, looking over the war map, each grim face and strange shred of sympathy.

Nesta says, I know I’m a monster and I’m glad of it. I will never belong to just one Court, never go home. I cannot, because that life was taken from me and I am glad, because it will take a monster to protect the humans from other monsters.

And Rhysand says, oh so very quietly: You can belong.

But it’s lost, completely, in two things- the way Lucien has stepped around Azriel to let Nesta, not lean- Nesta, sober, leans on absolutely no one- but to be there, close, in her orbit, and Cassian standing up.

It’s the Queens Meeting promise, dark chocolate version. Cassian wipes away that one tear on her perfect face. Says to her and her alone like no one else is there, that he’d done monstrous things his entire life in the name of what was right. But he’d become something worse, unleash a whole ocean of blood, to protect the innocents who needed it. Die a monster, in defense of those mortals with her.

And Nesta just looks at him. Like she can see all the way through to his aching soul, and nods.

One commander to another. Absolute, perfect, understanding.

So what happens, if the mcguffin of the book cannot work?

Nesta says, like Cassian isn’t still staring at her, like she isn’t leaning into Lucien’s bodyheat like a refuge- the book is to control the Cauldron, but why can’t we just go after the Cauldron?

Steal it? Break it? Use it ourselves.

No ones answers particularly satisfy her- they can winnow. They can move unseen. There’s more power in this room than whole kingdoms possess, why the hell can’t they just break in, touch the Cauldron, and winnow away?

Cassian says it’s suicide. The castle is a deathtrap. Guards, wards, magic.

And, Rhysand adds, the Cauldron might not play along. It’s too powerful, too old to just treat like an object. The Cauldron itself could resist.

They’re all piling out of the townhouse, after the unsuccessful meeting, when Lucien goes white. Freezes.

And Nesta knows.

Knows that despite every precaution, the words that have never, ever escaped her lips in Prythian. Despite Tamlin dead- someone, somehow, found out that Prythian’s vengeance has two vulnerable, mortal sisters.

Nesta is grabbing onto Lucien to winnow away before anyone can ask what is wrong. Because something is wrong, so, so wrong- at the last second, Cassian snatches her hand, and ends up dragged along.

The Archeron estate is on fire.

There’s no time to ask- no time to talk. Cassian starts killing Hybernian soldiers left and right, no one here that can actually stop him.

Nesta runs straight into the fire, Lucien on her heels, keeping the flames away. Not that he needs to- Nesta is shimmering with power, every Court’s strength right on the surface, teeming to be used. She kills six men before she finds Elain, kicking and screaming in a soldiers arms.

That soldier loses his head- that man, Lucien turns to ash.

It’s Cassian who finds Feyre, hidden in the kitchen, standing on top of table having just dumped a small ocean on lye on her attackers. Despite making short work of the burnt, pissed off faeries, she’s still throwing shit at him when Nesta, screaming her name, is finally close enough to be heard.

Nesta almost stabs Cassian in the back getting to Feyre. Fey jumps off the table, straight at her sister- there’s no pause for thought, no flinch at her faery face and bloody hands, just an armload full of her taller baby sister, an easy weight to carry now.

When they make it out of the collapsing house, Azriel and Rhys are waiting.

It’s Rhys who says, in that tone of voice that makes Nesta want to beat him to death, the voice that insists, I understand, who says, you have a family?

Nesta doesn’t answer. Nesta doesn’t say a goddamn word to anyone at all except for Feyre and Elain as they take them back to Velaris. As she settles them in the roaring warmth of one of the palatial sitting rooms, wraps them in blankets. Conveys, solely with a head jerk and a glare, that Cassian should make himself useful and provide hot beverages.

Nesta doesn’t say anything until the burns are healed by Lucien, her sisters understand where they are, and what has happened.

It’s Feyre who snaps first and bodily pulls Nesta down on the couch between them. Elain who leans hard, shoulder to shoulder, and wipes the blood off Nesta’s face.

They love each other- they still love her, don’t blame her, and that is what makes Nesta’s choice.

She introduces them to Lucien, her friend. To the others without explanation, the odd bedfellows of war Nesta really is starting to like despite herself. Except Rhys. Rhys can fall in the damned ocean.

It’s a long, long evening, and they all get settled eventually- Feyre, in particular, with a shy smile and an extra mug of Cassian’s hot chocolate.

Everyone goes their separate ways, and Lucien, quietly, slips off to find Nesta in the dark.

He knows what she’s going to say. Hybern came for her family- Hybern almost killed her sisters. Nesta doesn’t give a fuck about the book, about Rhysand’s alliances, or hangup on the mortal queens- Nesta wants Hybern to pay.

Lucien sometimes looks at his life now- free, safe as he choses, the dark eyed smile of man who fears no part of him- and thinks it’s all because of Nesta Archeron’s heart. Nesta, who believed in loyalty enough to buy his safety. Nesta, who had every reason to hate Spring and still been the only person to look close enough and see, that Lucien was just as trapped.

No one in his life had ever given him that, so easily. No one had cared.

Nesta didn’t even think about it- he was in her corner and she was in his, friends. Best friends, only friends they had. Lucien would have still chosen her, every time.

Choses her now- Nesta says, I’m going tonight. I’m going alone. I’m not waiting any longer.

And Lucien squeezes her hand, and tells her, not alone.

They winnow to the castle like bone across the sea.

Lucien might not know why he can break wards, why foul enchantment can’t touch him, but he knows how to use it. How to fight and kill, and does just that. Lucien stands guard, Lucien gets Nesta to the Cauldron.

No Book, no plan, just this- Nesta’s will do what is right.

Two hands on the Cauldron- and Rhysand was right. It won’t move. It won’t be winnowed away, it pulls her in and speaks.

The story of the Cauldron is the story of a woman.

Power, power, power- endless potential, utilized to create. A thousand children, a million voices. But then her children grew- into their own power, their own politics and ways. They forgot her voice, that forget she’d made them- and they trapped her. Broke her. Imprisoned her.

Forgot she was not a cauldron- she was their Mother.

But the Mother was also once the Maiden, the Mother always becomes the Crone.

The Crones watches, as the dark night comes, and all life eventually ends.

She’d been imprisoned all over again.

Nesta Archeron, drowning in power, communicates by sheer force of screaming, raging will.

I was imprisoned, I stolen, I was remade against my will-

I was broken, and all I asked was that my family be safe- all I wanted- I am the child of every Court you made, I am the daughter of your power and i WILL NOT- I will not allow your sons to kill what is ours-

The Cauldron, seething, stills, if only for a moment.

Nesta thinks she’s won. Nesta realizes, too late, that she can smell blood. Lucien, stabbed and scrabbling, Nesta being dragged away from the Cauldron- the King had waited for her.

And how he crooned with joy- Nesta Archeron, the destroyer. Nesta Archeron, Prythian’s vengeance. Nesta Archeron you will be mine, you, you, you, finally, a worthy woman-

It’s a desperate, stupid ploy. Nesta can’t escape, Nesta can’t save Lucien, knows it from the blood dripping off his lips as he mouthes, a goodbye: love you, Archeron.

Nesta jumps into the Cauldron.

