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purebarnes · 4 years ago

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courage to change— (fem!avenger x bucky!)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ➢ bucky, sam, y/n and zemo make it to madripoor but only to get stuck in a sticky situation when selby gets shot making it seem like it was them.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ➢ 2.2k

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀꜱ ➢ angst, memories(flashbacks), violence

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ! ➢ this took a little longer to write. sorry for the wait!

the four of them gone through the plane ride without barking at one of each other. they had made it madripoor where zemo was telling that it was a way to find out who was making the super soldier serum. when they did make it, zemo made y/n disguise herself as someone completely because they might of caught on who she really was.

she wore a different colored wig with a tight top that made her uncomfortable since it was was very pressed onto her body. she didn’t want to go through it but sam told her that it was fine and to at least trust him, easier said then done. she kept pulling up her shirt and shifting herself up when she was told to knock it off by zemo.

she scoffed looking at zemo before firing back at his direction, “do you want to wear this? you don’t have these to worry about.” she said pointing towards her breasts when zemo was taken back by her. bucky looked at her and shook his head to tell her to stop talking about that. “what?” she mouthed.

bucky just told her to stop it, she rolled her eyes at him, “fine, sorry they make you uncomfortable.” she joked to him and it wasn’t that they made her uncomfortable but he did want y/n to talk about those things in front of any guys that weren’t him. they kept walking until sam spoke up, “if we have to do something about this, i’m the only one who looks like a pimp—only an american would assume a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp. you look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. the sophisticated, charming african rake named conrad mack, aka the smiling tiger.”

zemo passed the phone to sam to see what he looked like and he did say that they looked like each other, “he even has a bad nickname. hell, he does like me though.” y/n grew curious on what her role was to play and what zemo said made her a little startled. “try not get killed.” she smacked her lips together and nodded knowing he wasn’t joking. bucky turned to her, “he’s joking, you are joking right—uh, no.”

y/n widened her eyes because who would say that, that made her worry even more turning to sam who looked at zemo. “why would you say that, now she’s going to get anxious—look, no matter what happens, we have to stay in character. our lives depend on it. there’s no margin for error. high towns that way.” a car came to stop in front of them. “not a bad place if you wanna visit.” bucky opened the door to let y/n go and when she did, he stepped in.

the car ride was very quiet and anxious, there were many cars that went by. by the time they had arrived, all of people were everywhere and it all just seemed uncommon to her. she saw many faces and it just was all right in front of her, they made it front of a bar when a older man with dark skin, “hello, gentlemen and miss—.” he said looking at y/n who was confused on what was happening then he went to ask if he knew her from somewhere. “do i know you from somewhere?” she shook her head saying no. “i don’t think you do.” he nodded then looking at sam, “want expecting you smiling tiger.”

“his plans changed. we have business to do with selby—the usual?” he asked sam and he went to go grab a snake and sam’s eyes grew huge when he was cutting the snake in the middle. y/n looked up and back at doing a double take when he was cutting it, “smiling tiger, your favorite.” he finished making the drink and face it to sam. zemo clinked his drink with sam’s as he did it hesitantly then doing it.

a man came over to tell zemo that he wasn’t welcomed but zemo wasn’t taking no for an answer. “i have no business with the power broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me—new haircut?” the man said to bucky who just stared at him. “or bring selby for a chat.” the man went away.

a man came to their direction and zemo started speaking russian to bucky, as the man went to grab zemo by the shoulder bucky grabbed his hand pushing him back. bucky started to attack him and everyone time a new person would come and try to fight him but none of them got lucky. it was like a part of the winter soldier was still their, y/n tensed up looking at sam anxiously since that was a part of him that was scary to many people. she couldn’t help but look away from him, she knew it was him and personal but that man was someone she never wanted to encounter.

“didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.” bucky was starting to chick the man on the table when people were cocking their guns and both sam and y/n looked at each other when y/n had enough and placed her hand on bucky’s shoulder. “stay in character or the whole bar turns on us.” she let go of him when zemo said something in russian to bucky. the man from the bar told them that they were ready to see them, bucky meet y/n’s eyes that were in pain when she breathed and looked down.

she left and when they were supposed to go in, bucky stopped her from entering peopling her into a supply closet that was dark. she furrowed her eyebrows not understanding what he was doing, he told her be quiet. “we have to go—you can’t go in, stay in here and just wait for me—” y/n interrupted him by punching his shoulder and he widened his eyes as she just stared at him. “when will people stop telling me what to do, especially men.”

she glared at bucky then he rolled his eyes and went to push him out of the way but bucky denied her access. he put his hand in front of her which she slapped away but he gripped on her wrist holding in place—not putting any pressure that would hurt. she looked down at her wrist being held, “james. get out of my way.” she inhaled deeply giving him a long stare. “i don’t want to hurt you—you won’t.” she said hitting him in the abdomen and pushing him into the wal runnng hurriedly to leave but bucky grabbed her quickly slamming her onto the wall.

she looked him holding her wrists above her head, she took a second to understand what was happening. she huffed, “stay here.” bucky demanded her with confrontation to make sure she knew he wasn’t messing around. she agreed and the distant between them was close, but bucky stopped himself from going further. “i will be back, don’t leave—i can take care of myself.” she muttered.

bucky chuckled knowing that she could but this was something that he couldn’t help but protect her. “i know. just please, don’t be stubborn and do this.” y/n rolled her eyes not thinking she was stubborn, she thought it was arrogant of him to assume that of her.

bucky looked at her for a split second then leaving to go with sam and zemo. she slid down the wall hitting her head on the cold surface which she shuddered by. she shut her eyes and smiled showing her teeth when she thought of a memory that popped in. bucky being protective of her. it was a constant thing bucky would do when they were together.

it was the middle of fall, the leaves falling gracefully from the vine maple’s all over the yard, orange and red all over the place. it was beautiful and lavishly. getting pushed into her room, bucky shut the door making y/n look over to see what he was doing. bucky grew red and told her to sit on the bed, she disobeyed him scoffing at the request.

bucky knew that no one would tell her what to besides her parents—“what’s your problem?” she asked at the outburst bucky had. she cleared his throat and bit his cheek to show he was getting impatient with her. “what was that? he grabbed you inappropriately and you just told him it was fine.” he referred to the moment y/n encountered downstairs.

she had this dumbfounded expression, she knew what she did but she didn’t want to tell him. tony had assigned a new member for her to work with y/n and all the boy did was flirt with her. it all started fine when he then decided to be funny and touch her thigh but to his surprise it wasn’t at all. she yelled getting up and tony asking what was wrong and the boy tried to tell everyone that nothing happened.

she told them that he tried, well did touch her. tony grew furious and disgusted at his actions. when bucky over heard, he went to go rush to him but tried to get pulled off by sam and steve. he got through and met the boy punching him in the face making him fall backward moaning at the pain.

y/n was shocked at bucky and scolded him on what just happened with him and the boy. sure he had a right to be mad but he didn’t have to go that far in hurting the boy. everyone knew he couldn’t handle anyone messing with his y/n, she told him that it was fine because she didn’t want anything else to escalate with this boy. he could tell someone that bucky assaulted him which wouldn’t be good.

y/n just thought if she let that go then no one would get hurt even more then her. the girl wanted him to understand that she was harmed in a big way. she sighed grabbing bucky’s hands and pulling him closer to her with his eyes somewhere else. “i’m sorry. i didn’t think it was a big deal. did you have to hurt him though?” she asked kissing his cheek.

he nodded like it was a simple question making her roll her eyes playfully, “yes, what kind of question is that?” she smiled a bit then wrapping her arms carefully around his neck and pulling him into a chaste kiss melting into her arms. she pulled away, “i love you, but don’t hurt anyone anymore.” y/n pleaded not wanting to get hurt.

bucky shrugged not giving her the answer she wanted, walking away to go to the bathroom. “bucky! i’m serious.” she exclaimed running towards him and he just pushed her onto the bathroom door. kissing her one more time and she couldn’t help but smile in the kiss as she didn’t want it to end so soon.

y/n’s thoughts were interrupted by some gun shots and she looked up not wanting to leave the closet. she heard the door rattle and backed up but then she remembered she had powers. she heard faint swears from the outside, “shit. shit. it won’t open—who cares we have to go.” she could vaguely hear who they were. “no, y/n is in here. ok, got it. let’s go doll.”

bucky said grabbing her hand and leading her out while keeping her on her side, she shook her head wanting answers but never stopped. “what’s going on buck?” he didn’t answer her but kept walking faster, “this is not good.” the lights went off when gun shots started to go off and they all ran off trying to leave the shots.

bucky pushed the girl in front as she ran a few motors started to chase them and the faster they ran, more people got shot from above. everyone that was chasing them all got shot from something or someone inside, “you seem to have a guardian angel—well this too perfect. drop it, zemo.” a woman started to say be unrecognizable.

she pulled her hoddie, being shown as sharon with a gun pointing at zemo’s direction. bucky walked forward seeing her, “sharon?—you cost me everything.” she said pointing the gun toward zemo again waiting for him to surrender-himself. “sharon, wait. someone recreated the super-soldier serum and zemo had a lead—that explains what you guys are here. and selby’s dead. but why are you here?”

sharon said looking at y/n who just gave her a blank stare, “i asked you a question y/n—watch your tone.” y/n said tensing you and walking towards sharon but bucky pulled her back not wanting to start anything. “calm down, it’s fine.” bucky whispered to her ear. “so what are you doing here?—i stole Steve’s shield, remember? i also took the wings for your ass, so that you could save his ass from his ass. unlike you, i didn’t have the avengers to back me up.”

sharon went to look directly at y/n this time, “so i’m off the grid in madripoor—hey, don’t blow that smoke on me. i was on the run, too—was. is. big difference. i don’t speak to my family anymore. i can’t. my father doesn’t know where i am” she rambled off.

“listen... sharon we need your help.” sharon chuckled before continuing to talk to them, “please, why can she help you—can this bickering stop for a second, sharon.” y/n demanded the woman. she sighed not wanting to agree with her, “this isn’t over. i have a place in high town. you’ll be safe there.”

#bucky barnes #bucky imagine #fatws bucky #bucky x y/n #marvel #bucky barnes x female reader #fatws series #sam wilson #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fluff

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theladyscarlettt · 4 years ago

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Petals (pt. 2)

I got a little bit carried away with this one. Definitely took a spin on Ep. 3 and I’m going to say this one is the calm before the storm, if that tells y’all anything.

Link to Petals (pt. 1)

Warnings: mild violence and language

—-

She tugged at the short, form fitting, black dress she was wearing. Zemo insisted she wear it to “blend in,” and after a few choice words she agreed. She hadn’t worn a dress in years and never a dress this tiny. To say she was uncomfortable was an understatement, one wrong move and she would flash all of Madripoor. Fighting would in fact be impossible.

She walked beside Sam, her “date,” tugging once more at the dress, that kept coming up.

“I look like a pimp.” Sam grumbled beside her.

“You look like a wealthy black man, only American’s would consider a man of class to be a pimp.” Zemo retorted.

Bucky glanced behind at the two, his eyes lingering on her longer than they should.

“No matter what happens we must stay in character” Zemo said scolding Bucky, “Our lives depend on it, there is no margin for error. Can you do that, Winter Soldier?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He knew it was just a role he was playing but being called and commanded around like he use to be struck a nerve with him.

“We got it.” She said, defending Bucky before he chose to say something else.

They make their way to the club, following Zemo inside. Sam places his hand on Y/N’s upper back, protectively guiding her through the club. The music was roaring as lights flashed, bodies grinded. The group separates in the crowd. Bucky going with Zemo and Y/N with Sam. Sam approaches a bar where the tender asks if he wants his regular, not knowing what else to do he gives a stern nod. The bartender presents him with an abused drink and he shoots Y/N a look, to which she leans on the bar giving him a “go on” look. He quickly tosses it back in his throat, trying to hide a shiver of disgust. He then smiles awkwardly at the bar tender.

Y/N turns around to inspect the crowd, the dancing had haulted slightly and people began to whisper about the appearance of Zemo and Bucky. Zemo approached the two, placing his hands on the bar.

“We have business to do, with Selby.” He said to the bar tender.

The bar tender looked at him strangely. A man came up behind Zemo.

“We’ve got word. You’re not welcome here.” He growled nodding to the door.

Zemo began to reason with him, explaining their case. She looked to Sam, his shoulders where tense as he keep an eye on the on lookers who, now had hands on their weapons. He leaned down to her ear, “I have a pistol in my waistband.”

“Do you know him?” Sam asked, as the man finally walked away.

“Only by reputation.” Zemo replied spotting another man approaching him, a murderous look on his face.

Zemo face grew tense, he looked to Bucky and said something in Russian. She looked to Bucky seeing his jaw clench again, an angered look in his eyes. The man placed an arm on Zemo’s shoulder to which Bucky responded by twisting it the other way, walking the man backwards. He looked back at Zemo for a split second a fire in his eyes. She looked to Zemo to find a faint smile on his face, she bit her lip to withhold her temper. She turned to Bucky who broke the mans arm, slamming him on the floor. One after another, after another men came at him and in seconds Bucky snapped their neck, broke their leg, or kicked them across the room.

Sam looked at her, shock written on his face. She never took her eyes off Bucky, she watched him, the way his body just knew how to find each of their weak spots, to break, bend and snap their bones with ease just in the right way. She had heard stories of those days, but had never seen them. The pure rage, strength and power that surged through him made her heart pound with anxiety.

“Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.” Zemo mused in her ear. She looked at him.

All these years he’d been holding back, because the man she saw before her was not Bucky, it was someone else. Something else. He had a man pinned against a table, choking him when Zemo finally decided to tell him to stop. Bucky released the man and stood back up.

“Selby will see you now.” The trembling bartender said.

Zemo headed out through the crowd.

“You good?” Sam asked Bucky. Bucky looked from him to Y/N, then he looked down and followed Zemo out. Sam turned to look at her, she just took his hand and they left the room with a hundred stares watching their leave.

The room they entered was dark and smelled of weed, alcohol and smoke.

A woman sat reclined on a couch, her frosty hair glistening in the blue tinted light. She didn’t seem pleased to see Zemo.

“You’re taller than I remember, Smiling Tiger.” She purred at Sam. Her gaze then fell to Y/N. “Do I know you?” The woman, Y/N assumed was Selby, asked.

“She’s an associate of mine, does all the behind the scenes work. I may have brought her around a few years back.” Zemo replied. Selby eyes her suspiciously then smiled at Zemo.

“What’s the offer?” She asked.

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum.” Zemo commanded.

“And what’s in it for me?” She said tilting her head.

Zemo stood and circled Bucky. “The Winter Solider with his full list of commands.” He said. Y/N tensed at the way Zemo stroked Bucky’s face as if he was an animal for sale.

Selby cooed delighted at his offer, “Now there is the Zemo I know but what about her?” She said turning back to Y/N her eyes glossing over her figure.

Zemo frowned then put on a fake smile, walking over to Y/N. “What about her?”

“I want her too.” The woman said, a strange look on her face.

“She’s not part of the offer.” Zemo said, standing in front of Y/N almost protectively.

The woman tilted her head and laughed bitterly, “From what I hear you are desperate for the whereabouts of the Serum. I want her and the Winter Solider or no deal.”

“Perhaps-“ Zemo began.

The woman held up a finger, “Both. But before I offer you anything up. I want to see him.”

Y/N noticed the faint line of sweat that began to glisten on Zemo’s forehead. “Pardon?”

She looked to Bucky, her eyes full of lust. “I want to see him in action.”

Zemo mused, “If you went downstairs you’d see the aftermath, but yes, what would you like him to do.”

“Fight.” The woman said, her eyes falling back on Y/N, “Fight her.” She turned back to Zemo giving an eyebrow for him to try and challenge her wishes. “I have to make sure I like what I’m agreeing to now, Zemo.”

Zemo smiled and bowed, going back to sit in his chair across the room. He looked to Y/N and gave a small nod. She couldn’t tell if it was a nod of assurance or a nod goodbye.

The woman clapped her hands in delight, “Oh, I love a nice brawl.”

Zemo said something in Russian. Y/N looked from Zemo to Bucky with a panicked expression. Zemo gave a command Y/N couldn’t understand it, but Bucky did and it did something to him. His face contorted and she could see him fighting internally at something. He began to approach her.

She stepped back, “Bucky.” She found herself say. He moved at her throwing a punch which she dodged easily, he swung again hitting her in the side. She instinctively swung her leg at his head to which he grabbed it and swung her to the side, but with her other leg hooked around his waist she took him to the ground with her. She wheezed trying to get air back in her lungs as he collapsed onto her pushing his knee into her stomach. She quickly buckled forward, protecting her abdomen, grabbing the stiletto off her foot and hitting him across the face. She then managed to wrap her legs around his neck and flip him over her. She stood quickly catching her breath. He was up in an instant throwing punches at her. She eyed Sam who was standing there unsure of what to do. She looked back to Bucky, now barefoot and ran then slide in between his legs towards Sam. Back on her feet she shoved Sam out of the way while taking the pistol out of his waist band. She pointed it at Zemo.

The room froze.

“Stop it.” She sneered, breathing heavily.

Zemo looked at her surprised, “Now, let’s not make this worse.”

She cocked the gun, “I said, stop it.”

Zemo looked to Selby, who was unamused. “You really are going to let her speak to you that way. I want to see them fight, not fool around like children.”

Zemo looked back at Bucky and motioned for him to carry on. He looked back to Y/N with almost an apologetic look.

