#its me asking you to see something so wonderful in something taken so un-seriously | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scoobysnack1107 · 4 years

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So grateful I was able to commission the incredible @rainbow-taishi again for another gorgeous RokuNami piece! As always, Jin did an absolutely amazing job! The colors and atmosphere are warm, the expressions soft, and the detailing exquisite 🥺💞 Thank you again Jin for making making my day and bringing a huge smile to my face 💖

For anyone interested, I wrote an accompanying story!

You can read it below or on ao3: Un Rendez-vous Romantique

(special thank you to @jysumrae for using her French skills to help me with the title 💖 )

Un Rendez-vous Romantique

Naminé checked the time on her gummi phone again. Five minutes before seven o’clock. Five minutes before Roxas was supposed to arrive at the bistro for their date. Their first date she reminded herself.

All around her, tables were filled with laughing couples sharing colorful concoctions that were placed onto tables by waiters dressed in well-tailored suits. Naminé, dressed in her signature white dress and blue sandals, was the only one sitting alone.

She couldn’t help but wonder how seriously he had taken the idea. He had been the one that asked her out with that boyish grin she was powerless to resist. But this was the first time they would be together like this. Unencumbered by heartless, the Organization, Diz. Tonight, it was just the two of them in the most romantic place in town.

Unless…he stood her up.

Naminé’s heart sunk, and as the people milling by the bistro cast her curious looks, she started feeling more and more self-conscious. Did they think he wasn’t coming?

“Don’t worry, Naminé. Trust me, he’ll come.”

Startled, Naminé looked up and found Sora offering her a comforting grin. He was dressed in a white chef’s uniform and tall toque that somehow managed to stay atop his spiky head of hair. In his hands, he was carrying a large, unopened box decorated with golden fleur de lis and something scribbled on top in black marker.

“Sora? Why are you—” she trailed off, suddenly remembering that her friend had become an occasional helping hand at the restaurant during his travels. Though, admittedly, it was strange to think of Sora as a chef in a high-end bistro like this. “Thank you. I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

In the distance, the bell of the clock tower tolled, signaling the passing of another hour. Seven o’clock.

Sora had to be right.

“Excuse me! Coming through!”

Outside the bistro, some kind of commotion had started. The tram stopping in its track as a boy riding a black and white skateboard came racing through. A flock of pigeons wandering the bistro’s checkered plaza dispersed in a flurry of feathers, and one of the waiters nearly dropped a plate of ratatouille before said boy arrived in front of Naminé’s table with an apologetic smile.

“I am so sorry, Naminé,” Roxas said, finally catching his breath, “I promise I didn’t forget. Really. I got caught up delivering letters again because Lea ‘sprained’ his ankle and couldn’t finish his half.” Roxas shook his head. Of all the days Lea felt it necessary to fake an injury.

Naminé couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and the anxiety that had been chipping away at her nerves dissipated with the sound. “It’s fine, Roxas. I’m glad you were able to make it. I can’t say I expected that kind of entrance though.” Another laugh slipped past her lips when she noticed a stray feather in his hair.

Roxas scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I can’t say I really planned it that way.”

Plucking the feather from the skater’s head unceremoniously, Sora handed his friend the box he was holding. “Well, now that you’re finally here, I’d say it’s time for you two love birds to enjoy your date with a little Tarte aux Fruits, courtesy of Little Chef and I!” Sora patted his toque affectionately, prompting a tiny gray mouse to peek out from beneath the hat before scurrying back inside with a squeak. “He’s a little shy,” Sora whispered.

“He’s cute,” Naminé cooed.

Roxas flipped open the lid of the box to examine the dessert. Inside the box was a round and colorful tart decorated with fresh strawberries, blueberries, kiwis, and peaches. “Sora, you know it’s just the two of us, right?” Usually, the bistro only served the desserts by slices. Not entire tartlets like this.

Sora pushed the lid back down and pointed to the writing on top.

Enjoy your date!

- Sora and Little Chef

“Yep! But you’re my friends and Little Chef insisted. It’s not like you can’t take the leftovers home. I’m sure Lea and Xion would eat a few slices for you.”

Curious, Naminé stood up to peer inside the box too. Sora really was too sweet. Everything about the dessert was handled with care, with each fruit arranged so precisely, Naminé could only imagine how long her friend had spent perfecting the delectable concoction. “Thank you, Sora. This is perfect, but you know, we’ll be saving you and Little Chef a slice too. It wouldn’t feel right for our chefs not to taste their own creation.”

“Heh, guess not,” Sora agreed, scratching his cheek.

“You can drop by the Old Mansion after work if you’d like,” Naminé suggested, “No one goes to bed early anyway, since it’s summer vacation.”

“Yeah, and plus, you still owe me a rematch on Classic Kingdom Melee,” Roxas said with a competitive glint in his blue eyes.

Sora chuckled and laced his hands behind his head. “So eager to get your butt handed to you again?”

“I have Naminé’s good luck charm this time,” Roxas said confidently, “So, there’s no way I’m gonna lose again.”

“We’ll see,” Sora said in a sing-song voice. The two boys jibed one another for another minute until Sora was called back into the kitchen by a short, portly chef with a silver whisk and a toque taller than him.

Roxas set the box with the tart on the table and moved to pull Naminé’s chair out for her with a flourish. “Madame.”

“How gentlemanly,” Naminé giggled as she took her seat.

Taking the chair across from her, Roxas signaled over one of the waiters who promptly brought them two plates and utensils to slice their dessert. Naminé, her hands small and adept, cut them each a generous piece.

The window behind them cast a warm golden glow and was embossed with the bistro’s name, Le Grand Bistrot, in neat gold lettering. Inside, the restaurant’s staff busied themselves, the sound of clattering dishes and whirring kitchen appliances blending with the soft instrumental tune floating from the speakers outside.

Naminé spoke again first. “So, you and Hayner are entering the Struggle Tournament this year?”

“We’re gonna win this year” Roxas boasted with a grin. He picked up his dessert but didn’t take a bite as sparks of excitement began to dance in his eyes. “We’ve been training every day since sign ups.”

“Confident I see,” Naminé teased.

“Always,” Roxas returned, his grin turning sly, “And besides, I’ve won the digital version once already. The real thing can’t be any harder.”

Naminé conceded with a smile. “That is true.”

As Roxas explained his new strategy for this year’s tournament, Naminé listened attentively, offering nods and questions at different intervals as she nibbled at her dessert. She liked seeing him so excited. After everything they had been through, happiness like this was well-deserved.

“Promise to cheer me on?” Roxas asked. His gaze was intense now, making Naminé’s heart skip a beat.

Naminé averted his eyes, playing with her hair as she answered shyly. “I’ll be in the front row the entire time.”

“U-Uh, thanks” Roxas blushed at her words and drew his own gaze away. “But um…anyway,” Roxas coughed, “How about you? You mentioned buying some new paints the other day. Have you been able to try them out yet?”

This time, it was Naminé’s face that lit up. She pressed her fingers together and tilted her head happily. “I have! I’ve been painting lots of landscapes with them, and I want to try portraits too.”

“Is this your subtle way of asking me to be your model?” Roxas joked.

“Mmm, maybe. Though, I’m not entirely sure you’d be able to stay still the entire time.”

Roxas raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“You really think you can sit still for more than an hour?” Naminé asked dubiously.

“With the right kind of incentive.”

Without hesitating, Naminé replied. “Sea salt ice cream?”

“Bingo,” Roxas said and bit into his slice of the tart.

Naminé didn’t try to conceal her laughter. Roxas really was predictable. And adorable. “I think I can arrange that.”

“Then, we have ourselves a deal!” Roxas held out a hand across the table, and Naminé shook it as if it was actually some kind of serious, contractual agreement.

The two continued to talk, reminiscing over the new memories they had made in the real Twilight Town. Like the first time they had all gone to Sunset Hill for a meteor shower or when they took that impromptu trip to Radiant Garden because somehow Twilight Town had run out of sea salt ice cream. Granted, it had been a particularly hot day. But still…

“I feel like summer vacation is too short,” Roxas complained, “and who thought it was a good idea to assign homework? We’re supposed to be on a break.”

Naminé’s lips twitched knowingly. “You still haven’t started, have you?”

“I tried, but the computer keeps crashing on me, so I can’t do any kind of research,” Roxas explained, pouting as he crossed his arms.

“You and computers,” Naminé sighed, shaking her head, “What are you writing your report on?”

“Not sure yet. Hayner, Pence, and Olette want to do something about the seven wonders, but that’s a little too déjà vu for me, you know?”

Naminé tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, maybe you can do a report about the beach?”

“The beach?” Roxas cocked his head curiously.

“Yeah, like what kind of fish are in the ocean here or ways to keep our beaches clean,” Naminé continued. Roxas loved the beach. The first time they went, Roxas nearly tripped over himself running across the sand to get to the water, and he didn’t come out until it was time to leave.

“Looks like we’re going to the beach this week then, huh?” Roxas asked with a coy grin.

Naminé returned the smile. “Looks like it.”

By the time they were ready to leave, with their leftovers secured in a to-go bag, the last embers of the twilight sky above had faded, blanketing the sunset hues beneath a veil of stars. The night air was still, the bustle of the usually busy town subdued as most citizens retired to their homes to sleep.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Naminé said, staring down at her feet bashfully.

“Me too.” There was a brief silence that hung between them before Roxas added in a hesitant but hopeful voice. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“I would love that,” Naminé answered softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Y-You know, there’s gonna be that new movie playing down at the theater this Friday. We could grab dinner here and then go see that?”

“It’s a date!” Naminé agreed happily, and her heart soared.

Roxas took her hand and intertwined their fingers. “It’s a date.”

#rokunami #roxas #namine #kingdom hearts #namixas #finally had a chance to finish this story #I loved writing the dialogue #and the tarte aux fruits was one of the prettiest desserts in kh3 #perfect for a first date <3

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multimilfs · 4 years

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Lilith Clawthorne x Fem!Witch Reader: 5 Times the Elixir Worked + 1 Time You Needed Something a Little Stronger

Summary: An anon sent in “Lilith helping out her Cursed S/O? I guess being part of the Emperor’s Coven have its perks: like having access to the elixir your S/O desperately needs while trying to find a cure for both her S/O and sister.”

A/N: So this really got away from me. It was supposed to be simple, but man once I got started, I couldn’t stop. This gets really angsty at points, but it does end happily, I promise. Thank you for your suggestion, anon! I hope you love it!

Warning(s): Mild Body Horror, Blood Mention, Sickness

“Miss Y/N, can you help me with number four?” A little voice piped up next to you, making you look down.

A witchling with yellow hair and grey eyes looked up at you, a timid looking smile on her face. You gave her a bright smile of your own, crouching next to her.

“Of course I can, Emone, what are you struggling with?” You asked in a calm voice.

The girl, Emone, was explaining what she didn’t understand when you heard a few gasps from other students in the room. Curiously, you looked up from your focus on the girl’s paper, to see Lilith standing next to your desk. You hadn’t even heard the classroom door open.

“Emone, will you give me a moment to speak with Miss Clawthorne, I promise I will be back to help you. Work on the other questions while I’m gone, alright?”

“Of course, Miss Y/N!” The girl said, diving back into her work.

It was unusual to see your girlfriend during work hours. You were too busy teaching and she had lists of tasks to fulfill for the coven. Whatever had brought her here had to be serious. Giving your students a look that said ‘get back to work,’ you ushered her out into the hallway.

“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” You questioned her as soon as the door to the classroom was closed.

“Everything is fine, dear. I just came to bring you this - it fell out of your bag.” Lilith’s tone was calm as she pressed a familiar bottle into your palm.

The yellow elixir seemed to look back at you accusingly. You were very glad Lilith had noticed it, but angry at yourself for not being more careful. Who knows what could have occurred if she hadn’t brought it? The scenarios running through your head made you feel sick.

“Thank you.” You said, wincing at how you sounded nothing like yourself.

She intertwined her fingers with yours, squeezing lightly. It didn’t take a mind-reader to know what was going through your mind right now. You worried constantly about your curse, both of you did. But while Lilith was surrounded with witches capable of defending themselves, you worked with witchlings. It would be horrible.

Lilith had dropped a few hints about giving classes from one of the rooms in the Emperor’s Castle, but you hadn’t given them much attention. You loved Lilith, but you needed your own time and space sometimes. Teaching at Hexside was your escape. And you kept your curse under enough control that it wasn’t a serious issue right now.

“Don’t let me keep you from your students,” She said softly, drawing your gaze back to her’s, “We’ll talk later this evening.”

You nodded, giving her a slightly strained smile. It didn’t stop her from placing a gentle kiss on your lips before departing. As soon as she was around the corner, you chugged down the elixir, almost frantically.

Once you got your breathing under control, you tucked the bottle into your pocket, re-entering your classroom as if nothing had happened.

As soon as your eyes snapped open in the dark, you knew what was happening. The itchy, painful feeling underneath your skin and the deep pain in your chest. You tried to remember if you’d taken your elixir. Or enough of it, anyway. The pain overwhelmed your thoughts before you could remember.

You tried to sit up, immediately doubling over in pain, letting out a low groan. It didn’t matter if you’d taken enough. You needed more, now. Reaching out blindly, you tried to rouse Lilith from where she was sleeping beside you.

“Lil-” You groaned as tufts of feathers broke through your skin, “Lilith!”

The witch jolted, shooting up into a sitting position. She immediately conjured her staff, looking around with wide, frantic eyes.

“What? What’s wro-” She started, before she saw what was happening, “Oh Titan!”

In a way that was so un-Lilith like, she tumbled out of the bed, letting out an ‘oomph!’ before standing up. She ran out of the bedroom quickly. You’d kept your focus on her until she opened the bedroom door, blinding you momentarily with the light from the living space. Not having something to focus on drew your attention back to your body.

The fingers on your left hand were lengthening, the joints letting out sickening cracks. Your skin felt like it was going to rip with the way it had to stretch. Then came your nails, morphing into sharp talons, and slicing the skin as they extended from their normal length. One perk of being cursed was that you healed much quicker than the average witch, so the cuts left behind were quickly mended. The only evidence they’d been there was rapidly drying blood.

Even though you healed quicker, it didn’t stop the pain from being excruciating while it happened. And since you were trying to hold it all back, it was even worse. You let out a pitiful whine. It hurt so much. All you wanted to do was give in.

You were so careful to manage your curse, but you could never control what happened if you turned. It had only happened a handful of times. Usually either you or Lilith grabbed an elixir before it could fully overtake you. But the times you had… well, you didn’t remember them - but Lilith always looked grim after it happened. She would tell you that it was okay and that nobody was too seriously hurt. The worry in her eyes told a different story.

“Lilith!” You screamed, feeling the curse begin to fully take a hold on you.

The bones of your ribcage were slowly breaking as the curse rebuilt your frame. Shards of bone would shoot off of the breakage, imbedding itself in the skin of your insides. It felt like a million paper cuts focused in a single spot. You couldn’t hold it back anymore, you didn’t have nearly enough strength.

So you gave in.

You don’t know what happened next. All you could recall was your mouth being pried open mid-transformation, which you hadn’t liked at all, making you swipe with your transformed hand. Something wet had soaked into your feathers and then it all went black.

When you woke up, your body ached. It was still in the middle of the night and your senses were still heightened, so your transformation hadn’t occurred very long ago. But you noticed above all else that Lilith wasn’t in bed with you.

Though it went against everything your body wanted, you forced yourself out of bed. Where was Lilith? You wouldn’t be able to rest until you knew where she was and if she was alright.

Blinking against the harsh lights of the living space, the sound of running water from the kitchen let you know where she was. But you wanted to see her. To wrap yourself in her. After a transformation, you felt raw, and would cling very tightly to your girlfriend. She allowed it, pretending she didn’t enjoy the contact.

Instead of feeling warm at the sight of her, your stomach dropped. She was next to the kitchen sink wrapping gauze over a bloody gash on her arm. A gash that looked suspiciously like talon marks. You felt frozen.

“L-Lilith?” Your voice broke, watching her.

Her eyes snapped to yours, and though it was brief, the fear that went through her eyes made you feel sick. You gripped your stomach as it rolled.

“Darling, I’m fine,” She reassured, moving to your side swiftly, wrapping you in her arms, “I’m okay. Nothing a little gauze and time can’t fix.”

“I h-hurt you.” You sobbed out, trying to pull away from her. She wouldn’t have any of it.

“It only hurt in the moment. I’m okay now. I’m okay, you’re okay.” Lilith whispered into your ear, holding you tightly against her, “It’s over now.”

As the two of you stood in the kitchen, wrapped up in one another, you couldn’t help but wonder - was it really ever going to be over?

“Darling, you have to sit still.” Lilith said, amusement clear in her voice as she watched you squirm.

“Easy for you to say, Miss Coven Leader, you’re not being poked and prodded by needles.” You snarked back, shying away as another coven healer approached you.

“We won’t know if this works if you don’t sit still,” The witch reminded you, “Or would you rather continue drinking that putrid elixir?”

Your stomach turned at the thought of the elixir, sending a chill down your spine. Lilith noticed. She couldn’t help but smirk a little bit, knowing she was right.

The two of you were sitting in the medical bay of the Emperor’s Castle. In-between missions and being there with you, Lilith had been aiding the healers in finding a more potent elixir for your curse. Rather than a drinkable one though, they created one that could be injected. They hoped it would be more potent since it went directly into your bloodstream. And though you wouldn’t admit it, you were hoping so too.

It wasn’t just that you hated the taste of the elixir - it was much better than the alternative, after all - But the curse had been evolving and the elixir didn’t seem to do the trick anymore. So you had both been a little frantic in finding something else. The current potion they were working on was the strongest contender so far. Using samples of your blood, it had been the most successful in holding the curse at bay. On a small scale.

That’s why Lilith was standing ready with a few elixirs, just in case it didn’t work. She was confident that it would, but you’d asked her to have them, just to be safe. And she could never say no to you.

“Let them inject the serum.” Lilith said when you dodged the needle for the second time.

“That’s a really big needle!” You whined, trying to give her a sad look. She didn’t budge.

“What will get you to sit still?”

“Something really nice, for a needle like that.”

“Oh, I can think of something…” Lilith practically purred. You blinked, stunned by the change. So stunned that you missed the look she gave the healer before leaning in to whisper in your ear, “If you sit there like a good girl, I promise I’ll make it well worth your while.. Later.”

You were sure that your face and ears had gone bright red. That certainly wasn’t an offer you were going to refuse. So you nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Alright. I’m ready.” You said.

“Um, I already gave it to you, Miss Y/N.” The healer said awkwardly, looking between you and Lilith.

Furrowing your brows, you looked down at your arm. She was telling the truth. A pretty pink bandaid was stuck to your skin where the needle was supposed to go in. And the feeling under your skin had stopped. It’d worked. Despite that, you looked up at Lilith with a scowl.

“You tricked me.” You accused.

“I never tricked you, merely distracted you.”

“But what about…”

“Oh darling, you know I always keep my promises.” Lilith said, giving you a languid smile.

Swallowing roughly, you avoided her eyes. Your face felt hot again. The needles made have sucked, but it was going to be so worth it.

“What did you all get for number three, class?”

The ten students looked down at their papers, then at one another. It confused you. Normally they would jump at the chance to answer the question for you.

“Um, you only told us to do one and two, Miss Y/N.” Braxas spoke up from where he was seated.

Oh.

“Of course, you’re right. Thank you, Braxas.” You smiled, trying to hide your embarrassment. Little things like that had been slipping your mind a lot, so they didn’t seem to react very strongly.

Looking at your watch, it was about time for the lesson to end anyway. Their ride back to Hexside was probably outside, anyway.

“I’d like you all to do question three before class tomorrow. You are all dismissed for the day.” You said kindly, watching as they all nodded, packing their things up.

When the last student had left the room, you allowed yourself to slump down into your chair. Exhaustion had been creeping up on you all day. Since the new treatment for your curse had been proven to work, you’d also learned that there were some serious side effects. It stole a lot of your energy and made it difficult for you to keep food down, so you’d lost a lot of weight. Doing anything for long periods of time was difficult and exhausting.

As a result, Lilith had arranged for you to teach your classes from the castle. That way you didn’t have to go too far and you had access to all of the best care within the building. It had been a good idea. Not that you’d tell Lilith that. You were still a little upset that she’d made such a change without consulting you first, even if it was the safest option.

You let out a heavy sigh. That had been your last class of the day, thank the Titan, but you didn’t have any energy to spare. And you really needed to get back to your room before someone noticed you were still there - or worse - Lilith found you like this. She would be so worried and that was the last thing she needed right now.

Summoning every last speck of energy in your reserves, you moved yourself into a standing position. Though you immediately had to lean against the desk as your vision blurred. That wasn’t good. You tried to take a step, but your right knee gave you, forcing you to hold yourself up using your staff.