What comes out is not what went in- young as a fawn, old as the seas- Nesta doesn’t have to steal eternity. She’s already eternal, she’s already powerful in her rage-

But the Cauldron, who’d slept so long. Broken in peices, cold, welcomes her fire like the fierce magic of her first children, and gives her a gift.

Nesta’s no maiden or mother, but the Cauldron is happy to let the Crone out.

Death comes out of those waters, and mists the King of Hybern.

Scoops up her beloved companion, the fire that lights the way, and leaves the castle of the king unraveling behind her.

Nesta brings the Cauldron home.

The bloody bundle of Lucien is pulled from her arms on the floor of Rhysand’s townhouse, the Cauldron quiet behind them. It’s to Cassian who is frankly patting her down, searching for injuries, that Nesta says:

She wasn’t the only sister, and then passes out.

#this is so fun!#I am frankly overwhelmed by all the lovely things yall have said??#Nesta SHOULD be a protagnist

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rhysismydaddy · 4 years

Text

After Midnight pt. 1 (Feysand)

Synopsis: After a tumultuous, heartbreaking relationship, Feyre Archeron turns to online dating for a break from normalcy. Or rather, to Velaris Nighttime Ventures, the most exclusive, high-dollar escort system around. She needs to ease back in to intimacy, so this seems like the perfect idea. But what happens when her escort turns out to be someone she can’t get out of her head? Someone who seems to understand and appreciate everything about her?

My many disclaimers: Stole a line in here from The Hating Game. And one from ACOTAR obviously. And the story line is loosely based off of The Kiss Quotient. Basically, I’m a fraud.

__________________________________________________________

~Feyre~

If I told any of my friends I’m about to hire a hooker, they’d laugh themselves silly.

And, to be honest, the idea is a little ridiculous to me, too.

I’ve never had a problem getting a date in my life. Brownish blondeish hair, blue-gray eyes, and an athletic build give me slightly above average looks. A lucrative job makes me financially sound and independent. A lifetime with two sisters gave me a sense of humor.

I’ve dated prom kings, nerds, and everything in between. I’m completely normal.

Or at least I used to be.

After everything that happened last year, I don’t know if that’s true anymore.

My therapist tells me constantly it’s okay that my last relationship changed me. And the multiple degrees on her pretty green wall tell me she knows what she’s talking about and that she’s completely correct.

Even if... even if it doesn’t feel okay.

Even if I can hardly stand looking in a mirror or being hugged or someone giving me a compliment.

Even if I haven’t felt like myself in so long, I don’t even know if I’d recognize it if i did.

Because while I used to love putting makeup on, choosing a dress, and going out, the thought now fills me with so much dread it makes me nauseous.

What if I just make the same mistake as last time?

My sister's told me my whole life to guard my heart, but I always laughed it off and said she was being cynical. And what do I have to prove it? Trust issues and a standing appointment Dr. Motley.

Men don’t deserve my trust. At least not right now.

But... it’s time to move on in the physical sense.

And since running the risk of taking home the wrong man scares me shitless, I’ll start with someone who can’t reject me, can’t make me feel worthless.

Someone who won’t develop feelings for me or get attached and demanding. Someone... who won’t mind giving me control.

A hooker.

Or escort, like the Velaris Nighttime Ventures website says as I scroll through pages and pages of profiles.

Gods, this is more stressful than my first gallery opening.

All the profiles include is a picture, probably-fake name, height, an age, and a simple sentence about them.

It feels creepily similar to online shopping. And there are so, so many options. How the heck am I going to choose one?

Scrolling down further, my eyes roam over men of every skin tone, age, and height. I don’t have any real preference, but decide I need to have a few ground rules, otherwise this will take forever.

Age? I’m twenty-seven and don’t have an interest in being a cougar, so I set the range from twenty-eight to thirty-five.

Height? At 5′6, I’m not exactly tall, but I’ve always found men who were more attractive, so I shrug and put the minimum at six feet.

Pressing enter, I watch the website sort, then look at the number of men left. Thirty. Not bad.

Scrolling through slowly, I realize it’s kind of like a yearbook for an all male college or something.

A college full of really sexy men.

I pause on a few, but something about them make her keep going. I want the complete opposite of my ex, so any with features like him get eliminated.

Eventually, I get to the last row, feeling a little dejected.

But then I see him.

His eyes seemed to pierce through the screen, and once I see him, I can’t look away. Without another thought, I click on the profile.

The name under the picture reads Rhysand. No last name, probably for privacy purposes. He’s a few years older than me. And tall--6′3 tall. But that isn’t what draws me closer. It’s the sentence he’d written.

To the stars that listened -- and the dreams that are answered.

My fingers ignore the rational part of my brain and click the button to book an appointment, and before I know it, I’m looking at a confirmation page.

For tonight at midnight.

Oh gods.

~Rhysand~

After working at the bar for a few hours, I head back to my shitty apartment to get ready for tonight’s appointment.

Someone has booked me for an “evening of adventure and pleasure” as the confirmation email tells me.

Wonderful.

All I know is her name: Feyre. It doesn’t sound like an old-lady name, so there’s that.

Those are the worst. It feels like fucking someone’s grandmother. Not that I’d know, exactly. And I mean sure, most of my clients are older. But there’s older, and then there’s old. Fine line between the two, let me tell you.

Most of the people who hire me are in their forties, trapped in miserable marriages, and desperate for a decent lay. They’re also filthy rich, because I’m not cheap in the slightest.

It’s why I’d agreed to this shit in the first place.

Yeah, I have to psych myself up and sleep with a random lady, but the pay is killer. And the more money I make, the quicker I can stop.

So I shower and go through my pre-appointment routine, trying not to think about what’s become of my life.

There weren’t any special requests on the appointment, but the meet was set for a swanky hotel downtown, so I put on a dark suit and white dress shirt. My hair doesn’t need much work, so I leave, figuring I’ll get there early.

The drive over’s quick, and soon I’m walking inside and sitting at the bar. She has my picture, but I don’t have a clue what she looks like, so she’ll have to come find me.

After a few minutes, someone settles next to me, and I turn around with an expectant smile.

But when I see who it is, I stop. And hating myself more than I thought possible, I tell the woman, “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”

Which really fucking sucks, because she’s beautiful as hell.

Smooth skin, dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and kiss-me lips kind of beautiful.

She gives me a strange look, then says words I’d never expect from someone like her. “I’m Feyre. I’m the... client.”

The way she cringes on the word tells me it’s her first time doing something like this, and the thought makes me a little too happy.

I know I should say something to comfort her, but all I can think is... she’s definitely no grandma.

~Feyre~

He keeps staring at me for a few more moments, then smiles and says, “Sorry. You’re not what I was expecting.”

I nod, then realize I have no idea what to say. Or do. Fuck, this is weird. “Do you want a drink?”

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “Feel free, though.”

That’s the first good idea I’ve heard all day. After ordering from the bartender, I turn to the man next to me and smile sheepishly. “I don’t really know how this works. It’s my first time with... this.”

“I figured.” He’s turned toward me, one arm braced on the bar. “You can have your drink, and we’ll go upstairs when you’re ready.”

A nervous laugh ebbs out of me, and I blush. “Okay.”

Gods, am I really going through with this?

I mean sure, he’s hotter than all hell, but he’s a prostitute.

Would you rather invite a random man home with you? the bitch that lives in my brain asks with a knowing smile.