“Bucky. Bucky it’s me.” She said now pointing the gun at him. He just stared at her a blank expression on his face as he stalked towards her. She shifted in her place, her hands shaking. Bucky launched at her, she flipped the gun in her hand and hit him over the head with the butt of it, he elbowed her in the back causing her to buckle forward. Her form was sloppy and slow compared to his. She dodged the next couple of punches until she found herself backed against a wall. She heard Sam yelling for Zemo to call him off. Bucky slammed his fist into the wall just barely missing her face, she kicked him back and when she went to kick him again he moved and slammed her into the wall. He twisted her wrist causing her to drop the gun. She groaned. Her eyes widened as his slender fingers laced around her throat picking her off the ground. She thrashed beneath his grip.

“Bucky-“ she wheezed, she gripped his wrist and tried to shove him off. Her face began to burn, as hot tears stung her eyes. “It’s me.”

Sam tried to pull Bucky off but he was now being held at gun point by Selby’s men for interfering.

Y/N looked to Zemo, suffocating, he caught her desperate glares as he too now had been threatened. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and opened it and when he exhaled he nodded, signaling her to do the same. She remembered the candle.

She looked back to Bucky, her vision hazy, her strength beginning to fail. Suddenly she felt the sensation come back. She walked her legs back up behind her and shoved herself off the wall. To her surprise Bucky stumbled backwards. She collapsed to the ground gasping for air. Bucky then took out a knife he had in his pocket and flipped it in his hand.

It all happened in a second, he threw the knife as she moved out of the way, a burning sensation coursed through her veins. In a swift motion she swung her hand across her body casting a stream of fire. Bucky fell back, hissing as he slapped at the flames on his jacket. Selby leapt up.

“I knew it!” She cried, “You’re an Avenger, you both are. How dare you show your face in these parts?! How dare you try and abuse my hospitality.” She looked to Sam, to Zemo and back to Y/N.

Y/N stood now, her nose bleeding, bruises along her body but she felt none of it. All she felt was pure power surging through her body. She glared at Selby. “Tell us what you know. NOW.” She began to approach her, the men lifted their guns but Y/N turned to them and cast a ray of light causing them to look away, as their eyes, burned. She looked back to Selby her eyes a bright red glow. “NOW.” She barked. Selby horrified fell back onto the couch.

“There’s a file in my desk, right hand side top drawer.” She stumbled.

“Sam.” Y/N said.

Sam ran to the desk and searched.

“You will let us leave this place, you will not come after us and if you do.” Y/N leaned down to face Selby. “I’ll burn this place to hell.”

Selby stared at her, at a lose for words.

“I got it.” Sam said making his way back over to her, he was sweating, his eyes wide as he was overwhelmed by the whole situation.

She turned around to Zemo, who was already making his way to her.

“Y/N, understand that I meant no-“

She slapped him across the face, her hands hot but not enough to burn his skin. “Stay away from me you bastard.” She spat.

Zemo stepped back, for the first time in his life he regretted this night. He walked to Bucky who now was in a bewildered phase.

Sam approached Y/N who now was in a delusional state as well. Her face was pale, her body weak, her neck bruised and her breathing shuddered.

She looked to Sam, “Sam...” she whispered before her body slumped. He caught her in his arms, gently lifting her limp body as he followed Zemo out the door.

—-

The city was sent into a frenzy. News of what happened spread throughout the city for, of course, Selby sent her men after them. Zemo had directed them to his getaway car, never speaking a word. At that point Sam didn’t know who to trust, so he just held Y/N closely and followed Zemo skeptically.

They relocated to a different apartment, Bucky sat on the ground, coming in and out of whatever state Zemo put him in. Y/N lay on the couch, bandaged with ice packs across her body. Sam knelt by her, never in his life had he seen something so extraordinary yet horrific as what he saw tonight. While most would have ran, he stayed knowing the true heart of his two friends. He had Zemo restrained to a chair, which shockingly Zemo didn’t fight him on. He knew he had miscalculated.

“Sam, I am sorry.” He said.

“You,” Sam jabbed his finger in his direction, “Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. We finally began to trust you and you did this. That was not part of the plan.”

“I did not know he would do this.”

Sam scoffed, “doesn’t matter, you wanted him to do this. To tear himself apart, to tear them apart.” He said motioning to Y/N. “You knew what you were doing.”

“I was under the impression he was free.”

“He was. And you just undid all of it for your own selfish amusement.”

“Perhaps I can assist in bringing him back-“

“No. No. The only thing you are going to do is go back to the shithole you came from, and I will make sure you NEVER see the light of day again.”

“Sam, anger does not call for a clear mind.”

Sam stood, causing Zemo to become silent. He walked over to him and bent forward to meet his eyes. “You have not seen anger, pull something like that again and you won’t need a prison cell.”

While Sam was the best of them, Zemo felt his threats carried meaning, so he remained silent.

Sam walked over to Bucky, who was a sweaty mess on the floor. He squatted, “Buck. Bucky come on man wake up.” He shook him, trying to wake him up for the 5th time.

Bucky groaned, his eyes were bloodshot, “S-Sam.” He stuttered. “What happened? Where are we?”

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled, “We are in a safe house. The mission didn’t go as planned. You’ve been in and out of it for a couple hours. How do you feel?”

Bucky sat up, his stone cold demeanor was back as he tried to hide his distress. “Where’s Y/N?”

Sam looked down, “Bucky, do you remember anything at all?”

“No, no why?” He asked panic lacing his hoarse voice, “The last thing I remember was- I’m not sure. Sam what happened? Where is Y/N?”

Sam sighed, “She’s asleep on the couch but Bucky listen-“

Bucky pushed passed Sam and froze. He saw her lying on the couch, her body was covered in cuts and bruises, red bandages covered the rest.

“What happened?” He said dropping to his knees by her, inspecting her wounds.

“You” Zemo said. Sam bit his lip.

Bucky looked at him and back to Y/N. He stood backing away.

“I did it. I did it again, didn’t I? I lost control.” His breathing hitched as his head began to spin. Everything he’d worked so hard on for months, had just slipped out of his grasp. The therapy, the list, the book, Wakanda, Steve, all of it was meaningless. He lost control. He was not free. Tears swelled in his eyes.

“Bucky, it wasn’t your fault-“ Sam started.

Bucky turned to him, in a rage. “Wasn’t my fault?! Then who did this? Who, Sam?! I could have killed her.” He looked down trembling, “I could have killed her.” He repeated, the words sinking in. “What have I done?”

Sam looked at him with sad eyes, “Bucky...”

Bucky looked up at him, “No. No. No.” He backed away. “Don’t try and tell me this ok. That it’s not my fault.”

“I know, I know Bucky, but we don’t blame you. She wouldn’t blame you. Look, you have got to calm down, just sit down and let’s talk about this.”

Bucky looked to Zemo, a murderous look in his eyes.

“Buck,” Sam said, a loving a hand on Bucky’s chest, “You’ve got to calm down right now before you do something you’ll regret.”

“I won’t regret it, I should have done it before.” He shoved past Sam.

Zemo sat up in his chair, “James. I have a confession to make-“

Bucky hit him across the face, with the butt of a knife from his belt. Zemo only smiled at him, as if he was enjoying it.

“Bucky! You are giving him what he wants. If you did this, you’ll never forgive yourself. What about the amends? What about your peace? You’ll never have it if you kill him.”

Bucky stopped, his facing twitching. He thought for a second before flinging the knife into Zemo’s arm, enough to cause damage but not near enough to truly harm him.

Zemo cried out, doubling over, as Sam went to aid him, Bucky disappeared out the door.

#bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #zemo x reader #tfatws #petals #mcu fanfiction #mcu #theladyscarlettt #forgotten figures #sambucky #sam wilson #sam x reader #zemo

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plaidbooks · 4 years ago

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My Beautiful Rose

A/N: Oof, this is a long one, and I wanna thank Karen for helping me with the concept! It’s a Sonny Carisi x reader fic, covers the Flowers/Candy square in the VDay bingo, and may or may not get a part 2; who knows? Hope you enjoy! P.S. I’m sorry for my lack of medical knowledge! P.S.S. this jumps perspective a lot.

Tags: talks of stab wounds, blood, ventilators/tubes, whump

Words: 4197

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @barbasimp @alwaysachorusgirl @reading--mermaid @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles

Sonny was working late again tonight, you knew. It was obvious by the box of chocolates he had sent home, as an apology for not making it home for dinner. The bouquet of red roses was just a bonus, because he liked to call you “his beautiful rose.” You didn’t mind—he often worked late nights as detective—but you were always worried. Always afraid to get that phone call, that Sonny wasn’t coming home. You looked at your new engagement ring, twisting it gently around your finger. He was fine; he was always fine. But that didn’t stop the worry from eating away at you every time he stepped out that door, badge and gun on his hip. What you didn’t know was how much worse it was to not get that phone call.

***

The nurses burst through the doors of the ER, jogging with the gurney, the man passed out with an oxygen mask laying lifeless on top of it, blood staining his shirt. A doctor caught up with them, falling into step beside them.

“What do we have?” he asked.

“Multiple stab wounds in the chest area—heart rate is 74 and dropping, blood pressure is 90/60, respiratory rate is 10 per minute, O2Sat is 90% and temperature is 95. He lost a lot of blood, at least 10%,” a nurse listed off.

“Jesus…any vital organs punctured?”

“Hard to tell without X-rays, but by the way he’s rasping, he may have a punctured lung.”

The doctor nodded. “Prep him for X-rays and a transfusion. I’ll disinfect and be right in.”

***

You woke up in the morning with no word from Sonny, and your heart started to race. You tried to push the anxiety down; you had texted him the night before with no reply, but that wasn’t unheard of. Sometimes, he was super busy. Other times, he looked at the text, then got caught up in something else and simply forgot to respond. Though, when half the day went by and you had heard nothing, you couldn’t stop the panic that tore through you. Maybe he was working a triple shift and was napping at the precinct. Or maybe something terrible had happened. You tried texting him again, and then waited.

***

“No, I’m sorry Bella, you can’t visit him,” Olivia was saying into her phone. She was leaning against the wall in the hallway of the hospital. “It’s not safe right now; this was a hit, and his family can be targeted.” She waited, listening to the youngest Carisi on the phone. “I know that this is hard, but I promise to keep you updated, okay?” She hung up, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger before re-entering the hospital room.

Amanda was in the visitor’s chair by the bed, working on her laptop. Liv glanced at Sonny, unconscious in the hospital bed, his slowly rising and falling chest the only sign of life…though, the machine strapped to his face, tube down his throat, was helping him breathe. She felt overwhelming guilt that this had happened to the young detective, that he was now battling for his life.

It was supposed to be a routine escort—Sonny was simply taking a working girl to the hotel room that would act as her refuge until the trial against her pimp. But the information had leaked, and they were jumped, both Sonny and the girl being stabbed multiple times. The girl died on the way to the hospital, and Sonny had been barely clinging to life. The knife had punctured a lung, and it slowly filled with blood as he was rushed to the hospital. Another couple minutes, and he’d be dead.

The good news was that the doctor was optimistic about his chances of making a full recovery. The bad news was that this happened at all, and that they now didn’t have a witness to testify against the pimp. Though, if Sonny did pull through, he could hopefully testify…if there was a connection between the men that jumped him and the pimp, which there was no doubt in Olivia’s mind that the two were connected. Either way, Sonny wasn’t safe, which is why Olivia was barring anyone but officers or detectives from seeing him. And only then, it was people she knew, people she trusted. She didn’t know who leaked the location of the hotel room, but she would find out.

“Rollins; why don’t you head home? You’ve been here all night. I’ll stay here with him for the rest of the day until Fin switches out,” Olivia murmured, patting the blonde’s shoulder motherly.

Amanda looked like she would argue at first, but she was so exhausted, and she sighed. “Yeah, okay. Keep me updated, yeah?” She closed her laptop, pushing to stand.

“Of course. Stay safe—watch your six.”

Amanda nodded, heading out the door. Olivia didn’t really think that they could be in trouble for being associated with Sonny. But she wasn’t taking any chances. Glancing at Sonny, she sunk into the chair Amanda had abandoned, pulling out her phone, and going through emails.

***

After you awoke on the second morning with still nothing from Sonny, it solidified the notion that something was wrong. He has never gone this long without notifying you, work or no. And your calls and texts had been going unanswered—a bad sign indeed. With no other choice, you grabbed your things, heading to the precinct of SVU with shaking hands.

*************************

The building was busy, officers mulling about, rushing to and from desks and file cabinets and fax machines and copiers. After being pointed towards the SVU department, you headed up the elevator, starting to feel very nervous indeed about being here. Sonny had made it clear that he kept his home life separate from his work life, and while he’d talk to you about work and cases, you didn’t know how much his coworkers knew about you…if at all.

Making your way towards all the desks, you glanced around the room, trying to find your fiancé. But when you didn’t see him, your eyes went glassy with tears, and you struggled to hold yourself together.

“May I help you?” a woman asked, coming over to you. “I’m Lieutenant Olivia Benson; are you okay?”

“I…is there a Detective Dominick Carisi Jr. here?” you asked, voice watery.

The lieutenant seemed to stiffen at his name and a wave of worry washed through you. You noticed the other personnel around you giving you a hard look, and you shuffled uncomfortably.

“Come with me,” Benson said tersely, leading you towards a room off to the side. You followed her, eager to get away from the probing stares. She gestured you to enter, then followed you in, closing the door behind her. “What’s your name and why are you looking for Carisi?”

You blinked in surprise at her harsh tone. “I…it’s been almost three days since I last saw him and I’m worried. He’s not answering his phone, and I don’t know how else to track him down—”

Benson put her hand up, stopping you. “Name and why you’re looking for him. Now.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked out your name. “H-he’s my…he’s my fiancé, and I just want to know if he’s alive—please. If you know where he is—”

“Fiancé? Funny, he never mentioned being engaged, let alone having a girlfriend.”

With shaky hands, you reached for your purse, and Benson reached for her gun. “I’m just…phone,” you sobbed, grabbing your cell and pulling it out. You unlocked your phone, turning it towards her. Your home screen was a picture of Sonny with his arm around your shoulders, kissing the side of your head while you showed off your new engagement ring. “I-I got more pictures,” you murmured, scrolling until you found the photo album, opening it to hundreds of pictures of you and Sonny, flipping through them, proving your relationship to him.

Benson seemed to deflate as she looked at your phone. “Oh…I’m so sorry…. He never mentioned—”

“He keeps work and home separate,” you said, putting your phone back in your purse. “Now, please tell me if he’s still alive.”

***************

Your heart was in your throat as you road in the squad car to the hospital. At first, Lieutenant Benson wasn’t willing to take you to the hospital to see Sonny, claiming it was too dangerous. But all your worry and anxiety turned into white-hot rage at being kept from him, and she reluctantly agreed, already feeling guilty about thinking you may be someone trying to finish the job. You followed the lieutenant closely, still shaking slightly, unable to remain calm until you saw him, confirmed that he was still alive.

You froze it the doorway to his room when she entered, moving to the blonde woman in the visitor’s chair and exchanging a few mumbled words with her. But they were deaf to your ears as you stared at Sonny’s lifeless form on the bed, ventilator strapped to his face, machines buzzing and whirring around him. Letting out a choked sob, you rushed over to him, reaching out for his hand then stopping yourself, afraid to touch him, to hurt him somehow.

In a calm voice, Benson explained what had happened, and you half-listened, wincing at words like “stabbed” and “punctured lung.”

“Will he be okay?” you asked, wiping away the tears trailing down your cheeks.

“The doctor said that he should make a full recovery, yes,” Benson replied, and for the first time in three days, relief swept through you. But only briefly, before worry and anxiety crashed back into you. You nodded, bringing the other visitor’s chair over and plopping down into it. You had found Sonny; he was alive.

“Oh, you can’t stay here, hun,” the blonde detective said softly, as if you were a child. “It’s not safe.”

“My fiancé has been missing for three days and is on a ventilator. I’m not leaving his side,” you replied through gritted teeth. This time, you did reach out and grab his hand; it was warm and reaffirmed that he was still alive.

“And if they come here to finish the job—”

“You’re going to have to arrest me, because I’m not leaving him. If someone tries to hurt my Dominick, then I’ll…I’ll…” you trailed off; you didn’t know what you’d do. But you wouldn’t go down without a fight. Sonny was your everything, and now that you found him again, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Even the thought of leaving him to go to the bathroom filled you with dread.

Benson sighed heavily, looking defeated. “I…don’t want to arrest you, but I will to keep you safe. Especially for Carisi. But please don’t make me do that. Come quietly.”

“I’m not leaving him,” you said resolutely, gripping his hand tighter. Your breath caught when you felt him squeeze back gently, just a twitch of the fingers. Whipping your head to look at him, you stood from the chair, moving to stand directly over him. The machines were making a different noise now, but he still wasn’t moving.

“[y/n], you are under arrest,” Benson started, placing a cool, metal handcuff around your free wrist, unaware of the change in him. But she stopped as nurses rushed in, talking to each other in jargon you didn’t understand, checking the machines, and checking Sonny.

“What’s happening?” you asked, voice catching in your throat. You no longer felt the handcuff on your skin as a nurse gently pushed you away from Sonny’s body.

“Mr. Carisi is starting to breathe on his own—he doesn’t need the ventilator anymore. He also seems to be waking up; did you notice any change in his condition?” the nurse asked.

You blinked back the tears threatening to form. “He, uh, I squeezed his hand, and I thought he squeezed back….”

