#the lack of emotion i felt..... unparalleled | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

irenethewoman · 7 months

Text

Mrs. Shelby - Chapter 10 - Comeback

Masterlist Fic Masterlist Join Taglist Taglist:

@noirrose21-blog

@ell0ra-br3kk3r

June 1920, London

I watched as unfamiliar buildings flickered past on the familiar streets. Even though I was back in London, everything still felt unreal, like the events of escaping home and marriage were just from last night.

The Barton estate was located in Belgravia, and the familiar white villa stood proudly on the street. Led by a servant, I ascended the stairs and sat in the drawing-room, waiting.

The furnishings seemed unchanged; my mother's picture still hung on the wall. She remained frozen in the past with her beauty. After five years away from the trends and expensive cosmetics, I wondered how much of Elizabeth Barton's dominance in London's social season remained on my face.

Five years ago, in haste, I left without taking her photo. Over these years, whenever I looked in the mirror, I felt she had vanished from me.

"Mother..."

It wasn't like my mother and I were close. At home, she seemed like a faint presence. The upbringing of the four of us siblings was handled by the governess; Dad occasionally offered guidance. With chefs, maids, housekeepers, and Dad's private lawyer, the affairs of the house didn't concern her. Her existence seemed solely for birthing and being a beautiful hostess, adorning her beauty with her husband's wealth. From my earliest memories, the most common praise for her was, "Your mother is truly a stunning beauty." Even after her death, people still reminisced about her. Beautiful, unparalleled beauty. That's all Lady Elizabeth Turner Baroness left in this world.

I looked at the photos for a while, then sat on the long sofa by the window, looking outside. The streets were deserted, filled mostly with cars, devoid of the lively atmosphere of Small Heath. The streets here were clean, spacious, and orderly, everything I knew, but I couldn't find the sense of belonging to a home here.

I heard footsteps and turned my head. My maternal grandfather walked shakily, supported by two men. One should be his only grandson, my cousin Adam Barton, the other man I didn't recognize.

Looking at the old man, I felt a mix of emotions. For a moment, I didn't know how to face him. He had once shown me around his factories, introduced me to his business partners, and would always bring us little trinkets when he visited Turner Manor. But it was also him who, when I had no way out, ordered his son to send me away when I knocked on his door, his cold attitude treating me like a stranger worker striking in his factory. For five years, he didn't care about my whereabouts, allowing me to disappear from the world.

It was also him who, suddenly after five years, desperately searched for me, wanting me to come back and inherit his legacy.

I looked at him, tears streaming down, finding it somewhat amusing. A person of his age acting out this play in front of his juniors.

But I still cooperated and squeezed out a couple of tears.

Then he joyfully introduced my cousin to me, speaking with an intimate tone that gave me goosebumps. The boy was only 17, still studying at Harrow, but he looked bewildered, lacking the shrewdness of his grandfather.

He enthusiastically expressed how much he missed me, going from my mother, who passed away ten years ago, to me, my foolish brother, and my deceased younger brother who should have inherited the title and had a promising future but unfortunately died.

He circled around the topic so much that everything he said seemed superfluous. I couldn't get any information from it—except what I already knew.

I couldn't sleep.

This was my bedroom. I lay on the soft bed, dressed in comfortable silk pajamas, the fresh scent of flowers lingering on my nose. Everything was quiet, and there was no noise outside. There was also a bedside lamp that could be turned on at any time.

But I couldn't sleep. I wanted to go back to Tommy. Even if it meant squeezing onto a small bed with him, lying naked on rough cotton sheets, breathing in the smoke from his body, occasionally hearing noises from outside, we could only rely on the moonlight to see each other clearly.

I stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about everything in Birmingham. It would only make it harder for me to fall asleep. I counted sheep in my mind. After counting to three thousand and fifty-six, unable to endure the agony of insomnia, I put on a coat and left the bedroom.

I wanted a glass of whiskey.

In the study, I met my maternal grandfather's personal lawyer, Edward Collins.

He looked surprised to see me.

"I can't sleep, so I came for a drink," I explained.

He nodded. "What will you have?"

"Whiskey, Irish."

Collins seemed quite interested in me. I could see him stealing glances at me.

I could understand. A female heir who disappeared for five years and suddenly reappeared, it was quite attention-grabbing. Everyone would be curious about her story and then gossip about her misfortunes or good fortune.

I didn't mind telling the story if the audience could give me an equivalent return.

For example, the content of my maternal grandfather's will, the current situation of the Turner family.

I turned my head, coincidentally making eye contact with Lawyer Collins.

His hands twitched nervously, and his young face turned red.

"How long have you been working for my grandfather?"

"Since... since I graduated."

Since he graduated... I had no interest in when he graduated. I rolled my eyes silently in my mind, continuing to ask him, "Do they still have connections with the Turner family?"

If he was smart enough, he should understand what I was asking.

I saw him gulp down a big mouthful of alcohol and choked.

Well, he was quite clever, and his mouth was sealed tightly.

"What are his next plans? You can tell the truth; I am his heir."

"Miss, you might as well directly ask me about the contents of the will," the young lawyer smiled bitterly.

Since the conversation had reached this point... I nodded, finished my drink, and got up to leave.

My maternal grandfather, after my return to London, never mentioned his plans, treating me as if I were just a guest he invited.

He always liked to intentionally or unintentionally let me interact with his grandson, allowing us to be alone. Let me teach him piano, guide him in painting, and so on. It seemed like the more I got in touch with this inexperienced little cousin, the more he thought I would fall in love with him.

Lawyer Collins gradually became my late-night drinking companion. Although he still refused to reveal a word about the will, I roughly guessed something from our small talk—my maternal grandfather wanted me to marry into the Barton family, to marry this boy who hadn't even entered university.

Since he didn't say it explicitly, I pretended not to know. The expenses of staying at Barton Manor didn't come from my wallet, and my maternal grandfather cared more about the title of Baron Turner than I did—whether the future mistress of the Barton family would be Miss Turner or Lady Turner made a big difference.

So, what was there for me to worry about? Good food, good drinks, living comfortably in Barton Manor, enjoying the life of luxury and leisure that belonged to me.

Maybe because I had no family affairs and business to worry about these days, I felt like I had gained weight.

It wasn't just me; my maternal grandfather noticed too.

Finally, during dinner, he subtly brought up the society ball. He chose the ball hosted by the American ambassador for my comeback.

Now was the end of London's social season. In his view, I didn't need to find a suitable husband; I just needed to use a platform to announce that Miss Turner had returned to the London aristocracy.

It was also a declaration of war against the Turner family.

For me, it was harmless, and I could wear fashionable and beautiful dresses and jewelry. Why not go?

"Diana Turner!"

I gracefully entered the ballroom.

According to the information Lawyer Collins told me, my sister Helen had married a common politician two years ago, and she was now Lady Burgess—an underage Lady Burgess, something only that scoundrel William could achieve. So, the only Miss Turner in all of London was me.

Even after five years away, I was still adept at self-indulgence and socializing.

In the luxurious ballroom, I chatted and laughed with the aristocrats, enjoying the feeling of being the center of attention.

Night after night, I reveled in luxury.

After attending the ball hosted by the American ambassador, invitations for other balls poured in. Turner Baron's family once again became the talk of the town. People, like hyenas catching the scent of meat, tried to get a share of the Turner family's fortune.

Among the visitors were my Aunt Miller, Uncle Jacob Turner, paternal uncle grandfather, and other relatives.

They claimed to be willing to help me inherit the estate.

"They speak so high and mighty, as if they're willing to help me," I sat in the tasting room, shaking the glass in my hand. "But it's just because they think I'm a young, single woman, and after inheriting the estate, I'll be ready to be divided."

Lawyer Collins, hearing my words, nodded in agreement. "Forgive me for being blunt, Miss, but your sister Lady Burgess is indeed easily manipulated by her husband. With Mr. Burgess around, they probably can't extract much from this couple."

He said it politely. I, during these days of socializing, heard a lot about the Burgess couple: the stingy and shrewd Mr. Burgess, and Helen, like a puppet, capricious and with her brain merely for decoration.

"So, that's why they came to me." I tilted my head back and finished the drink.

My maternal grandfather, after my return to London, never mentioned his plans, treating me as if I were just a guest he invited.

So, what was there for me to worry about? Good food, good drinks, living comfortably in Barton Manor, enjoying the life of luxury and leisure that belonged to me.

Maybe because I had no family affairs and business to worry about these days, I felt like I had gained weight.

Finally, he gently mentioned the comeback dance to me over dinner. He chose for me the dance given by the wife of the American ambassador meeting. It’s the end of London’s social season. In his opinion, I don't need to find another husband, I just need to help him A platform announced to the dignitaries in London that Miss Turner had returned. It was also a declaration of war against the Turners. For me, there is nothing wrong with this, and there are fashionable and beautiful dresses and jewelry to wear, so why not go? "Miss Diana Turner!" I walked into the banquet hall. According to what Attorney Collins told me, my sister Helen was married off by our brother two years ago. Ordinary politician, she is now Mrs. Burgess - the underage Mrs. Burgess, well, the only one who failed was William. Things that only human beings can do. So I am the only Miss Turner in London. Even after being away for 5 years, I still know how to enjoy and socialize without a teacher. In the luxurious banquet hall, I chatted and laughed with the dignitaries, enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by stars. Shengsing and singing every night, drunken and ecstatic. After my high-profile appearance at the American Ambassador's wife's ball, invitations to other balls began to flow in. turner of chelsea The Baron's family once again made a family affair known to the whole city. These people were like hyenas on the scent of meat, trying to get the most out of the Turners' Get a piece of the inheritance. Also visiting were my aunt Mrs. Miller, uncle Jacob Turner, cousin, and other relatives. They said they would help me inherit the inheritance. "You heard what they said was high-sounding, and they looked like they were willing to help me." I sat in the tasting room, shaking my head. Wine glass in hand. "Just because they thought I was a young single woman, after I inherited the inheritance It can be divided up. " Attorney Collins nodded in agreement after listening to my words, "With all due respect, Miss, your sister Mrs. Burgess does In fact, he is a person who is easily manipulated by his husband. With Mr. Burgess around, they probably wouldn't be able to get out of this couple's life. 10/2/23, 3:18 PM Mrs. Shelby 10 Comeback – Vanessa’s Poplar https://xinruoxiangyangwuweibeishang257.lofter.com/post/200277e1_1cc09bb9f 6/8 How much property is extracted from the government. " Everything he said was polite. I have also heard a lot about Helen and his wife at dances these days: Stingy Congressman Burgess, a shrewd and mean-spirited man, is like a puppet, with a moody temper and a brain just for decoration. Helen. "That's why you found me." I raised my head and drank all the wine in the glass.

The red brick house at 10 King's Road has remained unchanged in five years, standing tall on the Thames just as it has for more than two hundred years. He stood aside, silently observing the people coming and going inside. It is history itself. I was born and raised here, watched my parents die, was imprisoned, escaped for freedom, and now fight for Come back for revenge. I pushed open the study door, and the people arguing inside stopped and turned to look at me. Their expressions are interesting Extremely. "You…" William's eyes widened and he staggered towards me. He must have thought that over the past five years I had Buried in some unknown corner. I sneered in my heart, but didn't show it on my face. I smiled gently and warmly. It seemed that our relationship was really good. I really miss him. "Long time no see, my dear…brother."

#cillian murphy #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction

17 notes · View notes

otaku-tactician · 1 month

Text

i dunno i had to post my reflection, even if nobody agrees on it. i always felt like my perspective of fate cu chulainn was always very clouded by how epic a hero he is and his unparalleled self confidence... but those are skills that one usually builds upon and works hard for. what am i saying lmao whats happening 😭😭😭 i think I'm trying to say my perspective of him was lacking in a lot of depth....

but i feel like this impacted my fics on cu Chulainn. i always felt like something very serious was missing when i wrote smut about cu, and i think i get it now. my fics only ever focused on his surface self, the cocky sexy ass man with a heroic and kindhearted side who can be either a pragmatic, dutiful warrior or very hotheaded and emotional depending on the circumstances involved... 😔 if i ever write fic in future (doubt it) maybe I'd try to humanise him more and show his more awkward sides LOL

#personal on fgo

2 notes · View notes

prince-toffee · 2 years

Text

The Word That Broke The Camel’s Back

Linda Lori was a genius, truly a genius. Unparalleled in her field of robotics and mechanical engineering. Etheria was a medieval world, lacking innovators of science, scientists were a rarity. People like Linda were waved off, they can only thrive in their own separate niche and fringe pockets. The Makers Guild was a pocket as such. It was the only scientific organisation on the planet. It made them outsiders, yet it made them a spectacle, something to look at, to examine, like an animal at the zoo.

The Makers Guild was an assembly of Etheria’s greatest scientific minds, there weren’t many, but those that were there were masters of the laws of the universe. Linda was a part of The Guild’s Board, each member of the board was in charge of a different function; Linda was in charge of finance for the organisation. And as she returned home she was in a quite a good mood. Her colleagues had thrown her a surprise party, which she already knew about, for which she was very thankful. Little did she know her mood would shift drastically.

Lori locked the front door behind her, she wobbled into her beautiful kitchen (she might’ve been slightly drunk). She then closed the door to her kitchen behind her, and she threw her handbag off onto the kitchen table. She fell onto a dining chair. She pulled out her data-pad, and began typing on the touch screen. She was sending messages to a fellow colleague:

Airon: Congratulations on seven long years with The Guild. Toast to many prosperous years to come! Hope you enjoyed your party, too bad Sharon-loose-lips had to blabber it all out.

Linda: I appreciate it, Air. That and the booze. HA.

Airon: By the way, have you taken care of... our problem?

Linda: Don’t worry, Air. Pigtails is long gone. You just enjoy your vacation. It’s all on lockdown. I’ve already wrote and released a statement that The Guild has ‘distance ourselves from the Princess of Dryl’ that ‘we were not aware of her unethical projects and that she brings shame upon this establishment’.

Airon: You always were a poet.

So the funding’s cut, right?

Linda: Cut. Money’s back in our pockets.

And we threw out all her garbage, thank the Queen.

That woman wasn’t normal. Gave me the creeps.

SHE BROUGHT THE WALLS TO LIFE! THEY BREATHED!

What a psycho.

Airon: Good riddance.

Then Linda hear something inside her own house, she looked up, she gasped in shock and panic.

It was Entrapta.

“Hi, Lin.” She said with a smile, on most days it was a genuine one, she always seemed like she was happy to be alive, but today and now the smile felt cheeky. Less of a smile, more of a grin. The presence of the mad scientist almost made Lori jump out of her chair. The short purple woman wasn’t there, in front of her, just a second ago. Was she? Linda would have definitely seen her even while slightly drunk, right? Lori knew Entrapta had a history of slithering about unseen, sneaking around and scaring people. Plenty of HR complaints.

Lin stumbled over her own words, “En-Entrapta, where- what- what are you doing in my house!?” Half anger, half fear. You’d fell a strange mix of emotions too if someone had broken into your house.

The other woman just looked around the dining room and the kitchen which were linked together, “Nice place by the way. Real fancy.” Entrapta lifted herself up from the chair and wondered around the room, she walked over to a shelf placed off to the side, on top of which was a golden trophy, out proudly on display – it was a miniature statue of Lin. At the base of the trophy, it was etched: ‘To Linda Lori, one of our brightest minds, The Makers Guide is honoured to have you. This award is gifted for the creation of the replicating nano-bot matrix, and bringing our better tomorrow one step closer.’ Entrapta picked the award up and she was seething. “Real tacky.”

“How did you get inside my house?!”

“Oh please, your security system is amateurs’ work.” Entrapta casually insulted her, and her skills. Linda grabbed her keys, and planned on making a run for it to the front door, and get as far away as possible from the mad woman. But Entrapta warned against it, “I wouldn’t, Lin. The house is surrounded. Your best option is just to sit back down, and have a nice talk with your old pal.” She spoke with her regular high-pitched, nasally voice like always, but something about her betrayed it as... unhinged.

Lori sat back down. She scowled at Entrapta, she grimaced, “What is this all about, Entrapta? Why are you here?! What do you think you’ll gain from this?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Lin. You seem stressed, worried- Why? You’ve done nothing wrong, well, as far as the world knows. So, why are you stressed?” Entrapta asked.

“Because there’s a crazy person in my home.”

“So many questions, here’s one of mine: Do you believe your innocent? Huh?” Lin remained silent, still angry, “Do you think you deserve this trophy, this award? Hmm? Do you?”

Lin looked like hellfire was fuming under her pale skin, her eyes looked like they were about to shot lasers out of them. She inhaled and exhaled. “Yes.” That response was what made Entrapta fuming. She slammed her gloved hands onto the table, rocking it. “Ah, so that’s why you’re here.” Lin got it.