Your palisman, a lovely little owl named Stara, animated herself to look down at you worriedly. She nudged slightly at you, giving a concerned coo. You reached up to scratch at her feathers lightly. Logically, you knew there was no way you could get back to your quarters like this.

“Stara, I need you to go get Lilith, please.” You sighed, sitting back down with a wince. It was the last thing you wanted to do, but it was necessary. The owl let out a chirp before gliding out of the room.

Even though you’d sat down, your head was still spinning. You put your head down on the desk. If it didn’t stop the dizziness, at least it would keep you from getting sick. That was the last thing you needed right now.

The gentle flutter of wings alerted you to Stara’s return, followed by the clicking of heeled boots you knew very well. Lilith let out a worried little noise when she reached the doorway. You waved to let her know you were okay, but you didn’t raise your head from the desk.

“Darling?” She said softly, kneeling next to you, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t walk.” You mumbled out, though it came out garbled because of the way you were positioned.

“I’m sorry?”

“I can’t walk.” You snapped, raising your head.

It felt humiliating to admit and tears were burning at your eyes. You didn’t want to be weak like this. The new treatment kept the curse at bay, but you didn’t know if your body would ever adjust to it like it had the elixirs. You couldn’t keep getting weaker. The healers said that it would continue to eradicate the curse, but you worried it’d take you before it got there.

You felt horrible for snapping at Lilith. She’d been nothing but loving and supportive throughout all of it, but losing the only bit of control you had was difficult. It was horrible looking into the mirror and not knowing who was looking back at you. You were terrified that one day Lilith would wake up and do the same thing; look at you and not know who you were. She was a beautiful, powerful witch and she could have anyone. You couldn’t understand why she stuck with you.

“Alright, darling, let me help you stand. We can fly back and I’ll hold you steady.” Lilith said casually, knowing that making a fuss would make you feel worse.

It hurt her to see you so weak, so sick. She often wondered if it was her fault; she’d been the one to mastermind your new treatment, after all. You were losing so much so rapidly. So much weight. So much mobility. So much freedom. It felt like she’d taken it from you and it broke her heart. Your body was supposed to adjust to this, but it was taking a while. She promised herself that if things got any worse, they would move you back to elixirs, while they worked on something else.

Sitting on your staff, she found a way to perch you on it as well, so that you would lean against her. She tried not to let how light you were get to her.

“Is this acceptable?” She asked softly. You nodded tiredly, not having enough energy to open your mouth to speak.

It was easy enough to maneuver your way through the halls of the castle. Conveniently, it was early enough in the day that most people were still working, meaning nobody witnessed your trip back to your quarters. Even if you hadn’t been awake enough to notice, she knew you’d worry about it later. You hated being seen in such a state.

She was careful to place you in bed comfortably, kissing your forehead gently. As she went to wrap the blankets around you, though, she noticed your nails lengthening slowly. Not having the heart to give you another injection right now, she grabbed one of the elixirs you still kept around.

“Darling,” Lilith said softly, shaking you just enough to wake you slightly, “Your body is trying to transform, so I’m going to give you some elixir right now, okay?”

“‘Kay.” You muttered, opening your mouth expectantly.

Pouring the golden liquid down your throat, she watched with a relieved expression as your nails went back to normal, the curse at bay for now. Feeling almost as exhausted as you looked, she laid next to you. You snuggled into her arms easily. Nothing could keep you away.

“Oh, my dearest, you look beautiful.” Lilith sighed out, looking awestruck.

You blushed, smiling brightly as you twirled. The new dress you’d bought for the occasion flowed elegantly as you spun. It was a brilliant sage green, bringing out your eyes.

“Do you think so?” You asked, teasingly.

“You know I do,” She purred, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you close. With a smirk, she nipped lightly at your ear, “I might have to make a few excuses and put you on bed rest for the day.”

The smile that blossomed on your face was bright and happy. Happier than it had been in months. It warmed her from the inside-out to see.

“You can’t call it bed rest if I’m not resting, Miss Clawthorne.” You quipped, placing a quick kiss on her lips.

“Nobody needs to know that part.”

“As much as I would love to play hooky with you today, this is too important. But we can revisit this when I get back.”

“We’ll do much more than revisit it,” Lilith flirted shamelessly, capturing your lips in a kiss that made your knees weak, “Enjoy your day, my dearest.”

“I will.” You smiled.

Grabbing your bag and your staff, you walked out into the hallway with a pep in your step. After the episode where you couldn’t walk, you’d woken up noticeably more energetic the next morning. It turned out that mixing the elixir and the treatment was the perfect combination. And as the weeks had passed, you regained your strength and freedom.

You still had low-energy days, but they were few and far between now. Any other time, you could dance circles around even the healthiest witches. Lilith couldn’t have been more proud of your progress. You couldn’t be more proud of yourself. It had taken a lot of work to get to where you were. But you wouldn’t trade any of it.

All of it had paid off and today was your first day back to teaching at Hexside. You were so excited to be in the halls again, surrounded by your students and peers. It had been so long since you’d been there.

When you got about halfway down the hallway, you absentmindedly went to itch your arm, only to find a few feathers there. Oops. That was another side affect of your treatment combination; the transformations weren’t painful anymore. You’d even been working on controlling them, though you always needed the elixir to bring you out of it. But progress was progress.

Hurrying back to your quarters, you swung into the room, grabbing the elixir. Lilith looked up, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Forgot to take my elixir, but I got it! I’m really off this time. I love you!” You said, giving her another quick kiss, before downing the elixir and leaving.

As you took off for Hexside with a bright smile on your face, Lilith’s loving gaze followed you from the window until you were completely out of sight.

“Damn it, Y/N, listen! It’s me!” Lilith yelled.

This was not what she’d imagined for her afternoon.

It had been fine to start. You both had the afternoon free of work, deciding to go out for lunch - as a treat. With you going back to work and Lilith catching up on her own, personal time had been a little limited. So you intended to make the best of it.

Or you had, anyway.

Lunch had been lovely. There was a new restaurant that opened across the isles and Lilith had surprised you with a reservation. Not that you had been there very long. About half-way through your meal, Lilith had dropped a few hints of returning home for some more… adult activities. You weren’t going to say no to that.

But your luck seemed to have run out, as you ran into none other than Odalia Blight outside of the castle. You didn’t remember what she said, but it had been enough to make you lose your cool.

As you’d been working on controlling your curse and transformations, your emotions had been constantly fluctuating. They meant the difference between a good transformation and a bad one. And the combination of Odalia’s words, plus the lack of your elixir for the day, had created this - a giant, angry owl-beast going on the offensive outside of the Emperor’s Castle.

“Get a hold of yourself, Y/N!” Odalia yelled from behind a barrier she’d created, only serving to make you angrier. You lunged, clawing at her barrier, jumping back in pain when it shocked you.

Lilith rolled her eyes. Of course Odalia would cause this and then continue to make it worse. Her mind was assessing the situation rapidly. She couldn’t get close enough to give you any elixir, which was really her only hope. But you had been working hard to control the owl beast. She hoped that you had enough control to not gut her.

“Get out of here, Odalia!” Lilith yelled, before taking a chance and walking out in front of you, unarmed and defenseless.

Your beast form tilted its head, looking confused. Lilith felt familiar to you, but how? You didn’t get the chance to find out. Odalia caught your attention and you lunged once more, going to wrap a claw around her form.

Before you could snatch the woman up, Lilith was there in front of you. You stopped dead in your tracks. One part of you was screaming to continue your task, but the other was focused on not hurting the witch in front of you. The internal debate gave Lilith enough time to let Odalia get out of the way.

“Y/N, look at me,” Lilith cooed, speaking in a gentle, soothing tone, “You know who I am. My darling, I need you to transform back for me. Can you do that?”

Once more, you tilted your head, letting out a confused cooing noise. Lilith’s soothing tones relaxed you, allowing your conscious mind to finally break through your cursed mind. And with an extreme amount of focus, you felt yourself transform back, growing back to your normal height and build.

“Lilith?” You said, holding your pounding head.

“I’m here. You did so well, my dearest.” Lilith said, pulling you into her, “So well.”

“My head hurts.” You whined.

“I know. Let me get you inside.”

Lilith helped you into the castle, back to your living space. She settled you in gently, going around and securing everything, before joining you. It would still be difficult in the future to work with your curse and overcome it fully, but you had time. Time, and the love of a very determined witch.

#lilith clawthorne #lilith x reader #the owl house #lilith clawthorne x reader #lilith toh #the owl house x reader #lilith the raven lady #lilith the owl house #the owl house imagine #odalia blight #wlw #wlw imagine #lilith clawthorne x fem reader #oct2020 #multimilfswritings

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thesameasbe4 · 3 years

Text

Hunting the White Wolf

What Bucky might have been up to in Wakanda.

I hadn’t noticed the sun going down. And that didn’t happen often. Always, I was thinking about logistics, how to get places, could I do it before dark, how much would it cost to travel that far out of the town? It was good to see Sarah and her kids. They were growing up so fast and I was glad to see her husband was still around. It may have been my jaded expectations of so many men from this village, but I had not expected him to remain long. But Sarah is one of the smartest people I know, of course she chose well.

Besides catching up, we had also laid out a plan for a visit to a neighboring village. She kept calling it a favor to her, but I would have done it no matter what. That was my job, I trained local nurses in psycho-social recovery from war traumas. And there were folks in every village that needed this recovery. Wakanda’s strategic decision to open up to the world may have been a political win but the sacrifice was the wellness of their own people, a proud people unused to talking about their emotions. I hadn’t been in Wakanda long, having been transferred from my long-term position in Northern Zambia at the request of the UN. Wakanda seemed to have all of the resources it needed to provide in-country care, but I didn’t have much choice about the move, so I went.

This village I was to go to next was in the shadow of the capitol city and many of its locals had lost family or become paraplegic after the battle for the infinity stones. Much of Sarah’s family was from there and she knew how badly they were hurting.

…

The journey had not been as harrowing as many I had undertaken. I had taken a motorbike all the way there, but the roads got better, widened and paved smooth the closer we came to the capitol. A great big woman clad in a bright pink kitenge rushed over to my motorbike as we pulled into the stand. She helped me with my bags as I paid my driver. There was much hand shaking and hugging as I followed Mama Hassan down a footpath. In the next several hours I learned Mama was much like Sarah, or rather that Sarah was much like her aunt. She was smart as a whip and also very gentle. I ate well, doing my best to at least taste all the dishes she put in front of me while we spoke of those hurting. We discussed who to visit and I explained that my aid model was to offer guidance to local medical professionals or traditional healers on how to care for emotional trauma. This ensures that the knowledge empowers those who are already trusted and have a good sense of community already.

“And there is of course the White Wolf.” Mama said feigning indifference. I cocked my head to one side, pausing over the basin in which I was washing the dishes outside of her small mud brick home. That name sounded familiar, but I was not sure why.

“What is the White Wolf, Mama?” I asked.

“It is a who. He fought in the battle with our king and army. It is said that he has lived many lives, and many of those lives were spent killing.”

“He is Wakandan?”

“Oh no, he is like you, a Mzungu.” I nodded, smiling inside, people in this part of the world were not shy about noticing skin color, and I couldn’t blame them. For many, I was the only white skinned person they had e er seen.

“This Mzungu lives in the village?”

“Sometimes, he often goes off for many months, but he always returns, and he carries back with him this look of weariness. The children started calling him White Wolf,” she chuckled to herself. “They say it is because he is white and has hair on his face like a wolf, but when I look at him I see a hunger in his eyes that is really terrifying.”

…

We visited ten families the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. We listened to many many stories of loss and hardship. I did not hear a resounding pride for Wakanda, like their leadership was projecting to the outside, no I heard frustration that after remaining a protected and sacred place for so many years, Wakanda had the same stories of wartime that many of their poorer and poorly led neighbors experienced. And in all of this, I witnessed Mama Hassan soothe, cry with them, and love them all. These people didn’t need me, and I got the sense they tolerated me only because of Mama Hassan. And she was who they needed.

After a few weeks, this is what I told her, and she hesitantly agreed to become the trauma healer for her village. We worked side by side. We continued visiting together in the mornings, I would listen mostly, and we would return to her home in the afternoons and work in her crop fields and discuss the techniques she used and some other things she might try.

One evening, in the light of a coal fire, she spoke his name again. “It is time you visited him. I heard he returned last week.”

“Ok, sure, we can go tomorrow, unless his home is far, we may have to wait a few days.” Mama shook her head.

“No, I will not go with you. I have enough work here with my own people. As you say, healing must come from within a community. He lives in peace with us here, but his is not one of our own.”

“Are you saying that Mzungus must take care of one another?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“No Maggie, I am saying you are the professional, so I give you the difficult case and I will stick to what I know.” I chuckled, trying to shrug off the discomfort of her sudden seriousness.

“Okay Mama, I will go while you do the regular visits. How will I find him.”

“He is far, he has a hut on the bank of the lake. If you get lost, just ask the children, they all know where he stays.”

…

So I departed in the opposite direction of mama the next morning, hunting the White Wolf. This was beautiful land, and I hadn’t ventured in this direction often since arriving, so I relished the far reaching view of the green mountains. Few clouds were in the sky today and as the sun rose higher, I drew my kitenge up over my head hoping I wouldn’t burn badly. I also did this in areas where I hoped not to be so quickly identified as white. The closer I drew to the lake, the tighter I pulled my wrap, unsettled by what Mama had told me of this man, unsure of what I would find.

I could see a hut about half way around the lake, it stood alone, and from my distance, I saw no movement. I called to two small children playing on a rock close by and asked if they knew where White Wolf lived. They nodded wide eyed at me.

“Are you the wife of White Wolf Mama?” One of the children asked me.

I rolled my eyes a little while I dug in my bag for sweets. Handing each of them one, I shook my head, “No, I am a friend.” Well, I hoped he would receive me as a friend.

I slowed my pace as I drew closer, not wanting to surprise him or be caught off guard myself. But as I finally reached the hut, there was no one around. He was likely out making a living, or hunting, or at the market. I poked around as much as I dared, noticing a small stack of wood on one side of his hut as well as a clothes line strung from his roof to a pole a few meters away with a fluttering row of garments hanging there. I was surprised the homestead was so traditional, many of the Mzungus I knew sought walled in compounds with running water and electricity.

I wandered close to the lake and saw a three legged stool placed there. I wondered if he fished with a rod? Finally beginning to feel the long journey in my feet, I took a seat on the low stool, letting my bag fall next to me.

The sun drew higher and then began to lower again and my stomach rumbled. I pulled out a bottle of water and the chapati Mama had packed for me.

As I began to eat, three figures appeared around a corner out of the trees at the far end of the lake. One was tall and muscular and the other two were children who ran ahead and played with each other. All three were still in the shadow of the tree line and I could not make out their faces, but the man wore a blanket in the traditional way, tied around one shoulder so I thought it might be a hunter or farmer heading home for a meal.

Finally, the light fell on the man’s face and I swallowed. It was the White Wolf. I stood quickly, giving them long notice of my presence. Finally they reached me, the two children first. They ran over to me, unafraid and greeted me respectfully. I returned their greeting and then offered them the rest of my lunch, which they ate excitedly. Then I looked up, preparing myself to meet the White Wolf.

He stopped several feet from me, favoring his right side slightly. But he was not frightening, in fact his presence was calm, yes it was a concentrated, intense calm, but fierceness was not the same thing as dangerous. Wanting to show my good will, I removed the kitenge that had been covering my head and torso. I nodded at him, “You are the one they call the White Wolf?” His brow furrowed and I wondered if I had misspoken.

“Who is seeking the White Wolf?” He made a half circle around me, placing his body between me and his home.

“The people here call me Maggie, at home they call me Margaret.” There is silence between us still so I continue, “I seek the White Wolf in good faith. I am living with Mama Hassan in the village.”

His face did not change, but he stepped closer, “The people here call me the White Wolf.” He sighed as he glanced toward something behind me. “You have lost my helpers.”

I turned around to see that the two boys had discovered the sweets I had packed for the children and were already busy shoving them all in their mouths. “Oh dear,” I laughed.

“Their mother is not going to be happy with me,” he muttered. “I hope you came ready to work.” He held up a cord that was tied to his waist on which two wild birds, each about the size of a chicken, dangled. The man definitely didn’t speak very much.

I shrugged at him. “Shall I pluck them or start the fire?” I asked gamely.

It was strange to work side by side with this mysterious person, each of us foreigners in this place, yet even more foreign to each other without it. We prepared food from Wakanda, I brought rice and sugar as is traditional in Wakanda when visiting. Some of what we spoke was even in the language of these people.

I had finished washing the rice and handed the pot to him to place on the fire. I noticed he reached across with his right arm, odd since he had to put down a knife to take it from me. I watched him closer for a few minutes, my eyes finally clearing when I realized he only had one arm. I had assumed his left arm was obscured by the tribal blanked that he wore, not that it was concealing a lost limb.

The two boys ran by me and the Wolf spoke loudly to them in their own language to play somewhere else, that the fire would burn them and their mother would be very upset.

“Are they your boys?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t be so dark if they were mine,” he said.

“I know, but their mother, is she-”

“She is my neighbor,” he gestured to the direction they had come from earlier, where a small collection of huts stood. “When I was first placed here they would dare each other to see who would come the closest. Finally, one of them came close enough for me to offer him breakfast and now it seems like they never leave. And their mother is kind, she helped me learn how to live here.”

He set the rice on the coal stove and sat back on another short three footed stool. “So you like it here?” I asked.

“I like that it is simple.”

When the food was ready I called the boys to come eat, though they were already fairly full from the sweets. I took a bite from on e of the boys plates, putting the rice and meat into my mouth with my fingers in the traditional way, trying to entice the child to eat.

After the meal that was mostly eaten by me and my mysterious host, the Wolf sent the boys away to play. “So what is it you came for, Maggie, certainly not my cooking.” I noticed he had drawn a veil over his eyes again, he stood emotionless. So I rose to meet him as best I could.

“I am seeking to help my neighbor.”

“How?” He growled, for the first time showing a glint of feralness.

“Perhaps I should say that you are helping me, you see I am working with Mama Hassan on healing the spirit of this village after the battle. You know well how different it is now.” I paused, waiting for a glint of recognition in his eyes but they hardened further.

“I do not want your healing.”

“You misunderstand.” My mind raced for words that would set him at ease. “It’s only that these people don’t need me, they don’t want to talk to me, and why should they. They need people like Mama Hassan to listen and comfort them, not Wazungu.”

“So what do you want from me?”

I thought for a second, “Company, companionship.”

He laughed bitterly. “No.”

“You are an outsider. You see these people differently than they see each other. You can help them heal.” He had turned his back to me and gazed out at the water and I watched as a dry breeze that swept at his shoulder length hair, pulling it into is face. Feeling a bit like we were in uncharted waters, I continued, “You know deeply what it means to be wounded by violence, I know that you see it in these people.”

He spoke no words, though in his silence I heard him ask, “What would you need from me?”

“Let me work along side you, tell me things about the people around us, the things you know are below the surface.”

He dug his heel into the ground. “I’m a soldier, I don’t think deeply, I follow orders.”

“That’s not-“ he held up a hand to silence me.

“No,” he said again and retreated to his hut. I gathered my things and made the long journey back.

…

I recounted my odd exchange to Mama. “You cannot give up on that man, he is too much alone with himself.”

“So what do you think I should do now? He has already said no,” I asked, short of threatening him, I didn’t think he wanted to see me around anymore.

“I know the family he works for, the Mama is raising eight children on her own. She says the White Wolf scared her very much at first, though I don’t think she had ever seen a Mzungu before, but anyway, she said that he shows up every morning and works in her field and then goes home for his lunch then returns in the afternoon and tends her sheep. He doesn’t speak but to ask questions about work. She says he can speak well in our language, and two of her boys love him and follow him every where he goes.”

I smiled, “I met them,” and I can’t imagine someone who is a threat would put up with those two.”

“There, you see, his is trying to heal with what he knows, you cannot abandon him even if he doesn’t know its for his own good.”

So I went.

The next day I began my walk in the pre dawn. When I reached the lake, the sun was just coming up and I walked just in the tree line, keeping my distance from the Wolf’s homestead. I arrived as the family was eating breakfast. The two boys from the day before were sat on mats on the ground eating out of communal bowls with their younger siblings. But they called out to me when I stepped into their line of sight. A gaunt, slender woman stood over a hot fire, stirring at a large pot. I made my introductions and my greetings from Mama Hassan and that I was here to work with the White Wolf. Nodding, she motioned up the hill to where her rows of maize began. Half way into this plot was the one armed figure I was here for, the wind tangling in his hair. I shouldered the hoe Mama had lent me and I stepped toward him, hoping I would make it back down the mountain alive at the end of the day.