The nurse nodded before going back to the bed, helping the other nurses. You watched as Sonny’s eyelids slowly fluttered, the ventilator now gone, his breath coming in raspy through his slightly ajar mouth. You leaned forward, wanting nothing more than to hold him as he slowly came to, blinking and looking around at all the faces staring back at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a nurse told him not to, that he was going to be sore for a little bit. Instead, she poured him some water, held it while he took a few sips from the straw.

Finally, his dull blue eyes found you, standing just to the side of his bed, behind the nurses surrounding him. “[y/n]?” he croaked, his voice sounding foreign.

You smiled softly at him, tears trailing down your cheeks. “I’m here, Dominick. You’re okay; you’re safe.”

After the nurses had finished doing whatever it was they had to, they left, reminding Sonny to try not to talk, giving him a small white board and pen to communicate. It seemed like you weren’t the only one entranced by the nurses—Benson still only had one handcuff on you, and the other detective had been watching with big eyes. Taking advantage of their latency, you pulled out of Benson’s grip, rushing back to Sonny’s side, clutching his hand.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re okay—that you’re alive. I was so fucking scared, Dom,” you murmured, kissing his hand.

“I love you,” he rasped, and you gave him a hard look that had no real weight behind it.

“I love you, too, but no talking. Use the board and pen, babe,” you urged, gesturing towards the board in his lap. ‘No talking’ for Sonny was going to be rough; he was the most talkative person you knew.

Sonny smiled at you, but it quickly faded as he saw the metal cuff hanging from your wrist. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Benson meaningfully, then gestured with his head to you. So, maybe he didn’t need to talk to get his point across.

Benson launched into the story of what happened yet again, ending with how he wasn’t safe in the hospital room. Then, you supplied what the last three days had been like at home, and that you went to the precinct for answers before being brought here.

“I was only going to arrest her to take her some place safe. In case you get attacked here,” Benson explained.

“But I’m not leaving your side,” you quickly added.

Sonny looked torn, his eyes downcast as he thought. Finally, he took his hand from you, opening the pen and bringing the board close to him, so you couldn’t see what he was writing. Finished, he flipped it back towards you, and you read: I love you, but go with Lieutenant Benson. It’s not safe here

You glanced back into his face, his now bright blue eyes sad, and he blinked away the tears quickly. “I can’t leave you, Dom,” you muttered.

“Please,” he croaked out, voice weak.

You closed your eyes as a few tears escaped down your cheeks. “Okay,” you finally agreed. “For you Dominick. You stay safe, you get better, and then you come home, okay?”

Sonny nodded, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. Then he quickly erased his board, writing something else, then showed it to Benson: Protect her, make sure she’s got unis at our place

“Of course,” Benson replied, and he visibly relaxed back onto the bed. You allowed her to lead you out of the room, taking one last look at your fiancé before you left.

*******************

It had been two days since you had seen Sonny. He had his phone again, but he was still discouraged from talking, so you texted more than anything. Though, it was killing you not to see him. And yet, he still somehow managed to send you a new bouquet of roses. You chuckled sadly, tears in your eyes when they showed up at your door; Sonny was the only person you knew who could be in a hospital bed and sending you flowers. You made sure to have a florist take some to him, as well; even if you couldn’t be there in person, his beautiful rose was thinking of him.

There was a knock on the door, and you rolled your eyes, thinking Sonny had sent something else now. But opening the door, you were face-to-face with a gangster wannabe-looking man. You had a moment to be confused before he lunged at you, something sharp glinting in his hand. Acting on your most basic instincts, you dodged backwards, the knife only slicing through your shirt. Both of your momentums had you stumbling backwards into your loft. You regained your balance first, grabbing the closest thing to you as a weapon. It was the vase of beautiful red roses, and you whipped your arm around, smashing it into the side of his head. Glass, water, and flowers exploded everywhere as the man tumbled to the ground, blood seeping out from his head. Hands shaking and chest heaving, you scrambled to find your phone, calling Sonny.

You heard the call connect and you didn’t even wait for him to speak before your words rushed out of you. “I was attacked at home and I hit the guy in the head and now he’s bleeding out on the carpet and I don’t know what to do—"

“Woah, calm down,” Sonny replied hoarsely. His voice was getting stronger, but it wasn’t back to normal quite yet. “You were attacked?”

You sniffed, tears clouding your vision. “Y-yeah; he just…knocked on the door, and I answered like an idiot—”

“Holy shit, are you okay? What happened to the unis? I’m sending—” Sonny started hacking and coughing, and your heart sank.

“Calm down, Dom. I’m safe, babe. I’m okay. Drink water…. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called—”

He pulled himself together. “Fuck that; you call me first.” He coughed a moment more, and you heard him swallow liquid. He cleared his throat. “I’m sending Lieutenant Benson there, okay?”

You glanced at the man still unmoving on the floor. “What do I do with the guy? He’s laying face down…did I kill him?” you asked, voice soft.

“Shit, I forgot he’s still there! Get out of our loft—can you go next door to the Thompsons? Get away from him, but don’t go outside,” Sonny instructed.

“I-I don’t know, Dom…I’ll see if they’re home—” you stopped talking as you heard voices in the hallway outside your loft.

“What the hell is taking Juan so long? It’s just some bitch,” a man said.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and you rushed to the master bedroom, closing and locking the door. With a burst of inspiration, you opened the window leading to the fire escape before tucking yourself into the bathroom, locking the door, hoping beyond hope that they’d take the bait, thinking you escaped out the window.

You heard a muffled voice and realized that it was Sonny yelling into the phone still clutched in your hand. “[y/n]! What the hell’s happening?” he asked, voice raspy.

“Th-there’s more of them,” you whispered. “I can’t talk; gotta stay quiet.”

“Liv’s on her way—she should be there any minute now. Just stay calm, stay quiet. You’re going to be okay; I promise. I’ll stay on the line with you until you’re safe,” Sonny muttered back, trying his best to keep the panic from his voice.

You heard the exclamation from them finding their buddy on your floor in the foyer, then footsteps coming down the hallway. You clutched the phone closer to your ear, like Sonny’s voice was a lifeline. There was a loud pounding, then wood splintering as the door frame shattered in your bedroom. You let out a soft whimper, tears streaming down your face. You could no longer hear Sonny’s voice, all your focus trained on the footsteps on the other side of the bathroom door.

“Fuck; she went out the window. Find her before she makes it to the hospital—we can’t get her once she’s there,” the same man’s voice from before ordered. You let out a sigh of relief as the footsteps retreated. But you still didn’t hear Sonny’s voice. Glancing at your phone, you saw that it was dead.

***

“What is it? What happened?” Sonny asked desperately when he heard the door explode open, heard you let out a scared whimper. But you didn’t respond. All he got was a soft beeping, letting him know the call dropped. He frantically redialed, heart beating rapidly in his chest, but it went straight to voicemail. Tears in his eyes, he shoved himself up to sitting position, flinging the sheets off himself.

“What the hell are you doing?” Amanda asked, springing up for the visitor’s chair and grabbing his shoulder, trying to force him back in bed.

“[y/n] needs me; I can’t get ahold of her! There were men in our loft; she’s in danger. I gotta go—”

“Yeah? And what are you gonna do in this condition?” Amanda forced him back in bed, but Sonny pushed and shoved at her. She was tired from spending all her time either there in the hospital or at work, having not slept a full night in days, while Sonny was well-rested, besides his injuries.

“I don’t care! She needs me!” Sonny got her hands off him, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Nurse!” Amanda yelled; her last resort, as she grabbed at Sonny’s shoulders, trying to wrestle him down. It took five nurses, plus Amanda, to shove Sonny back onto the bed, holding him still long enough to sedate him. He cursed at all of them in broken English and Italian, tears in his eyes as the drug worked its way through his system, and he finally passed out.

***

You never left the bathroom, even though the loft was quiet, until Olivia got there with officers in tow. The man you had hit, Juan, was still laying face down on the carpet, the blood now thoroughly staining your carpet. Olivia told you that he was miraculously still alive—you felt better knowing you didn’t kill someone—and that the officers would deal with getting an ambulance for him. She was more concerned about getting you somewhere safe; the unis charged with watching you were dead.

“The guys that came in after this guy said that they can’t get me at the hospital,” you said, remembering his words. Olivia gave you a look but didn’t argue; she seemed beaten down from the past week. So, she led you from the loft after you packed a few essentials—including your phone charger—and drove you back to the hospital.

You practically rush into Sonny’s room, Olivia on your heels, but you stopped short when you saw Sonny unconscious, that blonde detective from before sitting next to him.

“What happened?” you asked, coming to stand by his bed, trailing your fingers over his arm. His hair was slightly ruffled, his shirt askew.

“Had to sedate him—he tried to leave cause he couldn’t get ahold of you,” the woman explained.

Olivia ran a hand through her hair while your heart broke. “Rollins, go home; it’s my turn anyways.” The blonde nodded, waving a goodnight before leaving. You took her seat, pulling yourself close to Sonny’s bed, taking his limp hand in yours. Olivia joined you in the other visitor’s chair, but sat far enough back to make it seem like you had your own space with him.

You poured a glass of water for when he’d awake, and noticed all the cards, flowers, and small gifts on the table, making your heart full. You were happy that Sonny was so loved, that his friends and coworkers cared about him so much. You smiled at the bouquet of roses you had sent him, pushed to the front so that he could see them clearly.

Sonny was only out for another 30 minutes, and he was groggy when he awoke, disorientated. Though, his dull eyes found you immediately, latching on to your face like he was trying to memorize you.

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. “Don’t speak; save your throat. Here,” you lifted the glass of water to his lips, letting him drink his fill from the straw.

Even with your words, Sonny cleared his throat. “I thought something bad happened to you,” he murmured, words slightly slurred from the medication still in him. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his eyes.

“I’m safe, babe. I’m…so sorry to have made you worry. But I’m here; I’m safe.” You broke on the last word, tears streaming down your face. Sonny reached for your hand, squeezing you in comfort.

“I’m glad you’re safe…my beautiful rose…I love you,” Sonny whispered, kissing your knuckles.

You tried to control yourself. “I love you, too, Dominick. I’m glad you’re safe, too. Let’s just…worry about getting you back to full health.”

He nodded. “With you here, I feel better already.”

#sonny carisi x reader #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfic #thatesqcrushvdaybingo #fanfic #my writing

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ff7-has-taken-me-over · 3 years ago

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AU because I want it and I said so!

It’s honestly just Jisoo not becoming a pimp and living out his normal day to day school life. He manages to pay for everything because of an inheritance he got from his mother that his father has absolutely no access to. Because there isn’t exactly bad blood between him and his mum, the latter just abandoned her son once he was old enough to look after himself.

Mr. Lee is like a father figure to Jisoo and helps him out with living and things like that. Mainly because I love that man and he was very fatherly in a gruff sort of manner toward Minhee so I just want him to be like that toward Jisoo.

Bae-Gyuri is like a sister sort of figure to Jisoo or they’re like best bros. Because honestly I saw them more as siblings than actual love interests. Bae-Gyuri is definitely older and tries to help Jisoo to get out of his shell more (which works like twice) and maybe tries to hook him up with her friends sometimes.

I feel like Minhee and Jisoo would have developed a weird sort of friendship if they had the chance to do so. Like she would still treat him like she did in the show (kind of dismissive, exasperated and annoyed) but she’d also get pretty protective over him as well. Like in that whole “I can call him this but if you do it I’ll tell Mr. Lee about it” and she’s the one who ultimately looks after him when Mr. Lee has other things to do or somewhere else to go. Which when I look back on it now makes more of a sister figure but that works too.

Kitae’s there because he makes me laugh, was hot af and definitely a little on the fruity side. I will stand by that statement till the end of my days. But he dates Minhee for a while but once she introduces him to Jisoo he kind of loses interest in her. (She was totally fine with it because she was actually starting to like someone else)

So he keeps trying to flirt with Jisoo in his weird Kitae way, and keeps trying to drag him out to do things. It’s highly amusing for Bae-Gyuri and Minhee and they often time purposely leave Jisoo with him just to watch him get flustered. It’s highly adorable.

Eventually Kitae manages to wear him down enough to have Jisoo actually talking back to him, with all that glorious sass that he held in the show, and it makes Kitae fall so much harder for him.

It’s all just super cute and fluffy and Kitae definitely has to go through Minhee, Bae-Gyuri and Mr. Lee just to get the approval to even ask Jisoo out on a date. He manages to do it but Mr. Lee had promised him serious pain and death with merely a look while nodding once. The sight is enough to make him seriously think on whether dating Jisoo is gonna be worth it. But after like 30 seconds and a simple smile from the shorter male, has him completely throwing caution to the wind and diving head first into it.

A not so great idea considering Minhee was a snitch and gladly ratted him out whenever he got too handsy with her pseudo brother/friend.

But yeah. I honestly just want a cute, fluffy AU with my favourite characters and a ship that has nothing on it.

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sebastianshaw · 3 years ago

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@sammysdewysensitiveeyes So, you asked me not long ago, how I’d feel about Haven as a mutant on Krakoa. As it happens, I’m on an RP Discord where I write her as such, since they allow characters there to be mutants who aren’t mutants in canon, in order to join the RP, since it’s set on Krakoa. I made her a healer, able to heal herself and others. Super on the nose, but it’s what she would want, and it also fulfills *my* desire for her not to be hurt anymore (I mean, she still can be, she’ll just recover) Anyway, in March I wrote this for her in that setting. Featuring Shaw as usual since he’s one of my other muses there and, well, you know I love writing my faves together and their conversations because self-indulgence. No obligation to read, just I remembered I had written it and was like “Oh that’s like what Sammy asked about”

Shaw’s latest job was to spread the Krakoan medicine throughout the country of India. A considerable task; India was made up of no less than 28 states and 8 union territories, with an immense and diverse population. There were the dilapidated slums and rural villages that Westerners most often imagined, but there were also bustling cosmopolitan cities, centers of business and technology and commerce to rival New York, and it was in the biggest of these that Shaw was starting---

Mumbai.