I ignore her as a drink’s set in front of me, finding it helps a little. The man next to me just watches, face a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Somehow, the photo didn’t do him justice. He’s ridiculously attractive, with dark hair, almost violet eyes, and tan skin. There’s a hint of stubble on his strong jaw, surrounding the sensual mouth that’s currently smirking at me.

I’m definitely attracted to him, but this is still weird.

“So, why are you doing this?” he asks as I drink. “If you don’t mind.”

I’m sure as hell not telling him the truth, so I say, "I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

Rhysand smiles, and it only makes him more attractive. “Fair point.”

Then he looks me up and down, raises his dark brows, and asks, “Ready?”

Not in the fucking slightest. “Sure.”

By the time we reach the elevator, I’m practically shaking. Telling myself that I can do this--that it’s what I want, for gods sake--doesn’t really help. But I don’t say a word as we glide up, then walk to the room I’ve rented for tonight.

When we get inside, I avoid looking at the bed as I turn to him.

Rhysand smoothly takes off his suit jacket, then leans against the wall and crosses his ankles. “You seem nervous.”

He certainly doesn’t. Every move he makes is smooth and easy, like he’s so comfortable in his body he doesn’t ever get nervous or self-conscious.

Must be nice.

“I do?” It’s a deflection, and we both know it.

“You’re shaking like a wet dog.” My nose wrinkles at the analogy, and he grins. “A very cute wet dog.”

I told myself I’d be alright, but now that I’m alone with him, I realize I’ve told absolutely no one where I am tonight. And if things go wrong... I start pacing. “I’m, uh... it’s just... nothing. Let’s do this thing.”

I should write sonnets.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say a word as he walks to sit on the edge of the bed. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the world, I sit next to him.

“Why don’t we just take things slow?”

Thank the gods. I nod.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, using manners I definitely hadn’t expected but much appreciate.

I nod again, trying to keep my hands from shaking.

Rhysand raises a hand, but I swallow and push down the flare of panic as he cups my jaw and tilts my face to his. Then he leans in--keeping his word and going very slowly--and I brace myself as his lips brush against mine.

My body doesn’t exactly know how to feel when they touch. On the one hand, a very handsome man is kissing me. On the other... a man is kissing me.

I ignore the second thought and kiss him back.

His lips are silky soft against mine, slowly urging them open, and then his tongue is in my mouth, caressing mine. Everything’s slow and sensual and practiced.

And even though it’s a picture-perfect moment, it feels like that scene in the movie where the dumb blonde goes down the dark hallway while the entire theater screams at her to run.

Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

My brain’s playing me a repeat of the last year on fast forward, and I press my eyes closed to try and block it out.

I’m fine.

Rhysand leans into me, and then I’m on my back with him hovering above me, still kissing me. His surprisingly muscled frame is heavy against me, pressing me down into the soft sheets, and his elbows are by my head.

Nothing’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong.

I take a quick moment to remind myself that if this had happened a year ago, I’d probably have wrapped myself around him and let him do whatever he wanted.

But the past twelve months weren’t just a bad dream. And the band-aid protecting the stupid, naive girl I used to be from the harsh realities of the world has been ripped off and torn to bits.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

His head snaps up immediately, and violet eyes gaze down at me, full of concern. A weak hand comes up to press against his chest, and he sits up immediately. “Feyre? Are you okay?”

I shake my head and practically roll off the bed onto the floor. It’s completely undignified, but I don’t care. My lungs are on fire, my throat tight with the tears I’m barely holding back.

I have to get away from him; I have to get some space.

My back hits the wall, and I curl into myself, pressing my forehead against my knees.

Breathe, Feyre, breathe.

The silence in the room is broken only by my gasps, and I focus on the sound, letting it remind me that I’m here, that I made it out.

I don’t let myself think about the other person in the room. It’s just me, and I’m fine. I made it out.

There’s scratchy carpet under my legs, a wall behind my back, and more than enough air in the room.

Eventually, my brain catches up with the obvious, allowing oxygen to fill my chest. I’m gulping down breath after breath until my heart rate finally starts slowing down, and it’s only when my head stops feeling fuzzy do I open my eyes.

Rhysand sits on the bed, beautiful eyes wide, watching me.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Gods, he’s probably uncomfortable beyond belief. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, cutting him off and shaking my head. I know I should get off the floor, but my legs feel like jello, and I don’t want to crawl around again. “I, um...”

The words to explain the panic don’t come easy, but he stays silent, giving me time.

And because I’m a coward who still can’t admit what happened to me, I repeat the words my therapist suggested I try.

“I have problems with intimacy.” It’s hardly a whisper, but I know he hears it. “And, um... I thought it would be easier with someone like you.” I flinch at my own words and try to make it sound less offensive. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay, Feyre. I understand.”

Tears burn the edges of my eyes, but I force them down and steady my voice. “You can go. There’s money on the desk.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you like this. Unless I’m the reason.”

“No, it’s not you,” I assure him. “You’re great. I just have a hard time relaxing with- I mean around-”

“Men,” he finishes quietly.

And even though I didn’t tell him, he looks like he can read the words off my face. Rhysand doesn’t say another word, but his eyes are understanding and calm.

He extends a hand, the silent invitation clear, and for some reason, it makes me smile as I slowly get to my feet, using the wall to support me.

Walking over, he takes my hand in is, and I notice how rough his palms are. Before I can wonder what he does to get such big callouses, he takes my other hand and places them on his shoulders.

“You’re in control. There are no expectations with me.” The words wash over me, settling in, and my heart slows down a bit. “If you want to kiss and call it a night, we can. It’s up to you.”

For some reason, hearing that he doesn’t care helps. It’s the reason why I chose this, I guess. I’m the client, and I’m in control.

Finally feeling calm, I slowly run my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. He’s heavily muscled, but it’s smooth and lean, not bulky. From a physical life, not from hours spent in a gym.

I can see the faint lines of tattoos beneath the shirt, but I don’t move to unbutton it.

His eyes stay on me, and I meet them as my hands drift to his face. The stubble I’d noticed earlier is rough against my fingers as I trace his jaw, then the strong slope of his eyebrows.

It’s been a year since I touched a man. Longer since I did so this... leisurely.

My hands find their way into his dark hair, and I smile at how soft it is. His head tilts back a little and his eyes drift close. I don’t know if he’s putting on a show or actually enjoying this, but he seems calm at least.

And I think... I think this could work.

Working on my intimacy issues with him could help fix me, maybe even get me ready for a real relationship.

So I lean in slowly and press my mouth to his.

Like he said, I’m in control. While earlier had felt like being kissed, this feels like kissing. I move my mouth slowly over his, tracing the curve of his lower lip softly.

He really is a beautiful man.

And patient, too. He’s extremely patient while I take my time learning the shape of his mouth, then the angle of his jaw. He stays still, eyes closed, letting me explore.

I slowly drift back to his mouth, and when he eases his lips open, I meet his tongue with mine. It’s slow and light and just enough to make me want more.

My breath comes shorter, but it isn’t in panic.

Taking his hands from the bed beside him, I place them on my hips. His fingers flex, but they stay exactly where I put them, even as I wrap my arms around his neck and press a little closer to him.

We’re still just kissing, but I feel it in my entire body, all the way to my toes.

