#yet think it's acceptable to bring crust and dust to the table

[wolf-and-bard]

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”  

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

[adsosfraser]

The Stone’s Toll Chapter Two

Read on AO3

“Mrs. Randall, ye have a visitor.” Claire stared at the nurse, curiosity plain on her face. 

 She left and softly closed the door behind her. Minutes later, Claire heard the click of the lock again and strained her neck towards the noise. 

 Graham smiled sheepishly as he shuffled into her room. He held a small bouquet of heather, thistles, and gorse wrapped in twine. 

 “Hello miss, tis lovely tae see ye again. I picked these just this afternoon on my way here. I was lucky they were all so close together.” The boy searched the room and put the flowers in the empty vase on the table to her right. “I don’t know if ye remember, but I found you up at the standing stones. Well my mam always said to watch out for the faerie hill but I was a wee bit curious ye ken. I’m glad I took a wander over because… sorry miss my mam always tells me how I go blethering on about nonsense and such so that’s just to say I hope you are feeling better miss..?” 

 “Claire Fr.. err Randall.” Claire couldn’t help the smile at the young man's youth and almost naïveté, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the ordeals of the past months.

 She reached out her hand for him to shake. 

 “It was very kind of you to come visit Graham. Thank you.” He blushed at her compliment.

 “Well I brought some cards because I ken how boring it is to be locked up in one of these rooms. And the radio is a pounding nuisance sometimes as well. Last year I stumbled on one of the fence posts I was putting up when I was helping down at auld Hamish’s. The nail went straight through the leg and I ended up here a day. Mam was absolutely furious at me, boxed my ears till they rang for weeks. My mam’s a nurse here so it’s no trouble at all that I’m here right now visiting. I guess I get special insider privileges. I come here after school to do my schoolwork and she says I’m no bother. That’s what I was just doing before I decided to pop in here Miss.”

 Claire welcomed the ramblings of Graham. It was a nice distraction to the morbid thoughts that lay festering below.

 “Well I appreciate the company. My… husband just left to prepare things for our short stay here. I’m sorry I’m rubbish at most card games, but I’ll go my hand at it.” 

 The two chatted companionably and he even managed to pry out a laugh or two from her. Claire pushed down feelings of familiarity of Fergus and the boy before her. He couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than the boy she had just left behind hours ago, with the same long-lashed dark eyes and dark hair. Tears sprung at the thought of her son and she turned out of view to wipe them away. 

 “Do you have any fours?” Graham interrupted her thoughts. 

 “Ach! It feels like I’m being cheated here.” Claire flashed a smile and pushed forward the two cards on the table between them.

 “Hello darling. It seems you’ve made a new friend.”

 Claire stiffened at her husband's entrance into the small hospital room. Graham flicked his gaze between the two of them, sensing the tension. He awkwardly picked up the game in front of them and shoved the cards into his pocket.  

 “Yes. This is Graham Munro, the one who helped me to the hospital.”

 “Thank you for bringing my wife safely back into my custody Graham. I’m sure she has lots to tell me, and would appreciate time to rest.”

 Graham cleared his throat. “Well Miss Claire, I wish ye a speedy recovery. Twas a pleasure to meet ye.” 

 “You as well Graham. Thank you for the flowers.”

 The boy reached out to squeeze Claire’s hand and smiled warmly. He turned on his heel and raced out to the corridor. 

 Moments later, Frank shoved the table to the side and knelt by his wife’s side. He reached out to hold the hands that rested on her lap. Claire flinched at his touch once again and Frank furrowed his brow. Frank felt a squeeze in his hand and smiled up at her. She put on a strained smile as she stared down at him. He finally noticed the silver that encircled her right ring finger and made to take it off. She pulled her hand violently from his grasp and guarded the jewellry to her chest. He pushed off the reaction to the shock the doctor had described. He just needed to be patient. 

 “Darling, everything is prepared at the manse for our arrival. You’ll rest here tonight, recover, heal, and then I’ll bring you over in the morning. I left your suitcase there and I’m sure you’ll have enough to get you through our stay.” He walked over to a chair near the window while he spoke and placed her stays in his hands. 

 “Alright.” Her gaze was transfixed on her fingers in her lap. 

 “This is… remarkable Claire, where on earth did you find these?” 

 “Hmph.” Claire offered as a reply, almost mimicking the Scottish noise her husband always made.

 “Right I’m to leave with Reverend Wakefield to visit over some archives again. You’ll be in good hands here for now.” 

 A nurse wheeled in a cart and instructed Claire to rest. She gathered the sterile bandages from the metal tray and pulled back the cover of Claire’s hospital gown to display the burns flicking across the cream skin of her stomach. She winced as the nurse applied the salve against her sore skin so she took pity on her poor patient. The nurse pushed a syringe into her IV line and Claire’s limbs instantly relaxed. Her head filled with cotton and she wasn’t able to hold it up herself, until she let go of the tension within herself and slumped down on the stiff mattress. 

 It was cold and she was only in her shift, a white shawl draped across her shoulders. Piles of men dotted the ground and a bunny twitched its nose at her before sprinting away. There, underneath the corpse of his enemy, lay her husband. His body was covered in blood and crusted with dirt and deep scratches marked his body: the result of war. 

 “Are you alive?” She stretched her hand out towards his cheek.  

 Her hand cupped his stumbled jaw and his skin blazed against hers. The fever shook his body and sapped his energy. What little he had left was spent twisting his neck in her direction. A light dusting of snow covered the bloody grass of the moor. All too soon, she was pulled away and the sight of him faded from her grasp. 

***

The hours passed and the logs burned to small sticks, Frank replacing them every so often with new wood. He turned towards the table that held a half-empty glass, plying himself more and more with alcohol as the glass drowned in the weight of the drink. Claire worked tirelessly the precious few days where her husband hadn’t yet pressed her for an explanation, flipping through all available resources to find any trace of Jamie. Mrs. Graham had been a wonder in helping Claire but her attitude regardless would not have changed anything. The search was futile and failed to bring what she wanted. She couldn’t look for the family that was alive that she had left behind. The sacrifice and promise she made meant nothing with the outcome that soon became her every thought. She abandoned them all for a thought of a future, not even a live, breathing one.

 She spoke of her time with Jamie, reluctantly giving only the necessary pieces of her life, an outline that she would be able to view events from outside. She stepped out of her life and watched herself ramble on, an outsider and onlooker to a tragic event. That wasn’t her, those things couldn’t have happened to her. Claire finished her final thoughts in a daze, looking anywhere but Frank. 

 “Give me-excuse me please Claire I need some time to think this over.”

 Claire poured another glass for herself and slammed the burning liquid back along with a large pill from the hospital.

 Frank returned a few hours later, having thought in great depth. Claire’s thoughts were muddled. She couldn’t remember how many glasses she had.

 “Claire I can accept that you’ve had this… relationship with this man. I will never understand your feelings for him, but I can accept that you had this experience, and that leaving him broke your heart.” 

 “I don’t think you understand. I was with a man for two years, and I loved him deeply as his wife.” 

 “A point you’ve made several times and which I’ve said I understand. Now let me tell you this. I love you Claire, unconditionally, nothing you could do could stop my loving you.” 

 “Darling I’ve been offered a position at Harvard. I was thinking we could move to Boston together. Start over. Leave all...this behind.”

 She didn’t care. He was dead. She might as well have been too. Frank could do as he bloody well pleased. Her mind focused on the patterns of the carpet below her, forcing out any other thoughts. Her finger swirled in spirals in one spot on her thigh, mimicking what she saw.

 “Alright. ” 

 That was the first time Claire had looked into his eyes since her disappearance. His brown eyes were soft and crinkled in an attempt towards a smile to his wife. She couldn’t find the malice she desperately searched for. She needed the anger, the sharp coldness. It was too much. Frank kneeled at Claire’s feet and he reached to pull her down into his embrace. He brought her down to his chest. She stiffened. 

 “Claire, you've made me so happy. I know we’ll be happy. Together.” 

 “T-together? You mean for me to come along?” 

 “Of course, darling. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

 Claire only nodded in response. She knew she’d never be happy with Frank anymore, or anyone for that matter. She didn’t intend to live long, but what option did she have to resist a husband? Frank kissed her curls and pulled her head to his shoulder. He sniffled and pulled back, placing both hands gently on her face. 

 “But we must put the past behind us. You must promise me. No more searching for him. Let him go.”

 “Yes. That’s what he made me promise.” She was reminded of another promise she had broken and another pang stabbed her already distressed heart.

#jamie fraser #claire fraser #jamie x claire #outlander fanfiction #frank randall #craigh na dun #fergus fraser #canon divergence #outlander fanfic

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 18: Understanding

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan returned to his room in a daze, his mouth filled with the taste of dust and ashes. Gavriel was now sitting up on the worktable, cradling the bowl of stew the princess had left, now almost empty, while the loaf of bread had been gnawed down to the crust.

The golden male looked at him slowly, steadily. Instead of returning his gaze, Rowan turned and sat on the bed before his knees gave out beneath him.

“So that was the Heir of Terrasen.”

Gavriel’s voice reached him slowly, as if traveling through a thick fog. “Yes,” Rowan responded plainly. There was no chance in hell that Gavriel hadn’t heard every single word that had passed between them.

“Fenrys mentioned the princess in his letter. Have you…was that – ”

“No.” Rowan collected himself through sheer force of will. “That was nothing. Just an argument – she’s even more difficult than Fenrys was.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Gavriel’s voice lightened somewhat, but there was still an undercurrent of suspicion, of worry. One that Rowan was determined to eliminate.

“I think she’s a punishment from Maeve, and if not her, then the gods. She fights me on everything, questions every word I say. If I told her the sun rose in the east and set in the west, she wouldn’t believe it.” Just keeping his voice even and polite was a massive effort.

Gavriel was silent for a moment. Then he said, hesitantly, “She looked so…familiar. It was strange, almost like – ” the male’s voice cut off abruptly, his lips pursed tight. Rowan caught a quick whiff of something cold and sharp in his warm, nutty scent, perhaps grief – or longing? But then the emotion was once again carefully controlled and concealed, so thoroughly Rowan thought he might have imagined it.

Gavriel shook his head roughly, saying, “It doesn’t matter. Did Maeve say what her intentions were regarding the princess?”

“No. Only that I was to bring her to Doranelle when she proved herself.”

“And how much longer do you expect to be here?”

“Perhaps a few months.”

“So she learns quickly.”

Rowan sighed. “She was already proficient in combat. There were a few complications in teaching her to access her power, but now that she’s gotten through that first stage I expect she’ll progress quickly.”

“Her power is...” Gavriel’s voice trailed off in astonishment.

“I know.” Rowan responded. Even with barely a minute in the girl’s presence, Gavriel already could sense her potential.

“Do you expect that she will join us?”

Rowan shook his head slowly, pursing his lips. “I don’t know.” He paused for a second, looking out the dark window. “I can only suspect what Maeve wants, but the girl has her own agenda.”

“And?”

“And I have no idea what it is, or what she wants. And I don’t particularly give a shit. I’m going to train her and take her to Doranelle as Maeve ordered, then I can be rid of her.” Rowan’s voice was hard, but his throat was tight. And he suspected that the male might have heard the half-truth there.

Gavriel’s face twisted in a frown. “Maeve won’t want to let such a gift escape her grasp, regardless of the girl’s intentions. She must have some kind of plan in place, some kind of leverage she can pull.”

Rowan understood. Although Maeve was powerful enough to confront her enemies solely with brute force, that wasn’t how she preferred to operate. Instead, she manipulated, twisting others into the positions she wants them in.

Gavriel’s voice was dispassionate. “The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle, and then we will discover Maeve’s purpose with the girl. Perhaps she’s intended to be an agent in the west. Adarlan has become quite the annoyance of late, there’s a chance Maeve wants the girl to go west and claim her throne. We haven’t had a strong ally on that continent for decades now. It makes our western flank weak. And the advantages of having a foreign ruler there to protect our interests must be massive…”

Rowan remained silent, nodding along while Gavriel speculated idly. It was strange to hear someone talk of such things as if they weren’t of monumental significance. As if they were only small shifts, tiny moves on the chessboard of nations.

For some reason, they no longer were for Rowan. For some reason, he couldn’t think about the princess in that way anymore – as only a piece to be moved at the will of other, more powerful players.

“…or maybe she is intended to join us, and Maeve will continue to avoid war and fortify our borders. Either way, the princess will likely prove a great advantage.”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Gavriel looked at him sternly, though not harshly. It was an examining look, one that questioned and surveyed. In it, Rowan could feel every year of Gavriel’s seniority, each decade of the centuries Rowan had not yet experienced. Though Rowan outranked Gavriel, was second only to Lorcan in their court, in that moment, he didn’t feel it.

Gavriel had always been his sounding board, where he went when he could no longer stand Fenrys’ recklessness, when Lorcan’s misery became too much to bear. But this time the issue was so much less clear, so confusing and incomprehensible that he couldn’t even begin to address it with himself, let alone the male.

So he remained silent, acknowledging Gavriel’s questioning look but refusing to answer it. Gavriel leaned down to place the bowl of stew on the floor, and instead of pushing the issue, accepted Rowan’s refusal. “The night is beginning to wane, and I doubt you still want to be doing this when the sun returns.”

Rowan nodded, moving to sit astride the worktable and picking up the needle and mallet. Gavriel led back down, closed his eyes and once again began his murmured prayers.

It took a while for Rowan to get back into the easy rhythm, for the motions to feel comfortable and familiar again. The moon rose and fell, casting a beam of light that traveled across his bed until it disappeared behind the Cambrian mountains, and all went black. The rain eventually stopped its soft patter against the window, and the silver mists returned.