We worked silently. I stopped every once in a while to take a draw from my bottle of water, but the Wolf didn’t stop. He had maintained a calm exterior though a muscle in his jaw worked all morning. As the sun warmed us, I approached, offering him my bottle of water, though it felt more like a white flag. He glanced up but did not stop. So I lowered my gift and retreated to my side of the field and carried on.

For many days we continued in this way. We would work around one another, never speaking, never interfering. At mid day I would speak with Mama and then begin my journey home to work with Mama Hassan. The days languished and it seemed nothing would change, but Mama said to keep steady, that nothing moved quickly in Wakanda but war. So every day I would go, tiptoeing around the restrained force I sensed bubbling within the White Wolf.

…

I awoke to a persistent shaking of my shoulder one morning. Well, it would be many hours before the sun would rise, I sat up in my pallet on the floor, searching for Mama, feeling the tension in me grow as I realized the presence of several bodies in the room. “Mama,” I called, steeling myself for her distress.

“I am here Maggie, do not worry,” she replied touching my shoulder again. “These people are from the capital.” I rose to my feet and someone flicked on a portable light.

“How can I help?” I asked, the light had exposed the concern on the faces of two visitors.

A young woman spoke up. “You have been working with the The White Wolf?”

I nodded slowly, “Something like that, it is very slow going.”

“Well we need your consult.”

“What has happened to him?” I asked.

“Ma’am, we do not have time to talk, I shall explain on the way.” With that, I was ushered out of Mama’s cottage and into some kind of transporter that hovered over the rocky ground.

Apparently they had been developing an arm for the white wolf to replace an old one he used to have that was part of his time as a brainwashed agent. He had been going up to the capitol most evenings to complete testes to further the process of this new arm. They had just attached it when he seemed to go into some kind of trance. The techs believed that their systems may have been hacked and when they introduce the arm, they reintroduced his programming.

I frowned, “Why do you need me?”

“We have found no breaches in cyber security. So the next logical thing is that it is post traumatic reaction.”

I responded with an interested “hm.”

I was forever fascinated by the duality of Wankadan technological sophistication and how it was valued along side the natural resources of the countryside. I was whisked into a great building on an electromagnetic train to a quiet lab. I peered through the two way glass at the figure of a restrained man. He was still, but tense. I knew it was the Wolf when I felt the rage rolling off of him.

“How long has he been restrained like this?” I asked.

“For several hours ma’am, we started by trying to remove the arm when he became agitated but he would not let us get close enough. This was the best we could do.”

“I would like to go in alone.” After quiet consultation amongst themselves, the guard around me consented, reminding me they would be just on the other side of the door if anything went awry.

So I stepped in. “Hello,” I said cheerfully, “I hear you have had a difficult couple of hours.” I made as much noise with my feet as I could till I was in his line of vision. “I am here just to talk with you,” I continued, searching for recognition in his eyes, though I saw nothing but cold anger. Maintaining a distance, I said, “would you tell me your name?” Silence.

I had become fascinated by this work through witnessing the work of traditional storytellers. I used to watch them weave together stories of great struggle and relieve the stress of violence through recounting not just the harm done to their own people but how they recovered in body and soul. I figured if this storytelling could work for centuries, why would it not work here. So I told him his own story, I told him of a young man that sought to serve his country and did, saving many lives. Yet in saving these lives he was captured and forced to turn against those he had been devoted to saving. I talked about how deeply they had reached inside of this man, and how he had forgotten the person he had been before, how he had forgotten about the good he had done. I could feel the tension and anger as his steely rage pressed against his restraints.

So I took a deep breath and stepped closer, my eyes searching for his and when he glared at me I refused to look away. And I told him of how even though he had forgotten, others did not. That they had gotten him away finally from the clutches of the evil men and that the young, bright hero was still there, even after all of that time.

“What is your name?” I asked him taking yet another step closer.

After a long silence, he spoke, “I am the Winter Soldier.”

I was so close now I could touch him, “no, what is your name?” I reached my hand out and rested it on his forehead. I gently swept the hair out of his face, maintaining my composure as I made contact with his hot skin.

“My name is Maggie, and we have been working together on a farm. You have made friends with two little boys who love to hang around you. What is your name?”

“I- I am the White Wolf,” he stammered, the humanity beginning to return to his tone. I pressed on.

“Many people call you that here, but that is not your name. What is you name Sergeant?” I asked gently, my hands moving from his face to his shoulders, one hot flesh the other cold metal.

“My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he said finally, “but you can call me Bucky.” I smiled and stepped away.

“Welcome back Bucky, we missed you.” As Bucky began to notice his surroundings the recognition of what must have happened registered in his eyes and he sighed, looking toward the window where he knew people were observing him from.

“I am so sorry.” Then he looked at me. “How did you get here?”

“I heard you might need a friend, but the boys were still asleep, so I had to come instead.” I winked at him. And a corner of his mouth turned upward in a very charming way.

…

The next few weeks were slow but I sensed that the first night in the capitol had been a breakthrough for him. I stayed on and helped to observe his progress. Most of his episodes now took the form of dreams. They had been apprehensive about letting him sleep in private, converting the lab to a bedroom instead where he could be observed. After much discussion and advocacy on my part I persuaded them to move him to a suite with two rooms. He would stay in one and a doctor or carer could stay in the other, with guards waiting outside if desired. Bucky seemed okay with this transition so we moved ahead with the plan.

I returned to my quarters a while later only to find guards hauling my things out, worried I had done something wrong I rushed over to find out what was being done. “We were instructed to move your things to the experimental suite with Sergeant Barnes, Ma’am,” the guard replied.

With more questions now, I followed the guards hauling my few belongings down a series of halls. I met the doctors I had been working with outside of the suite they had been outfitting for Sergeant Barnes. After the appropriate greetings were made, I jumped right in, “So whats this about my things being moved?”

“Well, ma’am,” one of the doctors began, “as you have suggested we are trying to make this arrangement as comfortable for sergeant Barnes as we can. Since we will not be surveilling him in these quarters we decided we needed someone to be with him at all hours. We thought you fit the bill.”

“Hmm, I see.” I stammered, “Im sorry but I still don’t understand.”

The doctor looked at me with sympathy. “Well, for several reasons, putting someone else in there is a good will gesture, hopefully the Sergeant will believe us when we tell him we aren’t surveilling him if there is another way of monitoring him that he can see. Furthermore, you have had the most breakthroughs with him, he seems comfortable with your presence and therefore you are the best option for him to establish healthy rest patterns. And none of our people were especially keen to do it.”

Well that was quite an explanation. All I could do was repeat myself, “I see.”

…

I had grown used to living in close quarters with people I didn’t know that well since my stay in Central Africa. People liked to live simply, spending most of their time outdoors and retiring in the evenings to small shelters. But this felt different. The space I shared with Bucky was spacious and much grander than either of us was comfortable with. We each had our own suite with a living space separating them. We were both happy to be out of there during the day. I would return to the village several days a week and continue to work with Mama Hassan and even make a few rounds with her. Those were the times that felt most normal. I would return and receive reports from the doctors and scientists working with Bucky.

He also looked worn out by the end of each day, I was not comfortable with the poking and prodding they did to him, but when I asked him, he was insistent that he trusted them and that he had to develop patience and endurance of mind if he was going to be able to function in the world again.

I supposed he was used to these ultra clean, militarized spaces, but I had first met him as the White Wolf, clad in herder blankets and tanned from the African sun. When I looked at him now, it was as if he had lost his wolf.

I awoke before my alarm one morning, the sun not yet up. I tossed around a bit but soon gave up on the thought of returning to sleep. Pulling on a pair of sweat pants and an undershirt, I shuffled into the living room. I prepared some coffee and was humming to myself. I turned to grab a mug from the cabinet and froze, noticing for the first time the outline of a figure looking out of the great window on the other side of the room. From my distance he looked like a statue, solid, firm, immortal. Cautiously I moved closer.

He was clad in sweat pants similar to the ones I was wearing, but he had no shirt. His metal arm glowed in the soft light beginning to peak above the mountains. I stopped a few feet from him and we watched the sun come up together.

“They say Wakanda has the best sunrises,” Bucky said, breaking our silence, “I have seen a lot of sunrises.” He raised his flesh hand and laid it on the window, like he was trying to touch the sky as it burned gold, and red, and purple. “The sunrises are also beautiful in Siberia. The difference is, you wait and you wait and finally, the sun rises and you are so relieved that it has risen that however it looks, it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Here, the sun will rise every day, and yet every day, it is the most beautiful thing.”

“I think you were a poet in another life Sergeant,” I said. He glanced over at me then looked down with an embarrassed smile.

…

That afternoon the reports showed some regression in his responsiveness. I suggested that it may just be fatigue, that before they reattached his arm he did well living in the village, perhaps a return to that environment would encourage him. They were not yet ready to release him, even for a few hours, among civilians, but they consented to a few days of rest.

I delivered this news to him that evening. He nodded and retired to his quarters like he always did. I knew he didn’t often show emotion, but I thought he would be happier, or relieved, or something. I made myself dinner, and continued to think it over, had I overstepped?

Having worked myself into an anxious tizzy, I rose and walked to his quarters, knocking gingerly on the door. I waited a few moments and he did not answer. I knocked again and the door opened quickly, startling me, as did the figure on the other side.

“Ma’am,” said Bucky, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair still dripping from the shower.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I am disturbing you, I-“

“No it’s fine, hold on.” He closed the door and a few seconds later opened it again, he was now clad in his sweatpants and was pulling a black t shirt over his head. “What’s the problem?”

“Oh, um, no problem, I just wanted to check with you about the next couple of days. It is difficult for me to tell what you are thinking and I hope I didn’t make a call that you are uncomfortable with.”

He shifted his weight so that his metal arm leaned against the door frame above us. “I don’t do well with being idle. That’s all.”

I nodded, “So then I guess we will have to keep ourselves occupied for the next few days.”

His eyes clouded for a moment, “I have to stay here then?” He asked, sounding let down.

I wiped the smile off my face, realizing his frustration, despite how gamely he was taking all of these regulations and precautions. “Im afraid so, but I promise, it will be a break, we will find ways for this to be easy going and un-stressful.”

He nodded, “After all the time I spent avoiding you, I now have to find a way to be with you non stop for two days.” The words caught me by surprise. I had by no means forgotten our early interactions in the village, but our situations had changed. I opened my mouth to speak but I caught his eye and there, in his icy blue stare, was the Wolf again. And I was the one locked in his gaze. I backed away, realizing how big this man really was and how much damage he could do before help came, end even after it came.

“S-sergeant,” I stammered as he moved to close the space between us, but I kept backing up till the back of my legs ran into some piece of furniture. “Sergeant Barnes, tell me, what is it that unsettles you? What am I doing?” He stopped mere inches from me.

“I can deal with the Wakandans, I’m in their home, they keep me here for the sake of their own people. They seek my rehabilitation because of their King. You? I know nothing about you. You insert yourself here, you know more, you have more success, you become indispensable. I’ve dealt with your kind before, you think I don’t know what an invader looks like, the tactics of kindness?” He was leaning over me now, his hands gripping my arms. These last words he whispered into my ear. I had seen many things in my career, but I had not anticipated this.

“I- I’m not indispensable, and if this is success it doesn’t feel like it,” I sob, all pretense of composure gone. He had shaken something loose in me that I hadn’t known was there. “You think we are so different?” I paused, more sobs racking my frame. “Everywhere I go, every country, every situation, there is distress, and it’s my job to discover it, to dig it out of the rubble and ashes of long since faded tragedy. I bring the possibility of healing but only after a journey of pain and sadness.” I gasp a few times, taking in deep gulps of air. “Bucky,” his grip has loosened and I feel dizzy so I raise my hands to his chest to steady myself as he meets my eyes.

Embarrassed by my loss of composure, I step away from him, scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Um,” I clear my throat and bravely look up just above his hairline, avoiding his eyes, “I apologize Sergeant, that was very unprofessional of me. I must insist that we continue this conversation tomorrow, I need some time to collect myself.” I turn away from him, striding quickly to my door but I feel a hand close around my arm and I stop again, feeling exactly like the fake he had just called me. All I wanted was to be back in the village with Sarah, with people who know me, where I felt safe.

I could feel him trying to get my attention but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t look at him, nor could I leave, so I sank to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees and hiding my face, more tears blurred my eyes. And then I hear shuffling behind me and something sturdy leans against my back. Slowly I calm myself, allowing my muscles to loosen slightly, my back to straighten, and my vision to clear. As I look around me I see that I am seated in front of the great window. I peer at my reflection, blinking a few times as I realize what the pressure is at my back, Bucky has sat down behind me, leaning his broad back against my own.

Neither of us speaks as we stay there, staring out into the darkness of night.

…

I blink in the morning light, disoriented at first as I remember the events of the night before. I couldn’t remember going to bed, I wondered how I got here. Even more curious was the smell coming from the kitchen. Tentatively, I crept out of bed and cracked the door to my suite, breathing deeply the smell of bacon. It had been a long time since I had eaten food from America. Where did it come from? I hadn’t ordered anything and the Sergeant usually ate special nutrient rich food prepared for him.

But drawing closer, I saw he was there over the stove, also still in his clothes from the night before. I kept my distance, my hand not straying far from my door knob. The tension of the night before seemed to have dissipated, but I had been working with PTS too long to trust that feeling.

“Good Morning,” Bucky called to me as he turned off the burners and dished up two plates of eggs, bacon and toast. He placed them across from each other at the table, then walked towards me. He looked tensely at the floor for a moment before he spoke, “Food from home always helps with my bad days, I thought you might like a little reminder of your home this morning.” He gave me one of those rare lopsided smiles. Then not waiting for me, he returned to the table, letting me make my own way there if I wanted.

I followed at a distance, finally taking a seat after he had settled in. He was a very good cook.

The food was good, the conversation not so much. I still felt tense and was worried about our argument the night before.

I had cleared my schedule for the next two days so that I could be present for the Sergeants two days off. I thought it might be nice to stay in for a weekend, but now I was petrified of rattling around this space with him.

After breakfast I pulled out my laptop, deciding that if this wasn’t going to be relaxing I could at least get some work done. This particular soldier came with a lot of paper work so I retrieved my laptop and settled in on the couch. It wasn’t long before some slow jazz began to float out of the speakers. I looked up and Bucky was walking toward me. “Maggie, would you dance with me?” Confused, I closed my computer and stood, taking the hand he offered me.

He drew me into his chest, his metal hand holding mine and his other hand on my lower back. “It turns out that I haven’t done much apologizing in the last fifty years,” he said quietly, his words vibrating his chest. “So now is as good a time as any,” he persisted, stepping away from me for a moment. “I was out of line last night, I’m sorry.”

I sighed, “Unfortunately, you must not have been, I think you hit a nerve, I usually have thicker skin than that, and I knew you were agitated, thats why I pushed.” He shook his head.

“That is not an excuse for my actions, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that despite how scared you were, you didn’t call for the guards.”

I could think of nothing to say, so we just moved together, swaying with the whims of the horn in the background.

…

The first day was quiet, we each kept to ourselves, Bucky doing some exercises in one corner while I continued my work. In the early evening my stomach rumbled and I swear the super soldier must have heard it because not a minute later he came over and asked if he should cook dinner. I suggested I might since he had cooked earlier, and he countered that we should do it together.

Rattling around in a kitchen with a huge man was not something I was used to and this particular man took up a lot of space. Many times he reached over me to grab things out of the high cabinets, his torso brushing my back ever so slightly, the clean scent of him cutting through the smells of the food cooking.

Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and I suggested we watch a movie while we ate and Bucky agreed. So I readied the screen as Bucky finished up in the kitchen. He joined me on the couch a few minutes later. I had no idea what kind of films he would like but was surprised when he continued to point out the horror movies.

“Um, are you sure? They are pretty intense, I don’t want you to be set off by something in one of them,” I said hoping that wouldn’t offend him.

“Oh, are they?” He asked, “they are so bad, they get everything wrong.”

“I see,” I reply. Sighing, I decide they must not make much of an impression on him so I made my plate and sat on the side of the couch as far away as I could. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I kept getting this feeling when he was close to me. I couldn’t place it, and while I was too scientific to always go by my instinct, I had done this job too long to ignore it.

I lost my appetite a few minutes into the movie, distracted by the suspense on screen. At the first jump scare, I did just that, flinching and letting out an “oh.” Bucky tilted his head towards me and cocked an eyebrow. Was he laughing? I rose and gathered our dishes, trying to collect myself before returning to the film.

“Hey, we don’t have to watch this if it’s scaring you,” Bucky called over to me pausing the screen.

“No its okay, thats the point right?” I said as I returned to my seat on the couch. The light was fading outside and the room grew darker. At the next scene I reached out searching for something to hold on to in my frightened panic. The closest thing was Bucky’s metal arm. Realizing I may have really invaded his space I released it quickly, apologizing. To my surprise he rose and moved to the other side of me, offering up his other arm. Touched by the gesture I wound my hand around his arm, very conscious of the rippled muscles that moved under his skin.

The sound system was top notch and effectively immersed us in the scenes. Bucky loved it, but I was at my wits end, and by the time the credits rolled I was practically sitting in Bucky’s lap, my head pushed into his chest, avoiding the images on the screen. “Hey,” he said, gently placing his metal arm on my back, laughing again, “Its over you can look up.”

“Turn the lights on first,” I mumbled into his shirt. So he shifted my weight back onto the couch and rose to find the light switch. Once the room brightened I uncurled, looking around me nervously. “Great, now I’m going to be sneaking around every mirror and window till I can forget I ever saw this movie.

“You could have told me you were such a light weight,” he said shaking his head in mock shame.

“Well, its your vacation. I figured you deserved to pick your own damned movie. But don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again,” I said. I glanced at my phone, it was barely eight, too early to make my excuses and go to bed. So now what?

“Well then,” Bucky said as he stretched up to a high cabinet in the kitchen, “Since I stressed you out with my movie choice, I guess it’s my job to relax you again,” he said, holding up a bottle of red wine. Too emotionally drained to object, I moved closer.

“Fine, but officially this didn’t happen.” He winked at me as he uncorked the bottle.

…

We had just emptied the first bottle and I was feeling good, having throughly forgotten the terrors of Hollywood proportions that had so disturbed me an hour ago. “You want to dance again?” I asked, feeling looser and a little flushed. “I doubt two glasses of this has helped my moves, but I know it feels like it has,” I gave Bucky a winky smile. He had put the slow jazz back on and the bawdy rhythms made me antsy.

He came closer to me and held out his hand. “Dancing to jazz is still the most transgressive act a person and do,” he said as he pulled me into a turn. I smiled at this.

“I think you are showing your age a bit grandpa,” I replied.

“Nonsense, I’m as timeless as this music.” I looked up at him intending to say something smart but stopped, transfixed by his intense grey blue eyes. They were kind, and deep, and loving. I couldn’t fathom how a man with such kindness in him could have been such a killing machine. And that was it, he couldn’t be both. That was his burden and what got him out in the end, the kindness in those eyes.

I placed my hands on the sides of his face, running my fingers in the scruff on his cheeks. His arms brought me closer till we were pressed against each other. Letting my fingers run through his dark hair, I pulled him down to my eye level. I wanted to let him know I understood, that I saw the great effort and care and loss he has endured. But I couldn’t do that. So instead I brought my lips up, gently pressing them to his forehead.

Instead of releasing me, he stayed close to me, our breath mingling until I felt soft hesitant lips tenderly brush against mine. I felt lit up on the inside, I reached up for more but he pulled away. “You have had a couple drinks, this can wait till morning.”

He ushered me to my bedroom door, making sure I made it there all right, but he stopped there, the ex assassin held back by the flimsy boundary that was my door frame.

“Will you stay with me tonight? I- I just don’t want to be alone in this big space.”

“You know for a woman who travels the world seeking out war zones, theres a lot of things that scare you.”

I smiled tiredly, “I know, thats why I’m good at it.” Turning from him I flopped on my bed, getting comfortable, and waiting for him to make the next move. I heard rustling at the foot of my bed and then the mattress dipped behind me and the warm bare skin of the White Wolf settled at my back. I curled my legs up and guided his hand to rest just below my bottom. He nestled into the back of me, his scratchy cheeks resting on the bare skin of my neck.

…

I awoke to movement under me. Disoriented for the second night in a row I opened my eyes, remaining still as I waited to see what the rustling was. My eyes widened as the thing beneath me grunted in a low voice and circled my back with his metal arm. I recalled the strange events of the night before and balked at all the possible consequences of my actions. But then Bucky shifted again and I became aware of how big he really was. His barrel chest was broad and slightly damp with sweat, and he gripped me to him with real intensity, even in his sleep, and I couldn’t help but think all the possible HR issues would be worth this sweet moment.