“You will make it public knowledge that the self-duplicating nano-bots are MY creations!” Entrapta was angry, truly angry. Because you see, Entrapta and Lin were lab-partners, they didn’t work on the same projects, they simply shared a laboratory together. Entrapta was one of The Guild’s best, most talented members.

All her life Entrapta was an outsider, alone, the world into which she was born alienated her – her home was alien to her. Her interest- no, her love for the sciences drove her away from everyone she ever met. People of a magic world often saw technology as lesser. As something you didn’t know what to make heads or tails of. The people of Etheria had no interest in examining the laws of the universe, not if they could just break them. And so she remained alone, with no one to share her passion with.

Until The Makers Guild. She submitted a request to enter the organisation, and they accepted her. And for the first time in her life. People with parallel ambitions, and equivalent curiosity. She served for a good few years with The Guild – she created machines that were unimaginable to regular minds – and she was given no limits and no judgement, she had free reign to create anything; from the bizarre to the impossible. And it was never a problem, until it was.

With her normal day to day routine at the lab she met a fellow scientist named Lin, who was in the middle of developing a way to digitise currency, to store it and safeguard it out of reach and made it easy to carry large amounts of money with you at all times. Entrapta was uninterested in such an idea, but she was kind to Lin. Every day she would say her hellos to Lin and throughout the day they exchanged pleasantries, and though Entrapta never took much interest in her projects, Lin took great interest in Entrapta’s work. Entrapta was ecstatic about that, so excited she could share her theories and bounce techno-babel off of other similarly minded individuals. Entrapta thought that she had finally made a friend.

She was wrong.

“This, all of this, it’s laughable, Entrapta. You think you can strongarm me into giving you credit?! You broke into my house! I’m assuming, I’m reading in between the lines here, that you’re threatening me, are you insinuating that you’ll hurt me?!” Lin unloaded on Entrapta, in truth she had no cards left to play. But Lin had heard the rumours, which had spread across the lands, the rumours that Entrapta The Princess of The Queendom of Dryl had joined The Etherian Horde. A mad genius, one of the smartest, recruited by an evil army of darkness rolling through the continent, planting their flags wherever they went. If those claims were true Lin was in trouble. She was quite frightened. But she put on a brave face, “This. Is. Pathetic. All of this is foolish. Really, Entrapta? How childish of you.”

That was it, it broke her. That word: childish. That was what broke the camel’s back. That was what brought forth her rage, her wrath, her fury. She had heard that word many times throughout her life, many times it was used to berate her. Her whole life was littered with instances when that word resurfaced to describe her, whether it was meant as an insult or not, it always stinged. Entrapta didn’t have many memories of her parents, but those that she did have were riddled with interactions where the following happened:

Baby Entrapta would get curious about something – She’d do something, anything – Her parents would find her, ignored her arguments and explanations, ignored how smart and clever their child was – The parents berated their bright daughter – The ‘childish’ word came out – It hurt, every time – Baby Entrapta teared up – Baby Entrapta got grounded for talking back – The pattern repeated, over and over again, the word was a constant, it repeated.

But it didn’t stop at her parents, the word followed her all her life, through the years. She was no longer a child, even in her twenties the word found her, her so called friends at The Guild found her annoying and irritating at times. Entrapta’s curiosity and wonder and awe of the scientific and the unknown wasn’t appreciated. Entrapta’s hyperactive and energetic nature was looked down upon. She was judged for it. Hated for it.

You see Entrapta had autism, either hyper-focused or incredibly distracted, socially awkward and incredibly friendly and talkative. Entrapta was a gifted mind, but she had no one to help her discover who she was and how she worked, she was alone. And she often chose to be alone, because she found opening up would alienate her. Even now in her thirties the word burned her.

Entrapta could never be herself... until Hordak.

But before Hordak there was Lin, before the real there was the fake, the lie, the play pretend.

Lin was nice, nicer than most, and curious just like Entrapta herself. She asked Entrapta about her projects and experiments and theories. And Entrapta openly talked about them. Entrapta loved that there was someone who she could talk to, discuss with, someone on her level who understood what she was saying and contributed to the conversation and not just nodded along. Finally, she met someone who thought like her. Finally, she made a friend.

Lin always brought coffee for Entrapta every day from the cafeteria, and they’d just talk. But there was something off, Entrapta should have seen there was something off. Lin never asked her how her day was, she never complemented Entrapta, only her work. She understood the techno-babel and engaged with it, but she didn't empathise with Entrapta as a person, didn't understand her hardships, didn't really listen to her troubles. Lin didn't want to spend time with Entrapta because she liked her or because she felt like a kindred spirit. But because Lin saw her as a useful tool.

Entrapta soon realised that, but not soon enough, not before it was too late. One day Entrapta just woke up and before breakfast her life was in shambles. Her funding was frozen. The locks to her lab at The Makers Guild headquarters were changed. And most insultingly, they transferred all her experiments over to other scientists. And all mentions of Entrapta, her name, was erased.

When Entrapta found Lin and began to breakdown in front of her, telling her that they took everything from her, Lin just laughed. Laughed at her. She mocked her. Lin knew about the lab, it was her who did it. It took a moment for Entrapta to understand what was happening. Her friend was laughing at her, berating her. Telling her that it was all an act. Calling her a freak.

That was when Entrapta had picked up a letter opener and was about to plunge it into Lin's skull. Security dragged her away, kicking and screaming. “I'm going to kill you!” She vowed.

Lin snapped Entrapta out of her thoughts, “You think threatening me, getting credit for your experiments, is going to somehow repair your public image, make people forget that you're a psycho freak!? You're with The Horde! No great scientific achievement can fix that. Look, Entrapta, just- just let me go, and I promise I won't tell anyone about this, this is pointless, this won't do anything for you. Please, Entrapta, think logically about this, just let me leave.”

Entrapta wasn't even looking at her. She had her head down, she was staring at her gloved hands fidgeting with the golden award on the table. The mad scientist looked as if she was still deep in thought, daydreaming. She wasn't. She was never this quiet, it was so unnatural for her, it was... scary.

“Entrapta?”

“You can go.” Entrapta replied simply.

Lin was actually shocked by the response, but before she could begin to question it she got up and walked off to the kitchen door. She placed a hand on the nob and attempted to turn it to open the wooden door. But it didn't open, it was locked, somehow. Lin jostled the nob in irritation. “What the-" Lin couldn't finish her sentence before a huge metal armoured hand blasted through the door and grabbed her head. And pulled her in as she screamed at the top of her lungs. To most people the screams would have sounded horrifying, but to Entrapta it sounded like vindication.

Entrapta and Hordak would set off that night to burn down The Makers Guild headquarters and cement Entrapta’s revenge. They both later on would consider it their first date. And they would go on many more. And Hordak promised to aid her in her journey, whether it was revenge or moving forwards with new experiments and creations, whichever form that took he would be there. All he desired was to be around her, with her. He didn't understand it at the time, but the warlord was falling in love with the purple scientist. And she was with him. He understood her, did not judge her, liked her. He was her friend.

#entrapta #hordak #oc #The Defects #entrapdak

6 notes · View notes

gobboguy · 6 months

Text

**Chapter 34: Secrets of the Swordmasters**

The halls of Farfield Castle exuded an ancient elegance, their stone walls adorned with tapestries that depicted heroic battles and legendary creatures. Dim torchlight flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to whisper the castle's forgotten tales. The air was heavy with the scent of polished wood, leather, and the faintest aroma of candle wax.

Alden followed Ionia, his eyes wide with awe as he took in the grandeur of the castle. "It's always a suprise at how magnificent it is, even after all this time," he murmured, his voice a hushed reverence.

"Indeed, the craftsmanship is exquisite," Ionia replied, her tone absent of sentiment as she led him deeper into the heart of the castle.

As they walked, Alden dared to address the subject that weighed heavily on his mind. "Ionia, I don't understand. Why do Swordmasters harbor such animosity towards non-humans? Why this prejudice?"

Ionia glanced at him, her eyes cold and unwavering. "Swordmasters are bred and trained to achieve unparalleled mastery over their bodies and minds. Our discipline is an art, a skill that only humans possess. We believe that our ability to attain such perfection makes us the rightful guardians of our kingdom."

"But that doesn't justify hatred," Alden protested, his voice tinged with frustration. "Surely understanding and acceptance should prevail."

"Swordmasters are taught to prioritize the survival and superiority of our kind," Ionia said, her gaze never leaving the path ahead. "We believe that our rigorous training elevates us above all others. Non-humans lack the inherent physical and mental capabilities that define us."

As if to emphasize her point, Ionia subtly demonstrated her mastery, wiggling a single muscle in her nose, transforming the shape of her hand tonnearly twice its size, and controlling the length of her fingernails. Alden watched in silent awe as she held her breath, her chest unmoving, for almost ten minutes before exhaling with deliberate ease.

"It's not just about hate, Prince Alden," Ionia said, her tone softening slightly. "It's about preserving what we believe to be the true essence of humanity."

Alden pondered her words, his thoughts a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions and understanding. In that moment, he realized the depth of the division between humans and non-humans in their world—a divide that threatened to shatter the fragile peace they had fought so hard to maintain.

"So, why are you convinced that there's something amiss in the castle." Alden asked Ionia after a beat.

"Considering the lack of urgency around the matter and the amount of blood I can smell on these walls," Ionia's pace was quick and Alden struggled to keep up, "I believe there may be a master vampire at work."

Alden hesitated, his voice laced with concern. "But surely, if there was a master vampire within the castle, someone would have noticed by now. People don't just disappear without anyone realizing."

Ionia's expression remained impassive. "Master vampires are experts in the art of hypnosis. They can cloud the minds of those around them, inducing them to overlook strange incidents or attribute bizarre occurrences to mere accidents. The residents of the castle could have easily been manipulated to create explanations for the disappearances."

Alden's mind raced back to a chambermaid who had vanished without a trace a few months ago. The incident had been brushed aside, the assumption being that she had chosen to leave and live with distant relatives. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach as the realization struck him.

"But can a master vampire feed without killing its victims?" Alden asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ionia nodded solemnly. "Indeed, they can. A master vampire possesses the finesse to feed without draining a person entirely. They can take just enough to sustain themselves, leaving the victim weakened and vulnerable, but alive."

Dread settled over Alden like a suffocating shroud. His thoughts turned to Eleanor, his beloved wife, and the life growing within her. If Ionia's suspicions were correct, Eleanor was in grave danger.

Alden's voice shook as he spoke, his concern etched across his face. "We must do something. We must find this master vampire and put an end to its malevolent deeds before it harms my wife or anyone else in this castle."

Ionia's eyes gleamed with a resolute determination. "Agreed, Prince Alden. We will uncover the truth and eradicate this menace, even if it means confronting the darkness within our very walls."

That might, Alden's heart was pounding in his chest as he approached Eleanor, his mind plagued by the troubling revelations. He found her in the laying in bed as usual, her eyes fixed on a stain on the rug in their room, marring the otherwise elegant rug.

"Eleanor," he said, his voice a gentle caress, "there are rumors of a vampire haunting the castle. Do you have any idea how it might have gotten here?"

Eleanor's eyes, usually filled with warmth and kindness, now reflected a deep concern. Her eyes remained locked on the strain, her pupils tracing its outline as if trying to decipher a hidden message.

"I can't fathom how this happened," she replied, her voice soft but resolute. "I've heard whispers among the staff, rumors of strange happenings in the castle. Some even speak of a malevolent presence lurking in the shadows."

Alden clenched his fists, his determination solidifying. "Ionia, one of the Swordmasters, believes a master vampire might be behind these incidents. They have the ability to manipulate minds and cover their tracks, making it difficult for us to uncover the truth."

Eleanor's eyes widened in alarm. "A master vampire? But how can we protect ourselves and the kingdom from such a powerful foe?"

Alden took her hands in his, his touch gentle yet firm. "We cannot let fear paralyze us, Eleanor. We must face this threat head-on and find a way to counteract the vampire's abilities. Ionia is resourceful and knowledgeable; she might hold the key to unraveling this mystery."

Eleanor nodded, her trust in Alden unwavering. "We will face this together, my love. For the safety of our child and the kingdom."

Alden's fears gripped him. There was no telling if the vampire had been targeting Eleanor or not but Alden was not about to let this monster stalk the castle unimpeded.

Alden pressed a tender kiss to Eleanor's forehead, his resolve burning brighter than ever. With their determination united, they would confront the darkness lurking within the castle's walls and protect their loved ones from the looming menace.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #SongsofPower1

0 notes

serenitychronicles · 11 months

Text

The Beauty of Discover Joy in Not Knowing Others' Stories

In the year 2023, amidst the vast landscape of the 21st century, technology has surged forward with unparalleled momentum. We find ourselves immersed in an era where the lives of others are but a click away, transcending borders and boundaries. Although it may not mirror the extravagant realms portrayed in Tere Liye's "Bumi" series or the whimsical gadgets gracing the world of Doraemon, this newfound ability to delve into the lives of both acquaintances and strangers alike represents a form of modern sophistication.

It is as if this digital tapestry holds the promise of a more effortless existence, making our daily lives seemingly smoother. Yet, as we venture further into this realm, we begin to witness the weighty consequences that accompany such advancements. As I have pondered before, the most striking facet of this sophistication lies in our capacity to observe the lives of others, to weave connections and unearth their narratives without the need for direct interaction. However, beneath this veneer of positivity, a darker force takes hold—an addiction, gnawing at the core of our being. Yes, addiction. A relentless hunger to perpetually surveil and uncover the intricate details of others' lives, forever in pursuit of that next morsel of information.

I don't want to be hypocritical; I, too, have indulged in the art of 'diligent' stalking. There were times when curiosity gripped me tightly, yet I lacked the courage to engage in direct conversation. Sometimes, someone whom I initially had no interest in stalking suddenly mentions an accomplishment, triggering curiosity that leads me down the path of indulgence. Or perhaps, it's the stories shared by others that ignite a spark of curiosity, eventually tempting me to delve into the realm of stalking.

Yes, this is the cycle of our fascination with knowing the lives of others. Love, longing, and even hate can fuel this desire. However, we must remember that stalking may grant us glimpses into others' lives, but it often makes us forget about our own. We become so absorbed in observing and yearning for the lives of others that we neglect to appreciate our own blessings. Especially when the allure lies in the excitement of worldly affairs. Yet, the Prophet Muhammad shallallahu 'alaihi wassalam once advised Abu Dzar,

أَمَرَنِي خَلِيلِي صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ بِسَبْعٍ أَمَرَنِي بِحُبِّ الْمَسَاكِينِ وَالدُّنُوِّ مِنْهُمْ وَأَمَرَنِي أَنْ أَنْظُرَ إِلَى مَنْ هُوَ دُونِي وَلَا أَنْظُرَ إِلَى مَنْ هُوَ فَوْقِي

'My beloved, the Prophet, ordered me to abide by seven things, among which were: [1] to love the poor and keep close to them, and [2] to look at those who have less than me in terms of wealth and worldly possessions, rather than constantly seeking comparison with those who have more...' (Narrated by Ahmad)

Perhaps jealousy is a part of our human nature, but the greatest challenge arising from frequent exposure to the pleasures of others is when we develop animosity towards them simply because of the blessings God has bestowed upon them.

Let's not overlook the emotions of those who are being stalked. Some may remain oblivious to the fact, feeling little impact. However, for those who discover they are being observed, it can be an unsettling experience.

I recall a moment when I was sitting with a friend, not exactly best buddies who know each other inside out, but we shared moments and exchanged thoughts. We engaged in light-hearted conversations, always careful not to delve into sensitive topics to protect each other's feelings. Then, out of the blue, my friend asked something that felt like a secret only someone tracking my activities would know. You know that feeling? It caught me off guard, realizing that my friend had been monitoring my actions. And it wasn't just a one-time occurrence; it happened repeatedly. Moreover, I noticed a competitive streak in my friend, intensifying the discomfort. While some may shrug it off, there are individuals who value their privacy, especially when it comes to deeply personal matters. Since then, I've come to the realization that it's best to refrain from stalking others and have started limiting public access to details of my personal life. We may question why others are so eager to know every detail of our lives, why they feel the need to pry into matters that are not their concern.

In the tapestry of life, where connections intertwine, there is a captivating beauty in embracing the unknown, the stories left untold. It is in this realm that we find solace and enchantment, as we let go of the constant need to know about others. Instead, we focus on our own personal growth and achievements, cherishing the present without comparing ourselves to others.

By embracing the beauty of not knowing others' stories, we free ourselves from unnecessary distractions and discover contentment in our own lives. So, let us find joy in releasing the desire for constant knowledge, and uncover the true bliss that lies within us.

#social media #islamdaily #beauty #joy

1 note · View note

pooma-education · 2 years

Text

|| Dr Sekar Seenivasan: Sir, why continuous and comprehensive assessments are better than annual/board examinations atleast upto secondary level. Shall we discuss this topic?

|| S. C. Vohra: In my opinion CCE was the best system ever introduced in our country. Unparalleled. Please also discuss why it died untimely death. Where we went wrong in properly implementing such a wonderful system ?Was it a systemic failure? I’m really keen to know the views of learned members.

|| Sangeetha Thyagarajan: That's true sir.