I pull back and take a deep breath, not knowing how to put what I want into words without embarrassing myself. Bright violet eyes meet mine as Rhysand runs his tongue across his lower lip. “Just say it.”

How can he read my face so well after just an hour of knowing me?

“Lean back,” I say, my face warm with a blush. “But don’t turn us over. I can’t... I feel trapped.”

Rhysand just nods, gripping my hips tighter, then lays down with me on top of him. My chest is against his, my legs resting in between his. It’s the closest I’ve been to someone in a long time, and I wait for the panic to set in, but none comes.

“You okay?”

A small part of me wishes he wouldn’t be so damn understanding and nice. It’s making me feel so incredibly stupid, even as it warms my heart.

I nod, then put my head down against his chest. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

Looking back up, I meet his eyes hesitantly. “You’re probably so weirded out by me. Paying you just to come make out like teenagers.”

He smiles, and it makes some of the nerves untangle. “Silly woman. I could kiss you all night. You have the most delicious mouth.” He leans in and kisses me, as if to prove it, then makes a deep humming sound.

“That’s absurd,” I mutter, even though I feel a lot less anxious now.

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “You taste like fucking candy.” His arms loosely wrap around my waist. “Tilt your head to the side and I’ll prove it.”

I do, and his mouth meets my neck, slowly but in a way that makes it feel like I’m being devoured. Tingles shoot down my body as he sweeps my hair off my neck to get better access, and a soft moan escapes me as he sucks on the spot between my shoulder and neck.

He pulls away enough to say, “You have a really sexy moan, too.”

My face goes scarlet, and he grins up at me, then we’re kissing again. Gods, the man can kiss. He’s letting me control everything, but it’s obvious he’s good at what he does.

Even though I’m almost delirious with lust--something I haven’t felt in a long, long time--I know this is enough for tonight. I’ve already had one panic attack, and I don’t want to push myself too hard.

So I pull back and tell him, “You can go. I don’t think... this is good for tonight, I think.”

“I feel like you’re not getting your money’s worth if I leave now,” he says, and if I could’ve sworn I hear a hint of sadness in his tone.

I shrug, not telling him the money for tonight was nothing to worry about. Instead, I just slide off him and stand up, straightening my shirt. “It’s was more than okay. Seriously. Thank you for being so understanding.”

Rhysand rises fluidly and grabs his jacket, then turns to me. Before he can speak, I say, “I actually wanted to talk to you about another appointment.”

After an awkward pause, he says quietly, “I don’t really do... repeats.”

“Oh.” There’s no way to hide the disappointment in my voice.

I’d thought that I’d be able to work with him slowly. Build on what we did tonight. The thought of having to find a different man and explain why I’m so emotionally stunted... shit.

What if I freak out again, in front of someone new?

Gods, no wonder he doesn’t want to come back. He’s already had to deal with an hour of my trauma. Who would ever sign up to do it again? I’m damaged goods.

“It’s not you, I promise. I’ve just had a few clients get sort of... attached. So I made a policy to not meet with women more than once.” He sounds nice and apologetic, and it grates my nerves a little.

Rejection is rejection no matter how you look at it.

And no matter how fucked up I am, I don’t need anyone’s pity.

But, like a big girl, I smile and nod. “I get it. It’s fine. I’ll find someone else. Your money is on the table.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Find someone else? What do you mean?”

My eyebrows fly up at how shocked he sounds. He just saw firsthand how not okay I am, and he’s surprised?

“I mean that I’ll find someone else. I have intimacy issues, and I need to work on them. I understand completely that you’re uncomfortable with that, and I’ll find someone who isn’t.”

There’s a flicker in his jaw. “And you’re planning on using the website for this someone?”

“It’s really none of your concern.”

“Feyre, there are some not so great people on there. You shouldn’t use-”

My patience snaps. “You have absolutely no right to lecture me. You don’t want the job, I will find someone else, since it’s such a goddamn burden. Now thank you very much for tonight, but you’re community service is done. You can go.”

There are too many emotions on his face to process them all, but I definitely register shock.

“I promise it isn’t about you, okay? You’re great. Hell, I’d want to sleep with you even if I wasn’t getting paid. But I have a policy, and-”

“Like I said, I understand. You can go now.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t use the site to find another guy.”

There’s something about the command in his voice that grabs every last thread I’m hanging by and rips them free. I march over to him and jab a finger into his chest. “Do not tell me what to do. Ever.”

Rhysand eyes narrow, but it isn’t in anger. It’s like he’s looking at a puzzle, and he just figured out the piece he’d thought would fit won’t. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

I remove the finger-gun from his chest, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he catches me completely off guard by saying, “I’ll do four more appointments.”

Rolling my eyes comes a little to easy. “Don’t do me any favors. I’m not your goddamn charity case.”

“No, because if you were, you’d probably be a little grateful.” Whatever retort I had planned dies in my throat. “But it’s not pity. I don’t want you getting hurt by some other guy from the site.”

There’s enough genuine concern in his voice for me to believe him. And the last thing I want is to put myself in danger.

But I still ask if he’s serious, because to be honest, it sounds perfect.

If I can fix myself in six appointments.

That’s a pretty big if.

“Yes, seriously. But I’m going to charge you more, and we can only meet here.”

I shrug because I sure as hell wasn’t about to invite him to my place. And unless he’s planning on charging enough to buy a house, it should be fine. “Okay.”

He glances at me, then down at himself, like he’s suddenly aware he’s still standing here. “Okay.”

And just like that, I’ve hired a hooker.

____________________________________________________

Part 2 is here because I have no self-control. Let me know in the comments/my box if you want to be tagged :)

@trinitybailey2003 @zukos-simp @cursebreaker29 @sjmships @starrynightsbooks @lovemollywho @januarystears @perseusannabeth @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#feysand #feyre archeron #feyre #rhysand #feyre x rhys #rhys #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight

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fauzhee10069 · 2 years

Photo

Decided to draw it in JoJo style because the shot is so JoJo-like, reminds me of this Jolyne-Weather’s scene.

I should have done it in digital form, but I don't have time, sorry if it's a bit rough.

(keep reading is my personal thought about shipping, nothing important tbh)

Now, let's talk about ship for a while. If you follow my posts then you may find that I'm not a fan of either clerith and cloti. Tbh, romance in FF7 in general is not my favorite thing (it is not really well-written enough to me).

With whom do I ship Aerith with? Probably Zack, the actual designated canon FF7 offers. Personality wise, they could be the funnest pair ever. But there is issue in their development, I know Crisis Core but I still see that clerith will develop better than zerith because... .

Tserith? Better to stay as platonic to me.

And my thought of cloti? I like them best as opposite gender friendship with platonic feeling rather than romance. Cloti romance is a failure (at least in my opinion). So, with whom do I ship Tifa with? Probably with Rude, then Barret.

You know how's cloti in AC? It sucks.

Cloud's emotional state and Tifa being lockheart makes their relationship going nowhere.

Whose fault is that? No, there's no one to blame.

Okay, I don't think I need to explain in detail about cloti in AC, many people have already shared their metas (of why Cloud behaves like that... and why Tifa is like this... bla bla bla) and I mostly agree to them.