“Are you also pretending to still be asleep?” A scratchy voice vibrated in my ear. Bucky peered up at me with one eye open, the other still closed.

I laughed a little, “not exactly, I think I’m paying a heavier toll than you for our night cap.”

“Yea I can’t get drunk.”

“Well fuck,” I replied, “thanks for the warning. I’m not going to worry about keeping up with you anymore then.” He laughed and squeezed my middle as I propped myself up to look at him, an elbow on either side of his chest.

His eyes were the same as they were last night, the wine hadn’t lied to me. In the cloudy morning light they almost seemed to glow.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, bringing his hand up to my face and running his thumb over my eyebrow and down to my ear. I looked down, uncomfortable with the compliment. I had been living a life of simplicity and necessity here. My hair was shorn, my face and arms tanned darker than the rest of me, I hadn’t worn makeup in several years. I was not particularly self effacing, I didn’t think I was ugly nor did I struggle with self loathing, I just hadn’t realized how apart from my physical body I had become. I chewed on my lip as I looked at Bucky.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I rolled off of him, sliding to the edge of the bed and sitting up. The sky was heavy with dark clouds and I could already hear the thunder rumbling from the far side of the mountain. Bucky sat up and scooted next to me.

“Well I won’t miss getting caught in heavy rains this season,” he said and I chuckled and nodded in agreement.

…

I hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to avoid Bucky on this second day of rest. Besides being stuck in the same space with him, the torrential rain and deafening thunder made me want to do nothing more than cuddle up with one particular heat producing ex-assassin. I compromised and settled into the couch with a cup of coffee and a book instead.

Behind me I could almost hear the pattern of Bucky’s feet wearing into the floor so intense was his pacing. A few times I managed to catch onto the plot of my book and let it absorb me, but I was drawn out of it again and again by the little sounds he would make, a cough, a loud sniff, a squeak of his shoe. Finally I shut my book and pinched the skin between my eyes, trying to keep my composure.

“Bucky,” I said in a measured tone, “is there something on your mind?”

The pacing stopped. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” I began, “you are acting a little bit like a lion in a cage.”

“Oh, sorry, I just- I guess I’m not used to having all of these hours to myself. I feel like I’m rattling around in here.” I stood, casting off the layers I had been nesting in.

“Well, is there something we can do together? You have missed a lot while you were… you know,” I paused uncomfortably, but he said noting so I soldiered on. “There are movies, books, games, that are incredibly important to the social world that you should become aware of.”

“Just not horror movies?” He asked with a hint of a crooked smile on his face. “Yea, maybe save those for some of your super friends, I don’t have the strength for them.” I felt my face grow hot as I recalled the intimacy of the previous evening and how I would gladly do it again. “Well, what are you reading?” He asked, calling my attention back to the present.

“Ah, a decidedly not hip novel,” I said waving the book in his direction, “it’s Thomas Hardy.”

“Well I was never much of a reader in my younger years,” he said taking the book from me and flipping through the first few pages. “Read it to me?”

So there we were again, piled onto a couch that was way too small to offer us adequate distance apart. I leaned my back against one arm with my legs pulled up, perhaps I thought they would serve as an extra barrier between the two of us. Bucky sat on the other end and nodded at me to begin, so I did.

I loved reading, and Bucky was an attentive listener, he would interrupt every so often to ask a question and we would discuss together what we thought the imagery might mean or what a particular character trait indicated about the plot. I hadn’t noticed that we moved closer together or that I had stuck my feet under his leg when they got cold, or when he pulled them on his lap.

I had been reading for so long that I was beginning to lose my voice. Looking up I was going to suggest we break for dinner when I was startled by the same intense gaze he had given me the night before. “Maggie,” he said, “I want you to know that I hold you in the greatest professional regard. I think you do incredible work and are an excellent leader.”

“Uh, thanks?” I replied.

“I need you to hear this from me now because I don’t want you to question it later.” He said cryptically.

“What is happening later?” And like I weighed nothing he pulled me into his lap.

“Well,” he murmured into my ear, his muscular arms pulling me into his chest, “if you are okay with it, maybe more of this?”

He sounded so nervous, like a teenage boy even, not the capable and controlled man I was coming to respect greatly. Moved by his vulnerability I sat up straighter, pulling his face into my neck, feeling like I wanted to cover him completely with my body. His lips pressed against the hollow below my neck and I sighed, enjoying the contrast of soft lips and his scratchy beard. I pulled my hands through his hair listening to him growl deeply. The wolf contented for the moment.

I shifted my weight so that I was straddling his lap, a knee on either side of him. His hands began to explore under my shirt as I lowered my head to kiss him. He was intoxicating and maddening, insisting on doing everything slow. Sensing my frustration he spoke, “You have no idea how long it’s been since I have held a woman, and I’v never held a woman like you. So I have to take it all in.” But he flipped us in the same breath so that he was laying above me, his solid weight a comforting pressure and I needed him closer. We pulled layers off of one another till we were in our underwear. It was at this crucial moment that I felt him stop, his movements becoming stiff and tentative again.

“Bucky?” I asked, he sat up, scooting out from under me he sat with his arms against his knees. I felt a wall thicken between us again and I knew I had to get through to him or we would lose this connection. So gently, slowly I reached out to the closest part of him, his metal arm. I ran a finger from his shoulder to his wrist. He didn’t react, so I scooted till my leg was up against his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I just don’t think I’m ready for- for that yet.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I never would have guessed this solid, quiet man would be so honest and sweet. I reached my hand up to the back of his neck and let my fingers tangle in his hair. “Hey, thats okay,” I turned his head so that he had to look at me, “Really. What I want from you is whatever you have to offer.” I looked around the room at the grand space around us, “Bucky all of this is about helping you offer more to the world. Don’t wast your time with what you think you should be doing, do what you can, because you are different than any other man, any other person I have ever met.”

…

I was up before the dawn again, yawning I gathered what I would need in my small bag and headed up the mountain towards the lake. The walk seemed shorter each time I took it, and I arrived at the edge of the water just as the sun was peaking up, casting gold light into the reflective water.

“Came for the view?” I turned and smiled at the figure that was lumbering toward me. He looked at ease here, his shuka wrapped tightly around him.

“Well if it isn’t the White Wolf,” I said welcoming his embrace. He stood behind me, his strong figure leaning comfortably on me, his arms wrapped around me.

“Just call me Bucky,” he said into my ear before planting a kiss on my cheek.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #wakanda #white wolf #fan fiction #james buchanan bucky barnes #wakanda forever #marvel #mcu x reader #marvel cinematic universe #bucky x female character

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lakemojave · 3 years

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Land of Falling Sun 8

There was no hiding Dog. Chipper had to keep circling up above as before, as it was the best way for them to blend in with the surrounding area with a proper vantage point on the situation. The wanderer scurried to a nearby building--the post office, he later discovered--and crouched below a shattered window. The approaching intruder would probably check the sheriff’s office first, since it was the site of the most carnage. Dog stood outside a different building down the street.

Then they waited. All three of them waited.

What the hell was that back there? How in the hell had he done that? He still wasn’t confident that he was actually, truly dead, and was now living through some bizarre dream-like transition to the afterlife. He’d sooner believe the bullet was a dud or something, but that didn’t explain the sensations he felt at that moment. The knife wasn’t inherently magical, he knew that. His magic was--well he didn’t really understand it, did he? Starting fires, summoning horses, calling dust devils or plagues of insects, those all made sense to him somehow. He always considered himself a summoner, someone who created things--no, that wasn’t right. He didn’t create Dog, Dog clearly came from somewhere else he didn’t know. Maybe the fire did too.

Silence outside. All three of them waited.

What happened outside wasn’t like that. It wasn’t calling anything forth to his aide, it was splitting a bullet in half. What kind of magic is that? How do you even begin to figure that out? Talk about what splitting a bullet in half symbolizes? What it represents metaphysically? Isn’t that insane? Maybe it is, but the wanderer realized that’s probably what he was gonna have to do.

He listened for footsteps, but the breeze outside was too loud. All three of them waited.

Splitting a bullet in half. Separating a missile into two distinct parts. Destroying it--no, that’s not right. Something split is not the same as something destroyed. The bullet still existed, only in two halves. So it was converted into something else, like matter changing states. But the bullet was still a bullet until it hit the deck behind him, when the halves were reduced to shrapnel. Their properties were no different than they were before making contact with the knife. So what was so damn magical about all of this?

He heard footsteps outside.

-----

Dog stood motionless down the road. Chipper craned their head down to listen to what took place below. The wanderer peeked up from his window. The first thing they heard was a voice:

“Hooooooooowee! We done missed the party huh!” It was high, cheery, and jovial, trailing in a high country drawl. It was a skeleton wearing a tattered shirt and a straw hat. He carried a hobo stick and pouch over his shoulder, and wore a gun belt with two pistols, both serviceable looking enough. The wanderer was a little insulted looking at him--like he was looking at a parody of himself. Chipper was a little relieved, as his demeanor seemed pleasant and friendly rather than hostile. Dog wanted to gnaw on him.

He jangled around the fallen members of the centaur gang, examining their weapons and checking for valuables. He started talking to himself.

“What I say, Mr. Mercy? What oh what did I say? You got to stop gettin’ yourself into this. You gotta find a nice, comfortable hole, and let this all go. But NOOOO you just HAD to go adventurin’ didn’t ya? Ya had to go a-wanderin’ under the clear blue sky and see whatcha see. And whaddya have to show for it? A buncha dead fellas at the crossroads of nothin’ to see and nowhere at all! Oof! This one got cooked crispy huh! Wonder if that woulda happened to that last fella? Nah, those guys are pros. Ain’t gonna scorch themselves with their own lightning. Just gonna get blowed down in the street! Hee hee...remember that guy what tried to teach ya manipulations and such? Then got his head chewed off by a roamin’ cactus? What good that done him huh? Guess I got one up on all these fellas to begin with. Hold up...that ain’t a bullet hole right? Nah...but how them lil’ boys growin’ out then?”

“Shut. Up.”

While he was talking, the wanderer managed to sneak out from his cover with relative ease. As the skeleton--whose name he presumed to be Mr. Mercy--approached the deck where the wanderer lay moments ago, he snuck up behind the skeleton and drew his knife to the back of his neck. There was a soft clink as he drew it against the bone. The wanderer turned back and whistled his companions closer.

“They with you?” the wanderer asked, regarding the five dead. He figured he knew the answer already, but it didn’t hurt to keep him on his toes.

“N-now sir, we can jus’-”

“Answer. The question.”

“No! Nope! Never seen ‘em!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ around! These ghost towns got good scrap usually!”

Chipper descended upon the sheriff’s office and perched on a handrail. The rattled Mr. Mercy was clearly even more stunned by the oncoming bird person.

“Hey kid,” the wanderer said to Chipper, “What do you think of this guy?”

They craned their body forward, and Mr. Mercy’s head turned ninety degrees to meet them. Chipper looked young, soft, and simultaneously youthfully naïve yet knowing and intuitive. Mr. Mercy, despite his skullish featurelessness, seemed harmless. Capable of handling himself of course, but ultimately harmless.

“Seems alright. Seems kinda friendly actually,” they said with the utmost seriousness and posture.

“If I let you go,” the wanderer said, “You won’t do anything stupid?”

Mr. Mercy chuckled nervously. “Now sir, yer askin’ a lotta me.”

Chipper stifled a giggle. The wanderer sighed defeatedly. “Will you promise not to reach for your guns?”

“Yes! I don’t wanna hurt y’all,” the skeleton spouted.

The wanderer relaxed his grip on the knife, and withdrew it from Mr. Mercy’s neck. “Be warned,” he said, “This thing cut a bullet in half about an hour ago.”

“Nice bluff sir,” Dog said, approaching the deck. “Keep him around. Maybe he can explain your own magic to you.”

The wanderer shot his horse a death glare, then turned back to Mr. Mercy. “So. Who are you anyway?”

The skeleton shrugged. “Just a guy, I s’pose. Makin’ the best of bein’ stuck here, same as anybody. Cig?” he pulled a stained pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out.

“Stuck here?”

Mr. Mercy was taken aback by this, and withdrew his hand slightly. “Yer uhh...not from here?”

The wanderer and Chipper exchanged a look. “Why?” Chipper asked, “Where is here?”

“Hooo boy,” Mr. Mercy said, “That’s a big ‘un.” He extended the cigarettes to the two of them. The wanderer took one, and lit it in his fingers. Chipper declined. “Y’all do yer business here, then uhhh...I’ll tell ya whatcha got in store.” He started off the deck, and found the wanderer’s coat. “This anybody’s? Looks my size.”

The wanderer and Chipper looked at Mr. Mercy with stupid awe. Neither knew what to make of this man, other than that he seemed friendly and like he meant well. He was also extremely annoying, and judging by how Dog looked at him, either Dog would tear him to bits and gnaw at his marrow, or Mr. Mercy would put two quick rounds in its head and kill it.

The wanderer took a drag at his cigarette, and pointed to the jacket. “Yours now. Fits you better anyway.”

#land of falling sun #my writing

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years

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Anonymous asked: As a staunch royalist I would be interested to hear your views about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle deciding to quit the British royal family. Did they do the right thing or are they just being selfish and ‘woke’? Does this ‘Megxit’ the British royal family is in crisis and its future looks bleak by this act of betrayal to the Queen?

Short answer:

I have been avoiding answering this question precisely because I became tired of hearing about it around the family dinner table or with friends when I visited England recently or now with French friends here in Paris who can’t fathom what is going on. But too many have asked about this in my blog inbox.

I don’t mean to sound so dismissive but to me it’s just a passing storm in a tea cup rather than some cataclysmic crisis of the British monarchy. Everyone should stop take a deep breath.

After the joint press statement by Prince Harry and the Duchess of Sussex statement came out on 8 January 2020 it set in motion the usual hilarious pastiche of Cold War Kremlinology by the British press. So at any one time you had sensationalist and sanctimonious headlines such as the fury of the palace press knew no bounds. How dare they? The Queen humiliated. The palace insulted. And so on and so on.

Every newspaper editor knows there is a yawning gulf between the “public interest” and what interests the public. By any standards, Harry and Meghan have become huge celebrities. They were idolised, their charities blessed, their presence craved. Unfortunately such is human nature, the public invest something of themselves in their heroes. They see in their idols a reflection of their own fantasies and delights, hopes and fears. When they witness celebrities traumatised it can be unsettling, as the death of Princess Diana vividly showed. People cried in the street.

As Harry knew from his mother’s tragic experience, all this is par for the royal course. The British newspapers - or rather those peddling in royal tittle tattle such as the Sun, Mirror, and the Daily Mail - have a habit of erecting pedestals one minute and then the next minute they enjoy destroying the icon in the name of the public interest. Andrew’s former wife, Sarah Ferguson, was appallingly treated. So at times were Princess Anne, and Prince Edward’s wife, Sophie. Press attention should be water off the royal duck’s back. Prince Philip’s advice was reportedly: “Don’t read the bloody papers.”

While Harry was brought up surrounded by the furies of the celebrity media, Meghan’s career was the opposite. In her profession as a known actor (albeit a middling TV actor at that), image is an artifice, daily crafted and laundered by publicists.

This does not work with British royalty, which comes with its own carefully minted image attached. Its rituals are those of mind-numbing deference. It has no accountability. The only mirror it has is the press. The tabloids are the price that must be paid for adulation. They honour no discretion and have no sense of fairness. The press is a memento mori, whispering into the victor’s ear that he – or she – is only mortal. And gosh do they take that role on with sanctimonious glee.

To be daily compared to the Duchess of Cambridge, from an utterly different social background, must have been intolerable for Meghan: the dress comparisons, the stuffiness of the court, its hyper-caution and obsession with precedence and procedure, added to the impossibility of contact with ordinary people. As a self-made millionaire already perhaps she wanted to be more than a mere civil servant in a tiara. Perhaps it proved too much but who really knows? But then I don’t know what else she expected when she decided to marry into the British royal family.

Similarly one can only speculate how much it was really Prince Harry who wanted to drop out riding on the royal carousel as he has been since birth. Regardless of who he married perhaps this was always the plan. His loathing of the British press and paparazzi is well known - he still blames them for his mother’s tragic death in Paris. It’s well known the paparazzi have tried to catch him out in manufactured scandals as he grew up. He has refreshingly come clean and has talked about how he still goes to therapy over his mother’s death. It’s no wonder he would ever subject a future wife and especially a child to the level of press intrusion that he had endured.

Prince Harry is nobody’s fool. I won’t say a bad word about him because - unlike previous and present royals with the exception of his grandfather, Prince Philip, who did active naval service during the Second World War and his uncle Prince Andrew, who as a naval officer flew Sea King helicopters during the Falklands War - he didn’t play the ceremonial toy soldier. After Eton he worked his arse off to get through Sandhurst and got commissioned with the Blues and Royals regiment. Upon the outbreak of war in Iraq, he was alleged to have said around 2006, “There's no way I'm going to put myself through Sandhurst and then sit on my arse back home while my boys are out fighting for their country.”

As it was the military chiefs got cold feet and pulled him out. But he did see active service with the British forces in Afghanistan with two tours. By all accounts he acquitted himself very well as a Forward Air Controller in Helmand Province and later as a co-pilot and gunner on Apache helicopters. He was widely respected and accepted by rank and file because he was down to earth and never asked for special treatment. He wasn’t a typical ‘Rupert’ - a squaddie’s nickname given to British army officers who typically came from privileged aristocratic backgrounds but were also ‘nice but dim witted’.

Overall I sympathise that the Sussexes’ predicament was clearly desperate, and it is perhaps to their credit that they have brought it to a head early and not let it drag on. I feel they are sincere in their reasons to ’step back’ from the royal family and frenzied media circus around it. The fact they want to pay their own way and pay back any outstanding sums back to the royal household is perhaps a sign of that sincerity.

Instead some sections of the British press rolled out the tired old trope of the parallels between the Duke of Sussex and his great-great uncle, the Duke of Windsor, are overwhelming. Once again, a dashing, sporting, ex-military prince leaves royal life for the love of an American divorcée. This is exactly the opposite of what Edward and Mrs Wallace Simpson did when they bit the hand that fed them. They took money to support their lavish lifestyle in exile from the Queen and all the while took every opportunity to snark the fledgling young Queen from their own alternative royal court in Paris. Harry no doubt loves his grandmother and his family and would try not sully the Windsor name.

Where I would be critical a little is in their handling of it which appears naive at best and inept at worst. I suspect - since verified - that having a transatlantic split of publicists, and in addition didn’t understand the full import of how this would play out, would inevitably drop the ball. But I would extend a finger of blame to the palace courtiers who were involved in their own games of intrigue with a whispering campaign to selected journalists of the press. Indeed multiple newspapers, including the Daily Telegraph in the UK, reported that the queen was “disappointed” with the surprise announcement, and had asked the Sussexes to hold off on issuing a public statement. When The gossip mongering Sun newspaper published a front-page story that the couple was contemplating a move to Canada, the Sussexes pushed the button on their statement.

I do think the Sussexes and their advisors were fooling themselves into thinking that they could have their cake and eat it - in other words keep the royal titles but cut back on the public and ceremonial duties. The blunt truth is if you want to stay on the books, you do so by the leave of the firm and its boss i.e. The Queen. The contract is for life. If not, you resign. There is no half in and half out. This seems to have been the gist of the family only summit at Sandringham in January 2020, with media attention worthy of the Treaty of Versailles.

I am frankly surprised how worked up people are about this. Cut out the white noise and the picture is more prosaic.

The first point is that when all is said and done, none of this drama really matters. Politically, constitutionally, it is an irrelevance. Harry, at number six, is not seriously in line to the throne. The British monarchy has long shown itself immune to crisis; indeed I wonder sometimes if it welcomes crises as implying continued importance. The divorce and death of Princess Diana were awfully tragic, as was the very public shaming of Prince Andrew and his questionable friendship with billionaire paedophile Jeffrey Epstein. But how Harry leads his life is between himself, his wife and his father, Prince Charles. That is the point of heredity. It is immune to character, as it is to merit.

The second point is we should remember that other European royal families, of the same constitutional status as Britain, have been down sizing for many years now. These royal families balanced privacy and discretion whilst holding down ordinary professions. The King of the Netherlands, Willem-Alexander, is still an airline pilot. He occasionally flies KLM jets, safe in the knowledge that few people recognise him. In 2001 Prince Haakon, heir to the Norwegian throne, married a single mother with a drug-fuelled past. Despite some controversy, he survived incognito.