In my humble opinion CCE died because

- the mindset of parents remained with troubling students to work hard only once a year during finals to be promoted to a higher class.

- parents and students found it stressful to be active participants in all academic activities throughout the year.

- many teachers found the periods between assessments too short to complete portions and conduct revisions.

- academic staff spent too much time doing evaluations rather than active teaching.

- workload was more for all stakeholders.

- training for CCE was inadequate or lacking in most schools.

Thus, though it would've been a more holistic and cognitive educational system it died due to lack of preparation.

|| Dr Sekar Seenivasan: Lack of teachers ability to do cumbersome documentation.

Now with modern technology it could have been simplified.

|| Dr. BALA SUBRAMANIAN: Is knowledge or quality of a student is given by number or by ranks, Is in a real life is ranks and score which is expected is in expected level.

Is expected is expecting and when can numbers realy reflects rhe expected.

In India, systamatic is a very difficult or challanging part.

Need a lot of time to change from the conventional employees.

Many don't want to move a Centimetre from their given task. Dedication is the word one can see only in the dictionary.

Only 20% worry/serious for the remaining 80%, and it has revise the ratio

|| Dr Sekar Seenivasan: One of the best rubrics in CCE is maintaining Anecdotal records for all students. Speciality in this being records made from all stakeholders like students other teachers parents society and all.

I wish to share one interesting episode.

During CCE awareness meeting for students and parents i elaborated this point once and asked them to report the class teachers the best quality observed on any students and that records moves from class to class after promotion.

Next week an auto driver approached one class teacher of 8th standard and narrated the following.

One student by name Ramya of class 8th observed her classmate Girija was absent for more than 10 days.

Ramya contacted the autodriver and learnt from him that Girija was suffering from typhoid fever.

Ramya started writing all class notes and assignments for Girija and along with her mother or elder sister reached Girija's house ever alternate days,briefed her about school happenings and made Girija felt ease.

This character of empathy by Ramya to Girija made the Autodriver Mr Shanmugam feel so excited about schooling and real values of learning.

In the annual day he obtained permission from principal and addressed the gathering with emotion. He also referred the annecdotal records maintained at the school.

The chief guest immediately gave a cash honorarium of1000 rs to that driver for bringing this to teacher.

Also the Chief guest called both the parents of Ramya and Girija along with the class teacher to the stage infront of huge gathering around 2500

and congratulated Ramya for her deeds by offering a shawl and flowers with fruits. There was standing ovation. I could not control my tears.

Such great things occur in schools under CCE.

|| AZEEZ: Neither the system nor the executees failed to implement CCE in our education system.

Teachers were given various training and made to understand the uniqueness of the system. They were ready to adopt it and followed it. Exceprionals were there. Still The users/ beneficiers failed to understand it and made it failed. Use it or lose it - the choice is given to the users. They lost it.

The reason is:

The students have to be treated like children and it is very important to understand that every child has its own capacity and capability.

Undue pressure and unnecessary stress or constant evaluation is still predominant factor of India’s education and for bringing out the shy students out of their shell, there has to be a lot more improvement in all the studying patterns in the country.

¶ The flip side of CCE Pattern:

A lot of people, including the students and teachers believe that the CCE pattern introduced by CBSE has a lot of disadvantages instead of the positive points.

¶ Here is the flip side of the CCE pattern:

• The grading system is its biggest disadvantage because students scoring 90 and 99 marks are both kept in Grade A+. There is no segregation

• Grouping together of a large number of students is another disadvantage

• A lot of people argue that CCE makes the students take their boards lightly

• Students are forced to study all round the year, which in a way, is like giving no rest to them. Each and every activity is monitored constantly

• The internal exam papers are evaluated by school teachers, which means that there is a huge possibility of favouritism

• Endless projects and students’ dependency on the Internet is hampering their creativity in a way, with no outside knowledge

• The students have a casual approach towards re-evaluation as this option is readily available for them

• There has been an introduction of language labs for conducting listening and speaking classes. However, a lot of schools do not have the infrastructure and facility for the same

Even though CCE is a radical concept in the reformation of education system in India, but the disadvantages need to be addressed in a right manner so as to bring about a real, genuine and positive transformation to the education patterns with reduced stress over students.

¶ Strengthening CCE:

The following would be a few practical suggestions to strengthen the implementation of CCE;

* The number of assessment activities should not be excessive that they may not become counter-productive.

* Evaluation needs to be integrated with the process of teaching and learning, so as to provide feedback to the teacher regarding appropriateness of instructional strategies and evaluation techniques and modify as per need.

* Completing syllabus in the class will be meaningless until a child acquires some basic competencies in that subject. Syllabus should be concept based rather than skill based.

* CCE should be made the mode of evaluation in order to realise the instructional objectives.

|| Cosmos Ennu Kawa: 1. A very common occurrence among students is that they get extremely stressed out due to exams to the extent that some even stay up all night just to revise that one chapter in which he/she has a problem. CCE is a very useful tool that can be used to reduce the anxiety or fear which clouds learners minds whenever examinations approach nearer.

2. The CCE evaluates the learning needs and abilities of learners. With CCE, students can constantly test their abilities and put their best foot forward. The CCE allows teachers as well as learners to identify the areas where they need more help.

3. CCE helps facilitators to systematize their strategies for effective teaching and learning. Continual evaluation allows the facilitator to detect weaknesses and identify certain students' learning styles. By identifying a lersner's learning difficulties on regular basis, it helps in improving learners performances.

4. CCE is child-centred and treats each lesrner as an individual. It aims at building on the unique abilities, strengths, and development of each learner.

5. Continuous and comprehensive assessment which is a crucial part of evaluation structure helps to assess the progress of the learners.

6. The CCE provides facilitators with various assessment activities that allow them to diagnose learners' defects. Whenever a facilitator gives feedback of assessment activities, he/she helps their learners identify problem areas and provides feedback and supports to help them improve their performances.

|| Madhumita Jana: Good morning to all educators !

The suggested view points of every elite educator is very apt and worth pondering over.

I feel CCE is an excellent positive tool of school based evaluation that involves all the parameters of a student's development. As we all know growth is a continual process hence there can not be a better system than CCE to monitor the growth of a learner academically and non - academically.

Anything that is a continuous practice and exercise will definitely be difficult but that will definitely bring about a remarkable change in one's mindset. CCE is not just an evaluation for students but an evaluation for the mentors & facilitators too. The thinking skills , observation & decision making is enhanced in the evaluator. The facilitators will have to continuously make a biased free judgement to help in the all round development of a child .

If the documentation of the evaluation is systematic & well planned , I think CCE then would be a success .

All we need to practice is "Learn, Unlearn to Relearn " .

0 notes

captain-harpo · 3 years

Text

Finishing Draft 1: wow..... the beauty... the circle.... the love i feel in this moment.... i must reflect

Finishing Draft 2: *throwing computer in the trash* don't talk to me don't look at me get the fuck away from me and good riddance

#the lack of emotion i felt..... unparalleled #writing #captain's log

1 note · View note

wkemeup · 4 years

Text

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You're not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead.

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was... happy.

Dark army green was torn like rags as his shirt barely hung off his shoulder, exposing the blood and grime covering his skin beneath. Silver dog tags hung at his sternum; muted in their color, lacking the shine they once possessed, though they chimed against one another with each of his steps. He settled outside the Colonel’s tent and as he slouched to the wooden post, they fell behind his shirt. The last remaining tie to his identity nestled by his heart.

You could spot the trail of blood from his left ear, a light scruff covering his cheeks and jawline, bruising under his eyes from a lack of sleep and over exhaustion, but it was his hair that drew your attention; short, swept over his forehead and parted to the right. Its messy strands that did nothing to cover his eyes even as he dropped his chin to his chest and lit the cigarette he’d nestled between his lips.

You knew who he was, heard stories from Steve and read the articles hung in the Smithsonian; stories of what he was like in his youth, before the fall, before Hydra twisted and warped his mind and mutilated his body. And yet, none of it prepared for the laugh that echoed through the courtyard as he waved at an old friend at the center of the crowd surrounded by men who once mocked him, now lifting him on their shoulders for bringing hundreds of their men home alive.

It was him, and it wasn't.

Your Bucky.

You almost forgot why you were standing on a military base in a newly Allied Italian war front in 1943 as Bucky shook the hand of a soldier as he passed by. You recognized him from the drawings on Steve’s desk and the old faded photo album shoved into Bucky’s nightstand drawer.

Dum Dum Dugan.

He was taller than you pictured, rougher around the edges too, but he had a kind smile and a laughter that bolstered through the camp.

It was like a scene from the film clips they used to show you in school; ones of soldiers huddled around campfires in the middle of a war zone, reminding you how incredibly human these men were, that they weren’t just numbers in a fatalities list. They were real and significant in their entirety. They had hopes and dreams, fears and families.

Focus! This isn’t a field trip, you reminded yourself sharply, the words of Director Fury echoing in your head.

There was a file located in the Colonel’s office, the contents of which well above your clearance level, though it wasn’t your business to know what it contained or why Fury decided to risk sending an agent back to a war two of the Avengers’ current members barely survived. You were a part of SHIELD long before you were an Avenger, so you knew how to follow the chain of command. You didn’t ask questions.

Get the file. Get the hell home.

But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Bucky.

He was laughing again, taking another drag of a cigarette you’d never once seen him smoke in your time as he talked with another one of the Commandos. Jim Morita, you thought. He seemed happy, relieved even, and as Jim made his way to the nurses’ tent, Bucky pushed the lighter into his pocket, pulled the cigarette from his lips with a puff of smoke, and paused.

He narrowed his eyes in your direction, a slight tilt of his head, and you realized your mistake when ocean blue caught you staring from across the open green. A smile slowly curved up broken lips and your stomach plummeted because suddenly he was jogging towards you, dog tags bouncing against his chest with every step he took and there was nowhere for you to escape.

You shoved your gun to the waistband of your pencil skirt and draped the back of your jacket to conceal it. It wouldn’t be surprising for you to be carrying a weapon, not with the uniform you wore indicating you were on rank with the likes of Peggy Carter, but it wasn’t a gun Bucky would recognize. It was from your time, one you did not ever travel without, and the technological advancements wouldn’t be easy to explain.

When Bucky reached you, he pulled to a slow stop and casually ran his fingers through the short mess of hair, pushing it back to expose his eyes, the dirt lining the creases in his forehead, and the bruising above his brow. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth as he looked you over, eyes trailing down to your shoes before returning to your face, a heavy sigh on his breath and he leaned on the wall beside you.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around, doll,” he said and even the tone of his voice seemed different from the man you knew. Lighter, maybe. Confident. Flirtatious.

He smirked, a whistle on his tongue and he seemed a little winded as he shook his head. You wondered if he felt your connection to him, knew the depths of your care for one another before he’d even met you, but you pushed the thought aside quickly.

Wistful thinking.

“Don’t think you’ve been around for a while, Sergeant,” you replied steadily, because even though your heart was racing and your stomach was twisted to knots, you were still an agent and you knew how to manage your emotions and keep your panic hidden behind the surface.

“I guess you saw the welcome wagon, huh?” he chuckled, turning back to the crowd as they continued to gather around Steve.

It was almost as strange to see Steve from this time as it was Bucky. He had the same kind of innocence that the Bucky standing before you carried now. He hadn’t lost his best friend yet, hadn’t made the decision to trade his life for the people of New York and bury himself in the Atlantic, hadn’t missed out on a lifetime with a woman he cared so deeply for, could even grow to love.

Bucky faced you again and you saw it in his eyes, too.

It was hope, you realized. They were still holding onto it.

“Just glad you made it home safe, Sergeant Barnes,” you said evenly, trying not to focus on his left hand as it raked it through his hair. There was a scar on his palm that ran along his lifeline, red and angry and in need of treatment. There was dirt caked under his nails, in his knuckles, dried blood on his wrist, and you resisted every urge to reach out and grab it just to feel the pulse of his heart in his fingertips or maybe even the warmth of his skin.

You were used to cold and metal and you let yourself wonder what it would be like to be held by these hands, hands that were completely and entirely Bucky’s, hands that he didn’t despise and held away from you like it was something outside of himself, like it could act of its own accord and hurt the woman he wanted so desperately to touch with nothing but a tenderness he hadn’t known in decades.

“Please doll, it’s Bucky,” he requested cheekily. He waited for a response, though when he didn’t get one, he was unbothered by the silence.

He twisted the cigarette in his hand, twirling it like a baton and you were mesmerized by the way it danced through the fingertips of his left hand. It dropped ash as it flipped between his middle and index finger.

“So...” he drawled, amused by your trance, “do I have the honor of your name as well?”

You snapped your eyes away from his hand to find that smirk across his face again. It was one that felt strange to you, foreign almost, from the Bucky you knew. It was confident, charming, but there wasn’t a trace of arrogance or presumption. It was the smirk of a man who could still manage to flirt with a woman moments after returning to a camp he was captured from weeks prior. He was quite proud of himself and it read on his face.

“Y/n,” you finally admitted, watching him carefully as he repeated your name, testing it on his lips, and it still sounded like honey and silk. It seemed to be one of the few things that felt constant between these versions of Bucky; your name on his lips, in his voice, as he smiled at you. It was still as sweet.

“Y/n is a lovely name,” he said, “suiting for a lovely woman.”

Steve had mentioned this Bucky was a charmer in stories of their youth. Each time it was brought up, your Bucky would shake his head, roll his eyes, maybe even blush a little as he sank down into the couch as Steve recounted the dates he used to go on, the women he’d bring to Coney Island, the dance moves that could make any woman swoon.

You’d ask him about it, tease him as to why he didn’t take you dancing and win you comically large stuffed animals with his unparalleled marksmanship. He’d brush it off and say it was all luck of the draw but you know better than that. He was a flirt in these days and as handsome as ever, even with blood dripping from his ear and scars on his face. You couldn’t imagine a woman who would turn down a man as charming and beautiful as he was.

You wondered how much Bucky remembered of these days, if he could still recall the one-liners and the flirty comments, or if it felt distant, like he was watching something outside of himself, standing behind a glass wall and simply observing.

He was sweet with you, teased you behind closed doors and made your heart soar, but you couldn’t imagine a world where he would seek you out amongst a crowd, not knowing your name or face and flirt so openly like this.

Your Bucky retreated to corners of crowded rooms with a drink in his hand that did little to relieve him from the anxiety in his veins. He nursed a bourbon as he sought out open spaces away from the overstimulation of music, chatter, glasses on bar tops.

He was quiet, reserved, and favored whispering jokes in your ear that would have you rolling with laughter over saying them aloud for the room to hear. There was an intimacy in it and you were thankful for every glimpse he gave you past the demons who had come to obstruct his heart.

But this, this Bucky, the light-hearted charmer with a world of pain ahead of him, was not a man you ever expected to encounter firsthand.

Over his shoulder, a group of men called his name. He rolled his eyes, trying to wave them off but they only yelled louder, hollering and whistling as he tried to shield you from their teasing.

“I suppose I’m being summoned,” he grunted reluctantly.

You glanced back to his friends, Dugan, Jim, and Steve among them as they waved frantically at him. A smile etched to your cheeks, knowing that this was his element, beside Steve when he didn’t have the shadows cast over him and he could live in a moment where he just might see himself as one of the good guys.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” you smiled at him, enjoying the way his brows pinched together as he shot a glare back over in his friends’ direction before he turned back to you and let his features soften again.

“Will I see you around?” he asked, hopeful and eager, and it took you by surprise.

You didn’t know what else to say so you nodded, eyes glancing to the Colonel’s office. You had a mission to complete. It was the reason you were sent back to this timeline in the first place. It had caused enough problems when Fury assigned you; Steve arguing as to the necessity of it, Bucky leaving the room abruptly without another word. You hadn’t even been able to track him down before you left and you’d never once gone on a mission without saying goodbye to him.

You supposed that for him it may only be a few seconds, but you didn’t know how long you’d be stuck in 1943. You missed him terribly, even when he was standing right in front of you.

“I’ll find you again, then,” he said with a wink. He put the cigarette between his lips again, thought he didn’t light it, and jogged back to his friends. He paused halfway, turned back to you with a simple salute, a shake of his head like he was surprised you’d gone along with his flirting, and then, his back was to you.

Tears burned in your eyes before you felt the lump in your throat.

For a moment, it was easy to forget that he was just coming off of weeks behind enemy lines, that he already had the serum running like toxins in his veins; the same Hydra concoction that would save his life when he fell from the train a few weeks later and would allow him to survive long enough to endure decades of torture.

You knew this Bucky carried demons, that he wore a mask the way everyone else did. You knew that there were times that he smiled just long enough for someone to notice before they turned away and his eyes fell downcast to the floor. You knew that he joked and flirted and laughed because how else was a man drafted to a war he never signed up for supposed to cope with the blood on his hands.