What I really want to say is that Cloud's emotional state and his feelings of guilt makes him unprepared for romance. He is not ready for that, in my opinion. He needs time, to sort himself out, first.

I think he needs a friend more than a lover. Thus, he can't treat Tifa properly as his lover, in AC. Though yeah, he is not actively seeking friend as well, even though he really needs it. He shuts himself, alone and depressed.

Therefore, he is not ready for romance, as 'a woman', we shall just leave him alone. Tifa needs to wait until Cloud is ready for that.

A lover, in a sense of... living together, sharing & caring to each others, then raising a family.

Tifa needs to wait...

But Tifa is a woman, and a woman has more limited time to make all that happen (you know what I mean, biologically).

A woman who is willing to wait for her loved one to be ready for it is such a precious.

But will I? I personally won't. I don't think I can waste my time for that, I prefer to move on with someone else ASAP because I'm getting old.

And for someone like Tifa, surely she has plenty of options... including Rude.

Rude looks nice, he could be a better man than Cloud (if only he doesn’t belong to Shinra was on the same side). Or... Cloud can be a much better person than Rude, but it needs time, which may take years for that.

Will Tifa wait? I do think she will. She is not me, and looking at her personality, I believe she is a woman who is loyal and willing to wait even if it takes forever.

TL;DR Just leave Cloud alone. Aerith and Tifa deserve better men. Unless, when it comes time for Cloud to be that better man.

But guys, I won’t gatekeep you to ship clerith and cloti because in fact, I love some cute fanarts of them too :3

Yeah, I shouldn't have mixed up real life and fiction too often.

#aerith gainsborough #tifa lockhart #ff7 remake #final fantasy vii #jojo-style #ammeldaini_fanart #my drawings #my thoughts #my personal opinion #i don't like the ship #but you can ship them as much as you want

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headheartbellarke · 3 years

Text

Speak Now | WILLEX

dear @calamitykaty - happy valentine’s day! i’m your secret valentine, and i hope you have a brilliant, lovely day!! i just wanted to say that i absolutely adore your fics hehe :3 this one is for you, i hope u like it, you wonderful human!!

& a million thanks & kudos to @screwunsaidemily / @jatpsecretvalentine for organizing this!! happy valentine’s day, raegan! and i hope today is as amazing as you are!!

✿◕ ‿ ◕✿

PAIRING(s): Alex Mercer x Willie, Flynn x Carrie Wilson, Julie Molina x Luke Patterson, past!Alex Mercer x Luke Patterson

WARNING(s): nothing haha just some fluff and we stan bobby in this house.. oh and some language

WORDS: 3.85k

SUMMARY: With his boyfriend marrying Carrie Wilson (well, in his defence, that’s his grandmother’s ‘dying wish’), Willie fancies himself to be the main character of a Shakespearean tragedy. Based on Speak Now by Taylor Swift.

KEEP READING BELOW OR READ ON AO3

Willie exhales, watching his breath crystallize into tiny ice particles. He extends a hand to catch them, but that action causes the little cloud to dissipate.

He rolls his eyes. Who has their wedding in Canada, in winter? Plus, not just on any day, but on Valentine’s Day.

He fancies that he might as well be the main character of a Shakespearean tragedy. Watching your boyfriend get married is painful enough, but to a girl? That shit makes you feel as if your heart has a screw lodged in it. He feels as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Willie likes to say that he hates Alex (i.e., the said boyfriend, the love, the light, the star of his life) – but that sentence leaves behind a bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s just had that weird cough syrup that his mother buys.

Alex’s friends can definitely see through his act, like, right now.

“Willie, relax! Everything’s gonna be alright!” Julie Molina, Alex’s bandmate, ‘unbiological sister’, and ‘best gossip partner’ exclaims. She is crouching beside him.

“Julie, I’m not the type of guy to crash a wedding and sabotage it, especially one hosted by those…” His hand moves in circular motions, pointing to the direction of the church, where Alex’s parents are probably seated.

Luke Patterson, Julie’s boyfriend and Alex’s ex-boyfriend, and current best friend and bandmate pipes in. “Homophobic, racist mingers?”

Willie grins. “Don’t know what that means but sounds accurate!”

“You know, we are saving Alex’s life, right? Literally?” Bobby Wilson chimes in, Alex’s other best friend from his position behind them. They are currently hiding behind a table laden with sweets of all kinds, and it makes Reggie, the last of Alex’s best friend-cum-bandmates’ mouth water.

“I still can’t believe that his parents are forcing him to marry a girl!” Julie exclaims, ponytail bobbing as she speaks. Luke adds, “Not just any girl, but Carrie fucking Wilson.”

“My fucking cousin!” Bobby says, looking behind to check if anyone’s there. There is, but they’re all either part of the caterer’s group, or the waiters – they are currently outside a church, where the reception will be held, post wedding. The attendees, the families, everyone – are inside the church, for the wedding.

“Hey, is Grandma Ruth really that sick?” Reggie finally asks, his eyes diverting from the sweets. Luke smiles sweetly at him. “I’m glad you finally decided to join us, Reginald.”

Reggie fails to catch the sarcasm in his tone, and he smiles brightly. Luke rolls his eyes, but a faint smile teases the corners of his lips. “Yeah, she really has stage four cancer.”

Julie says, “Poor Ruth.”

Luke huffs, “I don’t care that she’s dying – she shouldn’t fucking blackmail her grandson like that! Alex, honey, I’m dying. My dying wish, you ask? Marry someone. No, not your boyfriend of four years! Marry a girl, dummy. Homosexuality is a sin!”

Bobby adds, “Not just any girl, but your best friend’s cousin! Whose probably into Flynn, but, yeah, whatever.”

Julie smiles brightly at the mention of her best friend. “Oh, she definitely is.”

Reggie’s brows quirk. “I thought she was still into Nick.”

Bobby shakes his head. “They broke up last summer.”

Willie clears his throat, finally gaining some confidence. “He shouldn’t be marrying the wrong girl.” He exhales, and adds, as an afterthought, “Or any girl.”

“You two should be walking down the aisle, Willie.” Julie says, resting a hand on his shoulder. He nods, grateful for her support.

He remembers this morning, when he was at the grocery store, buying as many buckets of chocolate ice cream as he could fit in his arms. Suddenly, he had felt a warm hand wrap around the back of his throat, and he let out a yelp, dropping all the buckets.

He remembers thinking that the universe was against him. First, it’s the day of his boyfriend’s wedding, and along with that, someone’s here to kill him. Well, he thought, it’s better to die than –

“Willie!” A familiar voice exclaimed, and of course, it’s Julie – he realized that the hand that he thought was here to murder him, belonged to her. She was dressed in a long, pink, A-Line dress, that complimented her skin tone perfectly and – suddenly, Willie understood that it was a bridesmaid’s dress. Yep, she’s Carrie’s bridesmaid, along with Flynn.

Willie wondered if she was here to rub salt on his wound.

“What do you want?” He had mumbled, averting his gaze from her dress. Sure, it’s a pretty dress, but it reminds him of Alex, because he has a hoodie that he adores in the same colour. (It’s in Willie’s closet now, and he makes a mental note to burn it.)

“We have a plan.” She said, conspiratorially.

Willie sighed, leaning down to pick up the fallen containers of ice cream. “I’m not in the mood, Jules.”