The King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, has reigned for 46 inconspicuous years as a nine-to-five job, his family merged into the Swedish bourgeoisie. The Crown Princess, Victoria, works intermittently for the UN. The King of Spain, Felipe VI, may have taken after his philandering father, Juan Carlos, but he became king without fuss on his father’s retirement in 2014. None of these “houses” has an extended state-subsidised royal family. None has grown unstable as a result.

There is no doubt that the exploitation of the British royal family celebrity by palace courtiers as PR handlers has worked. The royal family recognises that truth for itself when HRH King George VI famously quipped, “We are not a family, we are a firm”. The Queen is regularly cited as central to “UK plc” and to tourism. The British people remain overwhelmingly in favour of retaining monarchy as the focus of their patriotism, even during the wobble over Diana’s death. Republicanism is dead. The last ostentatious republican, the Fife MP Willie Hamilton, left parliament in 1987. If Scotland ever went independent it would almost certainly retain the Queen as head of state.

As for how royalty behaves, a constitutional monarchy should be beyond all controversy. As the great political and constitutional commentator (and founder of the Economist magazine) Walter Bagehot put it, “the monarch should be a dignified rather than efficient element of the constitution”. In other words, the monarchy as personified in its reigning king or queen can represent the whole nation in an emotionally satisfying way - everything else is but pure embellishment.

The Queen must be a glorious anthropomorphism of the nation as a whole. If she has opinions, she keeps them to herself - much to her credit. The contrast is clear with countries where state headship is combined with an elected executive presidency. The state risks being tainted by partisanship: witness the embarrassment many Americans feel at having their national loyalty identified with any president based on divided partisan feelings e.g. from FDR to Obama and Nixon to Trump.

A rare occasion when the monarch might overstep the mark was conjectured by Mike Bartlett in his ingenious play, King Charles III, in 2014. It was based on the present Prince of Wales as king, refusing formally to sign a bill censoring the press (good on him). In the resulting crisis, William and Kate engineer Charles’s abdication, while the tearaway Harry takes up with a republican girlfriend. It was not wholly implausible. When Belgium faced a similar crisis over King Baudouin’s refusal to sign an abortion bill in 1990, he was allowed to abdicate for a day.

How the monarchy conducts itself is not wholly irrelevant. It is part of the collective context in which the nation’s politics are enacted. It represents tradition and upholds precedent. It sets boundaries and dictates a courtesy in the conduct of public affairs - however often that courtesy is infringed. What outsiders forget (especially our American friends) is that the British political system is gloriously resilient, as the past three years of Brexit hell have shown. It can tolerate the odd eccentricity, such as the blatant purchase of parliamentary seats in the House of Lords. But the question is how far such eccentricity can extend.

The present heir to the throne, Prince Charles, is deft at stepping mildly out of line. His views on architecture, health and the environment are not overtly partisan. But it does not matter as he is no more “powerful” than a newspaper or television commentator. His influence is that of celebrity. I would rather have the heir to throne engage intelligently in public debate than arrogantly indulge in the sordid sexual antics of his younger brother, Andrew.

For all his perceived faults, Prince Charles knows his limits. To expect such controlled nuances in the constitutional mystique of royalty to apply to an ever larger family has always been an accident waiting to happen. More prescient is the fact that the current system will impose the same disciplines and direct the same public exposure on an ever widening array of royal offspring as the years go by. I feel genuine sympathy for the royal children. Most British minors have their faces blanked out on camera, but not royal ones. They are sentenced to be recognised for life.

As a nation then we are extremely fortunate that Prince Harry is no more militant than in defence of the planet, wild animals and injured military veterans - all worthy causes if we are honest to admit it. Full disclosure: as an ex-veteran, I do give charitable donations to Invictus Games Foundation, the multi-sports event put on for wounded, injured or sick armed services personnel and their associated veterans. Prince Harry was instrumental in founding the Invictus Games in 2014 on his own initiative so that we never forget the courage and sacrifice of our military veterans.

What is already clear is that the Sussexes intend forthwith to redraw the lines of engagement with the press. They are opting out of the Royal Rota, the arrangement whereby, for decades, the royals have given access to a pool reporter from the national papers; instead, they will invite coverage from personally selected media outlets and will use their own social-media accounts, especially Instagram, to communicate directly with the public. Having railed against the media’s commodification of his wife, Prince Harry now seems prepared to take its commodification into his own hands: it was reported in January 2020 that he and the Duchess have lately submitted a trademark application for hundreds of items, from clothing to printed items, that may be issued with the couple’s personal brand, Sussex Royal.

This step is unfortunate and unedifying. To my mind, Sussex is a title, not a brand name. It is no more Harry and Meghan’s to exploit than Buckingham Palace is the Queen’s to sell off. Even if they distance themselves from the monarchy by being financially independent (as well as disowning their titles) by pursuing other commercial opportunities it only takes one scandal - e.g. a goods with their brand made from sweat shop labour or some other unforeseen PR disaster - to reflect badly on the Queen and the British monarchy solely because of Harry’s proximity to the throne. Harry may not be a Prince but he is a Windsor.

We are back to Bagehot again. For it was he who argued that the constitution was divided into two branches. The monarchy represents the “dignified” branch. Its job is to symbolise the state through pomp and ceremony. The government -Parliament, the cabinet and the civil service - represents the “efficient” branch. Its job is to run the country by passing laws and providing public services. The dignified branch governs through poetry, and the efficient branch through prose. The monarchy certainly doesn’t govern through commercial exploitation of its brand as an end in itself.

Today, the dignified branch is trying to adapt to an age of populism and until recently it’s been doing a much better job than the efficient branch. But the monarchy must never lower itself to the lowest common denominator to satisfy the base instincts of populism. As Bagehot aptly said, “An element of exaggeration clings to the popular judgment: great vices are made greater, great virtues greater also; interesting incidents are made more interesting, softer legends more soft.”

A family spat of no public importance is obsessing the nation and the world. Everyone should sit down and have a nice relaxing cup of tea.

#question #megxit #monarchy #britain #prince harry #meghan markle #duke and duchess of sussex #royalty #constitution #journalism

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nctzendreamz · 4 years

Text

Crazy, Rich, and They Hate Me :: Finale

Jaehyun finally takes you home, but he forgets to mention that his family is the richest in South Korea.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine

Jaehyun x Reader ft. NCT

Genre: Angst/ Fluff

You and Jasmine had ran to eachother for a lot of things. Boy problems, girl problems, health problems, money problems; any problem. But as you stood infront of her door, the audio of the doorbell making your ears ring even worse. You didn’t want to be here.

This had to have hit too close to home, right? I mean, during your whole friendship it was a running joke that the two of you were the complete opposite, when in reality you were more alike than either of you had wanted.

You knew if you just pulled up, sad attempt to confess what just happened, you wouldn’t be able to open your mouth. You were guaranteed to make up some lie about how his mom officially forbade you to be in a relationship with Jaehyun, so you told her the whole story as you walked to this destination.

Before an hour ago, you felt so pretty. Usually you hated red, but that way Jaehyun’s eyes just couldn’t leave your body made you feel a confidence you hadn’t felt in too long looking so dressed up. You hated him now. You knew it wasn’t his fault. But you did. You never wanted to see him again.

A now familiar sight to you, the door slid open, but the Jasmine you had known all your life wasn’t behind the door. There was nothing but pure sympathy in her eyes, and she opened the door at a slow place. She clearly didn’t know exactly how to react, not that she was supposed to.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembled.

Tears were the only source of communication you could give her.

“I’ve been gone a month, Jangmi. A month!” Minjun screamed, clearly fuming as he paced back and forth around their eerily empty mansion.

Jaehyun hadn’t had such a moment since he was a child. No one in sight except the three of them. No workers running around, ready to do whatever they asked. Not even the smell of dinner from his grandma could be scented. And his dad being here? This couldn’t be real.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His mother argued, staying seated on her velvet loveseat. Her and her son both silently agreed that they couldn’t be near eachother right now. She was on one side of the seat, while Jaehyun had completely rose when she arrived to the scene, unable to look her in the eye.

“I told you that Jaehyun was serious about that girl, didn’t I?”

“Was I supposed to take you seriously? Hm?” She protested loudly, her voice raising in volume with each word. “Why are you yelling at me when you should be yelling at your son!”

“My son?” He scoffed. “You mean our son.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Our son found a woman that he loves. What’s the problem?”

“Did you not just hear what I told you?” She accused. “Her life will completely ruin our reputation. Every single thing the world thinks our son is, will crumble as if it was never there. Why can’t you see that!”

Jaehyun was trying his best to keep up with the heated discussion that echoed through his childhood home. But the only thing at the forefront of his mind was you. A nervous habit he had formed after falling in love with you; his body rocked back and forth, and his fingers couldn’t remove themselves from the grip of his teeth as he thought about all the terrible things that could’ve happened to you in the last hour.

He had never hated himself until today. Why did he bring you here? He should’ve just kept you a secret. He should’ve flew for the festivities, and came back to you tomorrow morning, where your life would still be intact. Your self-esteem would be at its normal level, where all he had to worry about were things that he could fix with his kisses and sweet nothings.

His bloody hands had been wrapped all alone, although in any other situation, his mother would’ve taken care of it. They probably would’ve joked around about his bruises, or something similar. That was the mother he knew. This vile, angry beast that he watched approach his father with sharp fingers wasn’t who he loved.

He didn’t want to be here anymore. Even in the bask of his fathers glory who was clearly fighting for him, couldn’t make him want to be here. His life was over, and not because of your news. It was because he knew; he fucking knew clearer than ever now that he had lost you for good. And it was his fault. All those times he tried to be the good guy, not trying to start any conflict. For the sake of you, and him, and your serenity, but it was doing nothing.

He let this happen, and now he had to pay the price.

He stood up abruptly, the both of his parents stopping their arguing to stare at him. He looked broken. He didn’t need a mirror to see that. He felt it. He felt too many things right now. If he didn’t go into his room right now, he didn’t know what was going to happen.

“Where do you think you’re going!” His mother spat. How bold of her. If anything, she should be begging for his forgiveness, but she couldn’t even stuff her pride.

“Jangmi, let him deal with everything that just happened. Let him breathe.”

“No. He needs to hear what we’re going through simply because of him. You came home expecting good news, but now we’re broken.”

Jaehyun continued to take gentle steps forward, remembering your own techniques for calming down. He never thought things like this worked, and he was correct in this theory.

“Your mother is—

“Mom! I am angry at you! More than angry!” He yelled suddenly, shaking the house. The minute he had to use his diaphragm, the burning of his nose took it as a signal to let the liquid drip from his eyes. “Do you not realize what the fuck you just did to me? Are you really that blind? You ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I let you.” He trailed, looking at his higher power in embarrassment. “I let you.” He giggled through his tears now, looking nothing less of a psychopath. “You, the cousins, Yuna, grandma, everyone here. I let you guys trick me into believing you could be saved. I watched you destroy everything she had going for her when she came here, and I let you.”

“Son...” his father attempted to approach him, but Jaehyun snapped his shoulder away, making him flinch at once.

He wanted to say so many more things. Things that he didn’t mean, just so his mother could feel the hurt that was making his body pulse. But he decided to keep walking, knowing he wouldn’t be stopped this time.

Days had passed, and your phone had been off for the same amount of time. You wanted no parts in seeing any pictures of you and him. You didn’t want to see all of his apologies. You wanted to go home.

“Y/N, you need to eat.” Jasmine would say everyday. Even Heechul, who always had a snarky comment was being extra sweet to you, making you little pastries that were said to soothe you.

You’d always eat just enough to protect yourself from any true damage you could do to your body. You would always feel as if you had to throw up, but it would never actually happen. You knew it was all in your head.

The silk sheets that rested on your body were so uncomfortable right now; more proof that this life wasn’t for you. They were making you so hot.

“Y/N.” Jasmine’s soothing voice whispered into the large space of her many spare bedrooms, one you had happened to choose. You expected her at this time, with a tray of your favorite snacks. But when she appeared infront of you, she was empty handed. “We need to talk.”

You couldn’t deprive her of that. Neither of you had spoken about what you learned, and you truly believed it was because neither of you knew how to approach it. You weren’t ashamed of being adopted, and you hoped she knew that. Your lack of eating, and showering, and good hygiene in general wasnt because your true parents. It was because you knew you and Jaehyun were officially done. And you knew you were probably going to ruin his life, as his mother was just too spiteful. She would probably get the information out just because he was surely fighting your love; even through all of this drama.

Just to make him look bad, she’d do it.

“Do you have any questions?” She questioned awkwardly, fiddling with the rings she never took off. A gift from her new family, she explained.

“No.” Was all you could say, unable to look her in the eye.

“I hope you’re not ashamed. Or see yourself as less than because of what you know. You still have great parent—

“Jas.” You whispered in a purely sincere tone as your eyes filled to the brim with tears, “do you think I looked at you differently because you’re adopted?”

“I just—I know it’s not ideal. And I didn’t come from good parents and I just—“ Her voice cracked, and for the first time in your life, you were watching her cry. Her fighting spirit had her refusing to be in your arms, but you didn’t listen to her silent wishes. You snatched her up just as she had when you were on her doorstep about to have a mental breakdown.

“I have never looked down on you. To be exact, I’ve always looked up to you. I know you had your demons, and things that upset you, but you were always positive. I always wondered how you could be like that. How you could be so damn strong even though you had every right to be pissed off at the world.” You kissed her forehead, hating the way you were mimicking Jaehyun’s every move right now. “I love you, Jas. And so does your family. I hate that you met them later than you wanted, but what do I always say?”

“That everything happens for a reason.” She choked out.

“Exactly.” You took a deep swallow, knowing that was slogan but wanting it to be un-true in your case. You didn’t want this to be what fate wanted. You wanted there to be mistake in that foreign world. A mishap. But as you continued to dwell on your thoughts, you didn’t have positive feelings on it. No optimism.

You woke up the next morning with Jasmine in your bed, her tears still stained on the pillow beside you. Today was your last day before you had to take your flight, but you couldn’t just leave.

You turned your phone on, knowing it had a chance of practically blowing up from all the texts you knew you recieved. They were all from him. Every single one.

Twelve missed calls. A no exaggeration—twenty separate text messages from him. They started off so concerned, begging you to answer the phone. He was explaining that he just needed to hear you voice to make sure it was actually you responding to him.

As you continued to read, he told you that his father was here, and that he finally told his mom off. He confessed that even so, he felt no better, because he was weak. He didn’t say everything he wanted to say, and he wanted to go back in time to say everything over, better.

He then went on to tell you how much he loved you. He seemed to be arguing with himself, as he kept mentioning that he wasn’t enough. That it was he who didn’t deserve you, and he hated how terrible he was with words. He was trying to fit all of his love for you in a text message, and believed he was failing.

Even as the days skipped, he updated you about his day. He said he wouldn’t eat until he wanted to, which was never. His apologies were never ending, and your heart was close to its end.

He told you he was crying, and couldn’t stop. He told you that he cried so much that he had thrown up, but that he needed it. That it made him feel better for all you had gone through for absolutely no reason.

You couldn’t read any longer, feeling sick to your stomach as you knew he was telling the truth. A man didn’t do all of this for a woman he didn’t love. At least, not a man like Jung Jaehyun.

But love didn’t matter anymore.

You texted her, setting a time and place. She argued, saying that it would be best if you just came to the house.

Unlike every other time you were at the Jung residence, you weren’t dressed up today. Even with the preaching you planned to do in just a few moments, you couldn’t help but to feel so insecure. So less than.

“Y/N.” Was all she said when she let you in. “As you can see, he’s not here. I wasn’t lying.”

“I didn’t think you were.” You whispered, looking at your toes.

She didn’t look good. Now more than ever could you see the resemblance between the two of them. His dimple always shined at you when he was happy, but the exact same one was now moped out, cause being because she had her lips sucked in. It was the kind of expression one wore when they didn’t know what to say.

“So, what did you have to say to me?”

“You know I love Jaehyun, right?”

She was quick to answer. “Yes.” You knew she wasn’t going to miss a beat just yet.

“Do you think Jaehyun loves me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you fight it so hard? Why wasn’t love enough for you?” Your tone was surprising gentle considering the words you were speaking. You preyed around her home, eyeing all of the artwork you never got to admire because you were always being bullied when you came here. Their family portrait actually read them to be great people.

“Because love isn’t enough. Do you know how many people in the world love eachother? If we married just for love, the world we be in a deeper hell.”

“So you don’t love Mr. Jung?”

“I got lucky.” Her voice waivered. You couldn’t see her facial expression. You didn’t want to look at her just yet.

“Lucky how?”

“Me and Minjun were soulmates who happened to come across eachother. We had love and the resources.”

“So you’re saying that if you didn’t have the resources, you shouldn’t have been able to marry the man you love?”

Her trailing of your moves stopped, as she could finally understand your game. She obviously didn’t like it. “Say what you want to say or get out of my house.”

You turned around from the splash art you were observing deeply, staring straight into her cold eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume she had no soul. But you knew that wasn’t the case. She just didn’t like you.

“This will be the last time you see me.” You confessed, and you saw the way joy sparkled in her eyes. It hurt, even though you should’ve seen it coming. “And I know even right now you’re planning my departure, and trying to figure out who should really be Jaehyun’s bride. Who actually deserves him. Your choice. But never forget, that it was me, a poor girl from Los Angeles that is the reason that you will get your son back.”

She seemed shocked at your strong words. She clearly thought this was a bold claim from the way her eyebrows connected immediately, scoffing in offense.

“You can say what you want about me. And you can say what you want about our relationship, but your son is in love with me. And I know that eats you up inside, but read my lips when I say that we were in love. And we made eachother happy. I will always love him.” Your voice cracked, but you quickly sniffed to pull it together. “So ten years from now when you have little grandchildren running around, making everyone in the house laugh, but Jaehyun’s sitting in the corner and you just can’t seem to understand why he looks so unhappy, know it’s because he’s thinking about me, and about how this could’ve been us if only; you didn’t make me leave.”

“You watch—

“I’m giving you what you want. So I hope your happiness continues to override his own. And I hope that whoever he does marry doesn’t have to go through half the hell I did.”

And with that, you left. Even with her yelling after you. Even when you wanted to badly to turn around, and run upstairs, because you knew he was listening. You knew he heard every word, and would probably go to cry again. But you had to. They got what they wanted. And now you had to sleep. You had a flight in the morning.

You forgot how hot the California sun could be. Especially on a day like this, where you were already in such a horrible mood, nothing felt right. At the same time though, it felt so good to be home. Even though you had only been here for a measly three days, it was so refreshing to not get weird stares and judge mental looks from people who didn’t even know you.

The streets were busy as always, people walking across the road to get to other shopping centers, but your focus was on the familiar diner that now brought you horrible memories.

God, you remember how excited you were when he told you about Johnny’s wedding. It had never even crossed your mind that it would be the last time you saw him, and the last time you would ever call him your boyfriend.

“Y/N! How was the trip!” The owner yelled in an enthusiastic tone, clearly missing your buisness.

“Good.” You responded simply, sitting down at your usual booth.

“Just good? And in that tone? Who died?”

“My relationship.” You chuckled sadly, feeling it all rush back to you at once. All the memories of you two wouldn’t go away.

“Don’t tell me...”

“Yeah.”

You hated that you sounded like this right now. This was exactly how you behaved before you met Jaehyun, and he made you bloom into this so-called beautiful human being. You always shut down.

You couldn’t see what the older man was doing. Out of your peripheral, you could see him whispering to the cook in the back through the tiny window they used to communicate.

Jaehyun hadn’t texted or called since your conversation with his mother. Maybe he hated you too. Everytime your phone would ring, or vibrate, you would rush to it praying it was him. You were so broken. All it would take is one more text, and he could have you back.

Gusto—the owner of your favorite eating place, sat across from you now. He had your favorite milkshake in one hand, and an abundance of fries in the other.

“Thought you might’ve wanted this.”

“Thank you.” You laughed, trying your best to be happy. Or at least look it.

“Listen to me doll,” his hand reached for your chin, lifting it up from its grip on the food. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know that you are a very strong girl. You know, your dad was just like this. When him and your mom would get into it, he’d come in here.”

“Did he really?” You sniffled, being reminded about the problems you had to deal with now. You were still trying to figure out a way to approach your mom about it.

“Yeah. And he would get this exact milkshake too.”

As it had been for the last few minutes, the bell connected to the door rung; indicating someone had swung it open. Probably some teenagers who had just came from the rink.

You put the straw to your lips, knowing that the taste of Oreo mixed in with chocolate would soothe your scrambled mind even if it was for a few. It didn’t feel the same now that Jaehyun wasn’t sharing it with you, but it was still so delicious. You hadn’t even realized that Gusto had risen from his position in front of you.

Your breathing unconsciously got deeper and deeper, trying to take in all the familiar smells of LA. One deep breath, and your heart stopped. You choked on the cookie that was so close to going down your throat.