They were different masks than the ones the Bucky you knew carried, but they still shielded the pain underneath. The masks you were familiar with were overflowing and demons seeped through the cracks and broke into his soft moments of relief. They were weathered and breaking in your time but he still tried to wear them, still tried to put on a brave face despite the monsters in his dreams and swarming in his past.

This Bucky could still hide his demons.

This Bucky, who smiled so easily, was almost nothing like the man you knew.

But he will be.

Your heart broke for the time in between.

***

Seventy-two hours. That’s how long Fury said you’d need to obtain the file. Seventy-two hours maximum. A load of bullshit that turned out to be because two weeks later you were still trapped in the heart of a world war.

You’d managed to avoid Bucky as much as possible, though that proved rather easy as he’d gone off with Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos liberating Europe and punching Nazis. But the times in between, when they returned home and regrouped for a day or two, he’d spend his first hour at camp seeking you out while the rest of his team was catching up on sleep.

He was persistent, you’d give him that, but he was never forceful. He’d simply talk with you as you tended to the tasks assigned to the cover you were portraying. He’d lounge out on the grass while you cleaned weapons or follow you through the bunker as you alphabetized personnel files, asking you questions about your day, trying to convince you to get dinner with him at the mess hall, telling you dramatically inflated stories of his heroism on the battlefield that made your stomach ache with laughter.

You understood why Steve was so determined to help Bucky get back to how he was before Hydra. He was incredibly endearing, outgoing, witty. Your Bucky still had those things but they were in pieces, strung together with scotch tape and staples. They were muted a little, but they were still there, scratching at the surface.

It had been a few days since you saw Bucky last and you found him again as you walked right into the square of his chest on your way out of the Colonel’s office, file absent in your hand because yet another day had gone by without any sign of the document.

Hands quickly dart out to grab onto your forearms and he chuckled lightly under his breath, steadying you on heels you were entirely not used to wearing; an era appropriate necessity, Tony told you. You would have like to throw one at his head right about then.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” Bucky grinned, stepping back to give you space.

He had a few new scrapes and marks on his face, but otherwise he looked unharmed. His smile was enough to tell you he hadn’t been injured enough to require medical attention. There wasn’t a pinch in his brow indicating pain, at least.

He brushed his hands off on the thighs of his pants and judging by the mud on his boots and the rifle draped over his shoulder, he hadn’t even made it back to his tent before he came in search of you.

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes,” you replied and despite the way he was smiling so sweetly at you, teeth biting down on his lip, you swerved around him towards your own tent.

“Call me Bucky,” he reminded you, stepping aside for you to pass, though he followed your pace.

“Well, Bucky,” you said, clenching your hands, “it’s good to see you safe. You should get to the med tent, don’t you think?”

“Later,” he shrugged, waving you off, cheesy smile on his lips. “I wanted to see my best girl first.”

It punctured right to your chest and though you knew he was teasing, that he was flirting innocently and smiling when he could be giving into the harsh realities of war, it hurt. It hurt because you saw pieces of your own Bucky in him and knives embedded and broken through skin with every laugh, every smile, every word he said, because you knew how quickly it will be taken away, how hard it will be just for him to find small pieces of this and let his guard down long enough to let even Steve in again, let alone you.

There was a guilt that festered and boiled deep in your stomach, that physically ached and burned. You knew too much about his future, about the things that will happen to him that would rip that sweet smile from his face and turn him inside out, until it took decades just to find the will to live again. You could hardly look at him without tears springing to your eyes.

You thought about telling him, about warning him of what would come and maybe create a new timeline where he was free from Hydra, where he might go home from the war and see his mother and sister again, maybe meet a woman he could love and have a few kids. But then you remembered Tony’s warning, that certain events were fixed and what happened to Bucky that day on the train, would never be changed. There was too much history riding on it.

Your sweet Bucky was fated to Hydra from the start.

"There’s a dance tonight, you know.”

Your heels dug into the grass and brought you to an abrupt stop, balance wavering somewhat as you held your arms out to the side. Bucky chuckled, that smile of his so bright it was almost blinding and he quickly jogged back to you. He offered a hand and you took it just long enough to pry your heels from the dirt.

You tried not to focus on the feel of it; the callouses on his palms or the grip of his fingers, the warmth in his hand or the fact that it was made of flesh and not solid metal. You let go as soon as you were able, though he didn’t seem to take any offense.

“Just a few of the guys are going,” he continued to say, pushing his hands into his pockets. He seemed nervous as he swayed in his stance and brushed his hand through his hair. “Thought it could be fun and, well, don’t know the next time I’ll get the chance to ask a pretty girl to dance with me.”

A pink rose in his cheeks, light and flushed, and it surprised you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sergeant Barnes,” you said slowly, voice almost a whisper and his smile didn’t falter for even a moment.

“Bucky,” he reminded you again. So persistently charming.

“Bucky,” you repeated, “I don’t think it’s--”

“When was the last time you did somethin’ for fun, doll?” Bucky whined playfully, slumping his shoulders until you swatted him on the arm. He rubbed at it with a laugh in his voice. “I promise it’ll be a good time. You have my word.”

“I have work to attend to,” you argued, though your resolve was fading quickly. You never liked saying no to Bucky, even from your time, but it was the innocence, the hope, intertwined in shades of blue that made it that much harder.

“Come on, darlin’,” Bucky smiled sweetly at you, a crack in his lips and a bruising on his cheekbones, still as beautiful as he’s always been, “we’re shipping out to the Alps tomorrow and I don’t know when I’ll see you next. Just one dance, doll, and I swear I won’t ask you for anything else in my life.”

Your heart skipped. “The alps?”

Bucky nodded, pursing his lips. He lost his playful smile for only a minute as it melded into the solemn, determined expression of the soldier you’d seen memorials painted of alongside brick buildings in Brooklyn.

“We were able to confirm Zola’s on a Schnellzug traveling along the Danube River,” he said, quite proud. “We’re gonna bring the bastard in and put an end to this war.”

Your throat was dry, like sandpaper and dust, stones filling your chest, and you kept your features as blank as you could manage but everything inside you was on fire. He seemed so pleased, eager almost, and you felt your stomach lurch.

“Whaddya say?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice for the first time and you turned to find him nervously chewing on his lip. “Fulfill a soldier’s dying wish?”

“Okay,” you blurted out hastily, biting down on the inside of your cheek because he didn’t know the gravity of what he just asked. You clenched your hands to fists at your side, nails digging into your palms until it stung, but you were well trained and you hid it from him before he could notice.

“I’ll pick you up at eight?” he asked, slowly backing up to his tent with the widest smile you’d ever seen on his face. It wrinkled up by his eyes and stretched into his cheeks. So light, so unburdened from horrors that had not yet warped and twisted their way through his mind and body.

“Okay,” you replied again, unable to say much of anything else for the lump in your throat was starting to choke you.

Bucky disappeared into the camp and you were left standing in the open; tears burning in your eyes, slipping down past your lashes and over your cheekbones, knowing that by this time the following day, he’d be in the hands of Hydra.

***

You located the file an hour before Bucky was meant to pick you up. It sat on the edge of your cot, watching you, because you weren’t signaling Tony that it was time for you to come home. No—you were adorning rouge to your lips and curling your hair the way you’d seen in the movies Bucky liked from his youth, the transmitter hidden in your bag under the mattress.

An emerald dress swung at your hips, one that you’d borrowed from one of the exceptionally kind nurses. She seemed to be the only one who wasn’t glaring at you from across the room for daring to take the attention of the famed Sergeant Barnes and insisted you wear it since she was on shift for the evening anyway.

You slipped into the heels, brushing down the skirt of the dress and caught one last look in the mirror. The sleeves hung off your shoulders, exposing collarbone and a faded scar along your clavicle from a mission in Brussels six months prior. Bouncing curls pinned up from your neck and bright red upon your lips, you looked like a painted model in the posters hanging in the bar hall.

You wondered how your Bucky would feel to see you like this, if it would make him happy to be reminded of his youth, or if it would bring back memories too painful to let stir to the surface.

A knock rang on the post outside and you quickly pushed the file into your bag at the end of your bed. Out of sight and out of mind, at least for the next few hours.

“You ready, doll?” Bucky called from outside the tent as you started to make your way to the exit. “Steve’s been breaking my back all day saying you weren’t gonna show and I really need to prove him wro— oh wow.”

You stepped out from behind the flap of the tent, ducking under the low hanging ceiling and Bucky’s words seemed to die on his tongue. He pulled a lip between his teeth and eyes glanced down over you; not with a hunger, but instead with a genuine kind of awe. His smile was aching on his cheeks as he tried to bite it back.

“You look stunning,” he exhaled, shaking his head. “You’ll be the envy of every dame at the dance.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Sergeant,” you replied.

He wore his dress greens; dark olive overcoat with golden buttons down the center, two pockets at the breast, two at his hips, golden tie around his neck and a series of military badges in bright, vibrant colors along the right side of his chest. He looked like the images you’d seen in the Smithsonian; the man he tried so desperately to emulate; the one with honor and dignity, he said.

Bucky offered you his arm, and you took it graciously. Your hand slipped around the crook of his elbow, holding onto muscle where you once only know metal, and he guided you down to the jeep at the edge of camp. There, Steve, Dugan, Morita, and a few of the other Commandos were there waiting.

Steve stood against the door of the jeep, a woman you easily recognized in a dark red dress at his side; Peggy Carter. Steve seemed surprised to see you on Bucky’s arm, but when he hung his head, he was smiling, like maybe he was pleased to lose his own bet.

Bucky grinned, nudging your side before he turned to his friend. “Pay up Rogers!”

***

People were laughing, smiling, amongst the backdrop of a war that would almost certainly take the lives of half the men in this room. It was something of beauty to witness until it started to break your heart.

You’d spent nearly an hour on the dance floor with Bucky; letting him spin you around, lead you through dances you should have known if you had grown up in this era, though he paid it no mind. He liked teaching you, liked it when you stepped on his toes and grimaced apologetically at him. He liked seeing you flustered because you were not a woman who easily blushed. He enjoyed the twinge of embarrassment in your ears when you’d bump into a couple beside you and he’d quickly yank you back to his arms in a protective cage, the light rumble of his laugh in vibrations through his chest.

“I tried to tell you I’m no good at this, Bucky,” you said after a young couple on your left sent another glare in your direction for turning the wrong way in the middle of a Charleston Stroll.

“I don’t need you to be a good dancer, doll,” he smirked, pulling you impossibly close so that your chest was flush against his, the slow sway of your bodies in contrast to the fast-paced jives surrounding you. “All I wanted was an excuse to hold you like this.”

The music faded into long, melodic notes as your breath stilled in your lungs. The chaos around you fell into gentle motions as couples hung off of one another and the world seemed to come to a stop. You expected to find a teasing grin on his face, maybe even a hint of laughter, but there was sincerity in the blue of his eyes, a slight trace of longing because he knew what he was facing the next day on a train running through the ravines of a snowy mountain.

He smiled sweetly at you, carefully slipping your hand into his and guiding your other up to his shoulder. He set his right hand at the base of your back, fingers pressing into the soft curves like the keys of a piano, just feeling, and it reminded you of how your Bucky grounded himself in the worst of his nightmares; how he’d hold onto you, grip you so tightly he’d leave marks by the mornings that would ultimately add to his guilt, though they were colors on your skin you cherished. A physical symbol of his fight towards recovery.

You found yourself doing the same as you clasped at his left hand. With every dip of the beat and every sway of his body to yours, you squeezed at his hand; feeling for the slight give in the muscle, the warmth of flesh, the hard callouses on his palm. It was so real, so him, so tangible right in front of you and you felt tears prickle in your eyes.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked quietly, noticing the trail of your gaze on his hand and the glossiness consuming your eyes.

You shook your head, brushing away the wetness on your cheeks and setting your hand back to his shoulder, though this time you curled up closer to him, focusing on the steady beat of his heart under his fingertips. “Nothing, honey.”

“’Honey’?” he repeated, chuckling a little under his breath. “You getting sweet on me, doll?”

You smiled, letting your head rest onto his shoulder, cheek brushing his collarbone. His hand started to run in smooth circles on your back, his nails traces shivering into your spine. It was something your Bucky did for you, to help ease the tension from your muscles.

“’Course not,” you replied in a breathy sigh, “I’ve got a fella, you know.”

"You don’t dance with me like you’ve got a man waiting on you,” Bucky retorted cheekily, though there was no jealousy in his voice, no resentment. He didn’t seem surprised, but he didn’t pull away either. He sighed, a heat of his breath brushing over your exposed neckline. “Tell me about him?”

You lifted your head from his shoulder, just long enough to caught sight of the tenderness with which he watched you. The corners of his lips curved up, only a little, before they fell again.

On some level, you wondered if he knew that he would never find even a semblance of normalcy in returning home from war, that he’d never settle down in the time that he knew and grow old and have children running around at his feet; that instead of showing up on his mother’s doorstep with bags in hand and a smile of relief, it would be two men dressed in uniform even he didn’t know, carrying an envelope that would break his mother’s heart.

You squeezed his left hand again, letting your right trace up along his jawline and cup the side of his face. He sighed, leaning into the touch. Clean shaven and smooth on his cheeks, decades younger.

“He’s a good man, even on his worst days,” you said tenderly. “He’s been through... so much, things that no one should ever have to experience. Anyone else might have crumbled under all that pain, but he’s still kind, still loving and impossibly sweet. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me though he argues against that most days.”

Bucky nodded, listening quietly as you continued.

“He’s handsome, like you, though his hair is longer, his shoulders a little broader with muscle,” you teased lightly and Bucky scoffed, feigning an offense, though he was smiling. “He’s quiet, different than he used to be, and there are always setbacks, always days where the pain outweighs all the good in his life, but doesn’t give into it. He’s a fighter, a survivor. He’s my best friend.”

“He take you dancing?” Bucky asked with a grin and you shook your head.

“No, not like this. Crowds aren’t easy for him.”

“He one of ours?”

A military man. He knew exactly what you were alluding to, so you nodded.

“Parts of him never came back from the war,” you confirmed, a frown pushing at your lips, “but he’s not broken. He’ll dance with me in the living room if I ask, let me hold him like this even when he feels like a stranger in his own skin. He tries, he heals. I know how hard it is for him to open up and I’m grateful for every moment he can let his walls down, if even for a second, and he shows me pieces of who he used to be, pieces of who he still is.”

A silence passed over the two of you, the music and the sight shuffling of feet around you taking over as you curled into Bucky’s side.

Bucky, but not your Bucky.

“You love him?”

Your relationship with Bucky was messy and complicated. You slept in the same bed most nights, pressed against one another to fight off the demons in his sleep, but you’d never touched him intimately, never so much as kissed his lips no matter how many times you’d wanted to. You met him in the ring and sparred until you were both aching and sweating, until you collapsed to the mat and talked for hours just staring up at the rafters. You were the first person he sought out when returning from a mission and it was his name you shouted for when you were surrounded behind enemy lines.

But there were darker forces between you; ones that kept him from letting himself open up completely, that kept him on the edge from you because Hydra was still in his mind, still convincing him he wasn’t worth the good in his life and he didn’t deserve to be treated with the affection and care with which you showed him.

Even when he kept you at a distance, he still held pieces of your heart, exposed and vulnerable in the palm of his hand.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes darting to the collar of his shirt because you couldn’t dare to look him in the eye. You felt him squeeze at your hand, patterns on your back, and he pressed you closer to his chest; so perceptive of the heartache in your voice.

“Sounds like you might want to get home to him, huh?”

You shook your head, feeling embarrassed. “What? No, of course not. I’m-- I’m here to dance with you, right? You’re shipping out tomorrow for the alps and I—I owe you a dance, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled. “Sweetheart, we’ve been dancing for hours. Look around, everyone’s practically gone home for the night.”

You narrowed your eyes, surprised, until you scanned the room to find that he was right; the dance floor was near empty and the staff had already begun cleaning up the refreshments table. Only the pianist remained on the stage, playing gentle melodies while his bandmates placed their instruments in their cases. He smiled at you, a short wink before he turned back to the pages of his sheet music.

Steve and Peggy were sitting by the bar, talking quietly with one another, unbothered by the lateness or the lack of party guests and the absence of alcohol beside them. Jim and Dum Dum must have hitched their own rides home because they were nowhere in sight, though a few stray men swaying on unbalances legs stumbled by the door.

“I’d say this was a pretty nice last go of it all,” Bucky sighed, a genuine smile on his face. “Zola’s not a threat physically. Can’t imagine we’ll have too much trouble bringing him in, but you never know, right? I couldn’t pass up an excuse to bring a beautiful woman to a dance.”

You bit down on your cheek until blood pooled in your mouth. You swallowed it back, tasting of copper and it burned on the way down.