Accompanying him on the recommendation of Charles Xavier was Radha Dastoor---Haven of the healing gardens, whom he had previously met when she had helped with his back. At first Shaw had thought this was a bit racist of Charles, but it turned out not only was Haven from Mumbai specifically herself, she had wonderful connections for the tasks. Her philanthropy had connected her with doctors, hospitals, shelters, and its hidden communities of those suffering afflictions such as the oft-claimed-eradicated leprosy. But, Shaw could have done most of that himself, aside from the hidden colonies. No, where Haven came in most handy was, shockingly, her knowledge of Mumbai’s criminal underworld. Not because she had ever been involved with it, but because she had done so much work getting people out of it---the women and children she had worked to get out of human trafficking rings, the survival sex workers rescued from abusive pimps, the children enticed away from little “found families” of criminals who used them for their dirty work. . .the list went on. And of course she hadn’t been able to do all that alone, she had been funding an entire network of people to get this done, to keep the rescued parties safe and help them in getting to a new life, to block off or arrest those who tried to take them back or attack the rescuers themselves (Haven had been a target MANY times, but those had been in the days when she’d been kept safe by The Adversary’s powers. . . ) and thus she had an abundance of detectives and double agents on the inside. And because they were on the inside, they could bring in the medicine. . . and bring out the mutants being sold, enslaved, and Heaven wept at what else. Mutants that, for the moment, were staying with them in The Rajmani. Haven’s wealth was originally inherited, but she’d kept it coming---so that she could keep giving it away---through The Rajmani, a luxury heritage hotel on par with the likes of New York’s Ritz or Plaza. In income, anyway. In beauty, it surpassed them both. Well, perhaps that was subjective, but it was built within a restored Mughal Palace, and Shaw had to admit he was impressed with the great domes and slender minarets, the massive vaulted gateways and delicate ornamentation, the elegant water gardens and charbagh walkways through the carefully cultivated yet lush tropical greenery. Most of all, though, he liked learning the fact that the woman earned at least a little of her own money in some kind of sense, even if by her own admission she only owned it, not managed it. Shaw looked down on those who only inherited wealth, just as they had often looked down on him for earning his. Haven, though, did not seem to look down on him. She didn’t seem to have the proverbial stones to look down on anybody, and she certainly was around people who actually deserved it. She seemed to love being around that type, in fact, went out of her way to benefit them, centered her entire life around it. Some people, Shaw had found, were just mad like that. He suspected that it had something to do with growing up with money, taking it front granted and thus not comprehending its worse. But at least she didn’t dare think she was better than him, so she was that sensible at least. Although it was the last word he’d describe her with. No, if he were to describe Radha “Haven” Dastoor, he’d probably start with insipid, senseless, and downright delusional. But she was also. . .not an unengaging conversationalist. The reverse, actually. “The Mughals were constantly trying to invade Mumbai,” Haven explained, while Shaw nodded along. He was interested in architecture, and in martial history. “But as much of India as they had conquered, the native Marathis were just as constantly pushing them back. It was touch and go for decades. It surprises me that a Mughal structure remained without being torn down, though it was taken over.” “The native Marathis, you say---are Mughals not native? Or merely from another part of India?” “Well, that’s a complicated question, and the answer is a controversial one, so I till try to explain it as neutrally as I can,” Haven replied, and she indeed sounded neutral. They were standing together on the jharoka, an elaborately carved balcony with a roof, each with a glass of nimbu pani, though Shaw would have preferred a good Scotch. “The Mughal Empire in South Asia was begun by Babur, who came from Central Asia, specifically what is today Uzbekistan. His tribe was of Mongol origin, and the word Mughal is itself derived from “Mongol”. He actually came to South Asia to escape his fellow Uzbeks---it’s a very long story--but instead of being a refugee, he became a conqueror, starting by burning Lahore for two days and killing the last Sultan of the Lodi dynasty in Delhi, and the Lodi dynasty itself was not Indian, but Afghan. India was colonized by the Middle East long before Europe decided to try its hand. But to answer your question. . .they did not begin as Indian, no, but they were a part of our country for two hundred years and left a deep mark in our culture---clothing, food, language, art, and, of course, the buildings. But, the same could also be said of the British, and you would be hard-pressed to find anyone, including myself, who considers the British Raj to have been “Indian” simply because they were there for a long time and forced their ways upon us. At the same time, my mother is a Parsi, a people who originate from Iran, thousands of years ago---Parsi comes from “Persian”. And how can one tell me my mother, who was born and raised here, whose mother’s mothers and father’s fathers were born and raised here, that she was not Indian? And though Babur came from elsewhere, his sons and successors were born and raised here, and often to Indian mothers, and their descendants dwell here still, with no other homeland, so are they not Indian? Because if they were not, then perhaps I am not either, at least by half. Ultimately. . . it depends which Mughals, at what time period, and whom you ask, I suppose.” “And I suppose there’s also a difference between ethnicity and nationality to be considered,” Shaw said, though Haven was now losing his interest with this topic. He’d been more interest in the invasions and warring. “Ethnically, one can be anything, and still nationally be American if you were born there or otherwise have citizenship. But, I suppose you need not contemplate such matters anymore--” He cracked a wry smile as she, with a questioning look, awaited the rest of his sentence. “---after all, we are all Krakoan now, are we not? We’re all mutants, and that’s the only thing that matters.” Haven smiled back, not wryly but sincerely, “Oh, I am now, yes. But I am also still everything I was before. I have been balancing multiple identities my entire life Mr. Shaw, I believe I shall be able to continue to do so. But I must confess--” A moment of hesitation. “--I do not truly think of myself as a mutant yet.” She was not sure what reaction that she had expected to this confession, but it was not what Shaw said next. “I don’t either, Ms. Dastoor.” She looked at him in surprise. “Or rather,” he elaborated, “I do not consider myself a mutant in any sense other than in the way I consider myself to have black hair. It’s a physical fact, but nothing else. It is not a “culture” or “identity” to me, and in truth I find such attitudes to be foolish and even dangerous, not to mention a sign that an individual lacks their own personality and convictions and thus must merely default to group identity politics. Being a mutant tells you nothing about me, Ms. Dastoor, and so if I were to talk about who I am, that’s not something I’d include any more than my eye color.” “That’s an especially interesting perspective from someone on Krakoa’s Council,” said Haven, sounding very curious, “Could I ask you---” But her voice was cut off by the unmistakable sound of gunshots---and from INSIDE the building. “The children!” Haven exclaimed. It was not just her and Shaw that were lodged at The Rajmani tonight; it was where the mutants they had rescued were staying before the journey to the nearest portal tomorrow. And most were, indeed, children. As quickly as she spoke, she was moving back inside from the jharoka, but Shaw grabbed her by the elbow, easily holding her back despite her not being a small or weak woman despite her gentle demeanor. Haven was large, and could carry a grown man. But Shaw didn’t even need to be rough to halt her. “You stay put,” he said sternly, “The guards will handle this.” “Mr. Shaw---” “They are better equipped than you, Ms. Dastoor, you will only interfere--” Shaw and Haven had, of course, not come alone. Shaw had brought several trained mutants on his own payroll---not everyone needed to be one of the X-Men to be capable of handling a few humans and their toys--and they had been tasked with keeping watch over, as Shaw had earlier referred to them as, the latest flock of Krakoa’s little sheep. A statement Haven had also wondered about, though it was far from her mind now. Haven might have been about to argue with him. She might have been about to admit he was right, and she should hang back. But as with her question, she was cut off by a gunshot as she turned her face back to him and started to speak. A gunshot, and bullet through the back of her head. It exited through her right eye, and bounced off Shaw’s face and fell to the floor. She would have as well, had he not caught her as she crumpled. When her healing factor had repaired her enough that she regained consciousness, she was on Krakoa again, as were all the refugees, safe and sound. And so was Shaw. “Well, Ms. Dastoor,” he said, “You’ve been murdered---or rather, nearly so--by perfect strangers for a quirk of your genetics. Nothing can make you more of a mutant than that, wouldn’t you agree?” Haven smiled slightly, “I feel as much a mutant as perhaps a Mughal might feel Indian, Mr. Shaw. Take that as you will.” He took it ambiguously. Which was indeed how she had meant it. == END==

#fic #writing #out of shirt

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phykios · 4 years ago

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people on ao3 were thirsty for this fic so... here you go, tumblr ❤

put on the red light M, sex work au, modern royalty au, no powers au [read on ao3]

🌊🌊🌊

Sometimes, she really regrets being best friends with Piper.

Said best friend still gapes at her from across the table, jaw practically on the floor. “Never?”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “Never.”

“Not even, like, at school?”

“When I would have had the time?” she asks. “I was attempting a five-year program in four years, and then… well, you know.” And she does know, all about the very exciting drama that went down in Annabeth’s senior year.

Piper is still flabbergasted. “Not even high school?”

Annabeth takes a sip of her drink. “I wasn’t exactly a hot commodity in high school.” She’d been passively pretty all her life, but she hadn’t exactly been what some might call Girlfriend material, capital G. She’d stuck to her fifteen year plan to the letter, eschewing most social contact, working herself into the ground to overcome ADHD by sheer force of will and get into Harvard, a plan which allowed approximately zero time for a boyfriend. Not that there were even boys that she had really liked at the time.

The only boy she had ever considered liking in that way, well. She had lost contact with him a while ago.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it or not, Ripley, it’s true. I’ve never had sex. You happy?”

“I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, are you ace?” Piper asks. “Because that’s totally cool, of course.”

She shakes her head. “Definitely not ace.” She has a minor collection of personal massagers and insertable devices should she ever need to take care of an urge, and plenty of fantasies she can call on whenever the need arises--a system which has worked just fine for years.

“I just…” Piper stares, unconvincingly. “How?”

Shrugging, she takes another sip of coffee. “Just never got around to it, I guess.”

It’s not something she’s proud of, but by the same token, it’s not something that brings her shame, either. It is what it is; Annabeth, a notable workaholic, has never had sex with another person in her life. In some ways, it sucks, sure, but in other ways, it’s been a blessing in disguise. After all, no previous partners means that there’s no one to spread any dirt on the newly minted Princess Anja Elisabet of Sweden.

But Piper isn’t having it.

“Do you… want to have sex?” she asks. “Like, ever?”

As the daughter of one of the biggest movie stars in the world, she knows that Piper has had her fair share of high profile relationships, something that earned her a little bit of a nasty (and, quite frankly, racist) reputation among the paparazzi, which is ridiculous, since Piper is one of the most effortlessly gracious and classy people Annabeth knows. Piper does not go slinging herself and her partners around in the media like some of her contemporaries; instead, she likes to keep her personal details a bit closer to the chest, sharing them only with trusted confidants, like Annabeth, who knows full well how much Piper enjoys the act of sex. Sex for Piper isn’t dirty or taboo, it’s fun and it’s being close with other people, it’s liberating and exciting and intimate, and she extols its virtues whenever asked to give her opinion.

She makes sex sound really good, but never in a way that makes Annabeth feel ashamed for never having done it. Until now, of course. “Well… yeah,” says Annabeth. “I’d like to. I mean, I think it’d be kind of nice, you know, to do it at least once.”

“But then you’d have to start dating,” Piper surmises.

“Yeah,” says Annabeth, glumly.

Dating is a notorious problem for people in her line of work. Royalty, not architects, that is. Dating for architects is easy; just find someone who doesn’t mind the type A personalities and the obsession with work. Dating for royals is… significantly harder, and not really something she wants to engage with right now. She’s only been a royal for a few years, after all—she still feels like it’s a big cosmic joke, that someone is going to unearth some old documents or reveal a couple of forgeries that will bring the whole thing crashing down, and she doesn’t want to bring an outsider into all that drama, let alone deal with it herself.

Piper takes a sip of her drink, thoughtful, then lays out her next question carefully. “Have you ever considered a one-night stand?”

Annabeth stares. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not! People do it.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “people. Not me.”

“It’s really not hard,” Piper says, “I’ve done it plenty of times.”

“What, you want me to make a tinder?”

She laughs. “God, wouldn’t that be a riot. But no, I mean, there have to be other single royals or celebs around. Why not one of them?”

“Because they’re all insufferable social-climbing jackasses that make me want to rip my skull out of my face every time I’m forced to listen to them at a state dinner.”

“Okay, then.” Never one to be deterred, Piper pulls out her phone, then waits until Annabeth has taken a sip of her drink, presumably to keep her from immediately disagreeing, before dropping the bomb to end all bombs. “Let’s get you an escort.”

Annabeth snorts iced coffee directly out of her nose.

“Shit! Sorry!” Piper shoves a handful of napkins at her. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, do you need water?”

Wheezing, Annabeth shakes her head. “Give me a sec,” she coughs, fingers covering her mouth.

Thank God she’s got her trusty, anti-pap hat on. If anyone took a picture of her like this, her uncle would probably disown her.

“What the hell, Piper?” she rasps when she can finally breathe again.

“I’m so sorry, I should have timed that better.”

“No, I mean—” she coughs again. “The other thing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The escort?”

“Keep your voice down!” On instinct, she glances around the London cafe, looking for any stray microphones. Satisfied that no one is listening for the moment, she turns back to her insane best friend. “Yes, the… that thing.”

“It’s not that crazy,” says Piper, turning back to her phone. “We’ll find you a really nice one, someone super high class and discreet, draw up an NDA, and then you can cross it off your bucket list. Man or woman?”

“Man, but—" she sputters. “I—I can’t see a prostitute! Can you imagine the scandal if it got out?”

Forget the iced coffee thing. The princess of Sweden, caught with a hooker… Annabeth is nauseous just thinking about the media circus.

“Not a prostitute,” Piper corrects. “An escort.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Same umbrella, but no.” She types away, faster than Annabeth can keep track of. “Pimping is illegal here, but escorts usually have managers.”

“Be that as it may,” because Piper seems to have forgotten the key part of this conversation, “I can’t have sex with an escort.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” The million and a half legitimate reasons not to go through with it all fly through her mind, getting lost somewhere on the way to her mouth. “Because!”

Piper just smiles at her. “I’ll get you a really nice one, promise. Think of it as a late birthday present.”

“It’s September.”

“Early Christmas, then.” And she grins, full of teeth. “Just trust me, okay? Let me take care of it.”

Famous last words, she thinks, popping a bit of scone in her mouth.

***

7PM, the Dorchester Hotel. Dinner first, then… whatever, later.

Annabeth can’t help but arrive early. She’d never been a punctual person before, but apparently now it’s been beaten into her with all the rest of her princess training.

Five-star hotels are still something of a novelty for her, even though she’s stayed in quite a few by now. Thankfully she’s never stayed here before; she’d be too worried someone on staff would recognize her.

She had thought that she’d show up early, psych herself up a little, get emotionally prepared, or at least have a little time to calm her racing heart before her… date… showed up.

Unfortunately, as punctual as she is, apparently, he’s beaten her to the punch.

He’s exactly where he said he’d be, wearing exactly what he said he’d be wearing; black suit, blue tie, gold watch. Her heart is beating so loudly, she’s sure he can hear it from across the room. “Um, excuse me,” she asks, a little more timid than she’d like, sidling up to the man. “Paris?”

At his name--well, she assumes it’s his name, but it’s probably a pseudonym now that she thinks about it--he lifts his head up, his lips already quirking up in a smile that she can only describe as troublemaking. “Bethany?”

Right. She used a pseudonym as well. A second pseudonym—one other than Anja. “Yeah,” she smiles in return, her shakiness easing.

“Hey!” He stands up from his seat in the lounge, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

“You too.” She realizes with a pang; he is so tall. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, startlingly green eyes and thick, curly black hair. And… “You’re American?”

“I am,” he says, unashamed. “The accent gave me away, huh? Hope you weren’t looking for something else.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she assures him. “I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s fine!"

He grins, crookedly, and she feels her heart skip a beat. “I’ll take it. Shall we head to dinner, then?”

***

Dinner was amazing, of course. The food, the atmosphere, and the company, she fully admits—all exceptional. Paris is an amazing conversationalist, she discovers, smart and funny and attentive, even gently teasing her a little. “You’re American, too, you know,” he’d said, sipping on his glass of wine, “so you can’t give me any grief over my lack of an accent.”

“I don’t live here,” she’d retorted, pointing her fork at him, “unlike some people I could mention.”

“Where do you live?”

“Ah, well—” Covering up her hesitation by taking a bite of chicken, she’d thought quickly. “Grew up in the States, but recently I moved to, um, Sweden, to be closer to my family.”

He’d nodded. “Expat, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He’d listened to her, really listened, chimed in at appropriate moments, made surprisingly insightful comments about her job and her life, and, well, he’s kind of perfect. If he weren’t an escort, he’d make an amazing boyfriend. She tells him as much, in the elevator on the way up to his room.

“Aw, thank you!” He smiles at her, a single dimple popping out under his strong cheekbones. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Why do you do this, anyway?” she asks. “I mean,” oh God, that question is some kind of faux pas isn’t it, Christ what the hell happened to all her etiquette training, “you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says as the elevator door opens. They’re up on a high floor, where the higher high rollers like to stay, and she follows him as he walks confidently down the hallway. “It’s not an offensive question.”

Still, she feels pretty shitty for asking. “I’m sure you get asked that all the time.”

“Most clients honestly aren’t all that interested,” he admits, shrugging a shoulder. “They need something, I can provide it. It can be a little transactional at times, but I’ve met a lot of really cool people, so it all balances out in the end.” Arriving at their door, Paris swipes his keycard, holding it open for her like some kind of butler. “After you.”

The room is enormous, even for a five-star hotel. It is a full-on suite, with a seating area and separate bedroom, a large wooden desk off to one wall, a gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling window that looks onto Hyde Park, full of lights dotted about like mini constellations. “Wow,” she breathes, “look at that view.”

“I never get tired of it,” Paris says, coming up behind her. “No matter how many times I come here.”

“You come here a lot?” she asks. She almost follows it up with a question on how he can afford it, but she ruthlessly quashes that down.

“My clients like it,” is all he says.

“I’m not surprised, all that 1930s deco in the lobby. The façade is a little plain, though, in my opinion.”

“Oh yeah? How would you do it better, Miss Architect?” She gets the sense that he’s teasing her. It feels oddly intimate for the situation—he’s not a friend, or a boyfriend, or even a date. He’s an escort. Providing a service, as he put it. He shouldn’t be so friendly with her.

And yet. “Well, I love Neoclassical, but honestly, I’m not super into hotels.”

“What are you into, then?” Casually, he undoes his tie, sliding it off his neck. She swallows.

“Um.” Focus, girl. “Office buildings, monuments. I dunno. I just want to… I just want to build something good, you know? Something permanent. Proof that I was here, you know?”

“Something permanent, huh?” He speaks softly, a respectable distance away, but she’s drawn in anyway, by his open shirt collar and his easy demeanor and his stupid sea green eyes that remind her so much of— “That sounds really nice.”

Then he steps up to her. His hand, warm and big, draws up her arm, fingers tracing lightly over her skin, and she shivers. He cups her neck, fingering the hair at the base of her scalp, and leans in, his lips parted. He smells like salt, like the perfume of the wine they shared, like the sea on a sunny morning.

“Wait,” she murmurs against his lips.

Immediately, he pulls back. “Is something wrong?” he asks, concerned.

“No, no, it’s fine, I just—” She swallows, her heart racing. “I just need a minute.”

“Of course.” He takes a step back, and she has to stop herself from pulling him in further. “Do you need anything? Water, champagne? They always stock the minifridge.”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just, I’ve never… done this before.”

“What, hire an escort?” He grins, rakish. “I can tell.”

“Not that—I mean, yes, that too, but I mean—I’ve never—” She huffs, annoyed she has to have this conversation twice in one week. “I’ve never had sex before, okay?”

That shocks him a little. His eyes widen, taken aback. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Chuckling weakly, she rubs a hand on her arm, looking out the window. “So… yeah.”

“So, don’t take this the wrong way,” says Paris, “but, there are easier ways to get laid than by using a professional. I mean, I’m grateful for the business and all, but, well, look at you.” He looks her up and down, somehow simultaneously respectful and entirely indecent. “I don’t think you’d have a problem getting a date.”

“It’s… complicated.” Understatement of the fucking millennium. “My friend thought this would be the easiest way to… go about it.”

Paris laughs. “You don’t agree.”

“I don’t… not agree,” she says. “I’m just. A little nervous.”

He nods. “I’d bet.” Chewing his lip, he looks towards the bedroom suite, and Annabeth tries not to think about how those teeth would feel on her mouth instead. “How about this; why don’t you take a shower? It might help calm you down a bit.”

“Won’t you be lonely?” she quips, a moment of reckless bravery.

“I have a few calls I can make,” says Paris, eyes dancing. “Go on. Make yourself comfortable.”

***

She has to hand it to the five-star hotels; the shower is always outstanding. Amazing pressure, amazing heat, it definitely rivals the plumbing in some of the castles she’s stayed at. And the robes, always so soft and warm, though a little on the small side. This one just barely covers her ass, which she figures isn’t a huge problem for tonight, but still.