It was him. He was here.

“Jaehyun—I—

“I know you have a million things you want to say to me.” He whispered. His hair was its usual messy nature, and he was no longer in a polo, or suit as he had been during your whole trip. His grey sweats made your heart beat for a few seconds at a fast pace, but his eyes finished the job.

They weren’t swollen. If you didn’t know any better, you would even say he was happy right now. His eyes were filled with sincerity as his scent hugged you all around.

“Usually people say that when they met their soulmate, they had no idea that they’d love them as much as they did.” He began, taking your hand into his own. “But when I met you, I swear I knew. I called Johnny and told him I had met my wife. He laughed, but I knew it was true. I knew you were the one, Y/N.”

Neither of you could notice, but the crowd began to form, clearly seeing something coming that you couldn’t.

“And still, right now, I look at you and know you’re the one. No matter what anyone says. No matter who tries to stop me from getting what I want, it’ll never happen.” He sighed, reaching for his back pocket and slowly skimping down to one knee.

“Jae...” you trailed off, emotions trying to come out from your eyelids.

“Let me finish.” His voice was wavering, a clear indication that he was incredibly nervous. “I love you, baby. Every damn thing about you, I love. I love how much you love to stay at home, doing absolutely nothing. I love how strong you are, even when you don’t have to be. When every damn thing in the world is trying to get in your way, you kick it down, and I admire you. I can’t even properly get my words out because their aren’t enough words to describe you. Hell, I even love the excessive amount of ketchup you put on your fries. All of that makes you, and I want it for the rest of my life.” His hand was shaking now, but he still managed to open the box, revealing the ring that was seemingly forbidden in his family. His grandmas ring was standing right infront of you.

“Oh my goodness.” Was all you could breathe out, clutching your chest for support.

“Please, make me the happiest man in the world, Y/N. Let me show the whole world who I love. Marry me. I can’t live without you and I know you love me just as much. Please.”

The hell you went through was trying to replay through your mind like your favorite song, but you had to block it. It didn’t deserve to win in such a moment, and all your focus was on your boyfriend. The man who you would die for.

“Yes. How could I say no?” You choked out, letting him place the ring in your finger as you bounced around like a child, immediately jumping into his arms as he held you tighter than he had ever held you in your whole relationship. His face nuzzled into the crevice of your neck, and even in this crowd of people, you couldn’t save it. You had to kiss him.

“I love you, Y/N.” He whispered as you two embraced once more. “And I meant it when I said I always will. No matter what.”

“No matter what.” You cooed with a head tilt, pressing a teary kiss to his plump lips once again.

This was fate. This was how your story was going to end. It may have hurt like hell to get here, but you were going to marry the love of your life, and you didn’t care what anyone thought about it. Neither did he.

A/N: Wowwwww it’s crazy how long this series has been going on. I am so appreciative of the love y’all gave this, and I am truly sad to see it go. I know you guys probably hated this as the final part, but I plan to do an epilogue soon and also a surprise conversation between two people that I think you guys would enjoy. Thank you so much and I can’t wait for you guys to see the things I have planned next.

#nct #nct 127 #nct jaehyun #jaehyun nct #jaehyun #nct imagine #nct imagines #nct series #nct scenario #nct scenarios #nct fluff #nct angst

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callmefitz · 4 years

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Two Weeks Ago, Today - Rumir Fic 4.1k words

Amir character study poorly disguised as a Rumir kidnap fic. Mild blood/injury description, hurt/comfort, happy ending and fluff.

(Forgive my lack of read below, I’m new and don’t know how to add a cutoff)

When Amir returned back to their room, Rupert was gone. The sheets were tousled and pushed back in typical Rupert fashion, something Amir has resigned to believing will never change. The windows were pushed open ever so slightly, allowing for some morning sunlight to spill onto the messy desk. Rupert’s desk, with unanswered correspondences, still cluttered the edges. He knew Rupert probably just got up when he left to check security with Joan. But still, the image from two weeks ago today still flashed in his mind.

The rain was roaring in his ears as Amir clambered back to bed. He loved Fitzroy, he loved Rupert... but when Fitzroy had to go the whole castle had to know.

“Rupert?” Amir whispered conspiratorially. Maybe tonight they sneak out to have a date night in the kitchens. With the rescheduled wedding on the way and the completion of the castle, they barely had time to each other anymore. They only really saw each other at night, when no reasonable person would request their counsel.

“Rupert...” Amir whispered again as his eyes adjusted to the dark, searching for the sleeping form of his fiancé. As the downpour intensified, a singular strike of lightening illuminated the room like daylight to reveal a horrifyingly gruesome sight.

The sheets and blankets were in knots on the floor, as if they were kicked and twisted as something was torn from them. The books on their desk were strewn about the floor. One of the swords resting in a rack above their bed was missing, left on the floor with a singular red stripe running along the sharp end and a few splatters beside it. The wrought-iron window overlooking the heartlands was bent beyond recognition as if claws sunk into it and pullled. Shards of glass glittered wet and sharp on the floor like diamonds.

Amir suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“Rupert?” He yelled, but the room was deserted. Already there were footsteps running to their room, he had probably altered half the castle by now, no matter, Rupert was gone... he was gone and-

“Your Majesty,” Sir Joan exhaled as she pushed open the door, torch in hand. For a moment Amir wished what he had seen was a nightmare, but the same scene greeted him cast in the sinister warm lighting.

“Oh Guiniverre,” he heard her whisper. Rupert was gone... someone had taken him right in his own home. He was gone and hurt and probably-

“Amir?” Rupert said softly, and Amir whipped around. Standing in the morning sunlight, Rupert leaned against the doorframe with a silver breakfest tray in hand. His eyes were tired and worn and his skin was pale, but underneath the horrors of the last two weeks he was still the same Rupert he’s always been. Amir released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Rupert still was.

He didn’t realize he was crying until a pale hand cupped his cheek, stalling tears in their wake. He held it to his face, feeling its warmth against his face. Fingers that, two weeks ago today, were bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. Now they were porcelain pale and un-Rupertly soft. They were still his. They were still alive.

Small wonders.

The silver breakfest tray was long abandoned, set off to the side and growing colder by the minute. Without words, they slowly moved to the bed, the hand not leaving his face. They sat near the foot, in the safety of the warm sunrise, for a few silent moments.

“Amir... you gotta talk to me here. What’s going on in that big ol head of yours?” Rupert said, so so softly, as if Amir was the one who was taken.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good head, a very nice head. Lots of hair on it, some pretty eyes, a left dimple that you show off all the time... very nice head, but not transparent.” Rupert rambled, and Amir laughed, his throat barbed with tears.

“I was a mess when you were gone,” Amir mumbled after a prolonged silence.

Rupert pulled away and regarded Amir for a few minutes. His face was drawn up in sadness, a loving silence, a deep compassion.

“Well, I think you did pretty ok.” He finally said, gathering Amir’s hands in his. “I mean, look at us. You saved me. We’re home. I have breakfest in bed with me and Fitzroy is still asleep. Normally this would call for a celebration.”

There was still a shadow of a bruise on Rupert’s cheek. Another reminder of Amir’s failure to do one right thing.

Two weeks ago today, Amir sat in this same place, his hands in fists by his side. The rain had long subsided, and Fitzroy sat his head on the bed longingly. He scratched his head, but it didn’t fill the void. Rupert was gone.

“Percy is leading a scan of the castle in case they’re still in the walls. I have Cecily leading the new recruits through the city and outer bands looking for evidence. Until we hear back, however, there’s only so much we can do,” Joan looked down at Amir with sadness in her eyes, “Hey.”

Amir met her gaze.

“He’s going to be ok.” She smiled, more to convince Amir than herself. There was almost nothing to go by, no notes or discernible trace of a captor. The room was a bloody mess, with splatters on the lower half of the walls and pooling around the untouched sword. Rupert’s sword. The sword of the west.

“Joan, I really appreciate your optimism, and I know we aren’t close so I may be over-stepping here, but please cut the crap.” Amir said sharply, “I know we have nothing. The guards have already cleared the castle. The watchmen in the outer bands have reported no exit or entry. He’s gone.”

“Guiniverre, he’s gone.” Amir’s resolve crumpled. His fingers dug into his hair as he pressed his palms in his eyes. He took a few deep, shuddery breaths before continuing in a painfully monotone speech.

“I just.... I really need Rupert right now. I need him. He always knows what to do. I always tease him for over-reacting... but at least he has plans! I’m no good at this, and we have nothing to work with. No trace. He’s just gone.”

Something stirred within Joan. She knows the hollow feeling, the guilty helpless. Except she’s had the luxury of false alarms thus far. Her eyes couldn’t help but to wander again toward The empty slot above the bed, where the western sword once hung. Now only the eastern one remained, and it was hauntingly incomplete without the other. “I-“

“It’s my fault. Rupert is awful with a sword. I meant to teach him, I really did. We’ve just been so busy, and with peace talks in the North and trade in the South we both agreed it would be pointless in the short term. If I had-“

“Considering the number he did, he isn’t completely awful with a sword,” Joan said with a smile and faux amiability, then lost it when she saw Amir’s composure. He was right. They weren’t particularly close, Rupert was the bridge between them with his friendship with Cecily. They saw each other in passing, exchanged commentary, but never had the chance of be alone together without a crisis.

Judging my Amir’s face, or lack therefore of, they were in another crisis.

“This isn’t your fault, Prince Amir,” Joan said forcefully. She sat next to Amir on the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation rested her open palm on his back. Something grounding.

“But it kind of is,” Amir brought his face up, “It can’t be coincidence that they came while I was gone. They must have been watching us all night... waiting for me to leave. They knew they couldn’t take us both. There’s no way-“

“No way you could have known,” Joan corrected the thought before it rose.

The rain continued its onslaught, and in the darkness Rupert felt farther and farther away from Amir.

“We shouldn’t be celebrating until your limp is gone.” Amir said with finality, breaking from the memory and entering the present. His hands left Ruperts and rested below his shoulders, “Seriously. Is your pain returning?”

Rupert pushed him aside and smiled wearily. His eyes were still half-lidded and dreamy with sleepiness from his medicine, “You’re worse than my mother. Amir, I’m fine. It’s ok. You saved the day in the end.”

“Hardly feels like it,” Amir laughed, but there was no jot behind it.

Rupert sighed.

“You know, when you and Joan finally found me, I was so exhausted and sweaty and gross and in a world of pain. I thought I was going to pass out,” he began.

Amir’s face fell into concerned pain, “Rupert-“

“But when I heard you dismount your horse and come running up, it was like I was meeting you all again. When you burst through that tent, it was like kissing you for the first time.”

Rupert was a total sap.

“I think we remember it differently then,” Amir said dryly, “because when I saw you, I was thinking a lot of not good words.”

Rupert smiled, “Well, duh. They were jerks. But you have to realize, Amir, I was terrified.”

Amir tensed.

“I was hurt and lost and stuck with a bunch of jerks and also thinking not good words, but when I saw you it all went away. I knew you were going to save me. At that moment, I was going to be ok.”

“Then you passed out,” Amir added.

“Well, then I actually did pass out.” Rupert agreed. “But you did saved me Amir. The window is fixed and Joan told me the minute I can walk the Castle circuit without a limp she’s going to have me run sword drills so much that I’ll collapse. We’re stronger and safer and happy again.”

“Are we?” asked Amir, “because everytime you leave me sight it’s like I can’t breathe again.”

Rupert pulled Amir close.

“The castle should have been safe to begin with. We should have trained more often. Something like this was bound to happen-“ Amir rambled, as Rupert hooked his arms around his neck and unceremoniously flopped backwards on the bed, taking Amir with him with an oof. He pushed himself slightly away, as if the fall somehow opened up all those nasty wounds.

“I’m serious, Rupert,” Amir continued, “You act like everything is fine, and maybe for you it is, but it wasn’t for me. You didn’t see it! You didn’t see our room and what those thugs were planning... you didn’t see yourself half-alive and drenched in blood. I saw it, and I still see it. It won’t go away.”

A part of Rupert wants to be mad. After all, he was the one who was taken. He was the one bound to a post in a stuffy old tent at the mercy of former Eastern kingsmen. But watching Amir, seeing the guilt in his eyes whenever Rupert’s step faltered, the detached expression when night fell and they lay silent in bed, the cold determination that filled his voice when passing new security policies; sure, Rupert was the one taken, but Amir was left behind. That alone was a different type of torture, and right now was his time to speak of it. This was only the first conversation of many.

Amir is crying now, harder than before. Somehow he felt shame in that- he rarely cries, even when it’s just Rupert.

“Rupert you’re... you’re my everything. I don’t think I could live without you... and that scares me. It scares me so much.”

“‘Mir,” Rupert said softly. His own eyes were wet with tears and he shuffled closer until their hands could interlock. The morning sunlight glinted off the two circular bands adoring their fingers. Engagement rings. A formality from the East that promised a lifetime together. For a moment neither of them said anything. For a moment it was as if it were two weeks ago, right before Amir left to relive Fitzroy and there was no concept of fear in the dark. For a moment their weakness remained concealed. A moment that lasted that lifetime tenfold.

“How are you ok with this?” Amir asked after an eternity.

This. This chasm that the last two weeks drew between them. The sleepless nights full of painful groans. The long days where he was barely conscious and breathing, miles away from home. The stormy night where he woke up alone and scared, and blindly attempted to fight off his attacker with a sword he barely knew how to wield.

“I’m not,” Rupert replied, barely above a whisper, “I almost didn’t get out of bed.”

Amir took a moment to absorb that information and turn it over in his mind.

“While you went to check with Joan, I considered one-hundred and twenty-nine reasons why I shouldn’t leave our bedchamber. All of them ended up with that tent. I think I hate tents now. I really hope you secretly aren’t a camping guy, because unless it’s a life or death situation I’m not going inside a tent again. No sir. You should call me No-Tent-“

“Rupert-“ Amir began.

“Exactly! But as I was saying, I thought of so many reasons why I shouldn’t get out of bed today. But then I thought of you, and how you’re probably exhausted, and then my stomach started grumbling, and I decided today I was going to get breakfest for us. So I did.”

“And you just, did it?” Amir looked away, to the window. Reinforced with dragon’s steel. Lavinia saw to it that the panes were too small off even a mouse to fit through if broken, so now the kaleidoscope window threw colors on the walls, floors, and bed of the room. Rupert’s face was tossed in a brilliant shade of blue.

“I didn’t just do it. First I counted to one-hundred and twenty-nine. Then I took my sword off the wall and debated bringing it with me. But Porridge doesn’t like weapons, so I put it back.” Rupert began carding his fingers through Amir’s hair, “Then I called for Cecily because my leg was so stiff, and she can throw knives scarily well so I decided she was much better than a lousy sword...”

The itemized description of Rupert’s morning was more to fodder the oppressive silence and diffuse any latent guilt via distraction that anything else. It must have worked, for as he went on the tears began drying and Amir’s stiff shoulders slowly went undone.

“... there was this whole thing with like, jam or marmalade? It was a whole debacle, then I couldn’t get a good grip on the tray and almost dropped it, which was a disaster. But we got back and I saw Cecily on her way and walked in, where I saw my brave, perfect fiancé on the verge of tears and decided that just wouldn’t do.”

Amir didn’t reply.

“I’m not fine, Amir. As much as you hate walking into a room without me, I hate waking up in a bed without you. I’m still really, really scared,” Rupert said, “But I don’t want this to break us. I can’t be scared to get breakfest. I’ve spent too much of my life being scared to do that.”

Amir adjusted on the bed so that he lay on his back with his head tucked underneath Ruperts chin.

“I think you’re pretty brave,” Amir announced after a moment of deliberation.

One week ago today, nothing but the thunderous, vengeful drumbeat of hooves and the air whistling past filled Amir’s ears. Joan was beside him, equally engaged in the chase, leaning forward and slightly standing on the back of her horse. Ahead, Fitzroy and Porridge led the trail, and behind some of Joan’s best recruits filled the rear.

Looming above were the Southern Caves, a cavernous mountain range cutting off the Heartlands from the Southern Tribes. Due to its intemperate climate and inaccessibility to law enforcement on either sovereignty, it was a breeding ground for crime, piracy, and highwaymen of all shapes and sizes.

Amir didn’t like to imagine himself engulfed in anger or acting out of hate. But if this lead ended up being false as well and Rupert isn’t there, he may skewer someone.

In other words, he pressed onwards with resolute determination. Meanwhile, Joan held out her arm to signal to Amir and the guild to slow.

“When we reach the overpass, me and my women will surround the suspects,” she said, assertively yet low enough that Amir strained to hear her, “You will survey the surrounding area and get to Rupert if he’s there.”

A hottness flared inside Amir, “But-“

Joan silenced him with a simple look, “If Rupert is here, he’ll need you the most.”

Ahead of him, Amir could hear the soft murmur of men talking around a campfire. Hints of smoke permeated the air around them, and through the foliage he could see flickers of light. They were so close. Joan raised her arm to signal readiness. Like a blade cutting air she thrust it forward, and with deadly silence the small army burst through the edge of the forest and into the bowels of the Southern Overpass.

The reaction was immediate. Laid before him was a modest camp, with well-established tents, bounds, and fires. Rage seethed within Amir- while he had been searching, they hadn’t even moved. The inhabitants, rough-looking men and women with a glint of former nobility in their eyes and sword, reached for whatever nearby weapon lay unattended and attempted battle. Joan’s recruits were as ruthless as they were capable- they quickly apprehended the band with a firm sense of duty and exceptional efficiency.

But Rupert wasn’t there.

Amir lept from his horse, hitting the ground with a dull thud as he took off toward the tents. He tore open the flaps of the first one. Empty. The second one. Empty. Blood rushed in his ears. The third one. Empty. Tears pricked at his eyes. The fourth one. Empty. He had to be here. The fifth one-

It took a moment for Amir to realize he was looking at his husband. Maybe because he had never seen him truly hurt before- they had both been roughed up, sure, but none of their adventures had ever turned disastrous. Maybe it was that, or the fact that Amir hadn’t truly accepted Rupert was gone until he was found.

“Rupert,” Amir breathed. The tent was stuffy and cramped, with odd and rotting furniture bordering the walls. A haphazard interrogation chamber was constructed with mis-matched chairs, with old food trays discarded near a corner. The smell alone was enough to turn any self-respecting man away.

“Hey ‘Mir,” Rupert half-whispered with a smile. Rupert, who was tied kneeling with his back to a post. Rupert, with a purple bruise reaching up his face up to his cheekbone. Rupert, with clumpy hair and watery eyes. Rupert, with bloodied knuckles and a half-rasp in his voice. Rupert, who was alive.

Amir sunk to the ground, knees hitting the dry earth with a thud and tiny clouds of dust. Both of his hands reached for Rupert, cupping both of his cheeks in his hands before sliding down to his shoulders; a cursory assessment. He tugged lightly at the rope binding Rupert’s shoulders, finding no give. His eyes then cast downwards toward Rupert’s leg, which was bent awkwardly out to the side.

“I’m fine, really,” Rupert said softly, “Just tripped.”

“Just tripped?” Amir echoed. He wanted to say more, but Rupert doubled over in pain, or as much as he could when forced upright, and groaned.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Amir said, mostly to himself, before retrieving a small dagger from his belt and begin cutting through the rope. It wasn’t a clean slice like he anticipated- it was thicker and more resilient than what it seemed- and took several seconds to cut. When it finally did break, Rupert slumped forward into Amir’s chest. He was a dead weight.

“Rupert?” Amir said. When the other didn’t respond, Amir gently pushed Rupert off him. His eyes were closed; he didn’t stir.

Fear gripped Amir’s heart. He let Rupert lean against him, feeling for the pulse in his wrist the steady puffs of air against his neck. Both were weak. He snaked an arm up Rupert’s back, threading his hand in the other’s hair and holding him close before leaping into action.

“Ok, ok,” Amir said softly, “It’s ok.”

He threw one of Rupert’s arms over his back and across his shoulder and held his other hand under Rupert’s armpit and pulled both of them up. When Rupert remained limp, he hooked his foot around Rupert’s leg- the good one- and walked for the both of them.

The sun was piercingly bright and equally hot when they both emerged from the center tent. Perspiration beaded over Amir’s brow, equally from the heat and stress. In a slow hobble towards Joan and the others, they pushed closer to freedom and further from the tent. One head low, the other upright and straining. When the rest of the recruits spotted them leaving the circle of tents, two young lady knights rushed to them to help. One helped support Rupert, the other with a bag of medicinal supplies sent by Lavinia.

As part of the illusion of normalcy, Lavinia saw to it that the West had excellent healthcare.