“Certainly can’t blame you for that,” you replied, forcing your voice as steady as you could manage.

The pianist slowly brought the song to an end, chiming on the high end of the keys before closing the lid and stepping away. Bucky sighed, a nod the indicated that the magic of the night had ended and he moved to step away, but your hands darted out to the sides of his face.

“You’ll get through this,” you said sternly, adamantly, because he needed to hear it. The confusion read on his face though he didn’t question you. “You’re strong, Bucky. You’re brave. Please remember that.”

He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed, though he nodded slowly.

You stepped back suddenly, letting your hands fall away from his face. It was a gesture too intimate for the man standing in front of you, one you’d done countless times for the man he’d ultimately become, and while he didn’t flinch at the touch, it surprised him. Perhaps it was the heartbreak on your face, the guilt, that confused him most.

“I--I should go,” you said quietly. “Thank you for the dance, Sergeant Barnes.”

“The pleasure was all mine, doll,” he replied, a soft smile etching up onto his features.

He was so young, so untouched by the damages that would be inflicted upon him; even after he’d already been captured and held by the same men who would break him from the inside out, he still carried a hope about him. He was different at the start of it all.

You loaded into the back of the jeep and Bucky slid in beside you. He kept his hand at his side, didn’t try to push into your space because, after all, you had someone waiting on you, but you could see the twinge in his fingertips, how he ached to hold your hand. It broke your heart.

At the end of the night, he walked you back to your tent. Hands shoved deep into his pockets and a tight smile on his face, he asked, “will I see you again?”

You thought again about telling him the truth, warning him that he wouldn’t find his way home for nearly seven decades and when he did, he’d be a changed man in a time he didn’t know. It wouldn’t change anything. Your Bucky had always gone through the horrors of what Hydra inflicted on him and what you did in this time wouldn’t affect that.

“Of course,” you replied with a smile light on your lips though you forced it into your cheeks. He sighed of relief. “I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“What about your man?” he inquired, a teasing grin and a raise of his eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in friendship, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Whatever you’ll give me, sweetheart,” he replied, smiling so wide it much have ached, and you tried to memorize the way it wrinkled up by the blue of his eyes. You wondered if you’d ever see him smile like that again, like the very act of it didn’t rip him to pieces.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and short, a feather’s touch, and you watched as a light pink flushed his face. A thumb brushed along his cheekbone to rid him of the lipstick staining on his skin, but he gently pushed your hand away.

“Let me brag a little to the guys, won’t you?” he laughed. It was a sound so sweet it threatened to tear you in two.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said slowly, stepping back to the tent.

He sighed, shaking his head as he took one final look at you, the last one he’d know for nearly seventy years. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

***

There were still tears in your eyes as you were pulled from between the cracks of space and time to land on the platform of the Avengers’ hanger in update New York.

Tony was down on your left, adjusting the buttons and levers on a massive computer board, slamming his hand against a faulty monitor until it shifted from a grainy static to a sharp input of bright green data. Steve was rushing up to you, already starting to remove the gear from your back and help you out of the suit. The file had slipped easily from your hand into Natasha’s and she was gone from the room before you even noticed, racing it off to Fury.

"Where is he?” you choked out, lump burning in your throat.

Steve paused for a moment, eyes flickering down to the floor because he must have seen the tears in your eyes. There was no need to specify. Steve knew exactly who you were looking for.

"The training room, I think.”

“Training room?” you repeated, surprised, eyes narrowed as Steve helped you slip your arm from the sleeve of the suit.

"He’s, um, he’s not coming, Y/n.”

“He always comes,” you insisted, peering up and over Steve’s shoulder to get a better look at the door, but they were still closed shut. There wasn’t a time since you’d joined the Avengers that Bucky wasn’t the last person you saw before you left and the first person you ran to when you came home.

Steve swallowed, continuing to work on your suit. “Y/n, the—the idea of you going back there, it wasn’t easy for him. You saw how he stormed out of the debriefing when Fury assigned you to this mission."

“He’s never not been here, Steve. Why would he--”

“Well for one,” Tony piped up, eyes still glued to the computer board, “he wasn’t entirely keen on shipping you back to the time where he was walking around with a brain that had yet to be thrown in a blender and a personality with a range wider than a pet rock."

You gritted your teeth, hands clenched to fists. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Tony shrugged, powering down the platform as Steve removed the last remaining panel from your suit, “just means that he’s probably sulking somewhere because only that idiot could be jealous of his own damn self.”

You looked to Steve who only bowed his head, lips pressed to an apologetic line, and suddenly, you took off running; sprinting across the room and shoulder shoved to the double doors at the exit. Neither Tony nor Steve were foolish enough to call after you, to believe that you’d stop for anything when it was Bucky you were running towards.

You passed by Sam in the living room, who pointed a finger to the gym, not even lifting his head from his cereal bowl. Clint waved from the couch, cheesy grin and all, before Wanda threw a pillow at him, hushing him as he tried to ask you how the mission went. It was all noise; nothing that you could hear when your focus was on Bucky.

When you made it to the gym, you found it to be empty, save for the distinct grunts in the far back corner, the slamming of fists against a sandbag, the labored breaths of a man in pain.

Bucky stood with his back to you, muscles evident under the thin layer of his navy t-shirt, sweat soaking through the fabric and clinging against him. His whole body utilized in every punch and you stood back and watched until he ultimately hit it too hard and the bag dislodged from the ceiling, falling to the ground and rolling next to two of the same. Sand poured from the hole he’d created.

Bucky groaned, brushing his hand over his forehead to rinse the sweat from his eyes. As he turned around to hang another bag, his eyes landed on you, a flinch flexing throughout his body, a catch in his breath, because it wasn’t often you could sneak up on him. He swallowed, trying to find his bearings.

“You forget something?” he asked, voice low, tired. He didn’t realize you’d already gone and come back.

“No,” you replied, trying to mask your hurt though it did little use, “did you?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes darting down to the floor as he bent to grab another sandbag from the line. There was guilt etched into his features as he hung the bag on the chain as if it weighed nothing. It was then you noticed his bare hand, how it was beaten raw and bloodied.

“Jesus, Buck,” you gasped, reaching out for his hand and for the first time in nearly a year, he pulled away from you. He held his hands close to his chest, crossing his arms when he’d realized what he’d done, having seen the hurt on your face. You stepped forward to comfort him, but he flinched away.

“Talk to me,” you pleaded, tears in your eyes because you’d just left him to face 70 years in hell and all you wanted was to hold him again. Your agony for him ached deep in your bones, but he was keeping you at a distance, walls up, protecting himself from a threat you couldn’t see. “Did I—Did I do something?”

“No,” he said quickly, sternly, because it was one of the few things he was absolutely certain of. “No, sweetheart. It’s never you. It’s never anything you’ve done.”

“Then what is it?” You took in a shaky breath, one that barely took in air for the stone lodged in your throat. He glanced up at you and winced at the tears burning in your eyes.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” he asked slowly. He swallowed. “Me. You saw—me.”

“Yes.”

“But is wasn’t me,” he said, almost in a question. “It was some parallel version of me, right? That’s why I don’t remember... not because of what Hydra did to my head?”

You nodded, taking a cautious step forward. When he didn’t retreat from you, you took another. He kept his stare on the ground by your feet; appearing small, as if he didn’t tower over you, as if the strength of his body couldn’t snap a cement brick in half. Your hands slipped into his and you felt his whole body sigh of relief as you brought them closer to you.

Even the cold metal of his left hand was a familiar comfort for you; cool and solid, tangible. It was a piece of the man you knew. His right hand was swollen, skin broken at the knuckles, raw and bleeding. You winced as you quietly examined the wounds, carefully turning his hand in yours to get a better look.

“Will you let me wrap this?” you asked gently and after a few moments, he nodded.

You led him carefully to the edge of the ring and sat him down on the raised edges; a kiss to his forehead as you backed away and you quickly grabbed the first aid kit from the latch under the ring.

Box in hand, you sat down beside him and pulled out the bandages, disinfectant wipes, and soothing gel. You set the kit on the floor and gestured for his right hand. It was quiet as you worked, applying the disinfectant and cleaning the damage he’d inflicted. You felt his gaze on you, studying you as a crease furrowed in your brow in concentration.

Several moments of silence passed before he spoke again.

“Do you see it now?”

You narrowed your eyes, confused by his sudden question. It was something he did often, let his mind wonder and spin until finally something stumbled out, whether it made much sense or not, but you were exceptionally patient with him. You sighed, gently easing the cooling gel onto his knuckles. He hissed at the sting of it.

“See what, honey?”

“Why you shouldn’t be with me.”

You closed your eyes, jaw aching from how tightly you clenched it. You could feel your lower lip trembling, tears burning in your eyes when you looked at him again.

He was better than he was when you’d first met. He didn’t wear the dark circles under his eyes in permeant stains anymore, didn’t leave grease caked into his roots, or wasted away closed off in his room without food for days at a time. But he still carried guilt in his eyes, still hung a heavy shame over his shoulders, still found himself unworthy and irredeemable, even on his best days, no matter how hard he tried to believe you otherwise.

“Bucky,” you sighed, his name aching in your voice, “why would you say such a thing?”

“You know now,” he replied flatly, like it was what he’d been waiting for, like he was so sure that his worst nightmares were already true, “you know what I was like then and how—and how broken I am now. I can’t be him, Y/n. I won’t ever be like that again and I-- I can’t give you the things he could. I won't be enou--”

“Stop, please,” you whispered, holding tightly to his hand as you wrapped the bandages. A tear slipped past your nose and fell to the white fabric along his knuckles, soaking into the cloth. “It broke my heart to see who you used to be, what you were like before Hydra, before all the pain they’d inflicted on you. You were... light and sweet and so impossibly charming.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes to the ground ahead of him as he listened, nodding along. You could tell he was preparing for the worst, like you might tell him that he was right, that this past version of himself opened your eyes to how empty he’d become, how weak and burdensome, how he was only a shell of the man he used to be and he’d never be enough for you.

His hands were shaking in your own and you swiftly lifted them to your lips and kissed at his knuckles, first upon flesh and then to the cold metal of his left. It pulled a gasp from him, an involuntary sigh of relief.

“I saw pieces of you in him, Buck. In the way he’d watch from a careful distance, how he smiled to himself when he thought no one was watching, the kindness in his eyes, the way he said my name,” you continued, letting his left hand sit on your leg so you could reach up to cup the side of his face, gently drawing his attention back to you. His eyes were red, strained, and you smiled sweetly at him. “It’s the same way I see pieces of him in you. You still tease and joke, even if it’s quieter, more intimate. You still make me feel like my hearts going to beat out of my chest when you look at me. You’re still impossibly charming, Buck. You are to me, anyway.”

He shook his head, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Sweetheart, you’re not broken,” you soothed, sweeping your thumb along his cheekbone. You grazed bristles of hair along his face, scruff from a few days without a razor. “You’re not less than who you were then. Just different. The things that happened to you changed you, Bucky. They’d change anyone. I don’t ever expect you to be the man you were before the fall.”

Bucky took in a shaken breath. “I thought—I thought you might prefer him. The way Steve does.”

“Oh honey,” you exhaled, pulling him into your arms, his head resting on your collar and you stroked your hand along his back to ease the tremors away as he clung to you, “Steve doesn’t--”

“He wants me to be how I was,” Bucky mumbled, his lips muffled by the sleeve of your shirt. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling himself closer. “He doesn't think I can see the disappointment on his face, but I can. I know he misses how things were.”

“Steve just worries about you, Buck,” you said gently, rubbing circles along his back. “He just wants you to be happy. He wants you to be okay.”

It was like he didn’t even hear you, so caught up in the rush of consuming thoughts in his mind, threatening to do him in.

“I’m scared you’re going to start looking at me like that.”

You sucked in a harsh breath, though you willed your voice as steady as you could manage. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Like I’ve disappointed you,” he admitted simply, like he’d thought about it a dozen times over. “I always thought I had nowhere to go but up with you. You’d only seen me at my worst but… but now you’ve seen me then and—and I don’t know if I can take you wishin’ I was him, doll, because I’ve tried and I—I can’t and I don’t want to lose you because I think it might ki—”

“Look at me,” you requested sternly, pulling him from your embrace and guiding his eyes to you. His cheeks were red, ocean blue of his eyes wet with tears as the words died on his tongue. “I will never ask you be someone you’re not. I would never want you to.”

He shook his head against your hands. “But I’m—”

“You are the man I’ve always known you to be,” you insisted. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, one that you felt his breath leave him as you pulled away. His eyes were glossy but they were vibrant blue as they met yours. “You are the man I fell in love with, Bucky. You, as you are right now. Not some idealized version of who you think you should be. Not the man you were in the forties. You.”

His entire body was rigid in your arms; solid, like stone and steel, and when he finally pulled back, there was an ocean of disbelief in his eyes. Lips slightly parted, brows pinched at the center and a flush of red in his cheeks. An imprint of your sleeve was prominent along his temple as his eyes searched yours, seeking out a deception he would never find.

“You love me?” he whispered, voice barely audible, but you watched as his lips mimed the words; the way he licked at the dryness and tried to swallow back the sandpaper in his throat.

“With everything I have, honey.”

When he finally did let himself exhale again, the breath carried a world of relief in its release. A smile hung on his lips, curving up into his cheeks, and wrinkled into his eyes. A vision of a man decades younger, lighter, where the blue was brighter and the stones were lifted from his shoulders.

“You love me,” he said again, though this time it wasn’t a question but simply a statement of fact. He repeated it again, like he was engraving it into his mind, into his memories where Hydra couldn’t touch it, where it would be protected and entirely his.

“I do,” you giggled, playing with the ends of his hair. “Any chance you might--”

Lips were suddenly on yours, melded and perfectly warm, soft, eager, and you wondered why you ever thought he was any different from the man he used to be. His hands snaked up into your hair, curling delicately into your scalp as a sigh left his breath and touched your cheek. He kissed at your jawline, your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, and returned to your lips where he was wanted most.

When he finally pulled back, you let him go reluctantly, and he set his forehead to yours; the brightest smile on his face you’d ever witnessed and you were almost certain it must have ached in his cheeks from lack of use, but god, was he beautiful.

“I love you, too.”

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#buckysknifecollectionchallenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

9K notes · View notes

sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

Text

Better Than Sex

Author: SisterSpooky1013

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 1666

Tagging: @today-in-fic

Read it on AO3

“Better Than Sex Cake” Mulder read aloud from the menu before looking across the table at Scully with his eyebrows raised in question.

They had just concluded an evening traipsing through an (alleged) actual ghost town, though no signs of ghosts were to be seen. Just a lot of graffiti, dirty mattresses and a used condom or two. Now they were sitting at the first diner they came across, Mo’s Café, and Mulder was considering the sex cake.

“Knock yourself out, Mulder, I’m sticking to coffee.”

“You aren’t curious as to whether this cake is, in fact, better than sex?”

“Well I’m sure it’s better than bad sex, but if it were better than great sex the population would die out because everyone would skip procreating and just eat cake.”

Mulder considered her statement. “Isn’t ‘bad sex’ somewhat of an oxymoron?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Are you being serious?”

Now it was his turn to look incredulous. “The only bad sex is no sex, as far as I’m concerned.”

Scully shook her head ruefully. “Must be nice to be a man.”

Just then the waitress came by to take their order. Scully requested coffee and dry toast, while Mulder opted for coffee and the aforementioned sex cake. After she collected their menus and retreated to the kitchen, Mulder eyed Scully appraisingly, gaging her mood. Sometimes she was open and willing to talk about things of a personal or private nature, other times she kept her lips as tight as a steel trap. He suspected he might have a chatty Scully on his hands, and didn’t want to waste the opportunity.

“So, if I’m understanding correctly, Scully, there would be a circumstance under which you would choose a piece of cake over sex?”

She screwed up her mouth a little, not in consideration of how to answer the question, but whether to answer it at all. “Depends who the sex is with, I suppose, but yes, I could think of a few times where cake would have been a more enjoyable option.”

“Hm” was his only reply as he sat back against the seat of the booth, absorbing this information.

“Are you saying you’ve never had sex that was subpar enough that cake would have been better?”

He pulled in a deep breath and looked to the ceiling briefly, and she could imagine him running through his mental file of sexual encounters. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Is it wrong that I feel compelled to kick you right now?” She asked, just a hint of playfulness in her voice.

He laughed.“I’m not saying that every single time was Oscar-worthy, but even the worst was still better than some flour and butter.”

“And they say male privilege isn’t real” she deadpanned as the waitress came by to present them with two coffees, cake, toast and a tray of sugar and cream. She mixed the accoutrements into her cup while Mulder sipped his black, followed by a bite of the cake, which looked like a basic white cake with some kind of custard and whipped cream on top.

“This is pretty good, though I can’t say it lives up to its name” he said around the food in his mouth, pushing the plate towards her and holding out the fork suggestively. She took it and stabbed a small bite, meeting Mulder’s eye as she pulled the tines from between her lips. It was good, as most cake is, but nothing to write home about.