All the while, Gavriel spoke on behalf of his fallen dead. He pleaded with the gods to take their souls and treat them gently, guiding them into the Afterworld with kindness and tenderness. He told of their great deeds and their mighty worth, until the scent of his grief lessened and wore thin.

Rowan was silent the whole time, his only sounds the soft tap of the mallet and dip in the inkpot. He didn’t join in with the male’s murmured entreaty, but together they grieved through the night. And though their sorrow had completely different causes, the familiar ritual helped to soothe both of their aches until the edges were dull and blunt.

By the time the sun began to rise, the markings were finally done. Rowan began to clear off the table, collecting his needles and pouring the remaining ink on the fire, while Gavriel gingerly pulled his shirt over the fresh tattoo.

Rowan had been wrapped up in his own thoughts, but he thought that perhaps something had shifted in the male through the night. That Gavriel had undergone some change of heart, or realization. But he said nothing, and Rowan didn’t push. He knew he was in no position to ask personal information of anybody.

Rowan kept his face turned towards the back wall, away from the bed where Gavriel was now sitting, strapping on his many weapons. Soon, the male finished readying himself and stood, saying his goodbyes. Rowan mumbled one in return, now mopping up the pools of blood and spilled ink that dotted the surface of the table.

But before leaving, Gavriel hesitated in the doorway, deliberating. “I will see you in a few months Rowan. Until then…” he trailed off. “Just remember that Maeve will use any and all advantages at her disposal, regardless of the consequences. Do not accidentally become that very advantage.”

Before Rowan could protest, Gavriel interrupted again, “I’m not saying I understand whatever your relationship is with the girl. Just don’t let any attachment to her overshadow your duty to your queen. You have your orders, and no matter what she does, the princess cannot avoid the coming meeting.”

Rowan spoke through his teeth. “I know my orders, Gavriel. And as I said last night, the girl is nothing to me.”

“So you say.”

“So it is.”

Gavriel just nodded, backing off and turning to leave the cold stone room. But before he could, Rowan added in a slightly lighter tone, “Farewell Gavriel. And when you see Maeve, tell her…tell her that the princess is learning well, and I expect to return to Doranelle before Samhuinn.”

“I will.” Gavriel dipped his head, and left the room.

···

Gavriel strode through the fortress, lost in thought.

He couldn’t escape the image of the girl, the Princess of Terrasen. It swam before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to eliminate it. He’d spent the whole night consumed by it, haunted by it. While he had been whispering prayers to his lost men, while Rowan had marked his shame and grief on his body, his heart had been vehemently denying the truth that hovered just out of reach.

Those eyes, that face…the girl was a spitting image of the woman he loved.

An Ashryver Princess, a future Queen of Wendlyn. The woman he had left alone nearly twenty-four years ago. Who had decided to banish him from her presence rather than accept that he was blood-sworn to Maeve. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth, would have done anything to protect her. But she didn’t want him to, and so Gavriel had left and not looked back. Never to see her again.

He didn’t know what had happened to her after that, hadn’t wanted to. It hurt too much. But he had heard that shortly after that summer, an Ashryver princess had been married off to the Prince of Terrasen. And within months, had a golden-haired child with extraordinary Fae gifts. Gifts usually never seen among those whose Fae blood was so diluted.

The possibility hovered above him, tantalizing him with its likelihood.

Was that his child sleeping in the fortress above him? His child whose heart beat with fire and power and magic?

As the night had passed, it had gotten harder and harder to deny it. The truth that his heart was telling him. He could have sired a child. A child who thought they’d been abandoned, who was alone and friendless in a world that was crueler than it was kind.

His grief had fled his body, and it took all of his control to hide the anxiety that replaced it. Though Rowan had been distracted by his own pain, Gavriel didn’t want the male taking notice. No one knew about his relationship with the princess that summer, and he had gone to great lengths to keep it that way. He would not fail her now. Though his love was dead, he could not fail her child.

But there was nothing more he could do. Nothing to protect her from the powers that circled, vultures ready to pounce.

Gavriel had heard everything said between Aelin and Rowan, and it worried him. The male had been needlessly cruel, even heartless. But Gavriel knew Rowan, and something had shifted in the male since he’d seen him last. It wasn’t so much that an edge had been softened, more that an edge had been uncovered. That the girl had awoken some part of him that had been sleeping, dreaming of being awake and alive.

Perhaps in another time, in another life, this would have comforted Gavriel. It would have gladdened him to see his old friend begin to heal, to let go. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Especially considering what he had overheard last night, the pain and loneliness they both shared.

And, the girl was fated to face Maeve, to be brought before her and offered up like a pig to slaughter. For Maeve to do with what she would. The idea, the very image of seeing that perfect, golden face kneeling before Maeve was enough for his heart to twist and contort uncomfortably in his chest.

But still, no matter the ramifications of this horrific possibility, Gavriel didn’t want Rowan to do anything stupid. To lose his head, in the face of his melting heart. If he tried to betray their queen, he would fail, and either be punished himself, or send the young woman to death or torture.

The words came to him unasked, unbidden. His daughter.

And they rent him through.

···

Rowan lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listless and pathetic. The sun had now risen, Mala’s golden light streaming through the window and caressing his icy face. It carried with it a whisper of something, something he couldn’t quite make out. And, like words in another tongue, they sailed past his ears like beautiful nothings.

The whisper of light carried no scent other than that of the dust motes floating through the air, no trace of embers or flame. No trace of the girl’s fiery power.

A power that he’d felt burn out before his very eyes.

He’d spent the whole night denying it, turning to action and repetition to dull the pain and sorrow and regret, but it hadn’t worked. Once Gavriel had walked out that door, it had returned full force.

He couldn’t shake the image of the look on her face, could rid himself of the smell of ashes trailing after her every step. And all the while, the taste of her blood on his lips haunted him, a pale remnant of fire and light and beauty. It stalked him through his dreams, and he couldn’t escape it, no matter how far he flew.

Rowan’s eyelids drooped, his limbs aching with exhaustion from the hours of tattooing, but sleep did not find him. The sun continued to rise until its height could no longer be ignored, and Rowan unwillingly pulled himself from bed and headed towards the kitchens.

As he approached, the lack of sound was deafening. Usually, he could hear the chatter of the boy, Luca, and Emrys’ soft responses and quiet laughter. Occasionally, Rowan even heard short comments from the girl. And even on days when the work was heavy, and talk scarce, you could always hear the sounds of movement, of the hustle that was demanded by the requirements of feeding dozens of people each and every day. But this morning, it was near-silent.

When he reached the kitchen doorway, Rowan found the large room empty save for Emrys, who was sitting quietly at a table, cradling a mug of tea. He looked up at Rowan, and his eyes were bright with tears. When the old male’s scent reached him, it was heavy with sorrow. Something had happened.

Rowan honestly didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to find out the state the girl had been when she arrived that morning, didn’t want to know what she might have told the old male.

It didn’t matter. Because either way, the princess was nowhere to be seen. And he couldn’t sense her anywhere else in the fortress either. Even if she had only left to go on a walk, and was intending on returning, she was supposed to be here. Rowan was going to have to track her down.

He felt a quick rush of relief at the thought. The girl had left again, and so for a little while longer at least, Rowan didn’t have to face what he’d said yesterday. He had the excuse of dragging the princess back to the fortress to avoid whatever other, more personal confrontation threatened.

Rowan took a step towards the back door, nodding a greeting at Emrys, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the old male carefully considering him until he spoke up.

“What are you doing?” Emrys asked flatly.

“What?” Rowan’s eyes narrowed. The old male looked him up and down, studying him with a practiced eye. And though the steel in Rowan’s gaze was undiminished, the demi-Fae did not shirk from his gaze.

“To that girl. What are you doing that makes her come in here with such emptiness in her eyes?” Emrys’ voice wasn’t rude or confrontational – he wasn’t seeking to challenge Rowan. But it still rang with a quiet, unshakable authority that set him on edge.

“That’s none of your concern.”

Emrys pressed his lips into a tight line, unwilling to back down. “What do you see when you look at her, Prince?”

He didn’t know. These days, he didn’t know a damn thing. “That’s none of your concern, either.”

Emrys ran a hand over his weathered face. “I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up.”

“I don’t see why I would be of any use to – ”

“Did you know that Evalin Ashryver was my friend? She spent almost a year working in this kitchen – living here with us, fighting to convince your queen that demi-Fae have a place in your realm. She fought for our rights until the very day she departed this kingdom – and the many years after, until she was murdered by those monsters across the sea. So I knew. I knew who her daughter was the moment you brought her into this kitchen. All of us who were here twenty-five years ago recognized her for what she is.”

Rowan blinked, the only sign of his shock. Emrys and Malakai had known the whole time, they had known that he was lying, had known that the girl he was training was the Heir of Terrasen, was Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. All those overheard conversations, that quiet concern – it wasn’t just the affection of an affectionate male, but the anxiety that arose from real connection. Rowan could only stare.

Emrys continued, his eyes intent. “She has no hope, Prince. She has no hope left in her heart. Help her. If not for her sake, then at least for what she represents – what she could offer all of us, you included.”

“And what is that?” the question was almost earnest.

Emrys’ response was soft. “A better world.”

···

Rowan had left without another word, fleeing Emrys’ determined stare. Taking to the skies, his only respite from a world filled with people and their useless talk.

Now he flew high above the fortress, fiercely driving through the silver mists, water droplets coating his feathers with their icy touch. But he barely took notice of them, barely took notice of anything as the old male’s words resounded in his head, bouncing off his skull and rattling his bones.

Shove her down, Slipping away, Such emptiness, No hope.

She has no hope in her heart.

He couldn’t escape them, couldn’t dodge them. They stuck to his feathers like tar, heavy and molten and sweltering, and the cold wind made not one bit of difference.

What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?

Rowan did not know.

The taste of the girl’s blood echoed in his mouth, mocking him. And the fiery taste brought with it more words, more memories, more icy shame in his gut.

Spineless, Pathetic, Cowardly.

Worthless.

All so completely untrue.

He’d known they were, had begun to confront the truth of her pain, of his cruelty. But knowing and understanding were completely different things. Being confronted with his misjudgment had shaken something loose in Rowan, had forced him to acknowledge the truth of the princess, and how horribly he had wronged her.

She was a girl who was alone, who was in pain. Who thought she’d found someone who knew the truth of her and didn’t hate her for it, but then found herself mistaken.

She was his mirror.

His equal.

And he’d rejected her. Had clung to his solitude and hatred and pain instead of choosing something better. Something that felt like hope.

But it was a fragile, death-marked hope. A hope that would soon be brought to keel at Maeve’s feet. To be destroyed forever.

Rowan’s chest constricted, the image of him guiding Aelin through the streets of Doranelle, alone and powerless, enough to twist in his gut like a knife. To be the destroyer of that hope…it was a deed he would not come back from. That he could not come back from.

Now it was Gavriel’s words that echoed in his head. The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle.

No.

He could not allow it. In the deepest, darkest part of his blackened heart, he could not allow it. She would fight, and he would help her. Die with her, if necessary. Die as he should have for Lyria, all those centuries ago. Die protecting hope, instead of destroying it.

And Aelin would fight as well, would fight until her last breath because that was who she was. She already was asking questions about Maeve, searching for any weaknesses. Not that Emrys had given her any.

A memory crashed through him with the force of a lightning strike.

Suddenly, Rowan knew. He understood what Mala had whispered on his skin that morning. He remembered.

A millennia ago, a warrior had stolen Maeve’s heart. A warrior named Athril, dearest of Brannon and beloved of Maeve, the Queen of the Fae. A warrior who had killed demons and darkness and fought in the wars that helped to found this world and forge it anew. A warrior who had intended to give Maeve a ring.

His queen had never known where Athril’s ring and Brannon’s sword had disappeared after their deaths. But Rowan did.

He just needed to find a way to get them to the princess without having to explain, without pressing at the limitations of the blood oath. He couldn’t outright betray his queen, couldn’t just give weapons to her enemies without consequences.

But perhaps there was a way for him to achieve two of his goals at once, to subtly put the ring in the princess’ hands, while also teaching her to control her power. Aelin had always been best motivated when other people’s interests were at stake. Now all Rowan had to do was find some motivation.

···

An hour or so later, Rowan was flying back through the icy mist, searching for the golden princess. She had walked for miles through the oaken woods, up through the mountains and along a tree-lined shore of secluded lake that now glared white-bright in the early afternoon sunlight.

She was curled in on herself, shaking from the force of her sobs, her shoulders thin and tight. Rowan waited for her to calm before swooping down and shifting to sit beside her. As he drew closer, he was relieved to taste the barest hint of flame beneath the sea of ash, a pale trace of hope.

She raised her head to look out across the rippling water, but didn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way. Tears glistened in tracks down her cheeks.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice as soft as it had ever been.

“No.” She swallowed hard, then yanked a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. They were silent for a moment, the only sound the soft lapping of the water on the shore. A soft, peaceful place.

Rowan breathed, and rallied. “Good. Because we’re going.”

“Bastard.” She cursed at him, but it was without much heat. “Going where?”

Rowan turned to look at the princess. Her eyes were bright again, the gold molten and swirling beneath the glazed surface of her recently shed tears. Almost like a frozen-over lake, where the force of the water was barely contained by a thin sheet of ice. Ready to break free.

Rowan smiled at her. “I think I’ve started to figure you out, Aelin Galathynius.”