When she steps out of the bathroom, she can hear Paris talking. “Uh huh,” he says. “Yeah. No, it’s going great. Professor Kleio said she’d write me a recommendation. She was really impressed with the last build. Yeah.” She runs her fingers through her wet hair, pushing it back from her face. “No, the conference is next month. Probably. Pretty sure I can get Tyson to help, but I don’t think it’ll get that far before the end of the week. Uh huh.”

Paris had taken off his suit jacket at some point; she can see it hung up in the closet on a hanger, perfectly pressed. He’s still in his shirt, but he’s unbuttoned it, the sleeves rolled up around his forearms. It is effortlessly attractive, even from the back. She coughs lightly, unwilling to startle him, and he turns, giving her another up-and-down, this one decidedly less respectful than the first.

“Hey, I gotta go, I’ll call you tomorrow. Say hi to Estelle for me. Love you.” And he hangs up.

“Your girlfriend?” she asks.

He smiles, all soft. “My mom.”

Something in her melts at his tone. “Aw,” she coos. “Is she back in America?”

“Yeah. I don’t get to see her all that often, so I try to call her every day.”

It is so unfathomably sweet, sweet and… humanizing, as weird as that sounds. He’s not just an unbelievably handsome man with a jaw cut like a diamond and a five-star rating, according to Piper, he’s a person with a whole other life that she knows nothing about. It’s liberating, in its own way. She can make mistakes with him, and he’ll understand. He won’t judge her, not against his other clients, or even his other partners.

Swallowing, she slides the robe off her shoulders, slowly, achingly. Maybe he turned the heat up while she wasn’t looking, because all of a sudden, she feels hot all over, from her cheeks to her chest and down, and down. Maybe it’s all coming from him, from the heat of his gaze on her, his pink tongue coming out to wet his lips. She wants it, wants them, wants him, on her and in her and all over her.

But he stays on his side of the room, waiting for her to take the plunge.

She steps up to him, close but not touching, breathing in the heady, strong scent of him, raking her eyes up his body for a change. Even through his shirt, she can tell he’s fit, the exposed skin of his arms tanned a deep brown, thick, coarse, dark hair running up to his wrists. On his right arm, there is a black trident long and straight, crossed by an old, white scar. “What happened here?” she asks, lifting her hand to trace it, leaving visible goosebumps in its wake.

“Sailing accident,” he whispers. “Long time ago.”

There’d been a kid at her summer camp for troubled teens who’d gotten thrown off his boat and hurt like that, once. She remembered so vividly, because she’d been on infirmary duty that day, and all she could think about while wrapping up his arm was how fucking stupid he'd been, how he could have gotten himself really hurt, how badly she’d wanted to kiss him.

She'd moved across the country before she'd gotten the chance, though, and no one else had ever made her feel like that since. Until now. “Got any other ink to show me?”

But instead of answering, he leans down, and he kisses her.

She’s been kissed before. She’s never had sex, but she’s done some kissing in her life. It’s usually pretty awkward, in her experience, too much of one thing and never enough of another.

Nope, not Paris. Of course, he’s also a phenomenal kisser. Why she expected anything else, she’s not sure.

His hands come up to circle her neck again, his thumbs running against her cheekbones. He kisses her, pouring passion and intent into her, his mouth soft and sweet against hers. And then he slips her some tongue, and it’s a whole different ballgame.

“Take off your shirt,” she whispers into his mouth.

He does, effortlessly, without detaching himself from her. It’s a smooth, easy motion, and she is delighted to discover that he is as firm as she suspected he was, the muscles jumping under her touch.

Almost without her realizing it, he backs her up towards the bed, her knees hitting the edge of the mattress. He lays her out against the sheets, his bare chest hot against hers. “Before we go any further,” he says, and she can feel the vibrations of his voice all throughout her body, “tell me—have you ever made yourself come?”

She flushes at his words, the dirty talk which should sound stupid but instead comes out all sultry and sexy. “Yes,” she says, breath hitching as he nips at her neck. “Yes, I have.”

“Good.” He smiles into the skin of her collarbone, traveling down, and down, and down. “I want you to show me how.”

“Isn’t that,” she pants, “your job?”

“Hmm, you’re right.” He pushes her thighs apart with his shoulders, bright eyes staring up at her as he licks his lips. “Let me get to work, then.”

Breathing heavily, she curls her fingers into the ten thousand count sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling pattern. She can’t look at the dark head between her legs, can only breathe in through her nose as he kisses up the skin of her thigh, higher and higher and higher until…

Jesus fucking lord almighty.

***

“I found the perfect guy for you.”

“Piper, come on.” Theses brunch dates of theirs were starting to get a little repetitive. “I let you set me up with a professional, but I draw the line at a blind date.”

“Have I steered you wrong yet, your highness?” Piper asks, knowing grin firmly on her face.

Annabeth blushes. So what if that night with Paris was the most incredible experience she’d ever had? Doesn’t mean she’s ready for a full-on relationship, yet. “No,” she says, rubbing her temples.

“Great!” Then she does something that Annabeth doesn’t expect—she starts packing up. “So he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, so bright it borders on painful, her nose scrunching up. “I invited him to brunch. But he’s really, really nice, I promise.”

“Does he know about—”

“No, he doesn’t, but if you wanted to spill, he’s a fantastic secret keeper.”

“How do you even know—”

Piper glances over Annabeth’s shoulder, eyes lighting up, waving a hand. “Friend of a friend of Jason, he’s a grad student at Cambridge, he’s doing his dissertation on naval history, so you know the king will love him.”

“Piper!” Annabeth half-calls, half-hisses at her friend as she stands up “Piper, you can’t just—”

“Hey,” says a voice behind her. A very familiar voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was joining us.” She turns around. Slowly. “Nice to meet you, I’m… Percy…” he trails off, sea green eyes widening behind a pair of thick, black glasses, beneath dark, curly hair. On his arm, a black trident stood out against his skin, straight and proud.

“Percy, meet Annabeth,” Piper says. “Annabeth, meet Percy. Okay, have fun you two!”

And she waltzes out of there, completely unaware of the absolute shitstorm she left in her wake.

#my fic #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #percy jackson #annabeth chase

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jj-lynn21 · 4 years ago

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A Hemlock Grove Halloween Ch. 4: The Party

ch 1: It happened again , Ch. 2 Bromance , Ch. 3: The power within

@loomiz @dragsraksllib @super-pink-a-palouza @skarsgard-lover @skarsgardsslut @eliza123sworld @goblincxnt @taintedglass @grandpa-sweaters @waywardtigersandwich @lanaelectraheart2019

Warnings: smut, angst, fear, religious taboos,

“You look so hot in that costume.” Roman ran his hands down herr backside. “Are you sure you are up to this party?”

“Since guests have started filling are home, we should probably go through with it.” His princess in a vulgar tight pregnant nun costume laughed.

“I mean it, Princess.” Roman licked his lips as he ogled her sexiness. “If you need to rest tonight that is perfectly fine.”

She glided her hand down his body. “Father, may I confess to you I maybe sinning tonight?” Her hand stopped to cover the bulge in his pants. “And you know my favorite sin is lust.”

He took a deep heavy breath and let it out with a groan. “I get it. You’re fine. “You’re horny. Confess all your sins my child. Break for me.”

She pushed him against the bedroom wall. Roman quickly undid his belt and pants. They dropped to the floor with his boxers. He stepped out of them as he turned her to face the wall. He kissed her shoulder. Bit at her hear lobe.

“You bring out such carnal desires in me, Princess.”

“I know.” She smirked.

As they fuck upstairs guests were mingling barely able to hear each other let alone the couple upstairs as the Smashing Pumpkins blared Zero. Food and drinks were being passed out by the extra staff Roman hired. Everyone was wondering when their host and hostess would make their entrance. An hour later Roman and his girl appeared at the top of the stairs. All attention turned to them even the band stopped playing.

“Good evening guests.” Roman nodded as he descended the stairs with his girl. “Music, party, have some fun.”

The band starts playing Ava Adore. An older gentleman dressed as a Pimp taps Roman on the shoulder. Roman looks him up and down then huffs. He walks away from the man to dance with Princess.

“It is starting.” Roman glared around the room as he swayed with his girl. “The vulture all wants a piece of me.”

“Isn’t that part of what these parties are for, Roman?” She reminded him softly. “At least this year it is a little more fun.”

“You’re right.”

Roman kissed her as Corgan sang:

It's you that I adore You'll always be my whore You'll be a mother to my child And a child to my heart We must never be apart We must never be apart

Letha arrived with Peter dressed as a hideous monster. She held him on a leash attached to a collar around his neck. They looked around and took purple cocktails that were being passed out.

When Roman saw them his eyes bugged out. He rustled over to them. “You got to be fucking kidding me?”

“Evening, Roman.” Letha smiled showing jacked fake teeth. “Nice Halloween party.

“What the fuck is these S & M shit with my cousin, Peter?”

“Don’t look at me.” He looked to Letha. “It was her idea. She did the make-up and everything. A little outrageous isn’t it?”

Princess rubs Roman’s back. “I think you two have the best costume so far. Is it like a Beauty and the Beast theme?”

“I’m the Queen of Hell and he is my demon lover.” Letha giggled.

“Yeah, I am her willing slave demon lover.” Peter grinned proudly.

Princess laughed. Roman just shook his head in disgust. Cher walked in with her family from the campfire. They glanced around the room. Everyone stared at them. Mostly because they looked like they could be a medieval gang of vampires with their pale skin wearing dress cloths of that time period.

“That is more of an outfit than any other woman here.” The man dressed as a criminal’s eyes linger on her chest. “But it makes your tits stand at attention. Do you want...”

She grabbed his throat. “Where is Roman Godfrey.”

He let out a gurgling choke as he pointed to Roman still talking to Peter and Letha. She tossed him to the side like a rag doll. Then started walking towards her intended subject.

The guy on the floor murmured hoarsely, “Fucking hot whore.”

A guy dressed as a condemn scurries to Roman’s side putting his hand on Roman’s should. “What do you think of my costume.”

Roman glares at him. “Get off me Dick. Your costume is to on the nose. It fucking sucks. You’re a fuck cock named Richard dress as a rubber. No fucking imagination. Your fired.”

The guy bursted into tears and left the party.

“Now why did you have to do that to him, Roman.” His girl shook her head.

“He was a complete waste of company money.” Roman smirked. “He was getting fired before he showed up in that costume.”

Cher grabbed Roman’s shoulder spinning him to look at her. “Did you kill Ty.”

“Of course.” Roman smirked. “I told you that was the plan if he went close to my Princess. He attacked her in a store. He is dead.”

“Are you sure?” She darted her eyes around the room like she was watching her back.

“Yeah, decapitation and burning.” Roman green eyes tried to meet hers.

“And throwing this party is how you take care of Greg too?” She reminded Roman of Ty’s accomplice.

“Shiiiit!” Roman and Peter said in unison.

Letha and Princess looked at them. Cher and her group kept looking around the room.

“You had to have an invite on your phone to get in here tonight.” Roman assured them all. “I only emailed those that work here. Which included you as of last night. There is no way he is getting in here.”

Cher sneered. “Dumbass, he can easily manipulate anyone or just kill someone from your precious White Tower and use their phone to get in tonight.”

Peter slapped the back of Roman’s head. “Why didn’t you realize that?”

“You were there when they told us about both guys.” Roman slapped him back. “Why didn’t you remember this was not over.”

“Both of you stop.” Princess stood between them. “Let’s just keep our eyes peeled for this other guy. The more people here the more protected I will be. I will just stick close to Roman even if I have to go upstairs to pee which I do right now. Really bad.”

“I gotcha, Princess.” He took her hand to head upstairs. “Everyone else keep your eye out for Greg.”

“Who the Hell is Greg.” Letha asked when Roman and Princess had walked away.

Princess tore up the stair as her bladder seemed about to bust. Roman kept right up going right in with her and locking the door. When she sat it felt like Niagara Fall as she went. Roman stood against the sink with his arms crossed.

“I don’t think you should talk to anyone you don’t know downstairs.” Roman thought out loud. “Even if the person says they are Dave from accounting, but you can’t see their face.”

“Why the fuck would I talk to Dave.” She rolled her eyes. “I know he is great at balancing the books, but he is the most boring human being I have ever met.”

“I agree.” Roman chuckled. “I was just using the name as an example.”

The couples and Cher with her group were on the look out all night. Roman still made some business deals with his girl right by his side. They had the band choose the best costume. They Chose Letha and Peter. There were some grumbled that of course his cousin and best friend won. But those complaints were out of Roman’s ear shot so the people thought.

Roman did not really give a damn what people thought. They would try to kiss his ass anyway. The guests bid their farewells right as the clock struck midnight. There seemed to be no sign of Greg. Roman thanked The Smashing Pumpkins for playing. He even gave Corgan a bonus before he left.

“I guess we will take off too.” Peter stood by the door as Letha tugged at the chain. “Unless you want us sticking around?”

“I for one am glad nothing to crazy happened at your party, Roman.” Letha tugged at her man again. She knew deep down he was loving every moment of being her captive. “You two stay safe.”

Roman watched his friend maybe feeling a little jealous of Letha having that much control over him. “Cher, and her brood are going to patrol all night outside. I will keep us safe in here.”

The friends all hug saying their final goodbyes. Then Roman and Princess headed upstairs while the help clean up the party quickly. Roman stripped to get in a hot shower while his girl peed before she took her clothes off to join him.

“Maybe he went home to Vegas when Ty was killed.” She suggested as she leaned her head back for Roman to wash her hair.

Roman’s fingers massaged the shampoo through her hair. “Maybe.” He gentle rinsed it using the handheld shower head. Then he put conditioner in and combed it out. “Do you still have a dagger in your nightstand?”

“Of course.” She felt relaxed and safe with him even in such a vulnerable position.

“You should put it under your Pillow.” Roman rinsed the cream rinse. He put scented bodywash on a pink puff and began to wash her down.

“Alright.” She mused. “Are you going to put the axe under the bed?”

“Yeah.” Roman said as he rinsed her off. Then he started washing his hair. “Are you warm enough? I don’t really want you to go to our bedroom without me.”

“I’m fine right here with you.” She smiled at him. “Do you want me to wash your back?”

“Sure.” He handed her the yellow puff with his scented wash on it.

She took a deep sniff of the scent that belong to her man before washing his back. It was musky with a hint of vanilla.

He snuggled his girl in a giant fluffy towel before wrapping a towel around his waist. “My family cozy enough?” He cooed.

“Yes, Daddy we are warm, safe and cozy.” She giggled.

“Has our little rascal been active tonight?” He gets her nightie slipping it over her head.

“This bundle was quiet, which only means they will probably be up doing a conga dance through the night.” She patted her stomach with a smile as she sat on the bed.

Roman knelt to place a kiss on her tummy. “Okay, little one, Let Mommy get some sleep tonight” A tiny foot appeared as if in protest. Then the other tiny appendage kicked.

“I think someone is protesting you.” She laughed.

Roman shook his head standing up. “I am going to get the Axe. You relax.”

“Hell no.” She squealed. “There is no way I am letting you go downstairs alone. You get the axe, and I will check to make sure the door is locked.”

Roman put up his hand in defeat. “All right, we both go.”

They crept downstairs. The place looked neat and tidy. There was only the glow of a night light illuminating the scene. She quickly checked the door. It was locked. Roman was only a foot away or less getting the Axe from the locked cabinet.

Someone stepped out of the shadows. Princess gasped rush as much as she could to Roman’s side. The baby was kicking like crazy as she fretted. Roman held the axe up in one hand. His other protectively blocking his girl.

The shadow stepped into the light. She looked at them. They look at her.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you both.” Their live-in housekeeper walked across the room to the kitchen.

They took a breath. But they laughed as they went up to bed.

“I guess we are both a bit jumpy.”

“Yeah.” Princess lowered herself to the bed to try to find a comfortable spot.

Roman laid down putting the axe under the edge of the bed so he could reach it quickly just in case. He swung his arm around her hip. His hand rested on her belly. Her hand over his. Baby Godfrey settled enough for Princess to doze off to sleep. For a few hours at least.

Hours later the baby woke her with what felt like a punch to a kidney and a kick to the ribs. “Ugh, Roman.” She took the hand on her side and brought it closer for comfort.”

“Be right there.” Roman yelled from the bathroom.

She shrieked grabbing the dagger. Her attacker had a dagger of his own. As he attempted to slit her open wide, she plunged the dagger in his eye. He rolled off the bed screaming. She sat on the side of the bed as the killer was shocked she was able to fight back. Roman rushed in hearing the commotion.

The man raised his dagger again trying to stand, blood gushing from his eye. Princess grabbed the axe from under the bed and decapitated the would-be killer. She dropped the weapon breathing heavily.

“Was that Greg?” She looked at Roman who ran to her side.

“Yes, that was him.” Roman held her. “I guess it’s true. Don’t fuck with a mommy protecting her baby.”

#Roman and princess #roman godfrey #hemlock grove #au Hemlock grove fanfic #pregnant character #horror #suspense #smut #love #peter and letha #Halloween fiction

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xsecretblastsx · 4 years ago

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2x01 Summer Kind of Wonderful

SEASON TWO HERE WE GO.

I was dying to get here, this is one of my favorite episodes in the whole show. It’s also the episode were I really turned into a Chair shipper, so there’s that too, also The Hamptons!! Honestly was not to love about this episode.

I think this is the longest recap I’ve done in a while. As usaul recap under the cut.