“Well?” He asked expectantly.

“Well what? She returned, wiping her finger at the corners of her mouth.

“Is it better than sex?”

She paused before answering, knowing that Mulder was going to keep picking at this until it got uncomfortable. He liked to do that, to see how far he could get her to go before she blushed and demanded they change the subject. He took immense pleasure in making her squirm, and even more in getting her to reveal something personal that he normally wouldn’t be privy to. Sometimes, she had as much fun indulging him as he did in goading her. She wasn’t above sharing something that she knew would shock him, just so she could see the look on his face. She liked that she could still surprise him.

“Not better than all sex, but certainly better than some of the sex I’ve had, regrettably.”

“What would make sex so bad that cake is better? I must know.”

“I think you can use your imagination, Mulder.”

“Come on, Scully, you could be saving some poor woman from ‘worse than cake’ sex with me in the future. Consider it an act of charity.”

She shook her head at him, but couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at her lips.

“Your answer lies in that drawer full of tapes that aren’t yours, Mulder.”

“How’s that?”

“Let’s see, sex starts when the man presents his erection and ends when he ejaculates. The woman howls like an animal no matter what he’s doing, though her orgasm is never mentioned. There is no foreplay. Would you like me to continue?”

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee he’d been holding, afraid he might choke. He’d never heard her speak so openly about sex before, especially not sex she had personally experienced, and though he’d been the one who initiated the conversation he was suddenly afraid he was going to have to walk out of this diner trying to hide a bulge in his slacks.

“Fair enough, Scully, but porn isn’t real. It’s like an action movie. No one actually hangs off the skids of a helicopter mid-air, it’s just fun to watch.”

“I’m glad to hear that you’re aware of that, Mulder, and I would implore you to spread the news to the rest of the male populace.” She punctuated her statement with a loud crunch into her toast.

Mulder’s mouth fell open slightly as he studied her, trying to tell if she was joking or embellishing.

“People really do that? Have sex like they do in porn? Men you’ve slept with?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mulder, if you’re going to sit here and tell me that you have never done that, even as a young man, I’ll have to call BS.”

He put his hands up in defense. “I’m not saying I emerged from puberty as Don Juan, but I don’t recall ever not being invested in my partner’s experience. I’m sure my skills were lacking at the outset, but I always tried.”

She looked at him derisively from under her eyelashes. “Well then, you really should get out there more, Mulder. Share your gift with the world.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.

He laughed and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “How am I coming out to be the bad guy, here Scully? I’m not the one who gave you a ‘worse than cake’ lay.”

She smiled at him but her tone remained facetious “of course not, you’ve demonstrated that your skills in this area are unparalleled.”

“Damn straight!” He said with a slap of his palm on the table, and they both erupted into laughter.

They held eye contact as the laughter subsided, awkwardness descending over the conversation. He had made reference to the two of them having sex, which was a topic he’d only made innuendo about, never mentioned directly. Trying to break the tension, Scully finally spoke.

“Well, I guess you can see why I don’t bother dating.”

“I guess I can” he replied, swiping the last crumbs of cake off the plate with his finger.

“Why don’t you date, Mulder?” His expression registered surprise. “Or do you? I don’t want to be presumptuous.” She felt a pit in her belly at the idea that he may actually have a secret love life.

“No” he spat out, chuckling a little. “No, I definitely don’t date. It’s just too complicated I guess. I’m kind of a serial monogamist anyway.”

“Really?” Now it was her turn to be surprised.

“Yeah, for the most part. I’ve had a couple flings, but the vast majority of the women I’ve slept with I was in a relationship with. The emotional aspect is important for me.”

She studied him, imagining a version of Mulder who would be so considerate and giving. She didn’t need to imagine it, really, she’d seen it. While he was capable of being selfish and obtuse, he had also been incredibly tender and caring with her on many occasions. He had certainly shown a proclivity towards chivalry; opening doors for her, walking closer to traffic on the sidewalk, helping her into her coat or holding an umbrella for her. The idea that such gestures would extend into the bedroom was logical, but it still set off a stirring in her belly. In what other ways might he be so attentive to her needs? She swallowed the last of her coffee and tried not to think about it. Maybe later, but not here. Not now.

“Well, I hate to state the obvious here, Scully, but I don’t think you’re going to happen across the guy that will give you a 5-star experience if you never put yourself out there.” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to kick himself; why the fuck was he encouraging her sleeping with other people?

She smiled demurely and shrugged “for now I get my thrills from ghost busting and the occasional slice of really good cake.”

He bobbed his head and smiled back, pulling out his wallet and setting his bureau credit card on the tabletop.

In truth, she had already happened across that guy. He was sitting in front of her at a shitty diner in the middle of nowhere. And while she hoped that she may enjoy that 5 star experience in the future, for now just being in his presence, laughing and seeking the answers to the mysteries of the universe together, that was better than sex.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #xf fanfic

99 notes · View notes

sakis-sweets · 3 years

Note

Will you do a kaga/geiju fic?

EUREKA

Kaga was failing to understand. It was not a situation familiar to someone of his unparalleled intellect, but the concept of artistry constantly eluded his grasp. He had tried everything to get on Geiju’s level; he had even created a painting robot. Geiju had hated it and didn’t even bother to explain why. He was better at listening than talking, which is why Kaga appreciated his company so much. Geiju let Kaga rant about his plans for world domination without complaint or judgement. But even once, just for scientific purposes, or possibly out of gratitude, Kaga wanted to put a smile on Geiju’s face. Surprise displays of affection hadn’t worked, so he next best method would obviously be through something that Geiju treasured. Kaga was at his limits however; a man could only try so hard to understand something opposite to his nature.

Which is why he accosted Geiju outside of the art club perhaps somewhat forcibly.

“Geiju!” he shouted. “I’ve had enough!”

“Of what?” the artist responded blankly.

“Enough of trying on my own! I simply cannot grasp what it is about art that you appreciate. I demand that you show me! This weekend, you will accompany me to an art gallery of your choosing!”

“... Seriously?”

“As serious as quantum physics!”

Geiju gave Kaga an annoyed look before sighing. “Okay.”

“Good! Pick me up at noon! Sharp!”

Geiju rolled his eyes and continued on his way. Kaga, excited about his plan, followed Geiju and walked him home, talking the entire way.

Geiju gazed at his watch and buzzed Kaga at his gate the second the time hit 12:00. Kaga was particular about these sorts of things, and it was easier to leave him impressed than otherwise. Kaga opened the gate with a flourish. “The day has come!” he declared in a tone most might consider insidious. Geiju noticed that Kaga had donned a suit for their outing. Kaga may be an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart and soul, but he at least deserved an A for effort.

Geiju wordlessly walked with Kaga to his garage. Kaga bemoaned his lack of a chauffeur as he carefully selected an expensive cruiser to drive to the museum. His boyfriend was really pulling out all of the stops for this. Geiju gave one-word directions to Kaga as he monitored the GPS on his phone.

“Right.”

“Right indeed!”

“Straight.”

“Ha, as if! But we continue in that direction nonetheless!”

“Right.”

“Right again! Our destination grows ever closer!” Kaga cackled in delight.

They finally parked at the gallery. Geiju already felt exhausted. Listening to Kaga’s rambling was one thing; spawning ridicule every time Geiju opened his mouth was another. His throat felt dry from talking so much. They entered the gallery and studied a map. Kaga opened his mouth to shout some more, but Geiju held up a hand to stop him. “No talking.”

“What?! But then how am I to consult with my peer on my findings? This is no way to perform a study!”

“Don’t study. Just look. Talking’s annoying.”

“Annoying?!”

“To them.” Geiju gestured to the other guests, who were already shooting strange glances at the loud teenager.

“Would we be evicted from the premises if I caused a disturbance?”

“Yes.”

Kaga sighed. “Then I must concede... but I insist that you act as my guide!”

“Sure.”

So Geiju led Kaga around the gallery, briefly summarizing the various artworks and historic art periods as they went. Kaga recognized several of the pieces, but until then had not thought about what they could mean. The information next to each piece was also enlightening, but what surprised Kaga most was that not being allowed to talk forced his internal monologue of theories to turn into reflections. He found himself in the shoes of each artist and felt their emotions; the care it took to construct a unique dogū, the breathtaking desire to record Mount Fuji in all of its glory before cameras were invented, or the inspiration to depict the scenes described in The Tale of Genji. He was reminded of how fired up he became when planning and enacting an elaborate scheme or project. For the first time, Kaga was able to see why Geiju valued art as much as he did. If scientific papers recorded the results of a study, then the purpose of art was to record the results of an experience or emotion. It was a decidedly internal instinct rather than an external goal.

Kaga finally burst when they walked past the doors to the gallery. “Incredible!” he enthused. “I believe I understand! These are all relics of history, showing human souls in a time before technology! What I can do with machines is nothing short of miraculous, but to think that people have been striving to record their desires with such care since the dawn of time...! Geiju, is this why you paint?”

“... More or less.”

Two and a half words! That’s more than anyone had ever gotten out of Geiju. Kaga was so overwhelmed from his success that he reached over and planted a kiss square on Geiju’s lips. “The background research has been completed. It is time to experiment! You must teach me how to paint!”

Geiju groaned. That was an incredibly tall order. He considered it as he raised two fingers to his lips, recalling why he’d agreed to go out with Kaga in the first place. Partially to maybe dissuade him from his plans of world domination, but also for the sake of new experiences and inspiration. Maybe through teaching Kaga, even Geiju could learn a thing or two about different ways to approach his easel.

Either way, it was an experiment worth conducting for both of them.

#yandere simulator #yansim #kaga kusha #geiju tsuburaya #kaga x geiju #HAHAHAHAHA I DID IT!!!! YES!!!!!#I HOPE IT'S OKAY #lmao more drabbles coming soon DID YOU THINK IT WOULD BE THAT SAME NIGHT?#BECAUSE IT WAS #TWO MORE ON THE WAY BABY NEXT IS SMUT #LET'S GOOOOOO

52 notes · View notes

mythicamagic · 3 years

Note

wow! that's an amazing list. “i’ve been falling in love with you since the first day we met”

A continuation of other tumblr prompts I’ve made into a fic - here

Hopefully chapter four will be the end lolol this fic has been far longer than I intended it to be.

---

Kagome stared out at passing scenery beyond her window with a glazed look dulling her eyes. Heavy thoughts carried her attention far away from the mundane train ride. She hadn't visited Kyoto in years, and especially not for such a special reason before.

Shippo's voice had sounded so strange on the phone. Mature, but not overly deep, maintaining its playfulness. He'd invited her over for a visit right away.

A 'bing!' noise roused her enough to check her phone- which showed a picture of Natsuki posing with a spear and fresh kill.

Kagome snorted, resting her chin on her knuckles. There were a few things about Natsuki that she was surprised Sesshoumaru hadn't commented on.

Number one; her boyfriend was a demon.

And number two; he was, specifically, an inuyoukai. A mongrel. She imagined Sesshoumaru felt mighty smug to know she'd found a demon of the same species as him to date. Natsuki being of mixed breeding surely made the Daiyouki feel all the more superior.

But Kagome had never cared about such things. She'd loved Inuyasha once, too.

The short version of their 'getting together' just two months prior was that she'd located a demon bar a few years ago and had been dating youkai ever since, using the place as a means to meet them. The relief of finding the secret den of long-forgotten youkai had been unparalleled. Kagome now knew exactly how to locate and see through glamorous thanks to years of experience.

She'd found out through the process of elimination that humans just kind of...weren't enough for her. Kagome needed the youki, the rush- the bite of claws, talons or fangs.

Natsuki was one of many in a long line of potential 'forever' partners, but Kagome had long since stopped expecting marriage down the line. If they lasted, that was fine. If not, that was fine too.

She had resolved never to fall hard for someone again.

Natsuki left Tokyo a few days prior to go on a hunting trip with his pack in a remote location up in the mountains, a monthly tradition.

'Can you skip it this time?' Kagome had asked. 'I'd just...really like it if you could come to Kyoto with me?'

'But I don't know your fox friend.'

'Doesn't matter- he hasn't seen me in 500 years. I would feel so much better if you were there.'

Natsuki looked as though she'd spat in his breakfast. 'Ah, uh-' he ran an awkward hand through his light-brown hair. 'I guess?'

The hesitancy and look in his eyes- begging to be let off the hook- made Kagome force a smile and drop the subject.

She sighed, figuring they'd probably break up soon. There wasn't really anything wrong with their relationship, just a difference in values and priorities.

It seemed to be the norm. No huge fight. No big dramatic breakup. Usually she even stayed friends with her exes.

Sesshoumaru was the outlier in all things.

She made certain not to tell the Daiyoukai of her impending singleness. If he was irritatingly optimistic now- Kagome imagined he'd be a nightmare to shake off if she were available.

But he'd stop if I outright told him to never speak to me again.

Her lips thinned, stomach turning at the mere thought.

For the rest of the journey, she resolved not to think about him. And failed miserably.

----

Shippo had greeted her at the door with an enormous hug the second she'd arrived at his hilltop home. Brilliant red hair had grown longer, swept back into a ponytail. Since his house perched a little further out from most of the houses, he wore no glamour. The pointed ears and foxtails- five of them- Kagome counted, were on full display.

Tears pricked her eyes, and she hugged him back fiercely.

His wife was pleasant, though a little eccentric for a racoon youkai. She'd made a 'welcome' banner and everything for Kagome's arrival.

Three young kits with dark circle markings around their eyes raced around the house- which had crayon drawings sprawled all over the walls at waist-height. Shippo and his wife seemed to have given up on house maintenance, but they were a happy family.

Blue eyes softened as Kagome sat with him in the relative privacy of his art studio. She was so pleased he'd found happiness. As they talked, she bent down- reaching into her bag for her phone to show him some pictures of her workplace- only for it to tip over.

A small bottle of pills rolled out, stopping by his foot.

Kagome paled. She glanced away from his questioning look as he handed them back to her. "Reiki suppression pills?" he asked.

"How'd you know?"

"I've got friends in Tokyo. You're not the only priestess who secretly dates demons," he shrugged, pinning her with a calculating look. "But, it's kind of a shame you feel the need to take them."

Kagome forced a smile, tucking them away, "yeah well- it's because I'm so big and strong," she joked. "I haven't met a demon in Tokyo who could withstand my aura if I really let it out. Taking these is easier. Gives demons the 'flavour' of dating a miko without actually getting burned. It just thins my powers a little."

Shippo nodded in acceptance and swiftly changed topics since it made her uncomfortable. He chattered on about his life, detailing the 500 year gap between when they'd seen each other last. Apparently, after Miroku and Sango had passed, he'd taken to spending more time with Sesshoumaru. When Inuyasha had died, he'd started living with the Daiyoukai permanently.

"You...did?"

He nodded, hands wrapped around his steaming mug of tea. A handmade bracelet clasped around his wrist, and the mug was half-melted, made from clay. Clearly they'd both been crafted by three well-meaning kids. "I guess we were gonna talk about him eventually," he smirked. "I promise not to be biased, okay? Sure, he saved my ass, but you're still my favourite."

Warmth flooded her heart, and Kagome giggled a little despite herself. "You're talking like we're your divorced parents or something," she mused, sobering. Taking a long breath, she stared at her own misshapen mug. "What happened?" she asked quietly. "Why didn't he create a pure-blooded heir?"

Shippo sighed, sweeping a hand through voluminous red hair. "He chased after you pretty much a second after you left through the well. Only he couldn't get through."

Her chest tightened, body stiffening.

"He's told me before though...that regretting what happened wouldn't have been enough, and maybe it was better he didn't stop you. He still felt the same at the time, deep down; that only a pure-blooded heir should take over the Western Lands to ensure he was survived by a long-living heir. He was gonna do it," Shippo muttered. "He was prepared to lay with an inuyoukai to produce an heir, but when the time came he just...couldn't. It frustrated him for a long time."

Kagome took a sip of her lukewarm tea, lips thinning. "He could've taken a mate. It didn't have to be some random woman."

"Heh, yeah but his inuyoukai instincts had already chosen a mate," Shippo winked at her. "And no matter how much he tried to force logic onto himself, his instincts refused to budge. You weren't dead, so in his mind, he couldn't move on. He's remained your captive all this time."

Her eyes widened, swallowing. "That sounds terrible!" she burst, frowning. "What the hell...I'd resent that. Why doesn't he hate me?"

"Hard to explain but...he could have moved on, Kagome," the kit sighed. "If he really wanted to. He's the one who lacked the desire to change how he felt about you. So, despite some relationships, Sesshoumaru has pretty much maintained his bachelor lifestyle."

Kagome stood from her seat, setting down her tea and distractedly looking at Shippo's art pieces, picking up a sketchbook and flipping through it.

Sharp green eyes searched her guarded features. "You're still in love with him, right?"