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#WatE repost

[thepetulantpen]

Healing/Ashes

(I swear I’m going to get these done! Here’s day 7 of @widomauk-week , I’ll have day 8 done shortly! Little more angsty today... warning for mild description of injuries and major character injury!)

“You should have Jester heal you.”

Caleb slowly lowers himself next to Molly, wincing at the protest from his bruised ribs and the deep cut on his arm.

“I’m fine.”

Molly frowns in concern but doesn’t bother to argue with Caleb when he knows he’s not going to budge on the matter.

He wishes, not for the first time, he had the power to heal, instead of just to hurt. That way, Molly could heal him whenever he pleased and Caleb would have no choice but to accept it.

Their wizard looks particularly grim after today’s battle, with blood crusting on his head, singed eyebrows, ash dusting the top of his hair, and bloody bandages peeking out of his sleeve. As Molly watches, blood slowly seeps into the bandage on Caleb’s upper arm, spreading and consuming more of the white material.

“Caleb-“

“It’s fine, Mollymauk. She doesn’t need to waste any more spells on me.”

Something is wrong. Molly can feel it, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

He supposes he could tell on Caleb, sic Jester on him so he’s forced to submit to a healing spell. Or maybe he has an extra healing potion he could put in some tea; Nott could certainly pull off the sleight of hand required to dose Caleb.

Molly stands, making up his mind to get someone to help heal his stubborn man, but Caleb grabs his hand, tugging him back towards the ground.

“Don’t go.”

Caleb’s hand is sweaty and he’s staring at the ground, hair falling around his face like a curtain. Molly manages a reassuring smile, a dazzling lie to keep Caleb calm.

“It’s ok, I’m just going to get some tea for you.”

“Not yet.” Caleb takes a ragged breath, tilting his head up towards the sky to watch the storm clouds converge over them.

A strong breeze passes through them and Caleb closes his eyes, letting the atmosphere of the storm soak into his skin.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Sure,” Molly shifts nervously, wanting to help Caleb but not sure whether it’ll be best address his physical or mental concerns first, “I’m an expert on weird.”

“What do you want to happen to you after you die?”

Molly blinks once but doesn’t try to analyze the question, he’s going to deliver on Caleb’s expectation of an answer without judgement. Even if Molly secretly thinks it is a really weird question.

“Mm, I guess the Moonweaver would collect me. I’d want to be a part of whatever mischief she gets up to.”

“No, I mean,” Caleb breathes in again and this time Molly can tell it’s definitely wrong, definitely strained, “Would you want to be buried?”

Molly squints at Caleb, trying to examine his face and determine whether he’s more pale than usual. His eyes are still closed, Molly wishes he would open them.

“I suppose. What else is there?”

A grimace contorts Caleb’s face, taking over for a few long seconds before he’s able to pull back on his neutral mask.

“The pyre. From ashes, to ashes.”

Molly looks around anxiously, wondering if anybody is nearby to call for help if Caleb needs it. He’s talking so weird, maybe the wound is worse than they thought and the blood loss— what if he needs healing now?

No, Molly can’t just leave. Clearly Caleb has something on his mind, it’d be wrong to just ignore that. He’ll get Jester as soon as Caleb is ready. He clears his throat, determined to give Caleb an answer and figure out what his point is so they can move on to more pressing issues- like the blood that’s still traveling down the bandage.

“I don’t think I could do the whole cremation thing- too permanent. What if I come back again? I’d like to leave my body to be recycled by the next guy.”

Caleb laughs, or tries to, but the sound gets stuck in his throat, launching him into a coughing fit. Molly puts a hand on his back as Caleb starts hacking into his hands, watching in horror as blood begins to splatter against his hand wrappings. Caleb gasps, pulling in air for the first time in nearly a minute.

“I don’t think you’d die forever if you burned, Molly,” Caleb smiles, eyes still closed, why won’t he open them-

“I think you’d rise from the ashes, like a phoenix.”

Caleb opens his eyes, staring up at Mollymauk. They’re totally glazed over, a glassy white cloud covering the bright blue completely. Behind the fog, there’s a bright light, a feverish fire burning through Caleb’s mind.

He’s out before he lands in Molly’s arms, before he hears him screaming for Jester, Nott, Fjord, anyone—

...

He has a dream he’s had before, of a fireball and his friends and seven piles of ashes.

Usually, the dream ends after the explosion, after the screams of his subconscious follow him into the waking world.

This time, the dream lingers for a few more silent, dark moments. Caleb just wails, face buried in his hands, ashes in his hair, under his nails, clogged in his tear ducts.

A fire bursts to life amongst the ashes, embers warming without any input from Caleb. The room is suddenly very, very hot, the tears running down Caleb’s face start to boil and it makes him stop crying long enough to shout in surprise and pain.

The flames rise, surrounding him. They don’t spread but move, as if they had bodies to carry them. The pillar of fire in front of Caleb reaches out with a tongue of flames and brushes his face, harmless warmth spreading from cheek to chin.

The living, moving wall of fire parts to reveal a silhouette rising from the ashes, too obscured by the combination of glaring light and all consuming shadow for Caleb to make out.

The flames flicker once, then die, blown out by an unseen force. It’s done with ease and precision, like blowing out birthday candles rather than a room full of wildfire.

The only light that remains are the embers, gently floating through the air like fireflies and collecting on the ground in a path that winds from Caleb to the ashes.

He stands on shaking legs and follows it, not because he wants to but because his feet seem to have developed a mind of their own, siphoning dying coherency from his brain.

The ashes have been replaced by a bed of embers, some hot and yellow, others cooling red, and the rest solid black. The silhouette- now a distinct lavender tiefling- is there, sitting cross-legged and peaceful on the embers. His eyes are closed.

The purple tiefling- Molly?- doesn’t open his eyes but his head tilts up, sensing Caleb’s presence.

“Caleb!”

Eyes still closed, he smiles up at Caleb, the same wide grin that Molly gives him any opportunity he gets: in morning, before bed, after battles, after shopping, when they’re eating, when they’re drinking. It makes Caleb smile too and he reaches out to cup Molly’s cheek.

“-up! Caleb!”

Molly’s eyelids lift but there are no eyes there, just fire and embers spilling out and down his face. He’s crying fire but the smile stays, plastic and perfect, unaffected by Caleb’s horror.

The red fire reaches Caleb’s hand where he’s touching Molly’s face and catches on the bandages there, lighting up and spreading faster than should be possible. He tries to pat out the fire consuming his right arm, tries to scream or do something—

Caleb doesn’t have a chance because he’s already ash, swept away with the breeze.

...

Caleb wakes to something freezing cold on his forehead and an unidentifiable, but definitively unpleasant sensation in his right arm.

He tries to sit up, bat away whatever is touching his arm, but something holds him down, putting gentle weight on his weak shoulders.

“Shh, shh. I’m almost done.”

Like lifting heavy weights, Caleb manages to open his eyes. He’s in a dark room, lit only by dim candles. The window next to his bed is totally dark, revealing a starless night sky.

Molly is leaning over him, holding his arm and screwing up his face in concentration. He mutters something in a language Caleb doesn’t know and waves his hands in an unfamiliar arcane gesture.

The odd sensation starts again, like... bleeding but worse and not dulled by adrenaline. He watches as a green-tinted, translucent liquid leaks from the cut on his arm and floats up towards Molly’s fingers, before getting caught in the vial he holds. Caleb turns his head away, not wanting to further upset his stomach.

A few minutes later, Molly sighs and sets the vial on a side table, alerting Caleb with a soft clinking sound.

“Caleb?”

He turns his head back to Molly, peering up into his eyes. Molly looks so tired, more tired than Caleb has ever seen him. Fatigue weighs down the edges of his eyes and wears a crease in between his eyebrows.

“You know I love you, right?”

Caleb hesitates but nods slowly. He can’t bring himself to protest, uselessly, Molly’s steadfast affection, especially not when he can see tears welling in Molly’s eyes.

“And that’s never going to change, but,” Molly takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face, “if you ever do something this stupid again—I don’t know what I’ll do but it will not be pleasant, understand?”

Caleb fumbles for Molly’s hand with his good arm, squeezing weakly when he finds it. Molly squeezes back, with much more force than necessary, though Caleb supposes he deserves that after the day they’ve had.

There’s a million thoughts racing through Caleb’s head, guilt ridden and self-deprecating- I don’t deserve this, I’ve caused so much trouble, I’ve hurt Molly- but he silences all of them at the look on Molly’s face, a powerful mixture of worry and relief.

He doesn’t say anything he’s thinking, just what he’s feeling, “Thank you for saving me, Mr. Mollymauk.”

Molly smiles, letting the tears in his eyes fall. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Caleb’s; the warmth of his skin sinks into Caleb’s even through the cold compress he’s placed there.

“Of course, Mr. Caleb. What would we do without our all-powerful wizard?” Molly smiles wider, fangs poking out to become part of the shining performance piece of an expression.

Molly turns his head, pressing a kiss to Caleb’s forehead. He adds, much softer, “What would I do without the love of my life?”

Caleb’s going to say something to that, maybe apologize, maybe contradict, but Molly beats him to it, sitting back and rubbing his hand over Caleb’s arm.

“I’ll always be here to save you, Caleb, but I don’t want to, if I can avoid it.”

Caleb swallows, intimidated by Molly’s expectant stare. The vibrant red energy of Molly’s eyes fills his mind and Caleb finds himself giving into the impulse to say what he feels, to say something stupid, something impulsive.

Something Molly wants to hear, something Caleb wants to say.

“I promise you won’t have to. Not like this. Not again.”

Molly makes a happy little hum, satisfied with the flimsy, tired promise. He may be happy with just those words but Caleb is determined to make it more than that, make sure he never makes Molly so tired ever again.

But there’ll be time for making good on promises later, when there’s more light outside and less ache in his bones.

The candle is blown out and Molly tucks himself into bed next to Caleb, careful not to disturb any injuries.

They lay like that for a while, peaceful and content to just be in each other’s company. Caleb is reluctant to fall asleep again, scared of what he’ll find in his dreams and nagged by lingering curiosity about the missing hours of his day. He doesn’t want to wake Molly if he’s already asleep but he can’t help it, he has to know.

“How did you save me?”

Molly, apparently not asleep, laughs against Caleb’s chest.

“I used my brilliant arcane abilities to extract the poison from your blood,” his smile dies a little, hugging Caleb as tight as he dares, “Jester was out of restoration spells, so I had to make due.”

His grip is still weak from the fever and blood loss, but Caleb puts all the strength he has left into hugging Molly.

“That’s pretty clever, Molly.”

Molly snuggles a little closer, holding onto Caleb like he’s scared he’ll slip away.

“I learned from the best.”

#widomaukweek2019 #widomauk #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role #ugh ive been so busy lately sorry guys #i really struggled with this one #probably cause i went more angsty than usual #my typical is just straight fluff lol #oh well #i swear ill get all these prompts done #soon #just one more day

[grownups-are-the-real-monsters]

Home For The Holidays

Summary: “Oh, don’t remind me.” Ray frowned, setting his knitting aside. His mother was due for a visit because she’d been dying to see his new apartment. And though the roommate was expected…she did not know he’d been dating his roommate since Junior Year of high school. Which was a long time to not know about something considering they were both Juniors in College these days.

(I turned this request into a full fic, oops.)

Chapter 1: Ramblin’ Rose 

Words:  4,816

Ships: Gavries. Stephen King’s ‘The Long Walk’. 

‘Life is a rock but the radio rolled me

At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie…’

The music poured in from the small radio sitting atop the side table on Garraty’s left. Lyrics were coming at him with lightening speed but the man could only focus on the pile of red yarn that was to become a scarf.

Calmly and serene, Ray leaned back so the pea green recliner would rock back and forth and glanced up to catch the afternoon light hitting through the picture window & into the living room. But it blazed across more than just a plaid family-style couch and the matching glass lamp set.

It also bled through the canvas’s Pete had laid across the hardwood to dry while he made himself a peanut butter sandwich. There were about five or six medium sized paintings bathing in the sunshine that Ray had to paused and admire.

He craned his neck towards the kitchen area behind him in their tiny apartment. “You sure you don’t want me to make you something…like a real lunch?” He rolled his lips together.

Pete leaned on the counter, getting into the intimate space of their laundry basket which they’d yet to empty since it’s last trip to the Laundromat. “Save your energy, Ray-baby.” He chuckled, biting into the bread and coming over to lean on the side of the recliner. “You got a whole dinner to whip up for good ol’ mom.”

“Oh, don’t remind me.” Ray frowned, setting his knitting aside. His mother was due for a visit because she’d been dying to see his new apartment. And though the roommate was expected…she did not know he’d been dating his roommate since Junior Year of high school. Which was a long time to not know about something considering they were both Juniors in College these days. 

“Personally, I’m excited.” Pete ruffled Ray’s hair and sat back in his spot on the hardwood and went about poking at his paintings.

Ray sighed, head falling to lean on his open palm with a dreamy look of distance. He stared at the back of McVries head for a few seconds. He squinted one eye when the sun glared back at him. “I’m tired.”

“Isn’t that somethin’?” Pete laughed. “Man has barely moved all afternoon and he’s tired.” He knew the man had just rolled his eyes because he almost always waved his hand about when he did so, it danced in the light with the floating dust particles.

Ray tilted his chin and chuckled into his hand. “Call it domestic bliss taking it’s toll.” He reached his leg out and gently kicked Pete’s back for attention which was gladly accepted with the man’s new twisted position, palm flat on the floor.

They stared at each other for a few moments before Pete turned his body comfortably and started rubbing his hands up and down Ray’s ankle. “I take good care of you, Don’t I Ray?”

