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lilcoffeecup · 3 years

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Family Lost,Family Found

This is my entry for the fluff/angst Maribat April. This is the angst piece to @i-love-being-weird‘s fluff piece. Its not very long, I hope you enjoy it and if you have a chance go check out the fluff piece (it’s really good) :) @maribat-angst-fluff-april

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Life on the streets had always been hard for Jason, not knowing when his next meal would be or if he would have to endure another beatdown when he wouldn’t pay the ‘monthly tax’ to the two-bit criminal working for Black Mask. He hadn’t expected to have this weird feeling in his chest that made him want to protect her from all the bad things in life. In Crime Alley it was survival of the fittest and if you wanted to survive you were only supposed to look after yourself, only yourself. Somehow though, there she was, shivering in the rain and looking as thin as a twig which would break if simply touched.

“Hey, its raining out, you should go back home, it’s not safe to be out here”

“I-I don’t ha-have a-a home or any wh-where to g-go”

“Well come on then, I know a place” “Wh-where?” “A lil’ up ahead, you’re shaking like a leaf so hurry up”

Upon reaching the building, Jason could see that the little girl was still shaking, it made sense though since unlike him who was only a little bit wet, she was soaked to the bone.

“Here, blueberry” Jason hands Marinette a blanket, “warm up, this place doesn’t have heating, so these blankets are all we got” gesturing to the pile of worn-out blankets which had definitely seen better days. For the first time in a long time both Marinette and Jason feel asleep knowing that they were not alone.

Over the next few weeks, Jason and Marinette, who Jason had taken to calling pixie, became inseparable, things were somewhat good, running errands for some thugs got Jason money for food and he didn’t feel lonely ever since pixie came into his life. Jason should have known that it wouldn’t last, money was dwindling as fast as it was coming and the time for the monthly payment was coming up. He hadn’t realized how hard it would be when it wasn’t only him that he had to look out for, but also pixie, his little sister not by blood but by love.

Over the next few days Marinette could see that something had been bothering Jason, but every time she asked, he said nothing and tried to change the subject.

“Jay-Jay, what’s wrong, you seem so much more on edge for the past few days?” “Hmm, oh its nothing pixie, I scored this somewhat fresh loaf of bread today, here” Jason said, giving the loaf to Marinette and only ripping off a tiny piece. Marinette heard the rumble of Jason’s stomach and looked at him questionably, he had been getting thinner and she couldn’t help but think that it was her fault. Ripping off a big chunk of the loaf, she handed it to Jason, “Jay-Jay you need to eat, don’t think I haven’t noticed you giving me most of the food, you need it more than me” “No pix, I already ate, I brought this for you” “Bu- “. Jason cut Marinette off, “No buts pixie, you need to eat or you’re going to be a twig forever!” “Hey! I’m not a twig” “Then eat pixie” Marinette huffed then mumbled out a “fine”.

Marinette had been meaning to do something for Jason for a while now and she found her opportunity when she came upon a fruit stall, the owner was busy talking to someone, so she quickly swiped an apple. While walking away she beamed, “Jason’s gonna love it!” she thought. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the two men looking at her with knowing eyes.

“Hey! Isn’t that the kid whose been hanging around with the Todd brat these days?” “Yeah, I’ve word on the street is that she’s his sister or somethin’” The taller man, Mark, smirks, “well, well, well, guess we found the Todd brat’s weakness now”. The other man, Bill, smirks as well “collection time is coming up soon anyways, why not send a lil’ reminder”

2 blocks away from her and Jason’s hideout, Marinette was sure to hide her loot so that no prying eyes would see anything, this was for Jason and no one else. All of a sudden, she heard a holler behind her and spun around, immediately on edge.

“Hey kid! you’re with that Todd brat aren’t cha, his sister?” They didn’t wait for a response, just barreled into her, knocking her to the ground. “See, ya brother usually ends up comin’ up late on payments so we thought a lil’ incentive would nice, saves us the hassle of having to track the brat down and him a beating, ya know”

Before she could get up and run, she felt the wind get knocked out of her by a kick to her stomach, then her ribs, she curled into herself as tight as she could, but they kept on kicking her. She hadn’t even realized when they had stopped and left, she hurt all over and farther ahead was a mushed apple with a section bitten off suggesting that someone had taken a bite then crushed it with their shoe.