She grinned, evilly. Or as evilly as you could while having an angelic face.

Sure, it took her a while to convince him to crash his boyfriend’s wedding, but on the way here, he felt as if it was worth it. Julie helped sneak him in, since he doesn’t have an invite – and he found the rest of Alex’s friends – Luke, Reggie, and Bobby waiting for him.

Now, as Carrie’s family emerges from the church doors, he doesn’t feel that way anymore.

“God, I think I’m gonna throw up just by looking at them.” Luke murmurs, while Julie slaps his shoulder. “Don’t say that, they look very… colourful.”

Bobby snorts.

Carrie’s family includes her parents, two of her cousin sisters and an aunt – and they are all dressed in pastel yellow. To be really honest, that colour looks like vomit. They stand in a circle in front of the church doors, and Willie notices her aunt rolling her eyes at the waiters. He sighs. This is the same aunt who told Carrie that ‘oh, honey, it’s just a phase’, when she came out as bisexual.

“Guys, guys, guys!”

Willie sees his cousin, Flynn, running in their direction, and stopping at their table. She huffs, catching her breath and he notices that she’s wearing the same dress that Julie is.

“Carrie is losing her shit, dude.” She says, once she’s breathing normally again. “Why?” Julie asks, concerned.

“Probably because she doesn’t wanna marry Alex? I don’t know, but she yelled at me for eating!” She exclaims, an annoyed expression taking over her face.

Willie and Bobby exchange a look – they all know that Carrie can get a little intense sometimes – she doesn’t mean harm, but on a day like this, you can’t really hold it against her.

“Where is she?” Julie asks, alarmed.

“She’s in the back. Her mom misplaced her veil, and its total chaos out there. Also, her gown looks like a fucking pastry.”

Everyone’s eyes widen, and Flynn sighs, looking away. “I hate everything.”

Willie knows that she’s feeling just the way he is.

Julie stands up. “Come on, let’s help her. And boys?” She points a finger in their direction. “Stick to the fucking plan.”

Everyone nods rapidly, and Reggie whispers, “Yes, mam.”

She kisses Luke, whispering something in his ear, and squeezes Willie’s shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look, before running off in the opposite direction with Flynn.

Watching Julie and Luke, Willie is suddenly overpowered by a memory, a memory that was gathering dust in his brain. He remembers a cold, dark winter morning in their – his and Alex’s – apartment. It was last year, and their first morning in that apartment, in their home. They were nineteen and couldn’t get enough of each other – even after three years of being together. Somehow, somewhere they felt as if an invisible string was pulling them closer and closer, until they merged into one.

He remembers Alex combing his fingers through Willie’s hair, and whispering, “Is it crazy if I say that this is everything that I’ve ever wanted in life?”

He had smiled, eyes filled to the brim with euphoria. “No, then that would mean that I’m crazy.”

“We’re both crazy.”

“Maybe.” He had pulled him closer, loving the way Alex buried his face in the crook of his neck.

“Willie?” Alex softly asked, drawing patterns on his bare skin.

“Hmm?”

“I want to wake up next to you every single day. Like, I don’t ever wanna be without you,”

“Me, too.” He had said, then adding, “I don’t see myself marrying if not you.”

He could feel his boyfriend’s grin. “Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about it. A little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, I’ve planned it all out.” They both laughed, and Willie felt as if he was flying.

Alex continued, “I imagine us getting married on a beautiful summer day – on the beach. Where we met all those years ago. Remember?”

Willie smiled. “How could I forget? I will love Flynn forever for bringing me to Julie’s sweet sixteen – I never thought that I’d meet my soulmate that day.”

“Yeah. I imagine Luke to be my best man, and Flynn to be yours. Julie and Carrie would be our groomsmaids, yep, I invented that – and Reggie and Bobby could be the other best men. It’s a little messy, because I love them all so much and I can’t choose – but yeah.”

“Funny that your ex-boyfriend will be your best man at our wedding.”

“Shut up, Willie.”

“Carlos could be the ring bearer.”

“I think he’s a little too old for that.”

“Well, you have a point. But he’s gonna be pissed if he doesn’t get a title like his sister does.”

“All right, he’ll be the ring bearer.”

“We could have a skateboard shaped cake.”

“We will… think about it.”

“And we won’t need a band!”

“I’m not playing at my own wedding!”

“Well, Bobby could take your place. I’m sure he won’t mind taking a day off his solo touring.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

As they went over every possibility, every dream, the world melted away and all Willie could see were the oceans in Alex’s eyes.

Luke’s voice dissipates the haze of nostalgia around Willie’s brain. “Yep, Carrie’s family went inside.”

Bobby nods. “Okay, Willie, you stay with Reggie and Luke – I’ll go inside first and distract everyone, and y’all will come at my signal.” With that, he runs towards the church.

“Uh… what is his signal…” Willie trails off. Luke and Reggie exchange a panicked look, as Reggie says, “I’m sure we’ll figure it out! Besides – oh my god, are those flamingos?”

Willie and Luke’s eyes dart to the church door, where a bunch of flamingos – Carrie’s favorite bird, apparently – are on the loose and the waiters and the staff are running around trying to catch them.

“Boys, I think that’s our signal.” Luke says, grabbing their hands and dragging them towards the back of the church, where the girls had previously disappeared into.

Luke sneezes, and Willie absentmindedly whispers a ‘bless you.’ He shifts, saying, “There’s so much dirt here! It’s like nobody cares about my allergies!”

“I’m sure nobody in Canada will ever care about your allergies, Patterson.” Flynn hisses.

The trio are currently hiding behind a curtain, the lilac shades sickening them. “Well, you wouldn’t be in this position if Alex’s lovely bride-to-be didn’t uninvite me!” Willie exclaims, looking around to make sure nobody is nearby.

“I’m sure she has a very good reason!” Flynn says, and Luke rolls his eyes, saying, “You’re saying that as if you don’t know Carrie. She’s hyper fixating on this wedding to distract herself from the fact that her parents will never accept her for who she is, from her fear about the fact that she’ll never get someone who sees and loves her for who she is and right now, she believes that this wedding would gain her parents’ favour, that somehow they’d be okay with her being bisexual if she’s married a man, a gay man at that, too – and now she’s doing everything in her power to make sure nothing gets fucked up.”

Willie and Flynn sharply look at Luke.

“Dude, that was deep.” He whispers. Flynn dabs the corner of her right eye. “You should be a therapist, bro.”

“I know, bro.” He grins.

Willie can’t stop a smile from breaking out on his face. He turns back to the scene in front of him, and his heart seizes because there’s Alex, dressed in a perfect tuxedo, with his hair perfectly done, with a perfect smile on his face, and Willie realizes that that is not the man he loves.

The man standing in front of him looks too pristine, too immaculate. It’s almost as if he is being strung up by invisible puppet strings, but his face doesn’t give away any of that – it’s absolutely blank, and Willie would have thought that the man in the front is not real if he hadn’t seen his eyes. His eyes, which houses cyclones, cyclones being fed by the apprehension, the fear, the anger, the sadness that he must be feeling inside. His eyes, that Willie loves to see first thing in the morning, showing off the parts of his soul that he is desperately trying to shield.