Garraty leaned back into the chair and stretched his leg out further. “Oh yeah, asshole.” He gently smirked and crossed his arms over the yarn in his lap. “You sure do.”

Pete’s grin was wild yet softly earnest. It kinda made Ray’s heart flutter in his chest. He knew the man was shoving all his own nerves down to appear as if this ‘meeting-mom’ situation wasn’t bothering him.

“Mom’s gonna dig you. I bet.”

Pete nodded, waiting to smile until his head pointed the floor that time. The radio had since faded into the next song which played on & on…

‘It happens all the time

This crazy love of mine

Wrapped around my heart

Refusing to unwind

Ooh-ooh, crazy love, ah…’

“They’re gonna start with the Christmas stuff soon, huh Ray?” Pete asked as he let his hand water-fall down Ray’s leg to rub small circles with his thumbs at his ankles. His palms rested against his boyfriends wool socks and were semi-covered by the green flannel pajama pants that Ray loved so much. 

Garraty nodded slowly and let his eyes flutter shut. For it was still early enough in the day that he still felt loosely tired from their late night adventures. Soon it would be late enough to be pre-tired for the upcoming night. 

“My boy fucking loves Christmas.” Pete let go of Ray’s leg and heaved himself to stand once more while Garraty let out a small huff of a protest and winked one eye open.

“I told you that nickname sounds a little weird.” 

The sun-rays outside shifted just a touch and some of that late autumn light escaped the boys. What remained was hitting McVries’s back and framing him with a mellow orange light. It reminded Garraty of the chalk tracings police did when they found a body laying somewhere. ‘Did they still do that though?’ He wondered to himself. 

Pete smiled again, showing his teeth. “Sorry.” He swiped the pad of his thumb under his nose and smoothly tilted his head in that mysterious kinda way he used to in high school. “You thinkin’ we get the tree up and running around...?” 

“We’ll go to the farm tomorrow. Also, remind me to pick up a Christmas sweater for Stebbins, yeah?” Ray finally set aside the knitting and stood from his comfortable chair. McVries raised a brow. 

“Why are we buying our neighbor a sweater?” Though the two of them had known the guy since high school, Stebbins remained a mysterious character that never failed to surprise them. 

“Oh you know he’s coming to our family party, he’s like our dog. At least he’d look nice this year.” Ray giggled on his way over to the coffee machine on their counter. That had been a purchase he’d never dare to regret. The two of them used the it way too often and served themselves a lot of steaming cups. He heard the sweet sound of Pete’s crazed laughter pour in from behind the loud machine. “By the way, What’s the status on your family’s attendance?” 

Pete stopped giggling and reached for the mug Ray had prepared. “Well, my mother...” He paused to sip the hot cup of black coffee and felt the afternoon roll over him. “Said she’s dying to attend and that checks off my father too, he’s always with the ol’ lady. And they’ll be bringing Katrina along. She’s seven now and doesn’t take well to sitters, you know?” 

Ray grinned and leaned back against the counter. “Think she’ll take well to me?” 

“Oh, she’d better. I think you’re sticking around for the long run, Ray-baby.” Pete reached out to tap Ray’s cheek but his cheeky boyfriend slipped away and sipped his own drink which was in a long travel mug. 

“I’m going to put some real clothes on and get the last few things I need for dinner.” He set his cup down next to where Pete was dipping his finger in his own. “And you are...” Garraty let his hand gesture to his boyfriend who simply smiled. 

“Going to put on some Nat King Cole like a romantic bastard and wait up for you...?” 

Ray rolled his eyes and bumped their hips together as he shoved past McVries. 

“Dean Martin?!” Pete called after him and ignored the annoyed huff coming from the bedroom. He leaned over the kitchen island “Volare, oh oh....” He paused, not sure of the way to finish the lyrics. 

Ray came out, fresh from the green plaid and sporting an expression that told of the smile he was trying to hold back. 

“I will actually go to my doctor’s appointment this time. Promise.” Pete heaved himself off the counter and gave Ray the softest kiss on the cheek. “Now you hurry back.” He patted his back and walked Ray on up to their door. Pete glanced up to the window and took note of the dusting of snow that was just beginning to fall. As Ray shoved his arms through his coat sleeves, Pete grabbed the front and helped him pull it to a comfortable position. Making sure he was snug and warm. 

“Take my car, will ya? Your car’s lack of heat is going to have you catching your death, Ray-baby.” He sniffled, as if for emphasis and smiled. 

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray tried not to worry about McVries proving himself to be an honest man this time but he couldn’t help but have a little dilemma over it...starting in the cereal aisle. 

Pete was no stranger to skipping out on doctors appointments. They made him uncomfortable and...itchy...according to him. But Ray hounded him several times to get himself a check-up. After all, it was important to know your own status. He glanced over an expiration date on a carton of milk and frowned. 

He was reaching for some pie crust when his phone started ringing. 

“-What’s my social security number?” Pete’s voice filled his ear before he could even think. Ray opened his mouth but quickly closed it when he realized he was not sure how to answer. “I’m in the waiting room-which is horribly crowded by the way, I feel like the room might pop, and I can’t fill this form out.” 

“Ummm, how many numbers is it?” Ray asked lamely and scratched the back of his ear. He was twenty years old and should know this kind of shit now but he found his mind blanking. 

“Nine...” Pete’s voice was unsure. 

Ray sighed and blew air out towards the dirty ceiling of the grocery store. “Are we idiots?”

“Probably.” Pete laughed and Ray felt a little comforted. 

“Give me a second, I’ll call you back.” Ray said a quick goodbye and dialed his weirdest option that just might work. “Hello, Stebbins?” 

Their neighbor was quite the character but Ray kinda loved having him around just as much as he got creeped out by it sometimes. “I need you to do me a favor and get the spare key for our apartment-”

“oh, no need. I have a key already.” 

Ray paused. ‘When did we give him a key...?’  “Ok well, can you go in and look through the paperwork in the left kitchen drawer. I need Pete’s Social Security number-”

“Oh, I know that already. Got a pen?” Stebbins voice was bouncy and Ray smacked his palm to his forehead. 

“How-? Stebbins, I-...never-mind. Tell me.” 

After that, there seemed to be no more hiccups in the day’s routine. Garraty loaded his groceries and drove home feeling relieved yet a little nervous for the dinner that night. But nothing he couldn’t manage. 

                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray was welcomed back into the apartment by an overwhelming flood of Nat King Cole’s voice. ‘Ramblin’ Rose’. 

He set the bags down on the counter, dreading having to pack them away and gently leaned over the back of the couch to kiss Pete’s hair. “That was a quick appointment. How’d it go? Dr. Marcy say anything worth noting?” he asked, coming round to take the seat next to him. He tried to hold back his intense curiosity. 

Pete shrugged and grinned as he leaned into Ray’s traveling arm. “Nothing much. You better start on dinner, don’t want your mom waitin’ on you.” 

Ray quirked his brow and trailed his fingers up and down McVries’s arm. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Nothing. It’s not a big deal, Ray-”

“Is it nothing or something that’s not a big deal, Peter?” Ray narrowed his eyes and sighed when Pete wiggled out of his grip and moved towards the record player. 

Their apartment had gotten slightly darker and if Ray wanted to serve his mother something warm but not too hot, he’d better start Dinner soon. Pete had been right about that. 

“Dr. Marcy talked to me about...” He broke off and sighed, screwing around with the volume dial. “She thinks I might be...depressed. And so she prescribed me a low dose of some medication to try out. No big deal.” Pete waved his hand about but Ray was at a loss for words. 

“Depressed?” 

Pete nodded and shrugged at the same time. “She’s kinda old that Dr. Marcy though...so who really knows?” He chuckled. When that sound faded out, the boys were left with nothing more to do but stare at each other. 

“How can you be depressed-? I mean, we’re happy...How can you be sad when...-” Ray gestured around their apartment and Peter gave him that gentle, admiring look. It meant he was too busy being fond of Ray to talk. So Ray frowned. 

“I don’t think depression works like that, Ray.” He slipped the record back into it’s sleeve and shrugged like he wasn’t sure of anything he said but Ray knew that was just a front. “I don’t think it matters how great your life might be.” He tilted his head back and sighed. “I’ve been through some shit, you know. Priscilla....during our break-up.” 

Garraty nodded. He and Pete had briefly went separate ways after high school graduation when McVries decided he was going to take the year off and travel. Ray realistically figured ol’ Pete wouldn’t ever find the right time to come back for school and they’d broken up for quite some time. 

Pete had experienced a whole relationship in that time with a girl that had broken his heart and left a scar on his cheek. 

“I think I’ve been aware of some of these things that were bothering me....just not how much, y’know?” McVries shrugged. “School, changes...and all that jazz. Sometimes depression falls upon you, Ray-baby. It doesn’t have anything to do with you or...our life together. It’s just...-I don’t know. Could be nonsense.” 

Ray felt his stomach drop. “Pete, it’s not nonsense. Your doctor is a smart lady and...” He let out some air and frowned again. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to talk about this. I’ve never...-I never had to deal with anything like this before. I don’t get it.” He shrugged, trying to be honest. Pete only raised his brows and shrugged back. 

From a floor below, they heard another neighbor and good friend, Art Baker, start up his own record player. A muffled version of Neil Young’s ‘Sugar Mountain’ briefly filled up their space. 

Ray opened his mouth but before anymore words could come out, there was a knock at the door. They shared a look before he darted up from his seat. “Shit!” 

Pete got up from the floor and prepared himself for an early visit from Ray’s mother which he was sure that knock suggested. He sat on the back of the flannel couch and pooled his hands together in his lap. 

“Raymond! I seemed to have left the house too early but forgive me, I was a little antsy because you seemed all excited on the phone.” Her voice was soft and sweet. “Is this that roommate you’re so fond of?” 

Pete paused some of his racing nerves and general muted lowness to smirk and reach for the kind woman’s hand. Ray blushed. “Peter McVries, nice to meet you.” 

Pete honestly wasn’t sure what the plan for the evening was and it was already off to a rough start since she’d come before dinner could even be started. But, he also wasn’t sure when his boyfriend planned on explaining to his mother just how fond he was of him. 

"Nice to meet you, young man.” She smiled and gave her son a polite and apologetic bump to the arm for coming so early. 

“I haven’t even started Dinner yet, mom. Hope you don’t mind the wait.” Ray bashfully shook his head. 

“Of course not.” She shrugged and Ray gestured for her to take a seat which she gladly did. 

“I’ll get you some tea.” 

Ray took off for the kitchen area, grabbing Pete’s arm as he sped off. “This is off to a bad start, huh?” McVries chuckled and hoped he’d at least get a grin but Ray looked positively rattled. He dropped his shoulders and rubbed a hand against his forehead. “Hey, hey, hey...” He made sure Ray’s mother was turned off and gently slid his hand against Garraty’s cheek. “I know the last few minutes have been chaotic but...it’s gonna be just fine, Ray.” 

“But...this has got me all worried about you and-” He could tell his boyfriend was getting all worked up and Ray didn’t need that. He was the best man that Pete knew and he deserved to relax. 

Pete rubbed a small circle against his skin. “You don’t need to worry, Ray-baby. We take care of each other, huh? I take care of you just the same as you do for me. And maybe this is just the start of a time where-...” Pete swallowed “Where I need the ‘takin’ care of’ part.” He shrugged and let his hand slide back down Ray’s cheek to clasp his raised hands to his own.

“Now, let’s go about our day. We’re gonna chat with your ol’ mom and maybe find the right time to tell her about us. Then...” He tapped their noses together for a brief second and enjoyed the tiny sigh Ray let out in response. “We get to be alone again...in our pajamas....oh, and the radio’s gonna start on that Christmas stuff soon, huh? Maybe tonight?” Pete pressed a soft kiss to Ray’s temple, gave him a small pat on the arm and took off to deliver the tea they’d promised. 

Ray softly and slowly turned on the tips of his toes, feeling the slight slip of his socks. When his eyes found Pete who was again back-lit with golden light and stirring a steaming mug for his mother....Ray let a satisfied sigh escape his lips. With the stream of air, he sank back on his flat feet and floated over. 

“Here you are, it’s chamomile!” Pete hovered the hot drink in front of Mrs. Garraty who gladly stole it with a polite smile. “Only the best for our guest-”

“Mom, I have something I want to tell you.” Ray interrupted and took a seat on the arm of his favorite recliner where Pete had planted himself but thirty seconds ago. 

“Oh, alright. What is it?” She patted his knee and took a careful sip out of her pea green mug. 

His partner looked up at Ray with wide and questioning eyes that only spurred Ray on further and gave him a new shy smile. “Pete isn’t just my roommate-” Ray ignored the adorable way Pete was tugging on his sleeve and trying to hide his fond grin in favor of a questioning expression for Ray’s sake. “He’s my boyfriend. We’re dating.”

Ray’s mother quieted and held strongly onto the pea green mug. Ray had been her son long enough to know that her expression meant that she didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t-...well, I didn’t know that you were...-you never told me.” 

“Yeah...” Ray nodded, picking at a loose thread on his pants. “I just never....-I never found...the time...” he trailed off and met Pete’s wandering, lovely eyes. “Oh hell, Mom. Honestly, I just didn’t want to.” He turned back to her and shrugged because that was really the only answer he had to give for that. 

She widened her eyes and set the mug down on the coffee table. “How long?” 

Pete and Ray turned to each other, eyes meeting for confirmation for a few seconds. “Since the start of Junior Year-”

“Oh, that’s not so bad. You’re still just Juniors-”

“-Of high school.” Ray finished, a little ashamed. 