Together they laid Rupert in the shade of a particularly aged oak tree, where the two recruits (one a cousin of Cecily and the other a former lady in waiting for his mother) began to stint, bandage, and clean any of Rupert’s wounds. Amir felt useless yet again- while he knew basic first aid for prophetic reasons, performing it on someone else felt wildly different. In addition, most of his knowledge was based on what to do in the moment. Most of the marks marring his fiance were given a headstart of two or three days before introduced to gauze.

By either instinct or selfish need, Amir grabbed for Rupert’s hand. It was sticky with sweat and discolored slightly, but it was still his; his blood ran through it just like it did two weeks prior. Helplessness consumed Amir like a wave again. Protection was the foundation in which Amir’s core values were cultivated on. Protect his country, protect his people, protect his loved ones. If he couldn’t keep Rupert safe, then who could he protect? If he couldn’t protect Rupert...

Amir didn’t pretend things weren’t as serious as they were. If they had come a week later.. even days... Rupert’s health would have been scores worse. There wouldn’t be enough medicine in Lavinia’s bag to treat him on site.

The words of a particular bold suspect pulled him from his guilt.

“You’re just as foolish as your mother,” one of the men sneered, “Your father would be disgusted to have you as a son.”

His arms were bound behind his back, yet his impressive stature and scarred body proved that simple rope wouldn’t contain him for long. He was old- older than Amir, most likely a noble elevated to aristocracy by Amir’s father due to similar values and pugnacious tendencies. Despite this, he was a sad man. He didn’t know love nor longed to learn about it- any kindness in his soul had been long extinguished by a raw bitterness against the world and a hardened heart. He was grasping for straws in a blind attempt to recreate the past; his father’s past, built on the corpses of innocent people for the sake of expansion and greed.

Amir pitied the man. He wanted to say a thousand words in response; some of anger, revenge, debate, and instruction, but instead he only said one: “Good.”

The hand in his squeezes, and Amir is brought back to modern day. He leans into Rupert’s chest, listening to the steady heart beat and deep breaths that recently lost their rattle. The sun pours through the new windows, stronger windows, splashing a rainbow of colors across the bright room. Not a single cloud dots the sky: it would be another beautiful day. Rupert is alive- a wonder, a gift, a miracle- and Amir never wishes to be apart from him again. Maybe that is unhealthy, but right now, in this moment, not a single thing could tear him away.

Rupert is Amir’s everything, and Amir is Rupert’s universe.

“Amir?” Rupert says softly. Amir closes his eyes.

“Mm?”

“I think you’re pretty brave, too.”

#the two princes #the two princes podcast #prince amir #prince rupert #ttp #rumir #lady cecily #ttp podcast #ttp rumir #sir joan ttp #the two princes fic

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manikas-whims · 4 years

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Kiss it better

Pairing: Shouto Todoroki X Momo Yaoyorozu

Words: 1639

Rating: T

Read on: AO3 | FFnet

“This is foul play!” Momo protests against her friends with an adorable pout. “You can’t be serious.”

“Now now Yaomomo, don’t try using your pout on us. We’re very serious.” Hagakure teases.

“Yes, this is just how a game of Truth Or Dare works.” Ashido says matter-of-factly, high-fiving an excited Uraraka.

This is so unfair. Momo Yaoyorozu has never had the luxury of enjoying fun activities that every teenager had. A courtesy of her strict parents. For fifteen years of her life, she was bound by the rules and regulations of the Yaoyorozu household and being the only child to her parents, they were even more stringent on her.

Last week, she informed the girls in her class about her lack of knowledge when it came to games like these. They were beyond flabbergasted and made it their personal mission to make Momo experience atleast half of what she missed out in these past years. Thus, they’ve promised to play one of their childhood games together on every weekends.

Today they’ve introduced her to “Truth or Dare”, a simple game in which the only rule is to choose between the two aforementioned terms and then do as instructed by the rest of the players. It sounded entertaining in the beginning but now she’s starting to regret ever agreeing to this.

“Can I switch to truth?” she asks hopefully but Tsuyu wags a finger at her in complete rejection.

Momo whines, her lips jutting out in another pout and Kyouka pats her back reassuringly but then sides with the other girls. She places the palms of her hands on her waist, breathing out in defeat as she motions her feet in the direction of the common area. Knowing well about her massive crush on Shouto Todoroki, her friends have dared her to kiss him. How is she supposed to lock lips with him when she can barely look him in the eye!?

In the common area, Bakugou and Todoroki are lounging on the couches, wet towels hanging around their necks. They must’ve just returned from their provisional license class and taken a shower. The wounds from their training are visible and fresh. She scoffs. Such a boys thing to carelessly let their scars remain untreated.

She observes the two who are too busy with their cellphones to pay attention to the show being broadcasted on the television or to each other. Craning her head back, she finds her friends standing stealthily at the wall near the stairway, expecting her to execute her dare. She sighs. How can she carry out such a task when she easily gets flustered by him. She racks the gears in her brain to come up with some kind of solution and her eyes widen at a sudden realization— she’s been asked to kiss Todoroki! However, it hasn’t been specified if the contact between their lips is mandatory, which means anything counts as long as her lips touch any part of his skin. Great! This has reduced her nervousness, albeit only slightly. She still has no plan on how she should convince him about this since she isn’t even allowed to mention about the game to him.

She frowns, her brows creasing in concentration as she watches the boy of her dreams, staring with disinterest at his phone.

Yaoyorozu is acting strange tonight. She’s been standing by the staircase for a while now, doing nothing but..observing him? Her charcoal irises hold a fiery sort of conviction in them. It may look like he’s indulged in something on his cellphone but she’s actually making it hard for him to concentrate.

He wonders if she’s mad at him for reasons unknown. Maybe because his wet hair is soaking the headrest of the couch? Or is it because he’s carelessly left his dirty shoes on the carpet? Whatever it is, he’s too tired to deal with it. He’s just returned from his provisional license training (yes, they aren’t allowed rest even on their days off) and he’s so drained that he took a quick shower and decided to dump himself on the couch until its time for dinner.

“Todoroki-san” the dark haired beauty finally approaches him and he tilts his head up to listen. “Does this wound hurt?”

He blinks as he realises she’s referring to a particularly deep cut on the left side of his cheek. Inasa had been too rough during their sparring session. Well, it obviously does sting a little as he hasn’t put a bandage on it. As a child, he was always told by his father that real men don’t cry over a little pain from their wounds. That these wounds are a constant reminder of his own weakness at being unable to protect himself from getting hurt.

“Don’t worry, it’ll heal.” He responds, his face stoic as ever.

Her eyes widen on hearing his precarious words and she shakes her head in disbelief. “I can help it heal faster.”

He arcs a brow in interest. She can? How? Has her quirk evolved further? Does her quirk now possess healing properties like the Recovery Girl? His mind starts nerding-out like Midoriya, a myriad of questions swarming his head but he curbs his curiosity and asks, “How?”

His vice class representative chews on her petal lips as if contemplating whether or not she should explain. But with a hesitant voice, she answers, “I..I can kiss it better.”

If anything, his confusion doubles. Kiss it better? Like the Recovery Girl does? She really isn’t making any sense right now.

“When I was a child,” she speaks up in a small voice when she notices his puzzled look, her hands fisting into her pink top. “My mother told me that every wound heals faster if someone kisses it. That the kiss transfers that person’s concern and affection into the wound to help it get better. So she used to do it a lot.”

The youngest Todoroki is at a loss of words. “Oh..” he says innocently.

“Yeah, everyone’s mom does it.” She adds sweetly.

He chuckles bitterly. How could he have known this when his mother wasn’t around for ten years of his life? How could he have any knowledge about such small gestures of love when his father didn't let him!? But before the thoughts of his tragic past can consume him any further, he sees her bend forward. Levelling her face with his, she inches closer and her lips gently caress the cut. It’s brief yet powerful, making him clench his left hand to keep his flames at bay. And in a heartbeat, the warmth is gone. The feeling of her soft lips is gone as she straightens back up and smiles the purest smile he has ever witnessed. A bit of the un-dried blood from his wound has smeared her lips but he finds it even more attractive, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The hell is wrong with you two!? I’m sitting right here!!!” The booming voice of Katsuki Bakugou instantly shatters their moment and the two teens jerk away from each-other to see their classmate fuming.

Ignoring the blond’s usual angry outburst, Shouto turns to Yaoyorozu. “It worked.” He states, thankful.

The girl’s face starts flushing with embarrassment at his admission and she only nods in response before running off.

A combination of squeals greet her by the stairs and Momo finds her girlfriends grinning at her.

“You sly girl!” Ashido teases, slapping a hand on Momo’s shoulder in approval.

“The puppy-like look on Todoroki’s face made it all the more adorable.” Hagakure adds as they all ascend upstairs.

"Jeez you got some of his blood on your lips." Jirou comes forward and wipes it away with the back of her hand. Momo blushes lightly but smiles at her bestfriend.

Upon catching sight of Todoroki's wounds, Momo came up with that brilliant excuse to kiss his cheek and thus, complete her dare. But the child-like look on his face as she told him about the custom of mothers kissing their children’s wounds, was priceless. So innocent. Has he never been kissed by his mother? The mere thought saddens her but she pushes it away as she follows her friends back to her room to continue playing the game. She can’t wait to get her sweet revenge.

It’s seven in the morning and most of her classmates are still asleep. Yaoyorozu enters the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t expect Bakugou and Todoroki to be up so early but then again, they have their rigorous provisional license classes regardless of today being a Sunday. She nods at them in acknowledgement and walks towards the refrigerator, pulling out some tomatoes. She begins chopping them but in her drowsy state she ends up injuring herself, the sharp edge of the knife tearing through the skin of her index finger.

“Ouch!” she moans at the painful sensation. Okay, so maybe an early morning snack was a bad idea afterall. Should she go back to her room to get some bandages. Or should she save herself the trouble and make one right now with her quirk? So then what are ingredients used in the making of a bandage?

Her thoughts are interrupted by her dual haired crush as he’s immediately at her side. Shouto takes her fingers between his own to examine the wound. And before she can even process whats happening, his thin lips are grazing the cut. She yelps and blushes as he pulls back, a small smirk evident on his face.

“There, I kissed it better.” He supplies smoothly and she averts her eyes, her face turning as red as the tomato she was chopping.

“Seriously you two! Right infront of my coffee!?” comes the shouts from Bakugou, whose presence they had failed to acknowledge yet again.

A/N: hello TodoMomo Fam. If you've read this fic, then please feel free to share your views about it via comments ☺

I'm still new to this ship so I'm trying to practice writing these two before starting an actual multi-chaptered fic. I have a plot in mind but I'm still practicing with one shots so i hope you appreciate my contribution to this ship ☺

Until Next Time...

~Manika

#todomomo fanfiction #todomomo #todomomo fanfic #shouto todoroki #momo yaoyorozu #shouto x momo #todoroki shouto #yaoyorozu momo #todoroki x yaoyorozu

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2bstudioblog · 3 years

Text

Konami’s wheels are turning... slowly

Lot’s of interesting news heading to our heads this Monday from what I heard from Yong Yea’s video about Konami wanting to outsource their IP’s to 3rd parties.

Obviously, Akira Yamaoka has kinda given away a strong hint that he’s working on a project with Bloober which in this case would be the long awaited SH remake or the direction they had with PT before it got cancelled. Akira Yamaoka also decided that (too late) he wanted to amend the article from his interview and release it later down the line. It’s very unusual that these news happen, but we all know Yamaoka is most famous for his music in Silent Hill.

Which brings me to a funny story about my own involvement of a Silent Hill game. I mentioned this on a podcast that I was part of 2 Konami-owned IP’s that went into another direction and killing off their franchises which have been like dead bodies in a morgue for the last 7 years.

I got the request to write industrial-metal music for a Silent Hill (of course at this time I only knew the IP and their most famous version of the game has been Silent Hill 2.) game. First I was of course very excited to be part of the series, but I jumped to early until I found out it was a Pachinko-machine (A japanese style pinball-game mixed with a touch-screen and a one-armed bandit and a slot-machine in one.), and my heart sank a little. I think I produced 4-5 cues for the machine, but I’m glad that nobody will be able to hear my “mediocre” masterpieces because all you would hear are metal-balls falling into a tray. But the thing about this machine, it had taken cut-scenes from Silent Hill 2, upscaled or even re-mastered/remade the graphics which would have looked great if it was its own game. But it was the same thing they’ve done with all their other IPs when those transfer over to this kind of entertainment. All what was left of it, Jim Sterling turned the game into a Meme and all I can hear is the -”HIT THE LEVER!” and the effects overpowering the music behind it. But I’m glad it didn’t go further then that. Technically here, Silent Hill(s) died with the arrival of the pachinko-slot machine and the series have tried to re-establish itself ever since.

Another game I was a part of was a Castlevania (Dracula in Japan) themed Pachinko-slot machine, with the revolutionary phrase “Erotic Violence” in it’s PR material and video-commercial. I mean, they took the music production part of this machine very seriously because I wasn’t aware of the “EV” part. I just thought it would be a machine praising the history of Castlevania. I was assigned to re-write and re-orchestrate a few songs from Neo-classical Metal music into more Progressive Metal style, and I was super-proud of this one because they had the sheet-music already available for me. All I had to do was re-arrange some parts for a string-quartet (1 cello, 2 violins and 1 viola) and I believe it was engineered and recorded by famed engineer Kenji Nakai who was under and working with famed engineer Mr Bruce Swedien (Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones).

From that moment me and Mr. Nakai stroke a friendship because he has a passion for Progressive Metal and he asked me if I could send more songs his way. From this we both have been incredibly busy on both of our ends, but I hope we can be able to work on something in the future. I have a feeling that might be soon.

So a long story short, Konami spent a lot of money for recording, they approved everything and we were done. But when it turned out to be a pachinko-machine and not a world-wide videogame release, I just had to facepalm myself, asking the question why they keep doing so many poor decisions. Why leaving all those fans out in the cold and really start making Castlevania mean something. This void of “lots of fancy things, but no substance” started right here...

Konami are turning their wheels a little bit too late and too slow until now. After they got rid of Hideo Kojima (Who I believe was thinking of the international-market rather than the domestic one), Konami had only one thing on their minds: Making money quick and domestically. No more wasted time on translations, straight for the gambling crowd. No need to write interesting stories. No need to introduce kids to this adult material. They wanted to earn it back as fast as possible. But we all see their decisions put them on the map as a “black-company”, who mistreat their staff, shaming them out in the office for overstaying their lunch-breaks. Moving staff from one business to another, from a programmer to a Konami-fitness Center-staff, or as a toilet-cleaner at a Konami-owned pachinko-slot gambling hall. The management of the company has been horrendous for the full-time employee. I’m glad I was not part of these later projects and only wrote stuff for them for Pro Evolution Soccer series from 2009-2012. (My work on 2010-2012 was unfortunately un-credited work. :(

Metal Gear Solid V - The Phantom Pain In My Ass

When the playable teaser called Metal Gear Solid - Ground Zeroes, came out on the PS3 and later on the PS4, it was an introduction for the new graphics engine designed by Hideo Kojima’s team, simply called The FOX-Engine. Basically this “game” was more of a demo rather than a full-product. But it looked great and with a fantastic score by Akihiro Honda, Ludvig Forssell and Harry Gregson-Williams, it had everything going for it to become something really awesome. It became a standard approach from Hideo Kojima now to produce “Playable Teasers” to show a great concept while offering a 3-4 hour short campaign, showing off the engine’s graphical capabilities.

Still, the story was under progress and I knew early on that Hideo Kojima really didn’t want to do it after he always felt that Metal Gear Solid 4 was final. But here is the curse of the die-hard fans, and I’m sorry to say it. No matter how many Iron Man movies Marvel crams out, at the 3rd movie, I started to feel “This does not feel like Iron Man anymore”. But that’s what the fans wanted and is a standard in the movie industry. Always produce a trilogy. Indiana Jones has always been the 3 movies from 1981-1989. The 4th one doesn’t really need to be called Indiana Jones at all. It was there I felt, just like with Metal Gear Solid V, they were beating a DEAD RACE HORSE.

I can’t deny the talents on display for Metal Gear Solid - Ground Zeroes. It laid down some really cool foundations for the gameplay, but I still believe the better game-series for stealth was beaten by the likes of Splinter Cell and most recently Thief. Stealth in MGS has always felt a little bit childish and I only really enjoyed MGS 1, MGS 2, tried to play MGS 3 (still have it one my Vita!) and will try to finish it. MGS 3 has felt like the TRUE Zeroes experience, with the inception of the story and lore behind the cloning of Big Boss. MGS 4 finally brought it all to a great finale and I felt, there is NOTHING more to tell. MGS 1, 2 and 4 is the Trilogy, MGS 3 serves as the Prequel and I see nothing wrong with that.

Mission - Erase Kojima’s Legacy

The making of MGS V - The Phantom Pain is kinda true to it’s title. Can you feel the nostalgia? Or are we just imagining the sensation of a Metal Gear Solid game past it’s prime? The missing link? The missing limb? And with the worlds biggest cop-out of everything that had to do with story was completely missing.

Each mission is playing out every time the same, with an intro to a TV-show, giving away massive spoilers to who would appear in the mission, you do your thing (not so much of story, just a “go-here, do that approach, sneak back out, head to pick-up) rinse and repeat. I wonder how much of this was Kojima’s fault? I don’t think he was up to it. I’m sure he fought for more story but the big heads didn’t want to listen to what makes a MGS game a MGS game. The new management had now already played the hand to disown the man who put Konami on the map for games since the mid 80s.

The game is no longer marketed like before. The tagline “A Hideo Kojima Game” no longer exists and will never be part of Konami’s mission of erasing the person who gave them their fame and the recognition that a game carrying the name Konami was a brand of quality for any gamer out there. Me myself, personally only played PES because of the stellar animations, but its recently since 2012, I stopped playing the series. FIFA had already cheapened itself, PES likewise. Updating the graphics, but the same old animations have been recycled back to the PES3 days. Maybe there’s been an update in the collision engine, but otherwise everything stayed the same, with the huge amount of data collected from previous years of motion-capture, why do it all over when its all about the brand recognition? Saving money on processes wherever possible. Simple Math. And here it is. MGS V is not a MGS game.

We already knew it was going to be a massive budget behind the game of MGS V. But what can Konami do to save money on MGS V? They already have the Fox Engine running from Ground Zeroes. The assets for “Snake” (I’ll let you know why I put quotation-marks around it) and standard models will extend somewhat. Oh, yes, let’s save money on a character that doesn’t speak (Quiet), over-sexualize the character to start a fan-base of people who just dig character design, animated a sexy “shower” routine for the character for boys to go nuts over. What about voice? Let’s not really try to sync the voices to the mouths. Let’s have the guy from “24″ record his performances onto tape-logs. Kiefer Sutherland would have been a good “Snake”, but I understand now that you are not “SNAKE”. The game explains pretty soon at the end that you are just a Medic and all the tapes you’ve been listening to is the original Big Boss. You never where the character of Snake. Even though this all could have been handled better, Konami wanted to save money wherever possible. We also knew David Hayter was not asked or put forward to return as “The Voice of Snake”. But in this case I start to wonder myself, David Hayter might have dodged the biggest bullet in the most expensive, commercial and very controversial game of all time once Konami decided to kill everything that built up their reputation.

Even during production Kojima managed to start working on PT. The game Konami “silenced” after it was released on the PS-store. Guillermo Del Toro and his friendship with Hideo Kojima’s dream-game was put on ice. All because Kojima was about to get frozen out of the company that was according to Konami “Wasting too much bloody money”. I might get blacklisted for saying this, but once the new management started to mess with the other IPs for just domestic/gambling market, that’s where everything went sideways. Konami wasn’t treating their heritage with respect.

It took them 7 years to realize their mistake! And now, for those who wants to be part of 3rd party developers who would get a crack at a new Castlevania, a new Metal Gear Solid (remake I hope), Konami has realized that the only way they will survive (Yeah, Metal Gear Solid Survive killed them HARD) is to let other’s take over. Maybe my dream of scoring a Metal Gear Solid game would be somewhat more possible now rather than working in the confined space of limitations posed by the higher ups at Konami. Let 3rd party developers breathe life into the IPs because I know there are smarter ways to tell a story and I would gladly like to see the return of David Hayter in the seat, without having to deal with the blank-face approach that he was faced with every time he had to audition for Snake in MGS 2, 3 and 4! David Hayter is a fantastic writer, actor and voice-actor. He has the chops and I think we are all ready for either a re-make or a better follow up to MGS 2 and the time between that one and MGS 4.