Thoughts I had while watching:

I’ve watched this before and yet I’m still surprised our first taste of S2 is Nate going at it

After the super promising tease on Nate and Serena on the S1 turns out... she’s covering for him while he sleeps around... 😒

Chuck being Chuck, still a womanizer, still obsessed with Blair and as always ignoring Serena’s disgusted face. Also hilarious his enormous basket with cuttlery and such.

Look Joe Goldberg!!! Or is it Dan Humphrey? This bookstore setting is making it even more confusing.

Hi Jenny! And her never ending disatisfaction with her place at whatever she’s trying.

This scene between Chuck and Serena is so underrated. Her mocking face is hilarious. Pimp all you want Chuck it’s useless. Good luck in your suicide mission indeed.

What’s a Jitney? 😆How about where Blair returns to the Hamptons with a new beau. On your face Chuck Bass! On the words of GG: ain’t karma a bitch? We know Blair Waldorf is.

“A hot lifeguard is like Kleenex: use once and then throw away, you couldn’t ask for a better rebound” so says Blair 🤔

“The only thing lamer than dating Dan Humphrey is mourning Dan Humphrey” speaking words of wisdom Blair Waldorf

Of course all the wisdom goes out the window when Chuck appears. With the most extra polo ever and the shortest shorts in the history of menswear

Not that Blair wasn’t transparent with all her talk about James but oh my god Serena’s is so bad a going along with it.

“You’re lying. Your eyes are doing that thing were they don’t match your mouth” Chuck Bass: a walking manual on Blairisms

“I bet you’ll like him as much as I do” “If by that you mean I won’t like him at all then you’re right” meanwhile Serena is trying to pretend she’s anywhere else and not there silent witness to that verball pin pong

I always wonder how Jenny and Dan end up being like that with a Dad like Rufus

So this is “Jenny admitting she was a bitch and that Eric didn’t deserve it” first season.

“A honk instead of a knock? Did someone order a townie?" Blair’sn lines this episode are hilarious

I feel bad thinking that Nate’s main contribution so far is looking really good without a shirt.

Chuck Bass: a walking encyclopedia on everything Blair Waldorf.

If only the show had given us more Chuck and Cece interactions.

I feel I should have kept a score for all the Chuck and Blair jibes to each. That pin play on Blair’s part was check mate though. Auch. I almost feel bad for Chuck. Almost

In terms of cinematography that scene were they talk about the pin is gorgeous probably my fave in the show only behind that scene in Paris in S4. The matching outfits, the colors and the scenery are sooo good. Also the acting.

Knowing her like he does it’s interesting Chuck doesn’t realize Blair only gave that pin to James to hurt him. But the fact that it works is very telling on Chuck’s insecurities and feelings.

Nate being kicked out so the husband won’t catch him wouldn’t be half as hilarious if it wasn’t for Serena’s “no effing way face”

“Damn that Motherchucker” a novel by Blair Waldorf

I love Blair’s summer dress by the way

“All I could see was that Chuck Basstard” the sequel novel, also by Blair Waldorf

What a difference a summer makes: Nate and Chuck talking about Blair. I do feel Nate’s like “thank god it ain’t me anymore”

“And unlike you I don’t lose something if I let it out of my sight” Blair strikes again, this girl is on fire.

This episode is kind of proving that I barely care for any other storyline that doesn’t have the original four. After those two side by side arguments, getting back to Dan is really annoying

I kind of love it when Rufus points out to Dan how he never stops talking and doesn’t let anyone else said anything. Is kind of boring already how he only seems to write about Serena and the UES.

Chuck’s cricket outfit reminds me of how I should enjoy the crazy outfits while they last.

Ofc Chuck’s has a PI on speed dial Eric, duh. Gotta love him though: “i know that face, that face is not your friend” sorry Nate

I’m still trying to come up with the reason why the show let the fake dating storyline between Nate and Serena be such a waste. Whyyyy????

Just in case I forget: this white party was sponsored by Vitamin Water. For real there’s product placement and then there’s this.

The constrast between Serena looking like a greek goddess next to Nate’s I didn’t bother of an outfit is making me dizzy.

Chuck’s outfit for the white party kind of deserves a post of his own. Then again is probably my fave outfit of his on the whole show.

James calling out Blair for using him, while mentioning charade feels kind of overplayed now. Anyway he’s already pointing out how Blair and Chuck are the same and that’s why they deserve each other.

“Don’t you see? We’re the same? Stop trying to fight it” “I will fight it to my last dying breath because any resemblance to you is something I would hate about myself” this whole dialogue feels like a premonition.

Serena and Nate kissing and being totally into it while paparazzi plays is the background is just one of those moments. This is the kind of content I’m here for. Only to be ruined by Dan Humphrey.

And here we are again Dan getting mad when he doesn’t have a right to, thankfully karma is a thing in the form of drinks poured all over him

And somehow is Serena the one busy cleaning that suit, useless Dan is useless

Chuck’s “I’m so screwed” face when his PI tells him Blair’s guy is actually a british Lord is priceless.

THREE WORDS EIGHT LETTERS SAY IT AND IM YOURS.

Epic scene aside they both look so good here. This episode is gift in matching outfits.

Dan, Serena and fireworks. 😪 here we go again

I loved this episod the first time I watched it and I think I love it even more so now. It’s really good, full of funny lines, great outfits and epic moments. Season two is as of now my fave season (i think this is also true for many people) and it starts with a bang. Quite literally actually with the opening scene being Nate going at it with an “older” woman, which I guess was meant to be shocking in part because we ended last season wondering if something was going to happen between Nate and Serena.

Sadly it didn’t and that’s my biggest complain for this episode because how on earth did they thought it was ok to waste all that set up, and to add insult to the injury they are like so Serena and Nate are secretly dating... but it is just like a throway line because except for that amazing kiss at the white party we never see them fakee dating and I honestly want to pull my hair out of frustration. Just imagine the possibilities that weren’t, granted fake dating is one of my favorite tropes but it could have been quite the storyline imagine: Serenate fake dates and that sparks the feelings that were pushed aside on S1 but that were always there, and now there’s nothing that can stop them to act on it, except Serena has feelings for Dan too, and she struggles because of it all the first half of S1 until eventually she picks Dan and breaks Nate’s heart, combined with all the other pressures in his life, he wants something easy and this happens to coincide with Blair’s downright spiral and that’s how Nair happens again in the second half of S2.

My point being you could add so many more moments in the Serenate saga, also give more force to the idea the show always tried to do: that Serena can’t really let go of Dan, because Nate and her are quite something and yet... and still have almost the same story on the second half which was important because it gave closure to Nair and also had both Chuck and Blair realizing a couple of things. Alas one can only dream and be happy that at least we got that kiss at the white party

So back to the episode, we learn that Nate is having and affair with a married woman, Serena misses Dan a lot and basically mourned him the whole summer meanwhile he was being an asshole in the City fooling girls he met at his intership and Jenny is working and trying to stand out in her own internship at Waldorf desings. Which reminds me Eric is such a gem of a character, he’s always have good one liners but whe’s also a nice counter balance to all the manipulation and bitchery going around him. Anyway all of these storylines are barely a tease of what’s coming, and they really take off in the next episode, so I’ll get into them then, so at the end of the episode Nate manages to keep the affair goin into the city, Jenny earns a bit of respect from her boss and Serena and Dan see each other again (thanks to Cece which is another character I wish we had see a bit more) they meet at the beach ready to see if there’s something to salvage between them. We’ll see.

The real star of this episode are Chuck and Blair. This episode belongs to them. I’ve seen comments that claim this is the season that made them epic and really take off and I quite agree, and this episode in particular sets up the stage for it, touching on a lot of the aspects that are going to be their arc for this season and even beyond. So at the end of S1 Chuck stands up Blair and she goes alone to Tuscany and he doesn’t goes after her the whole summer. Instead he spends the summer in The Hamptons being Chuck Bass, she ends up in France. We soon learn that while Chuck enjoyed himself during the summer Blair wasn’t far off in his mind:, the minute she’s back he goes aftet her, roses in hand only to find out she came back with a new guy, and she does everything in her power to rub that fact in his face which Chuck should have expected, it obviously bothers him but truth is they both know this is just Blair trying to get back at him for abandoning her, he hurt her, she obviously doesn’t tell him but he ruined his summer and she couldn’t stop thinking about the motherchucker

Shenanigans ensue but there are bits that really stand out: first of them the heart pinn. That's a telling bit about Chuck’s feelings, when that pin make its first appearance on S1 it was the beginning of the end for Chuck, the meaning of it was what got her to accept going to Cotillion with Nate and now she has gave it to James and Chuck buys it because I guess part of him couldn’t believe she would go as far as to use that to hurt him, that’s a low blow and she also didn’t gave it to him that week they were going out after the wedding, even though it went really well but most importantly he believes she can’t really feel that way about him because he’s just not the kind of guy someone can feel something for, but specially someone like Blair Waldorf, who dreams of finding her prince charming and such, and to his utter horror it’s revealed that Blair’s new guy is actually a british lord. Just his luck.

He’s anything but that, therefore not for Blair. He tells her as a much later in the episode when he let’s her know that he basically stood her up because he was afraid of her getting to really know him and see he was not good enough nor someone she could be with. And this is something that’s going to be quite the struggle for him for a long time, more than once during the show he’s going to remove himself from the picture because he believes she deserves someone better who can actually make her happy, and this season this happens quite a few times.

Thing is nothing is ever that simple, and this is the other bit that really stands out for me: when James calls her out on how she just use him to make Chuck jealous she justifies herself by pointing out Chuck’s an awful person, who lies and deceives so he kinds of deserve it, and James points out the fact that well she’s sort of the same, and they deserve each other. She lashes out at Chuck because of this and blames him for her argument with James, it’s his fault she played with James, and Chuck’s point out that no one force her to do anything she did it because they’re the same, meaning they scheme and manipulate to get what they want, so she should just stop fighting this thing between them, she rejects him claiming she would hate any resamblance to him. This whole argument is honestly quite interesting, because variations of it are going to keep popping up the rest of the show, and depending on who you ship you either take literally as if Chuck is the root of Blair worst tendencies or rather see this argument as representation of Blair struggles not with Chuck, but with herself.

Blair struggles in accepting herself, at her core she’s an insecure person, and the fact that she has a dark side that she can’t exactly change because it’s so deep roothed in her bothers her even before she and Chuck were anything, to me it bothers her not because she really wishes she was nice & good person, but rather because Serena is nice person, who’s regarded as literal ray of sunshine at times, and Serena got two things she wanted for the longest time: positive atention from Eleanor and Nate’s interest.So that fight within herself was always there, it didn’t appear the day she started dating Chuck, is just that in the same way they brought out the best in each other, when things go bad between them the opposite sometimes happened, and even then when they blame each other for something half the time it was to share some of the hurt and to avoid dealing with their own shortcomings and mistakes. Truthfully Chuck and Blair did something for each other no one had really done for them they accept each other fully, Blair’s able to accept and love his darkness, and for Chuck there’s no darkness in Blair she’s the way she is and that’s what makes her wonderful. It was easier for them to love each other than to love themselves.

Finally the biggest stand out of the episode is that iconic scene, the one that really puts into place the dynamic they will have for the rest of the season: Three words, eight letters are brought to the table, and they won’t move forward until the words have been said. It makes sense, because they tried this twice before, the first one came out of nowhere and it ended with Chuck getting dumped in favor of Nate, and that burned him badly, the second one Blair was the one who got hurt, and both times this pretty much happened because they aren’t able of telling each other how they feel, particularly Chuck. The first time he didn’t let her know he actually cared and wanted to be with her, the second one he didn’t tell her he was afraid, and all of this was too much too soon. So Blair wants, needs some kind of reassurance, and it makes me wonder how that week after the wedding really went, what happened? how wonderful it must have been that even though he abandoned her a that helipad she still had hope in the fact that he may love her. He doesn’t say it, and yet I still love this moment so much for because jus by asking him to say it is in some way an admittance on her own feellings, and he fails to saythe words but he did try, and the fact that he did try is also a form of admittance and as such from here on no matter what happens, how much they fight and toy with each other there’s always an undercurrent of love behind their actions,and this is (borrowing a phrase from a certain popstar) the most amazing unspoken dialogue ever.

Random bits I’ve noticed

Chuck has a bouquet of yellow roses for his intent on getting Blair back. If my memory serves right, those were his mom favorites

I’m such a sucker for the little backdrop details like the Van der Bass house having all these background pictures of the wedding

Thanks to Chuck for giving us the rank on Blair’s favorite films: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday & Funny Face (even if he said Charades to prove a point)

I’ve read somewhere I think it was on twitter that Blair’s crying in the garden scene was unscripted, Leighton did because she got really caught up in the scene particularly by Ed’s acting. I’ve looked it up but so far I haven’t found anything on this.

There’s a bunch of miniature cyclists under the mirror where Cece’s doing the final touches to her hair, looks sort of weird.

that vitamin water is even on the invitation, agust 30, 2008.

#gossip girl recap #gossip girl rewatch #gossip girl #2x01 #summer kind of wonderful

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dottie-wan-kenobi · 5 years ago

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A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @renecdote!! happy holidays <3

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Alternate universes suck so much. Tim has always known that, but he’s never really grasped it, not until he and Dick were forcibly thrown into one a week ago.

Gotham feels different, even though it doesn’t appear that way on the surface. The violence is more personal, less showy, and as far as they’ve seen, there are almost no super villains. Somehow, though, there’s more crime on the whole, every corner of every street host to pimps and drug dealers and traffickers.

Tim tries to fight it, tries to intervene, but Dick pulls him back. “We can’t risk it, you know that.”

He does. But that doesn’t make it easier. “They need our help,” Tim fires back, everything he’s ever been taught about bettering the world, the pressure of saving people, battering around in his mind.

“It’s not our world or our place,” Dick explains, and for all that he sounds apologetic, his eyes don’t stray away from the shadowy parts of the street where they can hear people being hurt.

Dick is a good actor, but Tim can read him like a book. He’s following the protocols put in place for dimensional travel, playing the I’m The Big Brother And I’m In Charge card, but he doesn’t like it anymore than Tim does.

The rules are what they are for a reason, and Tim knows that. Grudgingly, he lets Dick pull him away, go back to their own little shadowy corners. They sleep on cardboard they find in dumpsters, huddling up for warmth. In the mornings, they go to the local library, hoping to fill out some of their knowledge on this world, since no rescue or way out otherwise is forthcoming.

There, sitting at the outdated computers, they find out that Martha and Thomas Wayne are still dead. Bruce wasn’t 8 when it happened, though—he was 16. He got shot too, making it painful and difficult to walk or move in general. According to one interview from a few years before, he’s kept on bedrest a lot, and has been in and out of physical therapy ever since it happened, now fifteen years prior. When he’s not doing that, he’s campaigning for control of Wayne Enterprises and tweeting about coffee.

There’s no Batman. Not like how they know him, at least.

One day, Dick flirts with a cop and Tim pickpockets the man’s scanner, and they learn that whole case files, suspects and evidence all neatly put together, have been sent to the GCPD over the past six years. They never see anyone fly overhead, though. At first, they think it might be Babs, but when they try to look her up, Tim finds that she’s been locked up in Arkham for at least the last four years.

Neither one of them want to know why, so they just don’t look into it any further. “This isn’t our Babs,” Dick reminds himself, and Tim, too. But mostly himself. “She’s not .”

They share a look, and don’t have to say anything to know it’s time to compartmentalize. This Babs isn’t their Babs. This Bruce isn’t their Bruce. This world doesn’t have the Joker or Poison Ivy or any of them except Two Face and the Penguin. This isn’t their world .

“Come on,” Dick murmurs, sticking close to his side as they leave the library. As they head to their latest alley, they pass all kinds of drug deals and gang members beating the shit out of people. By the time they actually get to where they’ve been staying, they’re both so tense, one smartass comment from Tim is all it takes to snap them into an argument.

”I’m sorry,” Tim says after they’ve gone back and forth a few times, sounding hostile even to himself. “I’m so sorry I can’t see things the same way you do. I’m sorry I’m not perfect Dick Grayson , who always knows what to do without even having to think about it, who always does the right thing, who is totally fine letting all these people suffer, because it’s in the protocol!”

He doesn’t even believe his own words. Tim’s just upset, unable to handle living on the streets for a week in a universe where everything is unfamiliar and grim, lashing out against one of the only things he can control. Dick is all he has here—and spending that much time with someone, let alone one of his brothers, would be hard even in the best of circumstances.

Dick flinches, and Tim only has a second to feel bad before the flash of a reflection from a gun in the window above them catches his attention. He moves on instinct, stepping forward and trying to pull Dick down even as Dick tries to move towards the mouth of the alley, protective to a fault. The bullet hits Dick’s left shoulder with a sickening and familiar crack-thwack .

For a moment, everything is silent, slow motion. Dick sucks in a pained breath, stumbling back a few steps, and Tim hopes and prays the bullet hasn’t hit an artery.

And then Tim twists to face the mouth of the alley and books it towards him, jumping on the bastard and bringing him to the ground. He rips the gun away and lets all of his pent-up anger and stress out, punching and punching. It’s only Dick, gritting his teeth and clutching his shoulder, calling out his name that saves the guy’s teeth from actually being knocked out.

Panting and shaking with fury and adrenaline, Tim stands. “Are you okay?” He demands.

“Fine,” Dick replies. “We—we should go.”

“Yeah, okay.” But he bends down instead, patting the guy’s pockets until he finds what he’s looking for: a wallet. As he rifles through, searching for a driver’s license or state ID, he explains. “We need to know who he is. If he’s working for Harvey….”