Willie wonders if he’ll see him standing behind the curtains. He probably won’t. Willie’s at the back of the room, and he’s at the front, waiting, waiting, waiting. For a moment, Willie wonders if Carrie is going to show up at all – because the wedding was supposed to start half an hour ago, and it doesn’t make sense why a person who has never been late in her entire life, would be late on her wedding day.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, though. The organ starts to play ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and honestly it sounds more like a death march. Willie is reminded, yet again, of another reason why this is not what Alex wants – he wants to play ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift at his wedding.

Willie takes in a sharp breath when Carrie enters. She looks like a pageant queen – wearing a beautiful, white, classic dress. In one hand, she holds her dad’s arm, and in the other, there is a bouquet of daisies.

Flynn whispers. “I have to go. Boys, do not mess this up. Or I swear I’ll kill you.”

As the duo watch her run to the front of the room, Willie whispers, “Does she know about Carrie’s big, fat crush?”

Luke snorts. “You think so? Come on, let’s sit. They won’t be able to see us here.”

As they crouch down and make their way to the benches, Willie casts one last look at Alex, and he knows, he knows that Alex wishes it was Willie walking down the aisle instead.

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” The preacher says, and Willie’s heart erupts into a frenzy. As the room goes completely silent, Luke whispers, “That’s your cue, Willie.”

Ignoring his anxiety, he stands up with his hands shaking, and his brain telling him to just fucking run out the doors.

Alex’s eyes widen, relief flooding his features, and for a moment, he looks like the real Alex again. Willie catches Julie and Flynn’s eyes, who are standing beside Carrie, and they nod at him, enthusiastically. But the bride, Carrie – she looks absolutely horrified. And so does all the other people in this room, including Alex’s parents, his grandma Ruth, and Carrie’s parents, too.

From Alex’s right side, Reggie and Bobby give him encouraging looks, and finally, he averts his eyes back to the man he loves.

But he can’t say anything. He feels as if he’s frozen in time, and his mind completely blanks out. For a moment he wonders if this is his rock bottom.

But Luke comes to the rescue, thrusting a guitar in his hands, and breaking him out of his trance. “I remember you told me that you can always sing, even if the world was ending. So, I brought this along, as backup.”

It’s true. Music is a part of his soul, much like it is Alex’s. Music is what connected them in the first place, and music is what still keeps them connected now.

He positions the guitar, and notices that it’s Luke’s acoustic guitar. He strums it, and finally, his mind comes back to himself. He keeps his eyes trained on that of Alex, and he watches the storm of emotions in his irises.

“I am not the kind of guy, who should be rudely barging in on a white veiled occasion…” He sings, loving how Taylor Swift has written a song for every occasion.

“But you are not the kind of boy, who should be marrying the wrong girl!” He sings and hears loud gasps around the room – he knows that people expected him to be in love with Carrie or something.

“Or any girl!” Reggie adds, and Alex grins, and that gives him the motivation to continue.

“So, don't say yes, run away now. I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door… Don't wait or say a single vow – You need to hear me out, and they said speak now!”

He drags the ‘now’ for as long as he can, because he knows that the silence that will follow will be excruciating. And it is. Alex just stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Willie finally looks at Carrie, and when their eyes meet, she gives him an odd look. He half expected her to kill him, but the way she looks at him, it’s almost as if she’s relieved.

Alex clears his throat, the sound piercing through the silence of the room. Whispers arise, and Willie exchanges a look with Luke, who asks him, “You want me to dig you a hole to die?”

Before he can nod, Alex says, “Uh…” He fiddles with his hands, before finally saying, “Fuck it”, and untying his tie. His mother gasps, and his father stands up, but he raises a hand.

He locks eyes with Willie, and his world spins on its axis.

“You are not the kind of guy to be rudely barging in on a white veiled occasion…But I am not the kind of boy… who should be marrying the wrong girl… or any girl!” Alex sings in that raspy voice of his, and Willie feels his heart soar. He can’t help the grin from escaping on his face, and he knows that his eyes are what Julie calls, ‘heart eyes.’ Luke grabs the guitar from Willie’s hand and starts playing along.

“And you'll say let's run away now, and I'll meet you when I'm out of my tux at the back door,”

Alex walks down the aisle, but suddenly remembers something, or rather, someone. He turns around, locking eyes with Carrie, and Willie can’t see what he’s saying, but Carrie smiles a big, soft one – one probably no one has ever seen on her face, and he sees her mouth ‘go.’

“Baby, I didn't say my vows, so glad you were around; when they said speak now!”

He finishes, and stands in front of Willie, and Willie knows that the both of them can feel the air electrifying between them.

He turns, facing his grandmother. “Grandma, I’m sorry, but you’re 93, and I’m 20. I’m not going to give up my life for you to live. I love you, though. Mom, Dad, I’m truly sad that I’m not what you wanted. But I’m not gonna apologize for being myself, nor am I gonna apologize for loving who I want to. This is my life, and maybe it’s time that I start acting like it. I can’t keep wasting my life to please you. You – you should love me for who I am, that’s what good parents do.” Alex’s voice cracks, and Willie intertwines their fingers. Alex squeezes his hand.

Carrie’s mom stands up, shaking her head. “No, no, no… you do not get to ruin my daughter’s wedding –”

Alex’s father stands beside her, his face matching the shade of Carrie’s red lipstick. “I will not accept this –”

“Will?” Alex whispers, his eyes trained on his father.

“Yeah?”

“Run.”

With that, Alex tightens his hold on Willie’s hand, and the both of them run down the aisle, and outside. Willie can hear an uproar behind him, but it fades to background noise behind the thump of his heart.

“That was so fucking romantic!” Alex exclaims, as they come to a stop before Willie’s car.

“I just…”

“Wait – I’m sorry, Willie. I shouldn’t have put you through that. I should’ve fought more; I should’ve run away or something. That was not okay. I’m a twenty-year-old adult, and I should – I should – learn to be it, and not hurt any – anyone –”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Willie says, stepping closer to Alex. “It’s alright. They’re your parents. It’s not your fault that you want their approval. But I just want you to know that I love you, all of you, for who you are. And all of us do – Luke, Julie, Bobby, Reggie, Flynn, and even Carrie. We all love you, for who you are, and we’re always gonna be by your side.”

He smiles, cupping Willie’s face. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I – I love you so fucking much.” He kisses Willie, and the latter feels like he is floating amongst the stars.

“That – everything inside – from this tux to the decorations was horrible. I’m really glad that you… you know, stopped it.” Alex says, rubbing his thumb around Willie’s cheek.

He shrugs. “Well, it was your friends’ idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“Guys! Guys, guys, guys!”

Willie and Alex break out of their embrace at Carrie’s voice, who is currently running towards them, her dress bunched in her hands. Flynn is following her, holding her veil in her arms. Julie, Luke, Bobby, and Reggie are behind them, and they all have a look of panic plastered on their faces.

Flynn yells. “Carrie might’ve told your and her parents to fuck off, and your grandma to just die already, and so there’s a fair chance that we’re all gonna get killed, now that everyone knows that we’re all behind this.”

“Also, I threw red wine at our aunt’s dress, Carrie!” Bobby yells.

“I might have told your parents that they’re failures, and Julie and I are your real parents, Alex!” Luke yells.

“Also, Flynn and I are getting married!” Carrie yells.