His mother coughed, planting her palm on her chest and trying to recollect herself. “My son has been in a relationship for that long...with a man...and never told me?” She narrowed her eyes and Ray felt a rush of nerves. She opened and closed her mouth, looking nervous herself in the presence of Pete.  

“If you want, I could just go for a quick walk while mother & son discuss some things?” Pete shrugged himself up and ran a quick hand down the front of his jeans. Ray attempted to tug his sleeve just as he’d done before but Pete seemed set to go.  

“That’d be really kind of you, Peter. Thank you.” Ray’s mother gave him a warm look that McVries felt very comforted by. He hoped his smile read the same to her. He decided it was permission enough to risk it and leaned over to kiss the top of Ray’s head, ruffling his hair once more before going for the front door. 

Ray would be fine. He squeezed his hand reassuringly before he’d slipped out of grip. 

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apartment 15′s door came to a creaky close behind McVries’s back and pressed the wreath into his neck. It was refreshingly itchy and maybe a little hot from the tiny multi-colored bulbs that were littered throughout the green. 

The long tan hall of their building was decked out with a long train of red & white beads and the soft glow bouncing off the silver tinsel scattered on the carpet below him was blinding. But Pete had a friend in the blow-mold Santa that stood against Stebbins wall with a kind gleam in his crescent moon eyes. The ol’ bastard was laughing...

The tiny window just at the end was surrounded by larger bulbs and from where he was standing, through the paned glass McVries could see the end of autumn bleeding into a chilly winter. Dusty flakes of snow were falling and starting to nestle right up against the tiny window ledge. 

They hadn’t been in this apartment long & it was sorta shitty. But it was what they could afford...it was perfect. There was something so heavenly about doing the dishes after a home-made waffle breakfast disaster and your boyfriend knowing exactly where the Ibuprofen was...in your home. The one where you both lived. Knowing you would wake up with them for every special occasion. The morning of your birthday, the morning of an anniversary, The morning of the dentist appointment they rescheduled for you....just...the next morning. Every night with them, there’d be a next morning with them. 

McVries almost couldn’t take how much that made his heart swell. He couldn’t wait to check Christmas Morning off the list. He glanced back at their door and sighed. 

When a door opened just over his shoulder, Pete didn’t even have to venture a guess to know who it was. 

“You wanna sit on my balcony with me?” Stebbins leaned against his door-frame and grinned like his request was the most normal thing in the world. 

“It’s snowing, Stebbins...” Pete gestured to the window and looked back to the smiling blonde and sighed. “You know what, I’ll come in but no balcony.” He shrugged and followed him into his apartment. 

Stebbins apartment was shining. His Christmas tree was wide and strings of bubble lites straight from the 1950′s bridged every branch gap. The long, skinny tubes bubbled the rainbows of liquid and dazzled his living room. 

Nearly all of his tables were covered in miniature blow mold Santa’s and collectible Holiday figurines. McVries let a smirk slowly cover his face when he heard a small whistle and found a toy train track around the Tree skirt where the tiny-locomotive was speeding in circles. “You do this all in a day, Stebbins? I was just here like yesterday-” 

Stebbins nodded and flicked the cheek of a blushing elf figurine. “Try an hour.” He smirked, crossing his arms like this was the proud he’d ever be in his life. McVries sorta admired that about him. “Why were you kicked out? Ray sick of you?” 

Pete chuckled and made himself comfortable on the guys couch, arms behind his head as he sighed deeply. “Not yet. His mother is over...” He bit into his lip and Stebbins made an ‘O’ face. “Yeah, so he’s trying to explain how gay he’s been this whole time without her knowing about it. Thought it was best to give mother and son some alone time, you know?” 

Stebbins hummed. “Is all still well in paradise?”

“Seems so. She didn’t seem...startlingly pissed or anything, anyway. But Ray’s got himself all worked up in the last hour so he might be losing her on the ‘calm-chat’...” Pete shrugged. 

“What got him keyed up? You try to stick another fork in the toaster?” Stebbins pursed his lips. 

“That was one time and I didn’t even do it. I forgot you weren’t supposed to do that shit and my toast was stuck.” McVries huffed and rolled his eyes as he laid back on the couch. “No. I just...-my doctor told me that I might have depression and gave me some medication. You know how touchy and sensitive Ray can be. He’s just making it too big of a deal.” 

Things between them were quiet again. Stebbins leaned his chin onto his open palm and hummed once more. There was something in his tone that read interested and it gave of his eerie calm nature. “Been there.” 

Pete quirked a concerned brow and felt a weird type of understanding covering each of them like a fog. Neither of them felt eager to actually discuss the situation. “When?” 

The blonde rolled his lips together. “It got very present during that period after our graduation-” 

“That long? You didn’t tell us and you sure as hell didn’t have any family to help-” his voice was angry but he couldn’t help it. Stebbins put on a good show sometimes but he was their friend. Part of McVries didn’t think hiding that shit was ok. Just from the knowing smothering kind that lived deep in his chest that he hadn’t realized was kinda killing him, he knew Stebbins must’ve been going through some tough shit. 

Stebbins leaned back. “Didn’t want to talk about it. Plus, you were leaving and Ray was busy focusing on school preparations. Besides, I handled it myself. Got some medication...it seemed to even me out just fine.” 

“You still take it?” Pete asked in a low voice and Stebbins gave him a soft smile. 

“Not at the moment, no. I got back on the ‘happy track’” He rolled his eyes. “But it’s not the same for everyone and there’s no shame in needing medication, Pete-boy. Sometimes we can’t deal with it alone.” Stebbins patted his friends arm in a kind and gentle way before leaning back on the arm of the coffee brown couch. 

Pete thought on that for a minute or two and hoped that the conversation could die on that note for now. He’d think about it in bed later. Stebbins seemed to read that on his face as easily as ever. 

“So, you get Ray’s Christmas gift yet?”

Pete hummed. “Not his actual gift but I got him a good stack of those vintage Christmas cards from that vintage shop, you know how he likes those. Just a little bonus gift.” 

“They got the writing in them from all those years ago? Ray likes feeling connected to old people from the past or something like that.” Stebbins chuckled and bit into a chocolate covered strawberry that McVries didn’t remember him having a moment ago. 

“Of course.” Pete rolled his eyes because that was obvious. 

“What’s his big gift? If it’s a book about Urban Legends that you found in my closet...than one of us needs to switch.” Stebbins swallowed his hunk of food and McVries wondered again how they’d ever become friends with such an odd character. 

“No, you dimwit.” 

“Oh, you’re proposing than. I got it.” He nodded to himself, blonde hair flicking about. McVries choked on his own spit. 

“What-? No....no. He just told his mom about us like five minutes. Why would I be proposing?” He sputtered his words into the calm face of his friend who was still smiling like that damn Cheshire cat. “It’s too soon...”

Stebbins raised a brow and sucked on another strawberry. 

“Unless...do you think that’s what he’s expecting?” McVries was suddenly opened up to a whole new world of anxiety. 

“I can’t read minds, McVries.” Stebbins winked. 

Pete put his head in his hands and erupted into a long, frustrated sigh. The blonde ruffled Pete’s hair and went to answer the door five seconds before the knocking even started. 

“Pete here?” 

McVries looked up and met Ray’s beautiful eyes. He gave him a concerned and curious look and Ray nodded softly. ‘All’s well’ it said. 

“She wants to know the story of how we got together. I figured you’d like to tell that one with me...?” Ray giggled in that irresistible way which had McVries up and across Stebbin’s apartment in seconds flat. 

“Of course! That’s the best story, Ray-Baby!” 

#sorry #not it related #I will post the other parts on my other account #@thotteus-beaumont #stephen king #stephen king books #gavries #Ray Garraty #peter mcvries #my fanfiction

[literarytrashcollection]

The New Recruit (4/?)

AN: This story is kind of slow moving, but there’s a reason for it all! It will all come together soon! I hope y’all are enjoying the snippets of Bucky as the Winter Soldier between Steve going down in the ice and Steve coming back up!

Thor shared his information with the rest of the Avengers. That brought on a whole new slew of questions, ranging from the ones I’d already asked (“Is she your niece then?”) to some questions that I hadn’t even thought to think (“Is it possible that she’s actually Loki in disguise?”). Tony and Bruce’s testing became even more in depth. Loki was supposedly dead, but if it really was his blood in my veins, it gave them something to look for, no matter the quantity.

Steve seemed to thaw a little the more time I spent at the tower. We reminisced about the war and the time before it. I helped fill him in on the time he missed between going down in the ice and coming back up, stuff that the Avengers were either too young to know. Bucky would never admit it, but we both knew he was always lurking, always listening.

It took me telling another story of one of his abduction attempts for him to finally come out of the shadows, stalking towards me slowly until he finally just sat down next to Steve quietly. He looked mortified as I told Steve about the different times the Winter Soldier had tried every different tactic in the world to get me to come home with him.

“Well, enough of this darkness for one night,” I laughed nervously. Bucky was all but physically restraining himself from breaking the arm of the chair he was in. Steve bid us a good night and I stood to head to my room when I fully took stock of Bucky. “Buck?”

He glanced up at me sheepishly. “I hurt you, so much.”

I nodded. “Yeah, the Winter Solider did. I hear he’s gone though. This new guy, Bucky, I hear he’s pretty nice.”

He looked back down at the floor. “I guess.”

I held my hand out, despite my monkey brain telling me that he was still dangerous. “Come on, where’s Steve’s Bucky? The ladies’ man, the adorable idiot who let me escape the SHIELD facility over a glass of water?”

“Wiped from my brain, thanks to HYDRA.” He chuckled darkly, ignoring my hand. I huffed a sigh and physically grabbed his hands, hauling him to his feet. “Who’s this? Just yesterday, you would’ve lit me on fire for shits.” It was meant as a joke, but there was nothing but sadness and self-loathing in his voice.

“Yeah, maybe I was a little callous with you.” I mumbled, pulling him with me to the kitchen. I sat him on one of the bar stools and started rummaging around in the cupboards and fridge until I had everything I need. I leaned over the counter with my back to him for a long moment before turning to him. “I told myself that you were still him. The Winter Solider, turned good. I didn’t stop to think that instead of them just changing your programming, they actually took it out. I wanted to believe that you were tangible evidence of the bad guys who hurt me. I was wrong, okay? And you don’t deserve that.

“Steve and I have been talking a lot and he talked to me a lot about your recovery. I should have been more understanding.” I said, holding his gaze. “I fell for you hard in the sixties, when you pretended like you left HYDRA. You were faking, or maybe they’d just programmed you to believe that you had and all of this other shit. They turned you into old Bucky. I harbor a lot of heartbreak from that.”

His face seemed to age in front of me, like this information took years off his life. Tentatively, like he still wasn’t sure of his own strength, he reached across the granite island and held my hand in his flesh one. “I remember. They would have gone to any measure to get you.”

“I…” I sucked in a deep breath and started mixing ingredients together for a pie crust. “I went a little crazy when you flipped a switch and were suddenly the Winter Solider again. That’s when I swore love off. That’s when I changed my identity, moved to some tiny Canadian mountain, just hid out. When you came out of hiding again, I had to see you for myself.

“That’s part of why I’m here. A big part is because I want to use my powers for good and the way things have been the last few years, it seems like the Avengers need all the help they can get, but a small part of me, a sliver of my heart, just wanted to see you.” My voice cracked a little on the last word, tears welling up in my eyes.

He pulled my hand across and pressed his lips to my knuckles lightly, despite the flour that dusted them. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. You deserved better.”

“We both did.” I sighed, taking my hand back so I could knead the pie crust to within an inch of its life.

He was quiet for a long time. “Do you bake when your stressed?”

I looked down at the flour coated counter and the rolling pin I’d rolled the crust out paper thin with. “Yeah, I do.” I huffed a hysteric laugh. “Raised when women belonged in the kitchen and all that.”

He stood slowly, stiffly, and walked to the fridge. He got out a bag of plums and started cutting. “Don’t tell the others, but I do too.” He smiled shyly, bumping my shoulder with his. “Therapist said that a non-violent form of stress relief could be right up my alley, might help get my head back on straight.”

I watched his fingers do the nimble work for a few moments before I went back to my own work. We made a spiced plum pie that we shared in the living room while we watched bad Lifetime movies.

 London, England. June, 1963.

I puttered around my apartment, tidying up. Dishes had begun to accumulate and laundry was starting to pile up. So I rolled my sleeves up and began to clean, no longer willing to live in the filth that my depression had allowed me to revel in. Each day, watching the mess build hurt me to the core, but I couldn’t physically make myself clean it. I would watch the flies circle half eaten sandwiches in disgust and yet never raise a finger.

Today, I finally fixed that.

Halfway through the dishes, the doorbell rang. I was happy to ignore it. It was probably just some door-to-door salesman or a missionary or something. I stopped only to turn my music up louder and continued my cleaning, singing along to the Beatles.

The doorbell continued to ring though. After the fifth chime of it, I dried my hands and opened the door, ready to level the annoying guest with a rant to end all rants. As soon as my eye settled on a neatly combed, nicely dressed Winter Soldier, my throat closed. I slammed the door on him before he had even said a word. I knew it wouldn’t help anything, if anything, just make him angrier. But it would buy me enough time to pack a go bag and get a head start.

“Y/N! I need your help, please!” His voice cried through the door and I hesitated, my hand freezing over the bra I was ready to shove into my bag. “I escaped. But they’re after me.” He sounded like he was leaning on the door now, his voice broken and tired.

I grabbed my gun, holding it behind my back as I slowly pulled the door open again. Upon secondary inspection, I realized that he had a fat black eye, his lip was split, and his suit jacket covered a growing red stain, centimeters from his heart.