They both shudder at the thought, but the truth is worse. The name is Italian, familiar to Tim from a bust a few years before. He’s one of Maroni’s men.

Another thing they learned during their hours of research at the library: seven years ago, Haly’s Circus came through town. Bruce Wayne didn’t attend, or more likely, couldn’t. Mary and John Grayson fell to their deaths, and once it became clear that little Dick Grayson, only eight years old, knew something about the murderers, he ran. He’s been missing ever since, and if he’s still alive, then the Maronis are probably still on the lookout for him. Tony Zucco, apparently, is still alive. Still working Gotham’s underbelly, terrorizing and murdering. The Dick Grayson native to this universe is a threat to them.

They probably heard me say Dick’s name , Tim realizes, tucking the wallet away in the man’s pockets. Which means he was shot because of me. Fuck.

----

Big brothers, Tim finds, are fucking heavy. Especially when they’ve been shot and are steadily losing blood. When they’re dead weight, fading in and out of consciousness. When they’re relying totally on Tim to drag the both of them to uncertain refuge in an unfamiliar city.

And Tim…he wants to be someone Dick can rely on. (Obviously, he already is, but his anxiety says maybe this is just who Dick is. Tim could be anyone and the situation would be the same. Still, it would be better for Dick if Tim was Damian, instead. Or Bruce. Or Donna. Or anyone but himself, really.) But more than anything, he wants someone who can help Dick, who can keep him alive. Living on the streets the way they are just doesn’t lend much in the way of medical supplies.

Tim drags Dick all the way to the clinic, based on a vague awareness that it exists here, too. When they get there, though, the building is obviously abandoned, Leslie nowhere to be found. Wherever she is, he doesn’t know, but he hopes she’s okay. He can’t think of a situation that would keep her from helping the people of Gotham. Still, he sets Dick up against the wall and breaks in, hoping for something useful, and finding nothing inside but rubble and evidence of homeless people using the space for shelter.

He goes back to Dick, feeling like the world is ending. They don’t have any first aid supplies, and even if they did, even if a first aid kit fell out of the sky right now and Tim could patch Dick up, it wouldn’t mean anything. This only happened because Tim wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t thinking to be careful. It could happen again. What does he do then?

What would Bruce do? Roy? Wally? Diana or Clark? Hell, Kon ? Any of them could help Dick so much more right now. More than Tim can or will ever be able to. And really, what good is Tim if he can’t even keep his brother alive?

Aware the thoughts aren’t helpful right now, he shelves them for later and looks back at Dick, cataloguing everything he sees like Bruce taught them to do. Dick’s still steadily bleeding out, and though that’s most concerning of all, Tim finds the only thing he can think about is how they don’t have clean clothes so Dick can walk around in something not soaked in blood.

With a strangled shout, Tim kicks the wall. It doesn’t affect him, much—thank god he’d been wearing steel-toed shoes when they were transported here—but the brief release feels good. Sort of. It’d be a lot better if he were still laying into the Maroni guy, if he’s honest.

“Tim,” Dick says, both reproachful and concerned.

“Shut up,” Tim replies, dragging his fingers through his hair. His mind is racing. He wants to go home so badly his chest aches with it.

Dick knows him well enough that he can sense what Tim is thinking. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, Tim. No . We can’t.”

“Where else are we supposed to go?” Tim cries out. It’s a stupid idea, it’s against the protocol, and they’ve already talked about it anyway. They’d agreed it’s stupid and they can’t do it and moved on. But he can’t help feeling the impulse, especially now.

“Stephanie’s,” Dick shoots back immediately. But they both know it’s not possible—here, Steph is another face on the dozens of missing persons posters that litter the city. He realizes it a second too late, and stumbles over his next words. “Just, anywhere but there.”

Jason is dead, has been for years now. Damian doesn’t exist. Cass is in Star City with Dinah Lance. Luke and the other members of the Fox family have never lived in this Gotham. Duke’s parents are still alive—they recently moved to Blüdhaven, and took their young son with them. Harper and Cullen are nowhere to be found, but Tim tells himself that’s a good thing—it means they aren’t in the obituaries. Kate is overseas on a honeymoon with her wife. Half of the Titans and Justice League don’t seem to exist, and the ones that do wouldn’t step foot in this cesspit of crime and drugs.

‘Anywhere but there’ means nothing. Nowhere. There’s no place for them to go, no one who can or even would help.

The words, or maybe the thoughts that come with them, wear Dick out. He starts to fade again, eyes slipping closed, and that means Tim’s in charge.

And Tim? Tim wants to go home .

He grabs Dick, keeping him from sliding down the wall, throws his brother’s arm over his shoulder, and starts off towards the Manor with every ounce of determination he can muster.

----

Several hours later, when it’s dark and Dick is pale and mostly silent, barely keeping up, they make it home. Everything feels different: the security that allows them to get all the way up the drive (after only a little effort on Tim’s part), the trees oddly placed and the doors and shutters all painted a light blue instead of the rusty red he’s used to. It’s disorienting and upsetting. Home is supposed to be familiar and it’s not and he hates it.

Tim knocks on a side door that only family knows about, hoping against hope it won’t be Bruce that answers. He doubts it, but he’s positive he won’t be able to keep his composure in front of his dad. It’ll be a little easier with Alfred. Probably. In any case, Alfred is the better option of the two.

While they wait, Dick mumbles, “This is stupid.”

Tim presses his hand against the wound, trying not to be impatient. Trying not to feel sick with nerves. He doesn’t reply, knowing Dick isn’t really paying attention right now.

When the door finally opens, Tim could collapse with relief. Alfred stands there, one hand hiding his rifle out of their sight in an all-too-familiar pose, while the other holds onto the doorjamb. His hair is darker than Tim is used to, his face less wrinkled. He’s staring at them like they’re weird, strange boys, standing at what’s supposed to be a virtually unknown entrance to a private, secure home in the late hours of the night.

Blood covers Dick’s upper body and Tim’s hands, and they both look and smell rough. They don’t make a pretty picture, and Tim knows that, but there’s nothing he can do except get Alfred to let them in somehow. He’s been thinking about what he wants to say, what’ll appeal to Alfred’s compassion or curiosity or both. Please, help my brother before he loses too much blood. Please, don’t tell Bruce about this. Please, I’m so exhausted and I need a cup of your chamomile and a cookie and also maybe a hug or I’m going to explode.

What he says instead is, “ Alfred .” It’s a relieved sob, leaving him without permission, and Alfred’s shocked and confused reaction is much more noticeable than it should be. “I—we didn’t know where else to go. He’s hurt.”

There are more words on his tongue, an avalanche of them wanting to come out, but Alfred stops him there with a raised hand. He doesn’t put the rifle down, but he says, “Come in, then,” and opens the door wide enough for them.

Dick groans when Tim drags him up the steps. Blinking sluggishly at Alfred, he says, “Alf…?”

“Yeah, it’s Alfred. Come on, help out here a little bit. We’re just gonna sit down and hopefully get you patched up, alright, Dickie?”

“Hrn.”

Tim bites his lip at the Bruce noise, stupid tears stinging in his eyes.

He’s home. It’s unfamiliar. Dick is hurt. He’s in charge.

Now is so not the time to cry.

Alfred leads them to a nearby couch in a sitting room they’ve never used in all the years Tim’s known Bruce. Rifle still in hand, he seems much more unsure than their Alfred, who would’ve already had the situation on lock by now.

“We need a first aid kit, please,” Tim says. He glances at the weapon, and adds, “We won’t cause any trouble, I promise. I—I know this is probably super weird, but….”

But what? Tim can’t think of a way to end the sentence so he just doesn’t. Instead, he turns to Dick and starts pulling his brother’s shirt off, something they really should’ve done hours ago. While he uses the fabric to put pressure on the wound again, he hears Alfred moving around behind him.

If this Bruce is anything like theirs, a first aid kit shouldn’t be too far away. There’s one in every bathroom back home.

It’s not long before Alfred is back, shooing Tim away and setting a large first aid kit on the couch. His rifle is gone, but Tim knows it can’t be far. There’s no way this Alfred trusts them enough to not have it close at hand. “Do I dare ask what happened?”

God, it’s good to hear his voice. “My brother got shot,” Tim says, reverting to his natural instinct to reveal as little as possible. Normally Alfred is someone he can give a full mission report to, but Tim is just Tim right now, not Red Robin, and this is not his Alfred, so he’s going to keep his mouth shut up tight.

“Well, my word. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him.” And there’s that Alfred sass. It doesn’t make him laugh like it usually does—no, it just reminds him again that he isn’t actually home. “Care to explain more? Should I be concerned you were followed?”

Tim thinks on it for a minute, but really, there’s no way Maroni’s guy got up in time to tail them. The rest of the mob family have probably heard about them by now, but Tim isn’t too worried about it. He can’t find it within himself to be. All he can really think about is Dick, Alfred, Bruce. If coming here was a mistake after all. If they’ll ever make it home to see their Bruce and Alfred. Eventually, he says, “No. We weren’t followed.”

Dick groans as Alfred starts to prep the gunshot wound to get the bullet out. He sways a little, dizzy, and mumbles an apology when Alfred has to readjust him.

Alfred says, “Just hold as still as you can, and you’ll be alright.”

Hearing the tenderness in Alfred’s voice does something to Tim. This is Alfred , he thinks. He can help us with more than just this.

He blurts out, “It was one of Maroni’s men.”

“Sal Maroni?” Alfred sounds suspiciously uninterested, not even bothering to look away from his work. “The mob boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. Alright, young man, I’m going to get this bullet out now.”

“Tim,” Dick grits out, reaching out his hand. Tim takes it, sitting down on the other side of his brother. He forces himself to watch as Alfred goes through the familiar motions. Dick doesn’t actually squeeze his hand that much, too used to this kind of pain, but Tim thinks maybe they both feel better having the lifeline.

He stays there until Dick is stitched up and accepts a dose of Tylenol—no matter how much Alfred gives them concerned looks and insists on something stronger, a Bat doesn’t take hard drugs.

Not quite huffing in exasperation, Alfred acquiesces and leaves Dick alone, sitting back against the cushions. Then he turns to Tim. With his hands on his hips and his sleeves rolled up, he’s honestly kind of intimidating. “Now you, young man,” he says.

“Um. What? I’m fine. I didn’t get shot, I don’t need anything.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. Tim can out-stubborn almost anybody, even his other family members, but Alfred Pennyworth is not one of them. Everyone bows down to him.

Tim sighs and scoots a few inches away from Dick, and when Alfred shoos him all the way into the other corner, he goes. Surprisingly, the older man sits next to Tim, between him and Dick, and instead of reaching for the kit, he just. Puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Which Tim finds extremely weird, considering how British and physically distant Alfred is. Oh sure, he hugs them all. He catches them when they fall, he reassures them with arm pats and shoulder squeezes. But it’s unlike him to just... sit here and rest his hand on Tim’s shoulder, looking him in the face with an expression Tim finds he can’t read.

Not being able to read people, especially someone he knows so well, freaks him out.

Tense, Tim says, “What?”

Alfred is quiet for a moment, then asks, “Where have you boys been staying?”

Oh. Yeah, okay. He’s suspicious of them. Tim can understand why. “We have a place.” It’s a disgusting alley behind a pizzeria they can’t afford to eat at, scraping by with the last of the money they had on them when they were sent here, but it’s not a lie.

Alfred backs off, picking his battles and probably recognizing this one for what it is: unwinnable. He’s more than perceptive enough to read between the lines anyway, add up all the clues—their clothes are dirty, their hair greasy, and Tim knows he’s looking pretty gaunt. And considering how jumpy Tim is acting, it’s likely Alfred thinks they’re homeless. Which they are.

“Are you injured anywhere?”

Tim holds out his hand, his knuckles split and raw from earlier, and ignores how badly he’s shaking. Alfred takes his hand, and grabs alcohol wipes from the kit. He dabs at the wounds, glancing at Tim’s face like he’s expecting a reaction. And yeah, it stings a little, but he’s had much worse. This is nothing.

“Hmm.” Alfred moves Tim’s hand around, looking for other wounds, finding a few little cuts. “So your brother’s name is Dickie?”

“Dick,” Tim corrects. Bruce and Jason are the only ones who call Dick that usually, and Jason almost always does it because it’s his ‘little brother duty’ or something. The only reason he said it earlier is because he hoped it would be comforting. “Short for—”

“Richard, I assume.”

“Yeah.” Tim falls silent, trying to keep his hand still. When a few moments of silence go by, he looks up at Alfred, finding him making an expectant face. “Oh! Yeah, sorry. I’m Tim.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tim. You seem to already know my name.”

Yeah. Shit. Unable to think of a lie beyond ‘you look like my grandpa’, Tim laughs nervously. “Lucky guess?”

Dick snorts. “You jus’ look like our gran’pa, that’s all. His name’s Alfred. Yours too, huh?”

Alfred doesn’t look convinced, but he goes along with it anyway. “Yes, mine too.” What an odd coincidence , he doesn’t say, but Tim hears it anyway.

It doesn’t take long after that for Alfred to finish up Tim’s knuckles. He offers to put some band-aids on, but Tim shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Dick gives him a look, and despite the fact that he’s still acting loopy, there’s a strength to it. Tim can tell what he’s thinking—that if the cuts weren’t on the knuckles, a very awkward place to put bandages, Dick would be insisting on it. Well, whatever , he thinks, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. You’re not in charge right now anyway.

Alfred stands and looks them over for a brief moment, hesitation obvious in the way he pauses, inhaling deeply. Then, with determination, he says, “I will prepare you something to eat. Do either of you have any allergies I should be aware of?”

“Sulfites,” Tim says at the same time Dick says, “Shellfish. And pet dander.”

“Dick, man, I’m pretty sure they don’t have pets. And even if they did, pets aren’t allowed in the kitchen under any circumstances.”

“Oh yeah,” Dick says with a faint chuckle. “Forgot.”

“Mister Tim,” Alfred cuts in before Tim can reply. It’s unspeakably weird to be called Mister Tim instead of Master Tim, even though Alfred called him that for years. “Will sandwiches suffice?”

The thought of eating Alfred’s food—and even more than that, something they haven’t fished out of a dumpster—is drool-worthy. Quickly, he agrees, “Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

Alfred nods and leaves, probably thankful to get the heck away from them for a few minutes. Once he’s gone, the brothers fall quiet, both a blessing and a curse. Not having Alfred asking questions that Tim has to evade is great, but it does give him the opportunity to keep freaking out.

What do they do next? Alfred might not let them leave while Dick is healing, and that means the chances of running into Bruce raise astronomically. Tim knows that he won’t be able to handle that. Not at all.

“Stop it,” Dick whispers, loud in the overwhelming quiet. “I can see your forehead vein from here.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Tim sighs, letting the banter drop for a moment. “Look, I’m sorry you got shot. I know it’s not my fault,” he says, speaking over Dick’s immediate protest. “I know that. But I’m still sorry.”

“…Thanks. I’m accepting your apology but not your responsibility.”

“Duh.” Tim fiddles with his hands, satisfied but also knowing, in his heart of hearts, that it is in fact his fault and Dick is totally wrong. “I’m not sorry I brought us here, though.”

“Duh,” Dick repeats, sounding more than a little peeved. Not that Tim can blame him, really. If Tim and Damian had agreed to something, and then Damian went back on it… that’d be really annoying.

Still, that little brother duty Jason talks about means he has to defend himself. “Dick, we were gonna end up coming here anyway, don’t you see that?” He shoots to his feet and drags his hands through his hair, pacing in front of the couch. Despite his earlier flip-flopping, he’s sure now. This was the right decision even if it does suck a lot. “Where else could we possibly go? We don’t belong here. The only way we can get home is by ask—”

Tim cuts off immediately when footsteps echo down the hall. They sound different from Alfred’s, a third tap that sounds a lot like a cane.

This Alfred doesn’t use a cane. The only person who could is—

Both Dick and Tim tense as the doorway is filled up by Bruce freaking Wayne.

“Um,” Tim says.

Bruce looks different. Not just in the sense that he is, in fact, using a cane, but just. Everything. He looks younger, a neat beard covering much of his face. There’s barely any salt in it at all. The scars that litter the skin of his face and arms, mostly bare considering he’s wearing only a t-shirt and pajama pants, aren’t there. Worst of all, there’s no recognition in his eyes.

His sons have become strangers. But no, this man is not their father. Tim has to shout it at himself. He’s not! Bruce Wayne would never look at them like this. Especially not Dick.

Dick makes a noise, a small and sad little whimper, and Tim thinks, shit. Shit shit shit. Unable to do anything to help, Tim shuffles closer to him, hoping it’s enough to comfort.

“Who are you?” Bruce asks, moving further into the room. He says it casually, like this is a totally normal situation, but there’s steel there, too. Of course there is. This is Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t mess around, especially when it comes to strangers invading his home. And as much as that feels like a knife to the chest, that’s what they are. Strangers . The word lingers in his mind, leaving a bad aftertaste.

Tim gets the distinct feeling that the cane, for all that it serves to help Bruce walk, is a weapon. One this Bruce will have no issue using against them. “Um. We—we’re homeless,” he blurts out, trying to push the thought away. “And my brother got shot, so we came here looking for help. We’ll be gone soon, I promise. Don’t worry about us, this is just a one time thing, and we won’t tell anyone else. I know this is a house and not a triage center.”

Bruce is already looking at him like he’s an intruder, but at that, the man’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Oh, right. That’s something the other—the right —Bruce would say. Has said many times. Because it’s something their Alfred has always said, and apparently this Alfred too.