"Some habits are hard to kick," she said softly, pausing on one sketch. Her vision grew blurry.

Shippo rose and swept the shuddering miko into a hug before she could drop the sketch of Sango and Miroku. He held her for a long time, and they moved on to talking about their friends. About all the things they'd done and the happiness they'd shared.

"M-maybe I...left too quickly," Kagome mumbled, wiping at her wet cheeks.

"Nah, don't get that thought stuck in your head," Shippo rested a hand on her head, gently ruffling the dark strands. "You wanted distance between you and Sesshoumaru. It's not your fault the well shut."

"Why did..." swallowing thickly, she looked up at him, oddly feeling like a child in comparison to his steady, easy-going presence. Like nothing in the world could shock or frighten the little kit anymore. "It took him 6 years to come talk to me, why is that?"

Shippo's smile turned slightly sad. "He wouldn't want me to tell you. In fact, he'd kill me for giving you this-" Shippo reached into his pocket and took out a vial.

Kagome understood what it was almost immediately, accepting the glamour with a perplexed look.

He then scribbled down the name of a random park in Tokyo she hadn't visited before, handing it over with a smirk. "Put that glamour on and visit this park on either Tuesday or Thursday, weather permitting. You'll find him near the duck pond."

She arched a brow, eyeing the vial. "He'll recognise me, even with a glamour on."

"Nah, that's my own creation- and I'm pretty darn brilliant at magic now!" he puffed out his chest, tilting his chin up in a very Sesshoumaru-like manner. Shippo then smiled warmly, taking the sketchbook and tearing out a page. "He's not being honest with you, but it's not outta nefarious purposes. You'll see," he reassured her. "He's changed. Even if he's still an asshole."

Kagome accepted the page, freezing. Her fingers stiffened, emotion clogging her throat at all the implications that came with the picture. She couldn't help but cry again in the safety of Shippo's arms- promptly bursting into tears while on the train ride home too.

Shippo's sketch remained clutched in her hands.

The weight of so much wasted time rested upon her heavily, making the woman bend low in her seat, ignoring the stares of other passengers and letting out several years of loneliness and disappointment. How her skin had ached and burned up with a fever of remembrance- straining for a demon lord to take her wrists and kiss her palms like he once had.

---

Overcast skies blocked out the sunshine that Tuesday, so she wondered if he'd show. The glamour had made her look like a 40-year old, a few grey streaks in her magically short hair. Brown eyes stared back at her instead of blue. She smelled like lavender and home cooking. Kagome sat upon a bench and pretended to read beside the duck pond. An available bench sat further away, nearer to the empty play park.

It was there that a dark-haired man eventually sat, five children having followed him. A lanky teen took a seat next to him, his hair short and grey- eyes milky white with blindness. Kagome squinted from behind her book, sensing he was a snake youkai. Two young hanyous of differing species immediately ran to the play park, squealing. One had concealed horns, the other hiding their leopard spots behind a glamour.

A human girl around the age of 11 carried a toddler to the edge of the duck pond, talking quietly with him and pointing to the ducks.

Kagome held back the hot sting of tears, forcing her gaze to the book in her hands and robotically turning a page.

"Shinto needs to get out of his room," the snake youkai was muttering sourly.

"There is little I can do. Did you wish for me to carry him kicking and screaming to the park with us?" Sesshoumaru snorted, elbows bent to rest on his knees.

Kagome glanced at him furtively from the corner of her eye.

Gone was the easy confidence he'd presented to her during their encounters- the impeccable dress-sense and untouchable air of a bachelor. He looked like a mess. Or rather, a single parent struggling to juggle too much at once. He wore a jacket that had seen better days, hair dishevelled and slight lines under his eyes.

"Maybe that would've been better," his adopted child was muttering, soon sighing and glancing to the side as Sesshoumaru toyed with his phone. "Do you even have her number?"

Sesshoumaru arched a brow, feigning ignorance. "Hm?"

"You know who I am referring to. Just ask for it from Uncle Shippo."

Dark lashes lowered, followed by a rich, silky chuckle that made Kagome's skin warm. "Such underhanded methods, Hiroji," he teased, "no wonder you're not popular with women."

Hazy eyes gazed in his general direction flatly, huffing. "Please refrain from trying to dodge the question. Have you actually asked this 'Kagome' woman out yet?"

"I invited her to coffee."

"Such a cheap date, Papa!" the human girl by the duck pond smiled, carrying her brother back to them. "Couldn't you have invited her ice-skating, or to a fancy restaurant?"

"Or to the park!" one of the Hanyous yelled from the swings.

Sesshoumaru cut his eyes to grey skies fondly, accepting the toddler from his daughter. "The location does not matter. Miss Higurashi is not easily swayed," he uttered, large hands toying with little boots. The toddler giggled, kicking his legs. "Initially, I wished to bury her with gifts, but she would merely see that as an attempt to 'buy' her. No, I sense only a display of humility and regret will soften her opinion of me, however that seems quite impossible."

"Hm? Why's that?" his daughter asked.

"Because I do not wish to use you all as an example of my having 'changed.' It would feel as though you are mere tools for my redemption," brown eyes slid away. "My mindset altered gradually over the centuries. No large thing triggered it. I know of no other way to prove myself other than introducing her to you."

Kagome could tell by the twitching of his fingers and the way he kept brushing them over his jaw absentmindedly that he was itching for a drag of his pipe. She'd wondered if he still occasionally smoked. He must've decided not to around his children.

"Sounds like heavy stuff," the girl hummed, patting his shoulder in consolation. "Can't you just say-" she cleared her throat, voice deepening into a poor imitation of Sesshoumaru's- "Miko, I've been falling in love with you since the first day we met. Fall into my arms~"

Deep brown eyes flattened, and he playfully shoved a hand into her face. "Things are not so easily fixed, Akiko."

"I see. Well, don't worry! If it doesn't work out, we can all go ice-skating instead!"

Sesshoumaru tsked, sinking back into his seat and allowing the toddler to snuggle up on his chest. "How dull. I'd much prefer to go on a date with a beautiful woman than babysit you brats."

Akiko only giggled and whined good-naturedly, calling him a 'meanie' before running off to join the Hanyous on the swings.

Left in silence, the Daiyoukai's brows knitted together, thoughts clearly far away.

Mild concern softened Hiroji's boyish features. "You should try talking to her again," he said quietly, so faintly Kagome could barely hear it.

"Hn, and why is that?"

Shifting, the snake demon glanced sightlessly in Kagome's direction- causing her blood to freeze in her veins. "I suspect she may be more receptive to speaking with you now, that is all. Call it a hunch."

Stiff shoulders slowly relaxed upon realising he wasn't going to expose her. After a few minutes, Kagome rose from her spot and slipped away from the park.

In the comfort of her own apartment, Kagome gazed at the sketch Shippo had given her; Sesshoumaru sleeping without a glamour obscuring his exotic features. Resting on mokomoko, his knees, and the crook of his arm were children, different from the ones at the park, but just as mixed in species.

It implied he'd been adopting them for centuries. What had started with Rin all those years ago- the accidental adoption of his first child, had become a long-enduring habit. And it also gave Kagome the stupid, insidious idea that maybe he wanted hanyou children now. Maybe he wanted them with her.

And that was too dangerous a thought to linger on if she was incorrect.

#Sesskag #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #Asks

43 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

Where the Love Light Gleams

Killian was going to kill his brother.

Which wasn’t very festive, but neither was being away from his girlfriend on Christmas Eve and this was all Liam’s fault. Or so he would claim. While rationalizing his current tendency to wallow, and stare at his phone and he’d spent far too much time on his phone that night.

Whatever, it was Christmas Eve. That was definitely a reasonable excuse.

---

Rating: Teen, with banter and friendship and kissing Word Count: 5.1 K AN: It’s me! Someone who can’t seem to write an MC to save her present life, but loves few things more than Christmas-type fluff and is therefore filling Christmas-type prompts again. Today’s comes from @shireness-says who is always wonderful about replying to these sort of things and requested:

"you had a business trip and i missed you so much that i kind of tore up the house in your absence like a dog with separation anxiety… sorry?" and “we’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about. "

Both of which I almost legitimately filled. Just kind of—twisted. As is tradition. If you are so inclined to send a prompt from this very long list, you can pick one here, and I’ll do my best to write it before Christmas.

This one is also on Ao3 if that’s your jam, where I’ll be posting all of ‘em.

---

“Are you moping? It kind of looks like you’re moping.”

“Wow, such unparalleled observational skills. You should become a private investigator.”

Sticking her tongue out, Ariel made some sort of objection-type noise in the back of her throat, which probably would have made Killian smile in any other situation. On any other day. A day that wasn’t Christmas Eve.

When he was absolutely, positively moping.

It was a miracle he hadn’t frozen like this. That would have done irreparable damage to his spine, he was sure.

He wasn’t really sitting up very straight.

“There can’t possibly still be private investigators in the world,” Ariel challenged, brushing a wayward strand of hair away from her face and it was far too windy on the docks. If Killian didn’t get off the docks soon, he was going to scream.

Or mope for the rest of the holiday season. At least until the New Year. That seemed reasonable, honestly.

He was going to strangle Liam.

This was all his fault.

“You’re kidding me, right? What—what kind of world do you think we’re living in?” Ariel shrugged. “One that’s progressed past the need for private investigators, obviously. And I object to the notion that I would require any sort of PI-type skills to know that you’re being an absolute and complete, although also kind of understandable, idiot.”

“Those words don’t go together.” “What do people hire private investigators for, anyway?” “Loads of stuff.” “Give me one example.” He huffed, irritation rattling around his skull and mixing in with a begrudging appreciation because he knew Ariel felt bad and maybe he’d kick Liam too. “Missing kids.” “Yeesh, that’s awfully negative.” “What was that about accusing me of moping before? I’m playing to those accusations.” “Ok, but we already decided they were observations, so you don’t get to rename them now that you’re feeling particularly jerk-like.” “I’m here, aren’t I? Makes it seem less jerk-like.”

Another shrug. And a specific quirk of her lips that Killian was far too well-acquainted with. The muscles in his cheeks were almost starting to ache.

Presumably from holding them in this position for so long.

He was absolutely moping.

But he’d already been in Boston two days longer than he planned on, and none of this was really going according to plan. He’d checked his phone no less than forty-seven times in the last forty-five minutes. He hated that. Staring at that screen made him feel like a clingy freak, who couldn’t go more than a few minutes without talking to his girlfriend, and Killian had complained about those people enough times that his current tendency to do it made him despise himself just a bit.

And yet he couldn’t stop.

His thumbs flew across the keys, sending complaints and updates and smiling in spite of his own situation.

Like a psychopath. One who was quite obviously frustrated.

With several thousand things, it seemed — the most pressing of which was his distinct lack of festive nature, caused almost entirely by the issues with the expansion in Boston and adding another ship in Boston was supposed to be easy.

Until Eric got the flu, and it was understandably difficult to captain a sightseeing holiday cruise when you couldn’t actually stand up for more than two minutes at a time, and Killian couldn’t say no to his brother when they both had so much money tied up in this, and if Liam was going to fly in to make sure everything stayed the metaphorical course, then the least Killian could do was drive in from New York.

Or so Liam had told him. In no uncertain terms.

Except Liam had also brought Belle with him and that somehow seemed like cheating, and Killian should have asked Emma to come.

She had to work. He’d missed Mary Margaret and David’s Christmas Eve party.

Which normally wouldn’t have felt like the end of the world, partially because Mary Margaret’s fruitcake was notoriously awful, but this year it made Killian’s heart feel like it was fragmenting in his chest and Emma’s photos had gotten progressively more and more blurry as the night went on. Mary Margaret also notoriously bought a questionable number of Prosecco bottles for the Christmas Eve party.

“You are,” Ariel agreed, a string of words that caught Killian off guard when he was so deep in his own wallowing. “Which is super nice, but—” “—How can there be a but in this situation?” “There are several, actually, except the biggest one is how three different people on tonight’s cruise wanted to know why the first mate was so obviously distracted.” “They called me first mate?” “People think it’s funny to use nautical terms in real life.”

Slumping forward did not do anything to help the state of Killian’s spine, only managed to make sure his hair fluttered in front of his eyes when a salt-tinged breeze blew off the Harbor and he briefly wondered how dramatic he could get. He needed to exhale some more.

He needed to go home. “Anyway,” Ariel continued, “they wanted to know why the first mate was on his phone all the time, and if the first mate was available and—” “—I’m sorry, what?”

“You have a face, you know that right?” “Now you’re just saying words.”

If she kept sticking her tongue out at its current rate, it was going to get frost-bitten. “These are compliments, you’re an ass and I owe you just—a metric ton of rum, the good kind, for doing all of this.” “Giving me whiplash,” Killian muttered, but one side of his mouth tugged up despite his best efforts to remain as depressing as possible. Ariel’s eyes got brighter. Rivaled the lights still flickering along the railing of their very nice, very new, decidedly expensive multi-level ship, and it had only taken about fourteen seconds for Killian to make that one photo Emma had sent him his phone background.

That probably wasn’t weird.

“So, people wanted to know about you,” Ariel said, “and your previously discussed face, and rather than employee a PI because it’s not 1947—” “—Oddly specific.” “I will kill you.” “God bless us, everyone.” “Your very helpful and exceedingly sure of his own obnoxious brand of humor brother was very quick to inform all the interested parties that the first mate was distracted because he unfortunately wasn’t with his wife for Christmas.”

Ariel’s murder threat was not only out of place considering the date, it was pointless because he was going to guarantee he died all on his own. Killian nearly fell off the edge of the dock.

One of his knees buckled, gaping at his friend and business partner like she’d only recently grown a few extra heads. She didn’t shrug again. Smiled, in her best impression of a variety of fictional and overly confident cats, but her shoulders stayed frustratingly still and that was—

“Emma and I aren’t married,” Killian sputtered, not entirely stunned to find those particular words difficult to say in that order. Half a plan rattled around with the rest of the emotions circling his skull, and he hadn’t really acted on the plan, but he’d been pondering and considering for at least a few weeks before his phone had rung.

And that was only kind of a lie.

He’d been doing a lot more than pondering for much longer than a few weeks. Considering had flown out the imaginary window, like—as soon as he and Emma had moved in together.

Liam didn’t know any of that, though.

At least in theory.

Maybe strangling his brother was something of an overreaction.

He still wanted to go home, though.

“Liam knows that,” Ariel reasoned, “and I know that. And obviously you know that, but none of your on-water admirers know that, and you were playing your part very well.” “What?” “Glued to your phone, all night. Like a clingy newlywed.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Is it? Because while not technically true—” “—Or true at all,” Killian interrupted, and he wondered if he was getting used to the feel of his heart doing whatever it was doing, or he was just growing more melodramatic by the second. At some point in the last twelve minutes the idea of walking back to New York had become rather appealing.

“Well, whatever. It was a good excuse, and it’s not like it was one-sided texting and it’s kind of romantic. All things considered.” “What are all the things, exactly?” That shrug came with another smile — far too knowing for Killian’s liking, but he also knew Ariel wouldn’t go back on her rum-buying word, and he supposed there was something to be said for that. Especially if it was good rum. “If you’re going to play the part…” “Look who’s being a romantic now.” “I’ve spent most of the lead-up to Christmas trying to force-feed Pedialyte on my husband. Got to get my romance from somewhere and you’re like—Hallmark Channel ready.” “Probably couldn’t have as much alcohol, then.” “How many bottles of Prosecco do you think Mary Margaret bought this year?”

Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Killian scrolled back through the more than two dozen photos he’d been sent over the course of the night until he found the one he was looking for. Of a table covered in green-hued bottles with plastic champagne flutes that Mary Margaret must have bought in bulk and—

Ariel’s laugh hung in the air around them, louder than it probably should have been considering the time, but they were also by themselves and he was still kind of moping. So. The world could cope with their collective volume.

“Do you think she gets a discount for buying so many?” Killian shook his head. “If she doesn’t, she’s being robbed.” “Get the private investigators on the case.” “Challenge Liam to a comedic battle.” “Not if we’re calling it that,” Ariel argued, bumping her shoulder against Killian’s leg. And he wasn’t sure if he was actually smiling, but his lips were moving and his heart didn’t appear to be shattering quite as much anymore and he hoped Emma fell asleep.

On Mary Margaret and David’s couch.

They wouldn’t let her go home, he was sure.

He hadn't gotten a text in awhile.

He was less sure about the shadows moving towards them, though — because he’d been a little distracted when they docked, but he watched Liam and Belle get into their rental car and there was absolutely no reason for either one of them to be back on the docks, but anyone else showing up on the docks at eleven o’clock at night was probably a sign that Killian and Ariel were about to be robbed. In a far more literal sense than whatever happened with Mary Margaret and her plastic champagne flutes.

“You guys good?” Ariel asked, sounding more aware of what was going on than she should have been. Killian’s eyes narrowed.