“Y/N,” he breathed and I could see hurt in his eyes. Hurt and fear. I stepped back and waved him in slowly, tucking the gun into the waistband of my trousers. I closed the door behind him and stared, not speaking. “I promise, I’m not here to hurt you. I broke free. I…” he took a deep breath, head tipping back like he was trying to contain tears. “Yours was the only name I could remember, the only person I could think of who could help me.”

“Strip.” I spat. He blinked at me and a tear or two did fall down across his stubbly cheeks. Slowly, he removed his clothes until he was down to his underwear. I didn’t hear the heavy weight of a gun or any other weapon as he sat his clothes down. “Sit.” I was a little gentler this time, gesturing to the couch behind the coffee table.

I walked to the kitchen, retrieving the first aid kit I kept on hand. When I returned, he was leaned back against the seat cushions, eyes closed and mouth agape, snoring lightly. I heaved a big sigh and cleaned up the wound on his chest. He was still a super soldier and would still heal much faster than any human, but I sterilized what appeared to be a knife wound and dressed it. I threw his clothes in with mine to be washed and finished the dishes.

Bucky woke up as I finished preparing supper, meat loaf and mashed potatoes. He stumbled into the dining room in his underwear, plopped down in a chair and stared at me with bleary eyes. He didn’t speak through the meal, but by the end, his eyes had opened more and he was sitting up straight, rather than the slumped shape he took as he shoved food into his mouth without tasting it.

“How’d you escape?” I asked as he stood, rinsing his dish in the sink. I followed after him, mostly out of nerves. The kitchen held lots of weapons, weapons he could use to bring me back to HYDRA. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I poured us both a stiff drink.

“I was sent on a mission. Here in London. I saw you in town and all of… a lot of my memories came back. Trying to kidnap you nearly a decade ago. You, during the war. Steve. It was enough for me to get away, enough for me to remember all the bad that HYDRA has done and break their bond on me.

“So, I followed you. Made sure you were still uncompromised. One of their agents caught up to me and roughed me up, but I still beat him and then I came here.” He leaned against the counter like it was the only thing holding him up. His gaze out the window never faltered, he never even blinked, like the second his eyes closed, he was back in that hell he came from.

“What was your mission?” I asked, pushing the glass towards him. He accepted it gratefully and took a testing sip. He licked his lips, collecting the extra alcohol off them as he decided he liked it, then knocked the rest of it back in one swallow. “Well?”

“You. Again.” He mumbled, head falling in disappointment. I felt my muscles all tighten, flames erupting across my skin as I clenched my glass so hard, I felt it strain under my fingers. “But, I’m not him anymore,” he said quickly, eyes snapping to mine as he stepped closer to me. He was still in his underwear, still vulnerable and weaponless. Not that he needed a weapon. The glinting metal arm would be enough to grab me, hold me, kill me. “I’m not the new fist of HYDRA. I’m not their Winter Soldier. I’m just… I’m just Bucky again. It’s like waking up flipped a switch and now I’m myself again.”

“I want to believe you.” I mumbled, the flames receding slightly.

He took another step forward and I tried to step back, blocked by the pantry. This close, I could see that his black eye was completely gone. I could see the dark smudge of eyelashes that shadowed his icy blue eyes that were full of emotion and fear and loneliness. I could feel the air stir as he breathed, the warmth from his skin. He felt real again, not like the robot sent to abduct me from Berlin. “Then, please, Y/N, believe me.” He whimpered, his flesh hand coming up to touch my face.

My anger melted. My fear took a step back and I allowed Bucky to touch me. He stroked my cheek, caressed my hair, ran his fingers over the fabric of my blouse and then my trousers. He took another half step forward and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me against his bare chest. It took me a moment, but I slowly coiled my arms around him too. He broke down against me, sobbing pitifully about the sheer torture he was submitted to at HYDRAs hand.

He told me about the beatings and the eletro-shocks used to wipe his memory. He told me about how every day was a fight for his life, a fight to come out on top so he wouldn’t be killed. He wanted to live, he wanted to be a man again, not just a tool. We ended up on the floor of my kitchen, limbs tangled together as I comforted him.

“Your face kept me alive, Y/N.” He whispered after a long twenty minutes of him hiccuping through the last of his sobs. “I was… enamored by you during the war. You were a hero to me. Your face, the thought of you and your strength, it kept me alive.” His eyes were puffy and rimmed red from the tears, but I could see the truth in them.

“You can stay here, for the time being.” I finally told him, my fingers stroking his hair as he rested his head against my shoulder. “We’ll need to leave soon though. If you tracked me down here, if an agent found you, then they’ll find us both.”

He nodded slowly. “America. It’s mostly off their radar. They’ve got a few agents out there but it’s not enough to cover the whole country. I know where to go.” He spoke softly and my heart thumped brokenly in my chest for him.

“We’ll go to America.” I nodded, tucking his head under my chin. We would go to America and I would protect him from ever being hurt by them again.

Let me know if you would like to be tagged!

Tags: @jsmith509 @xvoezx @almostpsyche @33rie33 @sarillee @bucktitybarnes @chipilerendi @kiraauu

#Bucky Barnes #bucky #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #winter solider x reader #winter solider imagine #Steve Rogers #captain america #captain rogers #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #Black Widow #thor #Thor Odinson #THOR SON OF ODIN #loki #Loki Laufeyson #tony stark #Iron Man #bruce banner #hulk #The Incredible Hulk #wanda maximoff #Scarlet Witch #sam wilson #falcon #Avengers #avengers tower #avengers au #reader insert

[spooky-raccoon]

Cheesy

@lifesbigmistery

          It had been several months since Brandi had started at the hospital and he couldn’t help but to admit that he was drawn to her. She was funny, sweet, accepting, and all around just a ball of fun that he always wanted to be around.  He even loved how morbid she could be.  They had hung out outside of work on the occasion when schedule allowed for it and the tug to her only got more intense.  He could sense that she too was feeling some sort of way.  Heck, he could see it in the way she looked at him.  And he couldn’t ignore the feeling that panged in his lights.

          That twinkle in her eye, the way her cheeks flushed a lovely pink.  He could sense the way her heart pounded in her chest if their eyes lingered too long on each other.  They had even dared small fleeting moments where touches hesitated in time, some longing to wanting to keep holding the other.  Her scent was also getting more to his head, yet he dared not force himself away from her.  Even when her arousal spiked at times when they were together.  He did his best to be professional though despite some flirtatious words slipping now and again.  Perhaps it would be alright to up the ante.  Take the flirting to a new level.  At least just a little here and there to see if she would react back in a way he hoped.

          It was another day at the hospital, calmer than usual which was a breath of relief after the hellish weekend it had been. Maverick decided to pop into the morgue below with some coffee for Brandi, one of her favorites that he had learned quickly.

          “Oh, Brandi!  I brought you a little pick me up.”  He called out as he opened the door to the morgue and seeing that she was currently working on a corpse.

          “Oh, thank you Maverick.  I did need a little pick me up.”  Brandi slid her hand out the chest cavity of the poor sod who wound up on her slab.  Once her gloves were disposed of she went over to collect her coffee from him.  “Just the way I like it too.  Thank you.”  Her beautiful smile split her face before she took the first sip of her coffee.  

          “You’re welcome, Brandi.  How’s the workload today going?”  Maverick raised a brow as he leaned against one of the tables.

          “Going.  I’m almost done with them over there.  Just a bit more digging around then just need to wrap up the paperwork.”  She had turned her attention to the body as he nodded.

          “Very good.  I was curious.”  He sipped his coffee in between sentences to wondering if he should ask her what he was. He decided he would.  He always enjoyed their little hang outs and he knew they both would be free soon.  Perhaps that would be a good time to start his little plan.  “Would you want to come over after work?  We can continue our movie marathon since we haven’t finished that one series yet.”

          “Let me think about it.”  She rocked on the balls of her feet while she hummed a jaunty tune, her eyes rolling around in an exaggerated manner.  “I think I can squeeze that in.”  Her smile returned in full force and his own grin matched hers.

          “Perfect.  I’ll make sure everything is ready for when you come over.  I’ll let you get back to work and I’ll see you later.”  His eyes wondered over her face for just a moment, wanting to once again memorize the way her lips curled up as she smiled, the way her eyes sparkled in the bright lights of the morgue, how the tip of her tongue poked out once in a while after sips of her coffee to get that remaining drop.

          “See you later Maverick.”  Her own eyes watched him with that lingering stare, one that looked hungry for something and excited.  Hungry for him in some way.  It nearly took his breath away before he had to peel his eyes away.

          With a wave goodbye he left the morgue and went to getting back to work around the hospital.  Hours passed by almost painfully slow but finally the day was done, and he made his way back home.  He wanted to make sure he could get things ready before she came over.  It’s not like his house was a mess, but he wanted to pick the right wine for the evening and make something for them to eat.  He had learned a few of her favorite meals and got to prepping one of them shortly after sending her a text that he was home and ready when she was.  It didn’t take long to get a response back from him that she was on her way and eager to get back into the movie watching.

          There was a permanent smile on his face as he buzzed around the kitchen, making sure everything was just right.  When he was getting down two glasses for the wine the doorbell rang.  He opened the door and there she was, in more relaxed clothing compared to her work wear. Just a pair of black jeans and a red comfy blouse.

          “Come on in, Brandi.”  He gestured inside with a small bow.  “Dinner is almost done, and I have the wine selected for us tonight. A nice sixteenth century wine, very sweet but not overpowering.”

          “Maverick, you didn’t have to.”  Brandi insisted as she had always done.  She had her bag with her that had the DVD’s they would be watching that evening.  She went to go set it beside the couch so she could join him again.  “Next time I’ll have to bring dinner, so you don’t have to make something again.”

          “Nonsense.  I insist. I don’t get to cook for guests often and I enjoy cooking for you.”  He shut the door and strode his way to the kitchen with her following behind him.  “Besides, I made something special.”  Just as he said that the oven dinged and a wide, beaming grin was immediately on his face.  “And it’s done!  Perfect timing!”

          The two made their way into the kitchen and Maverick went to pull the meal from the oven.  He was proud of this piece.  It had taken him a little bit longer than he had hoped but all in all, it was perfect. It was a pizza, shaped in an anatomical correct heart.

          “So, what did you make for us Mav?”  Brandi was behind him and was trying to sneak around him as her curiosity was peaking.  

         “Just a little something.”  With a chuckle he turned around to show her and a dusting of blush came across his cheek. He was really going to go through with it.  “I… hope this isn’t too cheesy but I have a crust on you.”

         There was a moment of silence in the kitchen as Brandi looked at the pizza and at Maverick.  Her face turned flushed and her eyes twinkled the way he loved so much.  Then a smile grew on her face.

          “Are you flirting with me, Maverick?”  Her hands were on her hips and a giggle escaped her lips, one of nervousness and excitement.

         “You finally noticed?”  He laughed as he went to set the pizza down on the counter.  He then went to her in a smooth, sweeping motion to wrap his arms around her.  Hers went to wrap around him as well as her gaze followed to his face.

         “Well, I have a crust on you too.”

#request #maverick #mavnbrandi #will think of ship name eventually #maybe morbid cuties #idk #we'll think of it

[rickiewrites]

The Dream Before the Nightmare Ch 1 (final rewrite)

Jonathan Scully wishes to bring a change to the world of theater he loves so dearly. Unfortunately, his visions aren't shared by the stuffy society he so desperately wants to delight. After his latest rejection, the grim passing of his close friend’s father gives cause for them to flee. As they flee, Jonathon has an idea; if the stage won’t accept his vision, then he would create a new stage to spread his vision to the world. With a loan, he becomes the founder of Jonathan Skully’s Festival of Frights and Delights. Will his desires bear fruit, or end in a blaze of disaster? The spiritual prequel to the legendary story ‘A Nightmare Before Christmas,’ this literary thrill ride will keep you on the edge of your seat.

Nervously he shifted in his chair crossing and uncrossing his rather long skinny legs in an attempt to refrain from bouncing his knee. The room was unbearably silent, the only sound to disrupt it was that of a page-turning which only made him more anxious each time he heard it because it meant the end was near. Across from him sat an older gentleman reading intently from a stack of papers in his hand, giving off no expression that could help ease Jonathan's racing heart. What the man held in his hand was a script, a stage show that Jonathan had spent weeks pouring his heart and soul into; yet this man in the span of twenty-minutes was nearly done reading it.

With a long sigh, the man dropped the script down on his desk, taking a long hard look at Jonathan causing him to freeze up in his seat, this was it, the moment of judgment. " " he said in a stern tone causing Jonathan to straighten up in his seat "y..yes, Sir Greeves?" he replied. Greeves placed his hand on top of the script, tapping his finger on the paper with an annoyed look.

"This script…."

"Yes?"

"It's like all the others you have brought to me, isn't it?"

"Well I admit it is similar, but this time I-"

"Mr. Scully! How many times have you shown up at my office?"

"Well, I believe this makes thirteen times this year, Sir."

"Thirteen times…which means thirteen scripts you have brought into my office and thirteen times I have to tell you no."

"No? But sir, if you would just give this a chan-"

"The answer is no! No one wants to be frightened! To be brought to horror and disgust! This may be fine in your own little twisted world, but not in the real world!"

With a frustrated sigh, Greeves pushed the script over to Jonathan standing up "look, boy, while I appreciate your love for the arts I don't think you have a knack for creating it" he said as he walked over to the coat rack grabbing his coat and cane. When he bid him farewell and walked out, Jonathan jumped out of his seat, grabbing his script before rushing out after Greeves. "Please, Sir Greeves reconsider" he pleaded, but Greeves merely held his hand up to silence him getting into his carriage "it's time to accept reality and give up these silly dreams of yours" and with those final words his carriage took off.