#Metal Gear Solid V #the phantom pain #Konami #Hideo Kojima #Akira Yamaoka #Yong Yea #Castlevania #Pachinko #Silent Hill #PT #Ground Zeroes #harry gregson williams #ludvig forssell #3rd Party #Bloober team #remake #Metal Gear Solid Remake

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heathsbitch · 4 years

Text

Treat You Better ➳ PEAKY BLINDERS

ii. A NEW FRIEND

Shock, amazement, wonder. All three emotions raged through Ivy's mind. She was speaking to the leader of the Peaky Blinders and in Birmingham! Her father had spoken about them a lot. He always complained that they were getting too big for his liking. He told her that they were a group of gangsters, cut-throats, that doubled as book-makers. He said that they were called the 'Peaky Blinders' because they blinded people with the razor blades stitched into their peaked caps. Ivy had always held a type of curiosity about them and now, she was finally meeting them. It was obvious when the girl thought about it. She knew that she was in Birmingham because of the accents and the smell, a man called Tommy saved her, and it was probably a razor blade that was in the hat. The pieces all slipped into place. But she was also confused for what felt like the hundredth time that day. 'Why would a gang of cut-throats and thieves save me?' She just didn't understand. Maybe her father was lying just because they were his competition? Either way, the girl was grateful that they took her far away from London, even if they were a bunch of strangers. After all, if they couldn't be trusted and were going to kill her, wouldn't they have done it already like Tommy said back in the bedroom?

Her thoughts came to a fast halt when she heard a knock at the door. "Come in." Thomas Shelby ordered. The first glimpse of ginger hair was all Ivy needed to know that it was Finn who had just been beckoned in. He had his eyes on the floor, was he always like this? "You can come closer, Finn. She doesn't bite." Thomas ordered the boy. Finn came closer to the pair but still remained at the bottom of the steps. "Aunt P-Polly is here to see you." He stuttered. "Take Ivy and introduce her to everyone. Make her feel at home, Finn." Thomas instructed and gestured to the small girl before him. Finn nodded, agreeing to his orders and Ivy followed him out of the door. Up close, Finn towered over the girl. He held maybe a foot over her in height but despite his height, Ivy didn't find him intimidating in any way. Thomas stopped the teenagers before they could get all the way out, "Ivy. If you have any questions, I'm sure Finn will be happy to answer them."

"Okay. Thank you, Thomas." She responded before walking out of the door. They walked back into what was definitely their betting shop. Now, only four people remained: three men and one woman. "Um, I've been asked to introduce you all." Everybody's heads snapped towards Finn and Ivy. They all waited for Finn to speak. "This is Arthur, my oldest brother." A slim man with a moustache nodded to say 'Hi' and the girl returned his gesture with a smile. He then pointed to the man with the wonky hat and pout "That there is John, my other brother." He winked at Ivy and a red tint appeared on her face."This is Isaiah, he's the son of the preacher." A tall boy with dark skin walked up to the pair. He raised Ivy's hand up to his lips, bowed and kissed it. She snorted at the action and whispered a small, "Hi." Finn finally pointed to the woman in the room. She was fairly short with curly brown hair. She was standing next to John. "This is Esme. She's John's wife," Ivy gave her the same smile that she had given to Arthur earlier. "And everyone, this is Ivy." The people in the room gave her a nod or a smile and she returned the favour. "I'm Finn, as you can probably tell," He laughed when he spoke. "I'm the youngest out of the four brothers." Ivy's eyebrows furrowed, "Four?" she questioned as he had only said that John and Arthur were his brothers. "Yeah, four. Me, John, Arthur and Tommy."

"Oh, Thomas is your brother." He just nodded as a simple reply. "I also have a sister, Ada. But she lives in London." The small girl smiled at the thought of a good family, a safe one. Something she had longed for for a very long time.

Everybody else in the room went back to their previous conversations and Ivy continued to talk to Finn, she thought that he seemed sweet, kind. "So, how old are you and Isaiah, then?" His eyebrow twitched at the mention of Isiah's name. "Sixteen." He told me. "I'm fifteen, sixteen in a couple of weeks." She said to him. 'At least we have a few things in common.' A blanket of awkward silence rested over the teens. None of them knew what to say next so, Ivy tried to fill the silence, but she regretted the question as soon as it tumbled from her lips, "Do you guys actually blind people?" She mentally slapped herself for her stupid question. Luckily, Finn wasn't looking at the girl any more because her face contorted into one of regret and embarrassment. "What?" He chuckled at her question, she didn't think that he heard it. "It's fine, forget it." She replied all too quickly. "No, no, I wanna know now." He persisted and looked into her icy blue eyes. She, reluctantly, repeated her question "D-do you guys actually b-blind people?" He didn't laugh again and answered it seriously. Finn didn't look offended or confused at all which was a mental 'Hooray' for Ivy. "Um, sometimes, if we need to. Our job isn't all about blinding people though. We're book makers but sometimes we need to get our hands bloody." He didn't seem phased by the question at all.

"Have you ever blinded someone?" She mentally slapped herself again. 'Why am I asking these stupid questions? He's going to hate me.' She mentally scolded herself. Finn snorted, maybe he could see the regret plastered across the poor girl's face? "No, I've always been 'too young' for that kind of business." He made air quotes when he said the words 'too young'. Ivy's head bobbed when she listened to him, she liked his accent. It was slightly softer than a cockney one. "Have you ever done anything like that?" Blood; covering every crevice of her once-pure mind. The memories came back again. The bodies came back again. Ghosts and demons followed her every move, ever since that day; even before she had run away...

"Why did I say that? You're a lady of course you haven't." He placed his head in his hands. "You'd be surprised," The girl responded simply. Finn's eyes widened. "What?" She asked, worried that she might scare him off. "Don't look so scared," He assured her, "I'm fed up with all the prissy, whiny girls 'round here. It's finally nice to meet a girl that can actually stand up for herself." A grin emerged on her face. "Thanks."

"Do you wanna go sit in the house? It's a bit loud in here." She nodded at his proposition. "Sure." Ivy followed him into the main house and what she assumed was the living room. It was dark and followed the scheme of the rest of the house; dusky furniture with an orange tint in the air. Two plush sofas rested in the centre, all partially illuminated by the light of the fire. Finn seemed to be gaining more confidence the more that the pair spoke. "Are you close to your family?" He asked her as they sat on one of the sofa's together. She tensed at his question. "I-i'm sorry Ivy. I-i-." She cut him off. "It's okay. You don't need to apologise to me, Finn." The girl could've sworn that Finn had got closer to her as they talked, but she thought that it was probably just her mind. "Did you have a boyfriend? Back in London?" Her eyebrow rose in suspicion, "I-I'm just trying to fill the silence and get to know you better." He defended himself but stuttered in the process. "Some would say that you're trying to flirt with me, Finn." His entire face turned to the brightest shade of red, even the tips of his ears changed colour. "N-n-no. I-i was just curious." All of his confidence flew out of the window. "Relax. I was joking." He nervously laughed but still pursued an answer to the question. "So did you?" She grinned and licked her lips, "No, my father would scare all the boys away." She didn't want to explain further.

Finn nodded, as if understanding the girl's struggle. "Yeah, I can relate to that. All the girls are scared of me, being a Shelby and a Peaky Blinder scares them all away." She gave him a sympathetic smile and put her hand on his shoulder. "They say girls are attracted to 'bad' boys, Finn." A voice startled them. The teenagers both bounced away from each other. Thomas stood at the door with a smirk. How long had he been standing there for? "I'm going out to deal with some business," There was that word again, 'business'. She could tell he threw that term around a lot; so did her father. "Arthur's in charge so behave you two." He slipped out of the door and they both looked back at each other. The pair didn't move back to their original positions, they sat there, more awkward silence blanketed over them.

Somebody burst through the doors, causing their heads to snap towards the noise. "Jesus. Who died?" Isaiah joked as he came in, referencing the un-lively nature of the room. He sat down on the couch next to Finn and Ivy. It was a fairly small sofa which meant that Ivy was sandwiched in between the boys. "You're name's Ivy right, kitten?" Isaiah asked the girl in a strong Birmingham accent. "Yeah." She simply responded, slightly taken back by the nickname. Ivy's heart thundered against her chest, surely this couldn't end well.

They talked for a couple hours. They laughed and joked. By this point the boys had brought in a spare bottle of whiskey from the kitchen. They were swiftly making their way through it whereas Ivy took light sips, not wanting to get too drunk in front of people that she'd just met. The boys didn't care about that fact though and alcohol worked its way through them; intoxicating them more and more with every gulp. They no longer had a filter on what they were saying. Ivy had learnt that Isaiah was a bit of a lady's man. Well, he liked girls, he liked them a lot. "Wait, so you're saying that even if you loved the girl, you still wouldn't let her take control?" Ivy quizzed the preacher's son. "Yeah, I'm not sexist, kitten, don't worry. It's just the thought of having a girl so in love with you, that you're irresistible to her; the thought that she would do absolutely anything to please you."

"You guys are fucking weird." Finn downed his drink in one. His jawline became more prominent when he threw his head back. They sat in silence for a while; it was warm and comfortable. They were still sat on the couch with their heads thrown back. The boys both had their legs wide open and a glass of whiskey in hand meaning Ivy was very squished in the middle of them. "Ivy?" Finn started, "Yes, Finn?" His head turned to face the girl, she could feel his hot breath on her face. "Don't suppose you can sing, can ya? I love a girl that can sing." She laughed at his comment, "I can actually, I think. I used to sing all the time when I cleaned the bakery for my dad." Isaiah joined in on the conversation, "Give us a little sing-song." He encouraged. "Fine," She complied and stood up, "But don't complain if it's shit." The boys hadn't moved from their previous positions but they looked so tempting from this angle, the alcohol was clearly getting to her. 'Seriously, you need to drink something to satiate your thirst.' She scolded herself once again and reached for Finn's glass first. She necked his drink then she stole Isaiah's. They both looked at each other, eyebrows raised. It was a song Ivy had heard Ezekiel's wife sing before, it was a beautiful song. She just hoped she could do it justice. Ivy used her feet as a beat and began to sing.

"Like a river, like a river Shut your mouth and run me like a river, How do we fall in love? Harder than a bullet could hit you, How do we fall apart? Faster than a hairpin trigger,"

Ivy put as much emotion as she could possibly muster into singing. She thought of all the pain her parents had put her through over the years, all the tragedy and petty feuds between them. The song lasted a couple of minutes and when she was finished the boys sat there in silence. Ivy hung her head in embarrassment, of course it sounded terrible. "That was really bad, wasn't it?" She asked them. "Fuck no, Ivy. That was... well it was incredible." Finn stood up and gave Ivy a hug as a single tear slipped from her eye. "Thank you." It had been a long couple days and the girl just wanted to sleep. Isaiah hugged her when she sat back down on the sofa.

The next few hours passed quickly as all three teens had passed out from the whiskey. But their slumber was cut short when someone had come bursting into the room. Arthur had woken them up by shouting incoherent words. "Arthur, slow down." Isaiah tried to calm down the eldest Shelby brother. His hands rested on Arthur's shoulders and quick breaths left his mouth. After a couple more breaths, he forced out what he was just shouting about.

"Tommy's been taken to hospital."

iii. HOSPITALITY

MASTERLIST

#finn shelby #harry kirton #michael gray #finn cole #alfie solomons #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #smut #fluff #treat you better

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kamalbestbuy · 5 years

Text

Better Habits

a Smile For Me fanfic

Relationship: Habismal (Habit + Kamal) Friendship

Genre: Hurt/comfort x2

Setting: either post-pacifist ending or post-neutral ending where only the kiss is given.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501333

Who is he now? 'Boris Habit' doesn't seem to fit anymore. The peck of the florist had clearly traveled up, up, up to his nasty brain and planted seeds of clarity, yet he simultaneously finds himself more confused than he'd been in years.

So much time and effort dedicated to a faulty dream. His dream, his identity. All of it, his fault. But now he knows the best thing to do now is to accept his wrongs and try to make the world a better place despite himself.

Yes. That's what Boris Habit would do.

So why can't he find the will to move?

A noise draws his ears as soon as he thinks that and he slowly moves his gaze toward the sight of familiar shoes and pants. The footsteps don't stutter or hesitate in their path to where Habit's slumped against a wall.

Well, it did make sense for Kamal to keep an eye on the kid that stayed behind, and the sound of Martha's chugging is noticeably gone too.

After the kid had headed straight to his elevator, Habit figured there had to have been a plan proposed by the only one who knows how to access his office and wasn't stuck behind a hole. For all the fretting that came from the guy, Kamal has always struck him as more grounded than him.

Kamal is so smart and kind.

Kamal is so close by. No more footsteps.

The dentist takes a deep breath and finally looks up at his face.

His arms are crossed. The image of the stern-slash-nervous assistant brings on a wave of nostalgic fondness. Almost painful in light of everything happening between them. However, there was one thing that surprises Habit, and that's Kamal's eyes.

"How do you feel?"

No glaring. Weary and critical, but nothing as hard as hate.

"Also, do you like, still feel aligned with the Habitat's purpose at all?"

"No, not at all." Tears are budding at the corners of the dentist’s eyes. "But, Kamal... why does someone like you want to talk to me instead of, say, running away as soon as you turned Martha off?"

Kamal nods. "Well, I figured you’d change your mind, though it wouldn’t hurt to hear it in your own words... but that didn't answer my first question, Habit. I'll answer yours later."

Assertiveness from a nervous assistant… he deserves that. Right.

Habit's eyelids droop to a close.

"I feel stretched apart to the seams,” he whispers. “I do not know what parts of me to care about, which to throw away and which to keep. Who I should be."

"That… is very vague."

Unbeknownst to Habit, Kamal fiddles with the bottom of his shirt despite the stern tone he kept. "Can you elaborate?"

"I don't know. It's like... I wasted many years to a bad cause. So if I now want to “make up” for lost efforts, I should want to act more like the florist since that helps create smiles, yes? Yet I'm so tired. I want to leave it up to them." Habit brings his knees up to his chest and lowers his head without much effort. Sleep creeps closer the more he thinks about what's causing the hole in his chest.

There's a pause in the conversation as Kamal thinks it over.

Suddenly the two men startle and glance toward the direction of the elevator as it chirrups its arrival back up. They exchange wide-eyed looks.

"O-oh." Kamal clears his throat. "I pressed the button in preparation before coming in."

Right. The kid's definitely gone by now. Now there's just a criminal dentist and a heroic assistant.

The strange situation coupled with said criminal dentist's vulnerable expression seems to get to Kamal and he snorts.

Then sighs.

"You... say you aren't feeling up to your evil deeds anymore," comes a reply as he goes to lean against the wall next to his former boss.

"That's good. But, Habit... you were venting. Like. A long drawn out vent to someone whose quarter-set of teeth you yanked out just a few moments ago. And then you say you don't want to help people just 'cause you think you're not up to the job. Those facts sound seriously bad, so I-I'm telling you 'cause I hope they'd sunk in."

Habit flinches. He hadn't even noticed about the venting, it had all spilled out of him without much push. A sudden dread propels a whirlwind of thoughts to clutter his mind, all with the theme of 'maybe the horrible-ness is ingrained too deeply at this point and I'll keep hurting people's smiles'.

He couldn't nor wouldn't defend his actions, nor could he remove the word-blocking lump in his throat. So. Just a nod.

"Buuut... hey, look at me you big lug."

The dentist reluctantly obeys.

Kamal stares at him, then gives the whole room a brief glance (resting heavily on the 'No Hitting' posters) before coming back to bore into Habit himself. "But. You acknowledge you aren't free of guilt and said you'd commit to getting better, and that's also a thing. Plus, evil-you did have the sense to administer anaesthetics, and you did help put their teeth back in place… somehow. Thank god for your mushiness."

With a shaky finger, Habit sweeps a tear away. "S-so, then, I'm not going bad again?"

"Nah, you're not perfect but the apology I overheard sounds about fine. Your plan to betterment sounds about right to a non-expert like me, though even if it's not it's still a definite step in the right direction. You've got opportunities to correct it anyway. A-and... it's fine to want to get away from all this for a while, so much went down and you deserve a rest. Physically and emotionally."

Kamal's grin is small and shaky, yet in Habit’s eyes it lights up the room. "That's a... 'healthy'? 'Heroic'--no, 'happiness'. A Happiness Fact."

Too overwhelmed to speak, Habit comes up close and--lending ample time for the other to move away--hesitantly pulls the shorter man into a firm hug. A muffled squeak burrows into his thick coat.

Fireworks go off in his chest. Oh, Kamal. So small and worried yet so brave and grounded. Flower Kid had been the same, too... they're beyond good friends to him and he'll do his BEST to help them and his head is spinning with every good thing he could possibly say about them ever, but for now Habit just loosens his hug, taps Kamal's shoulder, and gazes into those questioning eyes as he says,

"It's called a Happiness Fakt."

"That's what I said?" A laugh spills out, lilted high in what Habit recognises as relief.

Well, of course--that shouldn't be a surprise to him. His assistant is brave, but in the end Kamal was still confronting an unstable jerk after so much time trying to avoid him.

"Um." Kamal's amusement sobers curiously quick when he sees the dentist giving him a tender look. "So... a-and of course you've gotta apologise to the habiticians, which I can make time for helping you with if necessary. Though you'll probably do fine."

'Wait', Habit thinks. 'Before that though. Before all of that.'

He acts without thinking, abruptly pulling away from the embrace. Only to kneel and hold the other's hands in his, to Kamal's visible shock.

"I should've said this before hugging you. I'm deeply sorry for the hurtful things I did and said to you, and I wouldn't mind helping you when I can. Thank you for sticking with me despite it all, Kamal."

Kamal's body turns to stone with the exception of his gaze flitting back and forth from his hands to Habit's.

"W... wow, look at you, being on your path to virtuous living... by the way, you knelt down so fast that your hat fell. S'right there."

A nervous energy radiates from him as he turns away to take the hat off the floor, then faces the dentist with a faraway frown.

His fingers caress the leather brim of the hat thoughtfully. "I appreciate the apology, doctor. Honestly, I... don't think I can accept it yet? Though that doesn't change my decision ‘cause I've been believing that you've got good intentions, it’s just that the methods for those intentions are weird and downright violent. Manipulative and, and… well. Fuckin' scary."

Habit looks away, propping up a neutral but not un-kind expression.

"But now that you're trying to get better my belief is confirmed... that florist led you to the right path, something I now want to help with too. So it makes sense to 'stick' with you... or at least to check on you constantly. If I can somehow make your recovery smoother."

"Call me Boris."

Blinking slowly, Kamal locks eyes with the other man. "I... Whah?"

Boris has a tiny beam on his face and a painful yet good feeling in his heart. "I swear that I'm not taking your feelings or the gravity of what I did lightly and I'll try harder to show that. I... I get now, that I made you frightened of speaking your mind. It must have taken much of your determination to do what you did, and that's unfair because you're allowed to be against me! Because anybody would be a hundred percent justified in not forgiving me. Or even just helping me, you're not obligated to do that at all. Thank you.

"See, even now you've helped so much." He lets out a weary chuckle. It's Kamal's turn to look away this time. "Yet I've been calling you by your first name for so long… you deserve my first name at this point! Especially if you'll be around."

Kamal doesn't instantly reply, once again deep in thought. His furrowed expression isn't one of hurt, distrust, or anything bad as far as Boris can make out. Hopefully.

He straightens up and once again glances toward the elevator's direction.

"You’ve done great," Boris repeats.

Actually, he's still lost in a way. He doesn't know what matters most about the person he is, should, or will be. Or what he'll do to help the world.

And to know he isn't forgiven hurts like a dagger, even if he himself doesn’t forgive his actions yet--it makes him wonder who else won't forgive him.

However... the future feels more tangible now. Almost like he could make it out of the dreary present without crashing and burning. He could ask about himself later when he's got energy for a conversation like that. And he won't run away from his issues, not with Kamal, the Flower Kid, and several others Boris could ask help from. Even if he doesn't know who the others will be yet.

Plus, not being forgiven doesn't mean he can't find help! Even if Kamal and the others can't or - justifiably - won't help him later on, there's others that can. Boris gently takes his hat while still wearing a smile, his lightheartedness rising as Kamal's face slowly begins to ease up too.

The old Habit spiralled down thinking he was the only person who could bring about his dream. One last big mistake if he could help it.

"See you later, Kamal."

"...I mean, I'm going down too, Boris you dummy.'' Kamal snorts again, shaking his head as he walks past Boris to the elevator. A corner of his mouth is quirked upward. "Let's go together, yeah?"

There's laughter bubbling in his chest as he goes after Kamal.

"Of course! :-)"

#long post #my writing #smile for me #kamal bora #boris habit #dr habit #habismal #sfm #smile for me game #sfm spoilers #omg i cant believe i finally did it i postd writing here!!!#nyways this was ahah kinda vent and u can tell - i hope its good!!#also idk if theres any more errors in it.. i'll have to edit them in the morning if there are. please let me know of any

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