Scrambling, Tim keeps going, pasting a fake smile on his face. “Alfred knows we’re here. He’ll be right back. It’s okay, we’ll just wait right here and not steal anything, so you can go back to bed. Goodnight.”

“Tim,” Dick bites out, obviously trying to communicate that he thinks Tim is being a weirdo, and that he’s doing nothing but tipping Bruce off to the fact that something is wrong.

“I’m freaking out, okay?” Tim exclaims back, curling and relaxing his fingers in an effort to control himself. It’s impossible, though—this is their dad , for crying out loud. Their dad, who they haven’t seen in a long time, not since before they were attacked as civilians and flung through the wormhole that deposited them here. Their dad, who Tim really, seriously needs a hug from right now.

Bruce comes closer, leaning against one of the two unused chairs. Where Tim tenses further, unsure of what he’s about to do or say, Dick relaxes. He’s really out of it now, the blood loss and medicine finally catching up with him. He’s blinking heavily and listing to the side. “Hand me that, will you?” He asks Bruce, gesturing to a throw blanket resting on the top of the chair.

Suddenly feeling very protective of Dick, Tim says, “I can—”

“No,” Bruce interrupts, the corner of his mouth curling up like he thinks this is funny. “I’ve got it.”

He grabs the blanket and walks over to the couch. Tim stumbles back a few steps to give him room. For a second, it seems like none of them breathe—but then Bruce leans on his cane like a crutch, bends down, and lays the blanket over Dick.

Tim has seen Bruce tuck people in before, usually Damian. All those times, he either didn’t care much, or a swirl of jealousy had tightened in his stomach. He can remember wondering why Bruce didn’t tuck him in. Why his parents never did it, why Mrs. Mac and all the nannies hadn’t either.

This time, his eyes sting with tears. He forces them back, biting the inside of his cheek.

Dick snuggles into the cushions behind his back, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Thanks, dad,” he mumbles, slipping off into a nap.

Bruce and Tim both freeze.

“Um,” Tim says, because something has to be said, this needs to be nipped in the bud and stopped right now before Bruce can ask anything. But really, the chances of Bruce Wayne not asking questions? Less than zero. And Tim’s brain is screaming, because what the hell could he possibly say to explain that ?

Alfred enters the room again before anything can happen, carrying a tray holding a few sandwiches. He sets it down on a side table before looking up.

“Oh,” he stops short when he sees Bruce, hands hovering above the food. “Master Bruce, I thought you were downstairs.”

“I was just doing some reading,” he waves off, but he can’t quite manage to sound casual. “Now… did he just call me dad ?”

Oh fuck , Tim thinks. Awkwardly, he laughs, “No! What? No, that’s ridiculous.” Seeing that this tactic isn’t working—Bruce and Alfred both have legendary ‘bitch please’ looks that go beyond the confines of time and space, apparently—he shifts gears. “I mean, okay, yes he did. But—but it’s just because you look like our dad! A lot like him, actually. Haha.”

Bruce and Alfred stare at him, concern building as he keeps laughing, spurred on by a week of non-stop stress and the pressure of being in charge— maybe , he thinks, this was a bad idea all along and we shouldn’t have come here and Dick was totally right. It’s only when his laughter turns to hiccuping sobs that either of them move, Bruce managing to grab his bicep in time before Tim can sink to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Alfred hurries to his other side, fretting, “Come on, young sir, just sit down now.”

They lead him to one of the chairs, where he collapses, his head in his hands. Dick is better at this—at leading, at interacting, at not breaking apart. It should all be the opposite: Tim sleeping off a GSW while Dick lies through his teeth as he explains what’s going on. Not that Dick would’ve gotten them into this situation, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, refusing to look up. They’re both staring at him again, clearly unsure what to do with a strange, crying teenager.

After a moment, Alfred says, “You boys say I look like your grandfather, and now Master Bruce looks like your father. By chance, what is his name?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Tim replies to the floor. “But… not him. A different one.”

“A different Bruce Wayne?” The confusion and curiosity is clear as day in Bruce’s voice, and Tim can’t help but snort a little.

“Yeah. Um, this is going to sound really crazy, but my brother and I are from a different universe.” He peeks at their faces, not surprised at all by the blatant disbelief he sees. “I can prove it.”

Alfred and Bruce share a wide-eyed look.“How?”

“I know you’re the one who’s been sending the GCPD all those case files. And before you say you’re not, you just said you were doing some reading. Downstairs. In the cave below this property, right? Back home, it’s called the Batcave and you’re Batman.”

“Go on, Mister Tim,” Alfred says after a moment. “We believe you.”

Relief crashes down on him and more tears slip out against his will. “I need your help. We need your help. We’ve been here for a week, and—and—and we have no idea how to get home. None. There’s no one else we can turn to, ‘cause the people who would usually help us either can’t or wouldn’t, since they don’t know us here. And god, this world is nothing at all like ours…. I just want to go home. I don’t know what to do. Please,” he begs, desperate. “I need advice.”

Bruce hesitantly sets a hand on Tim’s back, rubbing up and down in a motion that is, wow, extremely soothing. “We’ll figure this out, Tim. I promise you, Alfred and I will help you boys any way we can.”

Before Tim can ask if it’s just because they’re his sons in some other universe, Alfred clears his throat. “It may take some time, mind you. But you and your brother will need to stay here anyway, seeing as that wound needs time to heal. I can’t, in good conscience, let that happen out on the streets.”

Tim wants to refuse. Wants to say thanks but no thanks, you can put us up in a motel or something until everything is worked out. Wants to cry and cry and wake up from this nightmare. Instead, mentally and physically exhausted, he just says, “Okay.”

Both men are concerned by the response, he can tell. Though he isn’t looking, he can practically hear the silent conversation they’re having over his head. Then Alfred stands. “I will make up two of the guest rooms, then, sirs. Mister Tim, could you help bring Mister Dick upstairs?”

“Just set up one, we can share,” Tim replies. It’s late and he doesn’t want Alfred to have to do anything more than he’s already done. Than he’s already doing.

“If you’re certain….”

“I am. Thank you.”

He’s not gone for long, and thank god, because Tim can hardly stand to be alone with Bruce without spilling even more. He’s already said so much tonight, he feels empty and hollowed out, kind of like a balloon that’s been blown up only for all the air to wheeze out of it, leaving it sad and stretched. Holy shit, that metaphor. He needs to go to bed, and he needs a mattress instead of another cardboard box laid over hard cobblestone and concrete.

Shaking his head to stop his thoughts, he moves over to Dick and wakes him, a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Dick, wake up,” he says a few times until his brother is blinking heavily at him.

“Wha’?”

“We’re gonna go upstairs and sleep. Come on, I’ll help you.”

“Hrn,” he says again, and this time, Bruce hears it. Tim glances at him, almost surprised to see the emotions on Bruce’s face. Apparently that’s a Bruce noise in this universe too, and it only helps to cement Tim’s story.

Tim helps Dick stand up, swinging Dick’s good arm over his shoulders. Together, they slowly ascend the stairs, something Tim is more than familiar with considering how many times something like this has happened at home. At the top, they meet up with Alfred, who takes them to a guest room that is thankfully unused in their version of the Manor.

Alfred helps Dick get settled into the mattress, his shoes and belt shed. “I could get you both some pajamas,” Alfred says when he sees the way Tim flops down, both of them still in battered, dirty, expensive chinos.

“We’re okay,” Tim says, aware that the only pajamas in the house must belong to Bruce and Alfred, and that neither size would fit them. He’s not sure he could handle it right now even if they did. “Thank you though. For…for all of this. It means a lot.”

Alfred graces him with a gentle smile. “Of course, young sir. I would like to think that your Bruce will appreciate this.”

He leaves, and then it’s just Tim and Dick. They’ve shared a bed plenty of times before, on nights when there was no one else around and they didn’t want to be alone. Dick was the one who taught Tim one of the best parts about having siblings: cuddles. Dick is a cuddle monster, but maybe tonight Tim won’t wake up being held protectively to his brother’s chest.

Under the covers, Tim stares at the ceiling. His mind refuses to shut off even though they’re finally somewhere safe. Somewhere he can sleep and not worry about what might happen when he’s not paying attention.

He feels a little better, now that there are actual adults in charge, who are going to help. Who can keep Dick from getting hurt again, especially from Tim’s carelessness. But it makes him miss home, just reminds him how far away he and Dick are from their real family. He’s curious, on some level, about this Bruce Wayne. He trusts him to take care of them long enough for them to return home. How long that’s going to take is a question, though, one that he thinks can probably be answered by: a long time.

It’ll be good for Dick, at least. Give him time to heal.

God, Dick shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. But of course he did, and of course it was because of some dumb argument, because of Tim—

“’M not perfect,” Dick whispers, making Tim, who was certain he was asleep, jump. When he turns to look, he finds Dick’s eyes are closed. Squeezed shut. “’M not . I don’t know what I’m doing, Tim. I didn’t wanna come here ‘cause of the rules, and ‘cause it’s hard… hard to see them. ‘M lucky I getta sleep through it, I guess.”

“Dick—”

“I woulda done the same thing, okay?” And now he opens his eyes, meeting Tim’s head on. “This was the right choice. Coming here. Alfred gives the best advice.”

“Yeah.” Tim’s throat feels thick, the word hard to get out.

Dick reaches out his good hand and rests it on Tim’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here. You saved me. Now go to sleep,” he says, and then teasingly smacks him. “I can hear you thinking all the way from here.”

“You’re like two feet away,” Tim points out, but he tries to listen anyway. He closes his eyes, thinking maybe he will be able to rest. Dick is the best at comforting people.

“Shhhh,” Dick says, grinning. “Doesn’t matter. Sleep.”

“Yes, mom.”

“ Shhh !”

Tim laughs, and for the first time in a while, it’s real. He feels safe and warm and not alone, and while he can’t exactly say he’s happy right now, he’s a lot closer than he was just a few hours before.

Tomorrow , he decides, settling down, I’m going to take a shower and eat a real meal. And then, then I can finally start figuring out how to get us home.

#bcs19 #tim drake #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #batfam #batfamily #batfam fic #fanfic #my writing #renecdote

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somehow-on · 4 years ago

Text

Notes - 2020

Wiping your ass is next to godliness.

I'd throw a fat man in front of a train for you.

I'm alone in the center of the universe, everyone else is just increasingly complex epicycles.

Everyone plans to empathize until they're punched in the mouth.

I'm always on time, I'm a true punc.

Do I talk to myself? I do everything to myself.

Stay woc.

Nihilist in theory, pragmatist in practice.

Vectorian Grey.

H2650-1, J-bend, 1.25 inch. Compression Washer.

Full grown, adult sized, bangeroos.

How about instead of doing everything shittily all at once, you do one thing well?

Third Riech Feminist.

Lee Moses - she's a bad girl

If I'm going to die on a hill it's going to be frigging mount hillaminjarro.

Never compromise nor coordinate.

Dump sack.

Tracing paper.

Sex, the world's oldest commodity.

Arm Q's: infection vs bursitis, bone spur, IV soreness, basketball, drinking, elevation, some reason antibiotics aren't working

I'm no racist, I voted for Biden.

I'm not a socialist, I'm a social distancer.

I'm a Hooverist.

Other people's money.

Stop taking my chances.

Beautiful/fertile, ugly/sterile.

Get good at hitting your target, or get good at coming up with excuses for why you missed.

Life is for the risk tolerant.

Never regulated.

Sicker than sars-cov'ers, higher than Mars rovers.

60 Watt, 75 Watt

No one has a clearer vision of the absence of truth at the center of existence.

The meek and the brash.

I'm jewlatto.

Your amazing ability to invent clever new ways to be miserable.

Barry White - I'm gonna love you just a little more baby

Admiral Sissy Mary.

Imagine sisyphus getting prizes.

social darwining not distancing.

Wyatt Dykeman.

My life in bits.

You should see the other 7 billion.

Eyes are the windows of the cell.

The Heat of Composition.

The arrows of time.

It's not free will that is the illusion, physical cause and effect itself is illusory, all there is is brain chemicals and/or qualia.

My life as a trophy case to my disillusionments.

Theories on life list.

What is a superstition but an illusion of control?

This country's been in the toilet ever since we elected that Catholic Kennedy.

X is a religion, but not because it's a ethics, but because it's an explanation. Nothing can be explained.

What does the urkel tv show have to do with anything?

Was the most popular girl out behind the school. - 2013

puts the miscue in promisuous. - 2013

It doesn't bother me that people call me fat; I'm just thick-skinned. - 2012

Parezewsky, Mozca.

Vanguard Commodity Fund. VCMDX.

Gleeconomist.

I'm just a tall, hairy, little girl.

Diligence. Due diligence. Owed diligence.

Get yur kit off.

Smart as a button.

Sysiphus laughing.

Bluff the devil.

To sugar in our boogers and cream in our jeans.

The one inch of spacetime in front of my face.

The matrix but it's your own brain simulating your life one second at a time.

God gave his only son as a false flag operation.

Shitposting cannot be refuted, it can only be repeated. - TIB

Can't be arsed.

Breath spilled.

To me, every bumper sticker is basically a swastika. Tattoo.

S. J. Perelman. Mort Sahl. George S Kaufman.

Wide eyes nights late lying awake.

I just wish I could do less.

Meaningless, purposeless, alienating, novelty.

You don't have to hold so tightly to your ideas of how the world ought to be. If you relax just a little it's not going to fall apart. It will still keep getting a little better every day, and you'll have given yourself some room to enjoy what is good in it.

Ethically-Sourced Sadism.

Pathos-Aggresive.

The answer to every question is either everything or nothing.

People are always trying to help me find my wallet.

For a while I was living in my car dealership.

Avoid work, acquire orgasms.

The real reward is the silence and nothingness you make along the way.

Our relationship is purely physical, she's my aerobics instructor.

Pogo - Walt Kelly

Ameianto - super combo. Liniker

MMT is just communism with extra steps.

Crown of mud.

Don't count other people's status.

The emperor is fully clothed but is actually just a homeless weirdo off his meds.

Repeater.

Blackface is offensive, I only ever do African-American-face.

We must protect the children and coincidentally my social status.

Jeff Bezus Christ.

Born and bred and dipped in butter.

VMBSX - mortgage backed securities

Your son is going to grow up loving me, so who's the real cuck after all?

Avarice.

The dead infant is fulfilled. Baby coffin.

Chiaroscuro.

Data Based God.

Laugh while you burn.

Boredom is gravity always pulling you back to earth. Comedy is ramp that tricks your penchant for boredom in to launching you for a brief moment into the sky and closer to God.

Nihilists know the price of everything and the value of nothingness.

Acquisitive.

Speak less, smilf more.

The world is my cloister.

Breads Benedict.

Hose down, pimp up.

Health, wealth, and mirth. Birth, worth, and mirth.

London Fog.

I don't want to be in any club that wouldn't have me as their president.

Recognize the future.

You only do two weeks anyhow, the week you go in and the week you go out.

Use my time machine to go back and kill clippy before he is ever shipped.

It's not about the size of the boat, but the ocean of lotion.

The weight room is where we determine the proper weights for our pitch randomizer.

Failed Utopia. Utopia of the failed.

South of the wall.

Mektoub, my love. Movie.

She wants me to take her to the pound town county courthouse to apply for a liquor license, if you know what I mean.

I only do two things, break hearts and chew gum. And I'm delivered a monthly subscription of gum.

Beckett-head Wendy. Wundy.

I'm a consummate consumer.

Billy Joel: The father of hip hop.

Bask & wallow.

There's nothing to be done. I'll do on. Call that doing, call that on.

Hell and madness: trying to control that which you cannot.

Only reason anyone does anything: to make friends.

We are all united against the past, but in a war against all for the future.

Elena ferrante, the lost daughter.

Paul oster, hunt for herman miller.

Reality is plastic - hypnotism book

Fund the police! Coming straight from the underground.

My life's just a $10M bit.

There's a method to my badness.

Good fences make good neighborhoods.

Someone's gotta keep the bad world from the door.

Dom-text.

Isolate your favorites.

Huey Newton and the Lootings.

Too hasty by far!

Drinking my Soylent, doing my thang.

We only like the beginning of things.

Johnnie Ray.

Having sex astride a grave, the love gleams an instant and then it's dark once more.

Give us this day our daily death.

Live small & petite mort.

There's no small lives, just petite morts.

Gems in the mud.

Mud-miner.

I let you lose.

Air, water, food, hugs.

Shut up, show off.

Friendship is forever, romance is by the hour.

A shoulder to sigh on.

Pithetic. Inspires pith.

Everything is dim, inapparently.

Cum-dumptruck.

Mr. Smarty.

Moist with meaning.

Covid-wife.

Cuddle to completion.

I'm a very adorable pervert.

Still chasing my perfect compliment. Ultimate.

You don't pay me to be doing something all the time, you pay me to do the right thing at the right time, and to know what and when that is.

Melo-chromatic.

Go with Goethe. Go with Godot.

Off-black.

Peddling my piddling wares.

Godot waits for me.

Thick-stick thespian. Dipstick lesbian.

To want something is beautiful, to get it is obscene. Cloying. Nauseating.

I'm not smart enough to say little, I have to say a lot.

Papa Pill.

Pall.

Patience Zero. Seize the delay. It gets better, then worse.

Worrier-Princess. Golden State Worrier.

I'm looking for someone out of my league physically, intellectually, and morally; who I will try desperately to hide all my shortcomings and flaws from until one of us dies, hopefully me.

Greylord.

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