Stunned, he stood there for a moment, watching the carriage go down the road clutching the papers to his chest with a trembling hand. Once it disappeared from sight, he hung his head in shame, sticking his script into his coat as he turned away to walk home. "And once again the prodigious world of Jonathan Scully has been laid to ruin by the mundane and austere masses of jolly old England, who refuse to understand it!" he cried. With a drawn-out sigh, he placed the back of his hand on his forehead and arched his back, taking a dramatic pose of distress in the middle of the sidewalk moaning about his misfortune. It took the stares of those around him and low mutterings that questioned his sanity to pull him from his moment, then with a nervous laugh and clearing of his throat, he continued his journey home.

On his way back, he passed by a small medical clinic, and in the window, a figure appeared watching him intently before rushing out to meet him. "Jonathan!" a woman's voice called, when he turned around he was met with a warm smile spread across a tanned face with white patches around the nose, mouth, and green eyes which brightened at the sight of his face. "Oh, Miss Stein," he greeted her with a weak smile taking her hand and bowing his head to kiss it, much to her delight " a pleasure as always to see you." Her smile grew as she held the bottom of her dress doing a small curtsy "the pleasure is always mine, and please do call me Sarah, you have no need to be so formal." He released her hand and nodded with a small grunt, "today was the day, wasn't it? Please don't keep me in suspense any longer and tell me how it went." Her words caused him to clutch his chest where the script rested inside his coat with a pained look chewing his lip as his meeting with Greeves replayed in his head.

"Jonathan?"

"Hm?

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, it's alright. There's nothing wrong with being curious."

"So the meeting.."

"It was another rejection. Heh, guess I should be used to that by now, huh?"

"Jonathan, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, the world just isn't ready for me yet, and that's fine."

He gave her a smile when he noticed her studying his face to reassure her, "I should go now," he bid her farewell and walked away to avoid speaking about the matter any further. She reached out wanting to comfort him 'you don't have to suffer alone' she thought watching him disappear down the road retracting her hand when she was beckoned back inside by her father.

"Sarah? Sarah! Where are you-you indolent girl!?" her father yelled, attempting to move one of the wheels on his wheelchair that had gotten stuck, "here I am," she spoke reluctantly coming to his aid. "Finally! I have been looking for you all day, what in blazes have you been doing?" he growled, she kept a calm composure wheeling him out to the dining room "I only went out to greet Mr. Scully."

"Scully? The farmer's boy? What a waste of time to pay that weird boy any mind," he muttered being brought to the table. She ignored him walking into the kitchen preparing a stew on the stove while he continued his rant "all you do is run off and fool around with that degenerate man when you should be caring for your father, ungrateful girl." With a sigh, she apologized, pouring the soup into a bowl and grabbing a drinking glass from the shelf wiping it clean merely grunting in response.

This was normal for her, to be reminded of what a burden she was and how grateful she would be to her father for tolerating her existence. What more could she expect? She was the child that killed her mother the moment she was born and had the nerve to be born looking the way she did. Her father never forgave her for the burden she placed on his life, and the love took away. So he would spend their lives reminding her how lucky she was to be in care after all she has done to him.

She set the glass down pouring the wine, and once he was distracted, she set the bottle down retrieving a small vial hidden in the back of the covert. The vial was filled with a dark purple liquid, 'just a few drops' she reminded herself dripping the liquid into his wine quickly returning it to its hiding space when her father started tapping the table impatiently. She brought him his food and drink wiping her hands off on her dress after she set them down, "I will try to be more courteous" she smiled pushing the drink towards him "enjoy."

"Back to the boring world of orange" Jonathan groaned walking through a large pumpkin patch "Cipher" he chimed patting his leg and giving a whistle. In the sea of orange popped up a curved white tail followed by a bark, "come here boy" he smiled as a small Jack Russell Terrier ran out from among the pumpkins circling him. He chuckled commanding Cipher to sit kneeling down to scratch his head "I wish I came with good news, but unfortunately that stuffy old loon told me no again." He stood up dusting off the bottoms of his pants walking down the path Cipher following at his heels "this world has become so dull" he muttered picking up a stick and throwing it for Cipher to fetch.

"How is it fine to feel sadness watching a tragedy up on stage, but giving someone a small fright is just too much?!" He groaned in frustration running his fingers through his hair, he placed his other hand on his hip with a soft whine. "All I want is to create a new world on the stage, one full of suspense and excitement! Something that'll make even the stuffy upper-crust tremble in their boots." He held out his arms, spinning around " how fun! How exciting! A fun world with witches and ghouls filling the audience to the brim with fright and spectacular tricks that'll leave their jaws on the floor." He walked with more flare maneuvering around vines as if it was a dance until suddenly stopping letting his arms drop to his sides "sadly, my dreams may never become a reality" he murmured hanging his head walking into his house. "I suppose that is enough dramatics for now," he told himself, "time to get ready for work."

Later that night he walked up to the steps of a large lavished building shielding his eyes from the lit up displays that welcomed people in, he bit his lip watching as high-class patrons walked in laughing and smiling while they caressed their expensive clothes and jewelry. He sucked his teeth in disgust when suddenly he stumbled forward because someone slapped him on the back. "Well if it isn't the king of the pumpkin patch," behind him was a large and stout man in a green suit rolling a pair of dice in his hand. "Oh, hello Ogar" he muttered fixing his vest, with a snicker Ogar grinned "that's Mr. Bernard to you pumpkin king." Jonathan forced a smile onto his face the corners of his mouth twitching "my apologies...Mr. Bernard, I was heading in to begin my shift" he explained brushing past him to head inside.

The inside revealed the building to be a high-end gambling house, their heels clicked against the polished marble floor passing walls adorned with commissioned artworks and marble columns with an old roman inspired style. Glass chandeliers shed light upon rows of roulette wheels and rouge et noir tables for dice and cards; the sounds of dice rolling, cards shuffling, and the hollers of the clientele echoed throughout the lavish decadence of the gambling hall.

Jonathan stopped at an empty table walking behind to the dealer's area to set up, a few months back when his family needed funds Ogar had offered him a job as a dealer after witnessing the card tricks Jonathan practiced for his show. It wasn't hard to tell that the two profoundly disliked one another, but due to his hardship every night without fail, he came into work and endured Ogar's special and unwanted attention. "Shouldn't you be some big playwright by now?" Ogar asked, sitting at his table "in fact, you went to submit a script today, didn't you? Heh, aww what happened?" he teased. Jonathan remained silent, shuffling the cards "rejected again? Ha!" Ogar burst out in laughter, "you wasted all that time for nothing, again!" He pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket" look at you, all that hiding away to write has you white as a ghost with that skinny string bean body of yours and those raccoon eyes; you're a walking skeleton at this point" he muttered lighting his cigar. He took a long drag from the cigar blowing the smoke out in Jonathan's face "you need to give up your stupid little fantasies already because you'll never be anything more than you are now." Having grown bored, he stood up putting his cigar out on the table "now get to work" he ordered walking away.

When his shift ended he returned home spotting a basket filled with baked goods and a bottle of wine near the front door, as he drew closer to the basket, he spotted a note inside and grabbed it. "Sarah…" he said softly recognizing her handwriting, "I thought that you could use something to brighten up your night" he heard her voice turning around to find her coming around the corner of his house. She walked up to him "I know I shouldn't be out here, but earlier you looked so hurt, and I just couldn't bear to see you in such a state" she spoke softly pushing back a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Just as he was about to speak, she stopped him, "I don't want you to give up your dreams. I think the world you created in those pages is wonderful and I would give anything to see it become a reality one day."

Her words warmed his heart, and he smiled taking her hands into his looking into her eyes "thank you, to know that you feel this way is enough to encourage me to continue on," her cheeks became a cardinal red as she moved away with a bashful smile. "I better get going," she told him, backing away with a nervous laugh "goodbye" she bid him farewell running off. He watched her run off for a moment before taking the basket inside, calling Cipher in the who rushed into the house finding his spot on the small bed that was placed near Jonathan's. He sat down on his couch taking a little bite from one the pastries "I just have to keep trying" he told himself lying back on his bed staring up at the ceiling until he drifted off to sleep.

In the haze of slumber, he found himself back in his family's pumpkin patch, but it wasn't the same. "What's this?" he asked looking around, the pumpkins had horrifying expressions carved into them glowing bright orange from the candles lit inside them with row after row of gruesome faces staring at him as he walked down the path. He couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched hearing low whispers and snickers from among the pumpkins until he tripped over a vine that felt like it reached out to grab him and everything went silent. The moment of silence was short lived when the snickering broke out into loud laughter as the vine wrapped around his leg slithering up, and voices soon chanted his name. He began to panic and ripped the vine from his leg springing up to make a run for it, bats screeched in a nearby tree having been disturbed by his actions and swarmed circling around him before flying off into the night. He burst through a rusted black gate entering what looked like a town full of gothic architecture, thunder booming and lightning striking across a dark moonlit sky. The residents weren't human but instead demons, witches, and corpses walking alongside vampires as they gathered to the town square to welcome a decaying horse carrying someone. His jaw dropped at the grisly scene; howls and cackles were echoing through the night, the passenger on the horse was a scarecrow with a pumpkin head and sinister expression on its face. The Scarecrow sat still for a moment before suddenly jumping to its feet using one of the lanterns to light its arm on fire soon after bursting into flames cackling in delight. It stumbled back and forth on the saddle once its whole body was engulfed, taking a step towards him threatening to fall.

Jonathan shrieked, jumping back to avoid him. The flaming Scarecrow managed to find its balance turning on a heel to stumble towards others in the crowd before leaping into a well. He panted softly as he drew closer to the well feeling his heart begin to thump in his chest. Hesitant, he looked inside only to be greeted by a bony hand that sprung up and grabbed his wrist. The hand pulled him forward, finding himself face to face with the Scarecrow once more as he rose from the water. The pumpkin's charred flesh fell away to reveal the face of a skeleton that snickered whispering into his ear"all hail to the Pumpkin King."

He gasped springing out of bed, waking to find that morning had come. It was all just a nightmare, even so, it felt real to him. He panted wiping the cold sweat from his face looking down to find that his hands were trembling "that was...incredible!"

That morning Sarah sat in her living room dressed in a formal white gown her hair pinned up in a bun and beside her was her father grumbling holding an ice pack to his head. Across from them sat a young man with raven black hair twirling around a cricket bat in his hand while his father sipped whiskey from a glass. "Hm, you don't see many girls with such an odd complexion" the man commented, pointing out the difference between the white botches and her brown skin.  "Though I suppose her overall appearance is acceptable even with the flaws." smiled with a chuckle "yes my daughter has the beauty of her mother indeed she is also an excellent homemaker and seamstress, not to mention highly educated." The young man snorted "as if intelligence matters for a bride" his comment earning a glare from Sarah her father giving her a look to tell her to keep her mouth shut. "My son is correct, so long as she is attractive and obedient that is all that matters," the father said setting down his glass "I suppose I can approve of this union, so you have yourself a deal Stein." rubbed his hands together grinning "wonderful! Then our two children shall wed come the first of June" he took the man's hand shaking it. Sarah hung her head, digging her nails into her hand that rested on her lap as the two men sat and discussed her future with no concern for her input. All she could think about was Jonathan's smile and the way he held her hands with such tender care, "Sarah" nudged her "stand and properly greet your future husband Vincent" he ordered.

She stood up when Vincent did and walked over to him, he grinned and took her hand "how's about a kiss for our folks dear?" he snaked an arm around her pulling her close. As he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head, pushing him away "no!" Vincent glared at her "I'm sorry, what was that?" his father looked at her's "what is the meaning of this disobedient shrew rejecting my son?" Stein wheeled over in front of her "she is just a bit bashful is all" he assured showing them out "why don't we meet for dinner tomorrow night? By then, I am sure she will be over her wedding jitters." Once they agreed to his plan, he showed them out waving goodbye before he closed the door.

"How dare you!" he screamed, rushing over to her, "you nearly ruined your engagement!" She turned away, crossing her arms "I don't want to marry that man! Marrying him will force me into a life of servitude that I don't want!

"It doesn't matter what you want, you ungrateful girl! You embarrassed me, the man to whom you owe your very existence. If it were not for me you be hobbling around with only a single arm and leg in a gutter somewhere" he hissed gesturing at the prosthetic limbs he had made for her.

"Father, I want to become a doctor like you, not be stuck at home as some housewife to a man I don't know or even like."

"You don't decide your future! I do! I am your father, you do as I say. Everything I put into raising you and you thank me with disobedience. I created you, I am you an acceptable human being, I raised you, you are my property!" he screamed.

"But father, I want to find my own love and my own way."

"It's a flippant phase you ingrate! Now go prepare dinner! Not one more word unless it is telling me the food is ready. It better be worthy of the dinner party I am hosting tomorrow" he growled rolling back to his office.

Sarah whipped around storming into the kitchen in tears 'I can't let this happen' she thought. While she pulled out ingredients for dinner she came across her vial, "hm…" she grabbed the vial taking it from the covert popping the cork off of a wine bottle pouring the entire contents into it. "I will serve this to everyone, and by the end of dinner they should be out cold, and I can make my escape from this hellish life" she smiled. After she put the bottle away she returning to her cooking when entered the kitchen to check on her, he spotted the bottle of wine on the shelf and grabbed it "might as well have a drink" he told himself heading back to his office.