That made it only slightly difficult to see the overall width of his brother’s answering smile.

Plus, it was dark out.

“Better,” Liam said, “she's an absolute natural.”

Scrunching her nose, Belle waved off the compliment. “Please, all I have to do is stand there and be helpful.” “Yeah, but that’s more than Killian was able to do today, so…” “He was distracted.” “And standing right here,” Killian muttered, although standing was a little generous. His left knee was still awful bent. In an unnatural sort of way. “Doesn’t that hurt?” Liam asked. Gesturing towards Killian’s posture, he tilted his head and that was even more judgmental than any of the words Ariel hadn’t bothered saying. “Can’t be good for your ACL or whatever.” Belle clicked her tongue. “Adding the whatever makes it sound less official, really.” “And we’re trying to be official,” Ariel chipped in, clamoring to her feet. By using the side of Killian’s jacket for leverage, tugging on fabric until she threatened to tear it and that also would have been impressive if it didn’t feel suspiciously like he was about to pass out.

She wrapped her arms around Killian’s middle.

That kind of helped, honestly.

He’d never admit to it.

“Official about what, exactly?” Killian asked. “What are you guys doing here?”

Liam’s smile got wider. “We could ask you the same question, but we’ve already claimed way too much of your time and—” “—Wait, what?” “Killian seriously,” Ariel sighed, “if you keep interrupting, we’re never going to get to the fun and passably romantic part of the plan.” “Oh, no it’s definitely more than passably romantic,” Belle argued.

“Depends on him, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but he was glued to his phone and I’ve got at least twenty bucks on this happening before New Year’s Eve, so—” “—New Year’s Eve would be really romantic, actually!” “No, no, no,” Liam objected, voice rising on every repeat, “I’ve got Christmas morning, and that means he’s got to go now.” Not having anything to drink made it impossible for Killian to claim intoxication as a reason for the current spin rate of his head. Metaphorically, at least. Even so, he felt a little dizzy and slightly out of breath, trying very hard not to topple into the water.

There was no way he’d be able to disentangle himself from Ariel before he did that.

And then she’d get annoyed.

“What is going on?” Killian demanded, pausing between each word for emphasis. Liam’s lips disappeared. Behind his teeth.

While he failed spectacularly at containing his laugh. “We’re kicking you out,” Belle said simply, like that made sense and they hadn’t all but required his presence in Boston less than seventy-two hours earlier.

Killian blinked. Once, twice. Half a dozen times. Nothing changed. Ariel’s arms tightened, maybe — but Liam didn’t move, and Belle’s nose still had that scrunch-like effect, and the lights on their ship really did make it appropriately festive.

“And apologizing,” Ariel added. “We should make that more obvious.”

Blinking more was stupid.

Talking probably would have helped. But Killian’s tongue suddenly took up far too much space in his mouth, next to all the imaginary cotton balls that were impeding his ability to breathe and it could not have been healthy for so many body parts to consistently fail like that.

“This is really my fault,” Liam admitted, taking a step forward to clap Killian on the shoulder. His right knee bent that time. At least his reactions were symmetrical. “And I—well, I...I was so worried about the money and the party and—” “—We didn’t really think about your plans,” Belle finished. Opening his mouth, Killian genuinely could not come up with a word to describe whatever sound he made. Something between a scoff and that huff he was trying to accomplish before, but also drifting dangerously close to laughter borne of disbelief and his back actually had the gall to pop when he leaned forward.

“I don’t have plans.” “Please,” Ariel scoffed, “you have at least the hope for plans, and that’s nice in a way that deserves a better adjective and all that rum I promise.” Liam’s eyes widened. “How much rum are we talking?” “Enough that you stop spending so much time talking about the proper light to string ratio.” “What does that even mean?” Killian balked.

Shaking her head, Belle moved into his space as well. Both her hands landed on the front of his jacket, and Killian wasn’t exactly cold per se, but there was something inherently comforting about his sister-in-law’s smile and the way she always smelled a bit like vanilla.

As if she were just minutes away from baking something, at all times.

“Telling you to come here was a dick move,” Belle announced, Ariel’s head finding Killian’s shoulder when she started to cackle once more. They were all standing too close to each other. Someone was going to step on someone else’s foot. “And,” she continued, “Liam was right. This is totally his fault, but he’s running on like...no sleep, because we’re—” She grit her teeth, another unfinished sentence that frustrated Killian for about eight and half seconds. Before it all clicked at nine. “No, shit.” “Shit,” Belle confirmed, another smile and her left foot landed on Killian’s right when he pulled into a far-too-tight hug. Ariel had to move her arms. “Babies are expensive you see,” Liam said, “and we’d already funneled so much money into this, the party had to happen and I wasn’t sure if Belle was going to be able to come with me because—” “—They don’t tell you morning sickness lasts all day,” she grumbled. Killian’s laugh had an almost manic edge to it, suddenly happier than he thought he could be and that was more appropriate for the time. Of both the day and season.

“So,” Liam added, “I kind of lost my mind about Eric, and didn’t think about you or Emma or how stupid you’d be when you weren’t around Emma at Christmas because it’s so goddamn obvious what you’re planning.”

Heat rose in Killian’s cheeks, a questionably large inferno that suddenly flared to life in the pit of his stomach. “I haven’t totally decided.” “Yeah, well that’s dumb.” “Rife with opinions tonight, aren’t you?” “We’re kicking you out,” Belle repeated. “With our apologies that I wasn’t on the ship tonight because that shrimp appetizer smell made me want to die a little.” Ariel sighed. “Do all our statements have to be so violent? There should be more positivity to all of this.” “There will be if Killian can get me my twenty bucks.” “Why are you betting on this?” he asked, but the distinct lack of frustration in his voice was obvious even to him. Belle laughed. “Because calling you a newlywed was not nearly as unbelievable as it should have been, and if you get with the program you could probably have your rehearsal dinner on one of our very accommodating ships with an appetizer that does not include shrimp.” “I’m not really a huge fan of shellfish.” “See, the perfect plan.” An objection sat on the tip of Killian’s tongue — if only because he was decidedly stubborn and now a little worried about his brother’s expanding family, but his own family was not in Boston and he’d really like Emma to be his family. In an official sort of capacity.

“But what about—” “—No, absolutely not,” Belle cut in before Killian could finish, “that’s what we were doing. Going over the plans for tomorrow’s lunch cruise, and everything you were supposed to do, which I’m pretty confident I can do now, mostly because my husband is here and I won’t be tempted to text him the entire time.” “At least not much,” Liam quipped. The pinch between Killian’s eyebrows was going to stay there forever. If not longer. “And then I’ll also text you, at an appropriate time tomorrow, to apologize for being a massive Christmas bastard.” Hair hit Killian’s cheek. Not his. Distinctly red and smelling like shampoo she’d definitely spent far too much money on, Ariel’s hair blew around her when she threw her head back. With laughter. The catching sort, spreading like wildfire through their tiny group, until Belle had to wrap her arm around her middle to stay up, and Killian’s stomach ached just a bit and it took him a moment to realize he’d made another fire pun.

In his head. He needed to go home.

“Was Ariel a distraction?”

She kicked his ankle. “Rude, and yeah obviously. Liam is so goddamn overprotective with his unborn child, it’s disgusting.” “And nice,” Belle grinned.

Exhaling, Liam tugged on the back of his hair. A tell, and an apology without the words. Killian wanted the words. Even if it took a few extra minutes. “Seriously,” Liam said, “a Christmas bastard, which is not an excuse, but—I’m sorry. For the batard’ness, and bringing you here, and not explaining the reasons behind the bastard. And also for ruining your plans.” “I really have no plans,” Killian promised, but that fell a bit flat and he at least had rather specific wants. Of the desire-type variety.

“So fix that. Like as soon as possible.” “For my twenty bucks,” Belle said with another yank on Killian’s jacket. The poor jacket was not going to last much longer.

Ariel rolled her eyes. “She’s obsessed with the twenty bucks.” “Because your husband will have to pay it!” “Should you have bet with an invalid?” Killian asked, trying without much immediate success to take a step away from either one of them. “And what kind of Pedialyte flavor are you forcing?” “The purple kind.” “Blue’s definitely better.” Liam looked frustrated.

That felt like something of a victory. “Were you going to go, Killian? Or—” Kissing the top of Ariel’s hair and pulling Belle into one more hug, Killian flipped off his brother, muttered Merry Christmas, don’t sink the boat, and would never admit to running back towards his car. Or how quickly he drove home.

It took at least twenty-six minutes to find a parking spot.

Four blocks away.

Still, Killian assumed he was running on holiday-fueled adrenaline and something almost resembling romance and the distinct lack of anything in his pocket was a challenge he viewed as quirky more than anything else.

He bounded up the steps, nearly dropping his keys more than once before he managed to unlock the door only to be immediately hit in the face. With what felt suspiciously like garland.

And Killian hadn’t really planned on spending much time in their apartment, only thinking about a few hours of sleep before driving to Mary Margaret and David’s house on the Island because he might have come up with half a list of sweepingly romantic things to do, but he wasn’t a total jerk who would show up on someone else’s doorstep in the middle of the goddamn night, and it obviously did not make a single ounce of difference.

While he was being strangled with garland.

Blinking against the darkness of their living room, Killian’s brain couldn’t quite come to terms with what he was seeing. Like the ninth floor of the Herald Square Macy’s had exploded. Tinsel hung from what appeared to be actual ivy, pinned along the top of the wall with startling accuracy. Lights meant to resemble icicles reflected against every window pane, and there was an actual tree in the corner.

Every one of his inhales had a distinct pine-like scent to it, like he was standing in the middle of a forest, and Killian did not think they owned that many ornaments when he left.

They hadn’t owned any ornaments, so it was a rather easy number to remember.

A star was balanced precariously at the top of the tree, paper snowflakes dropping from the ceiling and—

Emma curled in the corner of the couch.

With at least four blankets covering her. She was a notorious blanket thief.

Mary Margaret hadn’t woken up either, twisted into the other end of the cushions, and Killian couldn’t fathom how they were comfortable, but he was also admittedly a little distracted by the desire of his lungs to keep providing oxygen to the rest of his body and David’s eyes were alarmingly wide.

“What are you doing here?” “I live here,” Killian hissed, swatting away the garland. Bits of it fell onto the top of his sneakers. “What are you doing here?” “Helping.” “What?” “Helping,” David said slowly, like Killian simply did not understand the word and not all the meaning behind it. “She—well, the decorations left something to be desired, and you know Mary Margaret. There’s a project, so she’s got to help and—” “—Wait, wait, wait, did Emma do all this?”

Waving both his hands in the air, David didn’t bother to say obviously when the movement made it so abundantly clear. Killian’s jaw dropped.

Something popped there as well. Which probably wasn’t what woke Emma up, but thinking that was almost nice in another way that deserve a better adjective, and the overall force of her smile as soon as her eyes landed on him made every bit of splintered heart still lingering in his chest knit itself back together.

Immediately.

“Should I be concerned that you’re deserting?” she asked, hooking her chin over the back of the couch. As if she’d been expecting this exact situation. Killian shook his head. “Nah, this is a wholly authorized shore leave.” David’s groan very likely hurt the inside of his throat.

“What happened here, Swan?” Pink immediately colored her expression, every one of her teeth obvious when she grit them. Mary Margaret must have been the soundest sleeper in the Universe. Or she’d had a questionable amount of Prosecco to drink that night. “Christmas?” That was as good a reason as any, honestly. Although that stubborn streak of his ran several nautical miles wide, and nearly tripping over the garland on his few steps towards the couch made Emma’s shoulders shake.

Killian knelt in front of her.

Step one accomplished, then.

“It’s super lame,” Emma warned, but Killian’s heart was doing more biologically impossible things and his eyes fluttered when she brushed his hair away from his forehead. “I just—well, you weren’t here, and that kind of ruined any of my festive-type feelings, which as we all know are shaky at best.” “Work in progress, love.” Her tongue sticking between her lips was not as annoying as Ariel’s had been. Killian figured that had something to do with the desire to kiss her. And not Ariel. Who would have smacked him at even the allusion to such a thing. “Well,” Emma mumbled, “the lack of appropriate holiday spirit reared its head like—as soon as you closed the door behind you, but then I went to the party and you kept texting me and—” “—I’m sorry, I was texting you? You were texting me!” “God,” David grumbled, dropping into the only chair left in the living room. There should have been more chairs in the living room. “It’s ridiculous, the pair of you.” Killian narrowed his eyes. Glaring was too difficult. “Why are you here?” “I told you, helping.” “He did,” Emma said. “Both him and Mary Margaret, really. I, ok—well, whoever was texting who, it doesn’t really matter. Just that Ruth thinks we’re married.” Of all the ways that sentence could have ended, Killian was loath to admit hearing that David’s mother believed the same lie Liam had been spouting to Boston tourists was not one of them.

“She does,” Emma continued, rushing over the words, “for some reason. But she kept saying how nice it was that a young couple like us was able to keep in touch when we weren’t together for the holidays and I was really kind of drunk, and even more upset that you weren’t going to be here, so my mind just kind of latched onto things and—” Pulling in a deep breath made her shoulders shift again, Killian’s eyes taking in every moment so he could commit them all to memory and the question was out of his mouth before he realized Emma was still talking. “Will you marry me?” “Do you want to get married?”

David fell out of the chair.

Slid, technically. Directly onto the floor and next to presents that were almost perfectly wrapped with color coordinated bows on each of them.

“What?” Killian breathed, Emma’s hand flying to her mouth. Left one, so that helped too actually. None of his fingers shook when he reached up, pulling that same hand down and kissing the bend of her knuckles. Tears clouded Emma’s eyes, falling on her cheeks faster than he could brush them away.

With his mouth. Killian tried all the same.

While ignoring the increasing volume of David’s rather uproarious laugh. He was texting someone. Probably Ariel, who very likely was requiring play-by-play. And had timed Killian’s drive home.

“That was kind of...this,” Emma explained, nodding towards the living room. “I—I wanted to decorate, and make it Christmas when you got back because...well, I blame the alcohol and your brother and—” “—That’s fair, honestly. Belle’s pregnant, by the way.” “No shit.” “Shit,” Killian confirmed, a repeat he’d share later. Once they got all this engagement business sorted out. “They’re pretty incredible decorations.” “Yeah, well flattery will get you everywhere.” Huffing out a breath, Emma’s head dropped to his, and that made it easier to get his fingers in her hair. “This made a lot of sense when I was drunker. But, uh—I needed to do something with all that energy and sudden holiday thoughts and I’ve got a lot of thoughts about your face, you know that?” Ariel was going to be insufferable.

Killian would make her buy some Moscato, too. That was Emma’s favorite. “Gave me something to do,” Emma added, “and then I figured you’d get home and there’d be some sweeping and we could do something about Ruth’s assumptions and I think we’d be really good at being married.” Kissing her was the only reasonable option. Even as David sounded like he was in physical pain.

Surging up, Killian’s mouth all but slammed into Emma’s, tilting his head so he got to that one, perfect angle that allowed his tongue to swipe across her lips and draw that even more perfect sound out of her, and he was only dimly aware of Mary Margaret waking up. The couch creaked when she moved.

Killian didn’t.

His fingers carded through Emma’s hair, only breaking apart to appease his lungs and the requirements of his body before kissing her again, and his knees kind of ached. Presumably from supporting most of their collective weight when Emma was kind of draped across him. “Don’t go in the bedroom, ok?” Humming against her only guaranteed David made another noise of protest, but it was nice that they’d helped decorate and Killian could only imagine how they’d gotten all that ivy on the wall.

“That’s, uh—” Emma leaned back, one of her eyes squeezed closed. “Where we put all the extra non-holiday stuff, and it’s kind of a disaster.”

“Tore up the apartment, like she had separation anxiety,” Mary Margaret slurred, and Killian refused to be held accountable for whatever his face did at that.

David rolled his whole head. Emma shrugged. He liked that one the best. “So, uh—” “Yeah,” Killian finished, before he could stop himself and any qualms either one of them had once had about clingy relationships or relationship qualifiers appeared to disappear before their eyes. Like frost on the window. Which was seasonally appropriate. “I think we’d be really good at marriage.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Where’d you get the decorations from, though?” “You’re welcome,” Mary Margaret replied, sounding a bit more coherent and just as exhausted. That was fair. It was close to four in the morning.

Emma nodded. “Definite separation anxiety. So we should probably not do this again, and then you can help decorate.” “Deal,” Killian promised, and they didn’t bother waiting for an appropriate time to call Liam. Or Ariel, who crowded into the video call because, as she claimed, it was her living room and her twenty bucks and her shriek probably affected the structural integrity of her house.

The rum showed up two days later.

And made for a very good toast, as soon Killian slipped the ring onto Emma’s finger. They picked it out together.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs fic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #festive fic a thon 2k20 #can't write an MC but can write 5K in like...four hours #naturally #enjoy this fluffy nonsense

59 notes · View notes