Alex’s eyes widen, and he looks at Willie. “I think we all need to run.”

Willie nods, and he looks around. Maybe they will get killed (probably not), and maybe everything is a little crazy right now – but what he knows is that all of them are a family, and that he’d do anything for them. He also knows that Alex is worth everything, and that someday, they will get married, just the way they want, with the people that love them just the way they are.

Plus, is it weird to say that he kind of feels like Taylor Swift right now?

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sparklyfairymira · 3 years

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Prompt & Fic Updates (Updated 5/9)

Because I have a lot of fics and prompts upcoming, here is a list so you can see what's in queue and when my WIPs are set to update. Generally speaking, I will stick to this schedule as much as a I can, though it might change from time to time.

A HEART PERMANENTLY BOUND TO YOU

BELLARKECAVE

Chapter 3 (Final): 6/23/21

BETWEEN THE FIRE AND THE FLAME

CLURPHAMY

Chapter 3 (Final): 6/30/21

WAIT 'TIL I GET MY MONEY CH 1

BELLARKE/MINTY/HARPHY Chapter 3: 7/7/21 Chapter 4: 7/21/21 Chapter 5: 8/18/21 Chapter 6: 9/1/21 Chapter 7: 9/13/21

HE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE (WHO HAD A SECRET TO HIDE)

BELLARKE/MURVEN

Chapter 2: 7/14/21 Chapter 3: 8/9/21 Chapter 4: 8/25/21

YOUR HEARTBEAT NEXT TO MINE

BELLARKE

Chapter 7: 6/25/21 Updating every Friday

UPCOMING PROMPTS

See below the cut for my upcoming prompts

FIND ME IN THE DARKNESS

BELLARKE

Expected publication date: 6/26/21

Seelie Princess Clarke is set to marry Unseelie Prince Wells, her childhood friend as has been arranged since their birth, but there is nothing less in the world that she wants to do. So she decides to run from the court but somehow ends up in the Shadow Court—somewhere that no Seelie should ever be. But then she meets the King of the Shadow Court Bellamy and something is drawing her to him. Bellamy can’t believe his luck with one of his subjects shows up at his door with a Seelie Fae and not just any Seelie, it turns out, but the Seelie Princess. He thinks that he’ll be able to use her to finally have his court recognized by the other two. He wasn’t expecting her to be his soulmate but as soon as their eyes lock, he knows. And he knows that he can never let her leave him.

COLD SWEAT

ROARKE

Expected publication date: 7/3/21

Clarke is a nurse who works hella late nights in the ER and walks home. She’s attacked one night while walking home — nothing happened because a (tall, muscular) stranger happened to be nearby and pulled the guy off her. But the man in question, Roan she learns, tells her that if she’s going to walking home in the city at night she should learn how to protect herself. So she signs up for a self-defense class...and Roan ends up being the instructor. He teaches her how to defend herself, and she starts growing more confident in herself in general. Confident enough to ask him out after class one day. Let’s just say they never make it to their dinner reservation.

TIL DEATH

BELLARKE

Expected publication date: 7/10/21

Clarke falls in love with Bellamy the moment she lays eyes on him. He's smart and handsome and has a fire inside of him that she finds mesmerizing. Sure, he's always been secretive, but his secrets are a small price to pay for his love. But then she learns what those secrets are, and suddenly the price doesn't seem so small. He's not what she thought he was, and even though she loves him, she plots to take him down

JUST KEEP BREATHING

BELLARKE/MINTY/MURVEN

Expected publication date: 7/17/21

Their group consists of six. Bellamy, a convict with a thirst for revenge. Miller, a sharpshooter who can’t walk away from a wager. Monty, a runaway with a privileged past. Raven, a spy known as the Wraith. Clarke, a Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums. Murphy, a thief with a gift for unlikely escapes. Somehow they managed the impossible heist only to be backstabbed and Raven to be kidnapped. They get Raven back and they get their revenge but nothing ever comes for free. "We were all supposed to make it, " Monty says softly. Maybe they'd been naive but they had never questioned their survival—no matter how dicey the situation seemed. But Bellamy is dying in Clarke's arms—the only place he wants to be—and Raven is telling her that she has to accept it. Only Clarke knows that she doesn't have to. She may not have the jurda parem but it's already changed her powers. She can do this. She knows she can. She pulls on all of the power that she can and forces it into Bellamy's body as the last breath leaves his lips. Or a Six of Crows AU that picks up at the end of Crooked Kingdom with slightly different results.

REMEMBER THOSE WALLS I BUILT (WELL, BABY, THEY'RE TUMBLING DOWN)

BELLMORI

Expected publication date: 7/19/21

Emori isn't the sentimental type. When you grow up the way she did, you tend to learn to not get attached to things. When you get attached, that opens you up to loss. And she's had about all the loss she can handle. But then she meets Bellamy. He's a grad student at NYU, this hot book nerd whose hair is always a mess and who comes to her bar to do homework like some sort of weird. Says he grew up basically in a bar, and the background noise helps him focus when his apartment gets too quiet. And he's...not her type. He's got kind eyes and his hair is always a mess and he's getting a master's so he can teach history and he wants to travel the world to see all of the places he's going to teach students about in person. He wears his heart on his sleeve and makes stupid jokes and chats with everyone he sees. Meanwhile, she's got hard edges and a rough exterior no one's ever gotten close enough to even try to crack. Well, no one until Bellamy. And the closer he gets, the more she starts to think maybe the risk of opening up is worth the reward...

WELCOME TO TEMPTATION

BELLARKE/CLURPHY/ROARKE

Expected publication date: 7/24/21

Riot Night changed Clarke’s life forever. A gang war between the Grounders and the Reapers had reached a head that night. The first riot began at the abandoned amusement park where Clarke and Raven were attending an underground MMA fight. Clarke makes sure that Raven gets away but finds herself in danger only to be rescued by three extremely attractive mystery men. Three mystery men that framed her as the ringleader of Riot Night. It’s eleven months later and she is coming back to Arkadia for the first time in the eight months since she was acquitted of all charges. As she arrives at her mother’s house she discovers that the three mystery men are her new housemates and they have no intentions of leaving. Now all that she desires to revenge—no matter the cost. When she finds herself in danger it is her new housemates that vow to keep her safe. Can Clarke learn to trust Bellamy, Murphy, and Roan? Does she need to trust them to sleep with them? Because it has been a long eleven months of celibacy and they are all stupidly hot. Based on the Madison Kate series, a reverse harem enemies-to-lovers story involving lots of sex and lots of violence.

Will be added to WIP list w/ expected publication dates after the first chapter is posted.

THE AFFAIR

MEMORI

Expected Publication date: 7/31/21

Murphy is married to Clarke Griffin, a hotshot doctor who's on her way to becoming the youngest chief of surgery ever at Arkadia Memorial. But their marriage is more show than anything these days, and neither of them is in love anymore. She's constantly at work, and he's left to his own devices. That is until he meets Emori at one of Clarke's hospital galas. The affair they startup is supposed to be fun, a bit of distraction from Murphy's otherwise mundane life. But then real feelings develop, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to tell Clarke that he thinks he's found the one...and it's not her.

IT'S YOU (IT'S ALWAYS BEEN YOU)

BELLARKE