The next morning Jonathan was woken up by a loud banging on his door, he quickly got up pulling on his robe as the banging seem to become more frantic answering the door. When he opened the door, Sarah rushed into his arms, bursting into tears, "Sarah? What is going on? Why are you crying?" he asked, gently pulling her away. "He's dead! My father, he's dead! I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't know he would die!" she sobbed covering her face with her hands, leaving him in a more confused state than before. "The doctor is dead? How can that be and what do you mean you didn't mean to?" she slowly lowered her hands, avoiding eye contact with him as she explained. "The other day, a man and his son showed up at our home, speaking of a marriage arrangement. My father, he didn't care about my dreams and demanded I be a simple housewife for a man I just met. I couldn't live that life, Jonathan. I had to escape, so I came up with a plan to run away. My father had a bottle of his best wine ready for the party, so I added Belladonna to the wine. In small doses, it puts people into a drug-induced sleep, and I could pack my belongings and leave town, but my father drank the bottle himself in anger. I noticed at night he was having terrible pain and this morning he was… he was…" she hugged him tightly.

"What do I do? They'll have me locked away, or executed!" as Jonathan patted her head to comfort her, he contemplated what he could do to help her. It was then he found himself remembering his dream "that's it," he whispered chuckling before bursting out into a full blown laughter "that's it!" Sarah wiped her eyes, tilting her head in confusion when he gripped her shoulders "run away with me, run away with me, and let's create a new world. That's fresh out of everyone's nightmares."

#The Dream before The Nightmare #Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas #the nightmare before christmas #nightmare before christmas #Jack Skellington #fiction #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #Disney #disney fanfiction #Disney fanfic #writing #literature

[asa-ghost]

For a prompt how about a : Mchanzo au where hanzo is an alien but has to pretend he is human until he can get of the planet and Jesse has no idea that hanzo isn't human.

TO BE CONTINUED..

#mchanzo #hanzo #jesse mccree #fic prompts #overwatch fic #my fics #mchanzo au

[slipstreamborne]

Clearer with Distance (2014 fic)

rating: G summary:  Donatello is almost eight before they finally find a pair of glasses with his correct prescription.  Before that, the severely farsighted turtle just has to make do.  His brothers do what they can to help out, even if it means reading all his boring stereo instructions to him for the millionth time. notes: 2k fluffy turtle tot fic with just a touch of angst. read at ao3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/15006035

The box is slick underneath Donnie’s fingers, glossy cardboard unwarped by water, the corners crisp and unworn.  New, or at least freshly thrown out, which for a mutated turtle scavenging the sewers of New York is basically the same thing.

His chest swells with excitement, expert fingers feeling at the seams until he finds the  opening flap.  The box is bulky but light—a promising combination—and rattles faintly when shaken.  Definitely some twist ties loose in there.  He gropes greedily inside, worming his skinny arm in between the broken pieces of protective Styrofoam until his fist closes on his prize: a thin paper booklet with staples along the binding.

“Oh no,” groans Mikey, somewhere off to his left.  “He found another one.”

“Not it,” says Raph automatically; a mistake, because he’s close enough that Donnie can pinpoint him by sound even if he has trouble picking his blurred form out from the rest of the garbage heap. 

“Raph!”  He thrusts the little pamphlet towards what he guesses is his brother’s nose.  “What’s this say?”

Shadows of hands shove him back, not hard enough to knock him over, though.  “I dunno, genius.  It’s dark.”

“Not that dark.”  A greasy yellow glow fills the far end of the tunnel, casting crisp shadows against the brick.  The light’s softer here, the edges of things increasingly smeared the closer he gets to them, but it’s bright enough that Donnie barely has to use his flashlight.  It’s easier for him to spot the gleam of a potentially interesting object than sort through every washed up boot and rusted can by hand.  Safer, too, as the still-thumping cut bisecting his left palm can attest.  At least it’s finally crusted over and stopped oozing.  “C’mon, read it for me.”

“I ain’t gonna!”

“Read it read it read it read it—”

“Hush.” 

Dad doesn’t shout.  Dad hardly ever has to shout, and never twice.  Not so close to topside, anyway.  Donnie’s mouth clamps shut obediently.

“This is not the place.  Raphael will read to you when we get home, Donatello.”

Raph whines (“Daaaad, I read the last one!”), but his father holds firm, setting him back to the day’s scavenging with a single clipped command.  Reassured that he’s not the one to have been assigned to the task, the soft, mostly-blue shape of Leo finally pops into view, a smear of white slashing crookedly across where his mouth should be.

“Over here,” he says, taking Donnie by the hand (something Donnie hates, but on unfamiliar territory has no grounds to object to).  “Found a bunch of onions.  Help me  pick out the rotten ones.”

*

Everybody has their place within the family.  If you  need somebody to boost you into a high pipe or check in the shadows for monsters (Raph says that the towering white figures from his dreams with needles for fingers aren’t real, but Donnie’s not so sure), you get Dad.  If you need somebody to tell you all the rules for Yu-Gi-Oh or tattle on you when you wander too far into the dark, you get Leo.  Mikey’s great at farting at the dinner table and whining until you feel sorry for him when he loses a game that he made up the rules to, while it’s Raph’s job to not share when you want a turn at shooting baskets and snuggle up tight against you under the blankets when winter blows ice cold through the Lair.

Donnie’s got strong, nimble fingers and can recite long passages of Harry Potter from memory, even does a pretty good job of mimicking the voices that Dad uses, but when Leo finds a coverless copy of The Order of the Phoenix—their one missing title in the series—nobody asks him take over when Dad gets too tired to do another chapter.

It’s not that Donatello doesn’t know how to read.  Dad taught him his alphabet same as his brothers, one warm hand at his elbow as he guided Donnie’s finger through the thick, ever-gathering dust of the fan room floor, tracing out the shape of each letter over and over until Donnie had every stroke memorized. 

If he writes large enough, going back over each word twice with the long side of their few precious pieces of grubby sidewalk chalk until the pastel lines stand out bold against the dark concrete floors, Donnie can make out whole words.  Kanji is harder, crucial, tiny strokes lost amidst the overall shape of the character, but Dad has a long scroll of poetry in oversized calligraphy hanging above his sleeping mat that Donnie has had memorized since he was three:

A lovely thing to see: through the paper window's hole, the Galaxy.

For reasons he can’t yet explain, he has no trouble at all reading the oversized text of the bulletin boards he occasionally glimpses through narrow storm drains, hungry eyes devouring every line of copy even if he lacks the context needed to appreciate the appeal of things like “semi-annual sales” and “now in theaters”. 

He has never seen a star, much less a galaxy, but after some careful questioning, he doesn’t think Leo or Raph or Mikey have seen one, either. 

The bigger something is, the further it is away, the easier it is for Donnie to understand. 

The problem is that the things that interest him, that confound him and make him burn for more, are close and very, very small. 

He gets so frustrated.  So angry.  It’s there, it’s right there, but he can’t—

“Please.”  He shoves the stack of books into his brother’s hands.  “Please please pleeeeease...!”

“Fine,” Leo sighs, even though they both know that technically, it’s Raph’s turn again.  “Fine.”

There’s an old beanbag chair that Dad sewed up that’s almost big enough for two.  Leo tucks his feet under him primly while Donnie wedges himself firmly against his side, long legs braced against a crack in the concrete to keep them from toppling over. 

“I’m not reading you Advanced Wiring again, I know you’ve got that one memorized.”  He tosses the battered book to the side with a thump.  “So which’ll it be?  Heating and Plumbing or Decks, Porches, and Patios?”

“Decks.”  The meager collection of Time Life Home Repair and Improvement books is one of his most prized possessions.  Heating and Plumbing is his second favorite, but Leo’s terrible at describing all of the diagrams.  “The part about load-bearing footings.” 

The book smells comfortingly of mildew when Leo cracks it open.  He’s smaller than Donnie by almost half a foot, his head wobbling precariously on a neck barely bigger than Raph’s wrist, but he has a nice voice, smooth and even with an extra puff of breath behind the t sounds that Donnie finds himself echoing for hours afterwards. 

“Where do you want me to start?  Concrete forms or how to determine the frost line?”

“Doesn’t matter.”  He hasn’t told Leo that he’s actually memorized that one, too.  All of them, to be honest.  It’s just that sometimes he needs something, anything, to help his brain go quiet.  “Frost lines.”

Leo flips to the appropriate page, squirms until his shell is nestled more comfortably in the folds of the beanbag, and starts to read.  Donnie digs his sharp chin into the hollow of his brother’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and listens.

*

Mikey is the best at it, despite being the least interested in schoolwork of any of them.  Maybe it’s because of his blasé acceptance of his own academic shortcomings.  Where Leo huffs and repeats things over and over, trying to get it perfect, and Raph storms off with a growl at the first barrier he can’t punch his way through, Mikey plunges right along unrattled no how many bumps he hits, accepting any corrections to his pronunciation with a casual shrug. 

Even when the manual turns out to be written in French. 

“En-lev-ez le...’  The heck is this word, bro?  One of the letters is wearing a hat. ‘Buh... Booty-er?’”

“Spell it if you can’t sound it out.”

“B-O-I with a pointed hat-T-I-E-R.”

Donnie frowns, fingers retracing his steps across the condensation pump, trying to figure out which piece is most likely supposed to come off next.  “I think that’s the cover for the fan.”  He gives the fan enclosure an experimental pull, then a twist, then a harder, more determined pull, but it doesn’t budge.  He runs his fingers around its rim, looking for the telltale round bump of a screwheads, but finds nothing.   “Uh, is there a tab I’m supposed to press to make it pop off or...?”

“Maybe?”  A rustle of paper as Mikey folds the directions back to look at the diagram.  “Are you sure these are the right instructions for this pump?  It doesn’t quite look like the drawing.  That fan cover piece is a completely different shape.”

Donnie’s stomach does an anxious somersault.  And he’d been so excited to find something thrown away in its original box.  “I mean, a pump’s a pump, right?  How different can they be?”

Half an hour later, Donnie’s managed to remove the fan cover, but not without a sickening crack of plastic and a muffled swear from his brother that tells him he broke something.  Hopefully it wasn’t anything crucial.  He’ll have to run some tests after he’s finished cleaning it and putting it back together, but since the pump wasn’t working in the first place it will be hard to— 

The main hatch creeks open, then closed again.  “Tadaima!” call two voices.  Leo’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and Dad sounds tired, but pleased.

“Okaeri!” Donnie and Mikey call together, Raph chiming in faintly from the other side of the Lair.  Donnie sniffs the air.  Beneath the gust of sewer smell is the unmistakable odor of wet fur and back alley dumpster he’s come to associate with food. 

He puts down the tools to help Dad and Leo bring in the last of the groceries—bags and bags of iceberg lettuce with browned outer leaves (his mouth waters, knowing the cool, wet crunch awaiting inside), and a box of short pull tab cans that could be either tuna or cat food.  Mikey makes a pleased little chirrup as he passes him the cans, which means it’s probably the latter.  Fancy Feast is his favorite.    

The chore is quickly finished with five sets of hands.  Leo keeps bumping into him, thin limbs still quivering with the excitement of getting to go topside.  Donnie tucks his own arms close and starts edging out of the kitchen and back towards his corner of dissembled stereos, suddenly not a excited about the prospect of lettuce heart supper.  He’s never been above ground.  It’s too dangerous with his limited eyesight. 

“Ah, Donatello.  A moment more, my son.  I have a gift for you.”

A large, grey-brown shape crouches before him and presses a closed cardboard box into his hands.  Too large for a clock radio, too small to be a VHS player, but mostly empty either way. 

“You got Donnie an iron?!” asks Mikey incredulously, crowding close on his left. 

Raph huffs dismissively, but presses in close to his right.  “It’s just the box, dummy.” 

“Go on,” Leo says, fidgeting anxiously from one foot to another.  He’s too close for Donnie to make out his expression, but his tone suggests that there’s a surprise that he’s in on, or maybe some sort of joke.  “Open it.”

Something heavier than an owner’s manual is rattling around inside. Batteries, maybe, or an overlooked set of cables.  Dad couldn’t have been lucky enough to find him a discarded remote.

His family looms over him expectantly as he opens the box and reaches inside.  The shape of the object is bizarre:  two thick, curved circles, each attached to a long, hinged piece of plastic.

Glasses.  His heart sinks.  He’s lost track of how many pairs he’s tried, over the years.  His thumbs swipe idly across the lenses, noting with dull surprise how thick they are, the pronounced outward curve at their center. 

“Try ‘em on!” Leo grabs at his wrists, pushing the glasses up towards his face.  “Try ‘em, try ‘em!”

There’s a break in the bridge of the nose, he realizes as he unfolds them.  Somebody’s tried to fix them with tape but not done a very good job of it.  The glasses bend alarmingly as he slips them over his beak, one lens slipping down his cheek as he struggles to hold the other in place.  He looks up. 

The world looks very, very strange.  On his left, Mikey’s familiar smudged shadows.  On his right, a stranger in a red bandana peers at him through narrowed eyes, each pale green scale of his face glimmering  faintly gold under the bare kitchen light bulb.  In front of him, two more strangers, one skinny and green, fading back and forth into Leo's blurred shape as he bounces excitedly, the other tall and dark and covered in a thousand, million lines, each strand of drying fur casting its own shadow, blue robe speckled with tiny white and yellow stars, the pointed, black-eyed face haloed in a bristle of long, white whiskers.   

He gapes, speechless.

For the first time in his life, Donatello sees his father smile.

#tmnt #tmnt 2014 #donatello #splinter #michelangelo #raphael #leonardo #stuff i wrote #turtle tots