Crying, bleeding, and defeated, Marinette limped back to the abandoned building she and Jason had huddled up in. As soon as she got in, she was faced by a worried Jason. “Pixie!! Where were you, I came back and you weren’t here, I was so worried something had happe- “Jason cut himself off. “Pixie, what happened to you? Where did all these bruises come from, just give me the name and I swear they won’t ever touch you again”

“I don’t know their names, but they said something about beating me up as incentive for them not having to track you down for payments and for you to avoid a beating”, Jason felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had been worried about this month’s payment date was creeping closer and closer and how he didn’t have enough, again. He had heard that the tires business had been doing well in the Black Shack, the place where most stolen things were fenced. He would have to make sure to try and score some, and cash in a few favours to try and scrounge up the money. Batman usually stuck to the city and here, in Crime Alley, there was no Batman that was gonna swoop in and save him or pixie if he wasn’t able to pay up in time.

Jason spent almost all of the next day trying to scope out any potential places he could hit and while he was able to get some loot, it wasn’t enough. It was already after dusk and the night had set in, and he knew he better get back soon since the later at night, the more dangerous it is. Just 1 or 2 buildings before his destination, he saw it, the bat-mobile, basking under the moonlight like a gift from above, and just by looking at it he could tell that they were custom. This would easily be able to cover the rest of the payment and he could get that plushie pixie had been staring at the other day.

He first made sure that no one was nearby, it wouldn’t do for someone to try and claim his prize before he could. Confirming an all clear, or as clear as it could be for the time of night, he got to work on the tires. He was almost done taking out the 3rd tire when he heard someone around him and whipped around so fast, he was sure he would feel it in his neck later. He couldn’t see the person but definitely felt someone’s eyes on him.

“Whoever you are, beat it, I found this first so it’s mine, go find your own!”. The response startled him, as the person came out of the shadows, “This is my car, so I don’t think I’ll beat it”, it was the Batman, and Jason felt as if those white lenses were piercing into his very being. “Ho-Holy shit, you’re the Batman!” “Yes, yes, I am, now could you put the tires back on my car?” “I-I can’t, I need the money, not all of us can afford to live lavishly like you, judging by your custom tires” “Why do you need the money, kid?” “None of your business” Jason sneered, he was getting sick of this, he had hidden the other tires well so he could come back for them tomorrow, he needed to get out of here ASAP. “Where do you think you’re going kid?” Batman asked just as Jason was about to turn and make a run for it, Jason didn’t bother to give him a response just made a mad dash for it.

He didn’t get far when Batman caught up to him, “Kid, I need you to put my tires back on” ‘this isn’t worth it’ Jason thought and decided that he would put the tires back then get back to pixie straight after. As soon as Jason had finished putting back all the tires, he was just about to get the hell out of there when he heard Batman “Get in kid” and knew that he couldn’t leave pixie all alone.

“No, I’m not going with you, you sicko! I already fixed your tires, what else do you want from me!” He struggled “The streets aren’t a safe place for kids, you’re coming with me” “No, let me go! I can’t leave her alone! You don’t understand! Let go!!” “Who her? Is there someone living with you?” Jason mentally hit himself, ‘how could he expose pixie! No, he couldn’t tell him about her!’. “No-one” Jason said as he was huddled into the bat mobile.

It was a few weeks until Jason was able to get out of the Manor and back to Crime Alley to check on pixie. When he reached the abandoned building, there was no pixie in sight, and almost nothing that would tell that anyone had lived there. Finding out through the grapevine, it turned out that pixie had been sold to a tourist couple in the façade of an adoption to pay off the debt that had built up in Jason’s absence. He had failed to protect her, failed to keep her away from all the bad things and now because of Jason’s mistakes, she was paying the price. He swore that he would find her and that when he did, he would never let her go, ever.

It had been years since that fateful night, Jason missed and thought of his little sister every day, he had given up hope on finding her after the first 2 years. Lost in thought, he didn’t realize bumping into a petite black-haired girl carrying a coffee walking out of a café that he and pixie would go to on special days if the had enough money. “Sorry mister, didn’t see you there, would you happen to know where the Wayne Enterprises building is?” “Don’t apologize, it was my fault too, lost in thought, I was just heading there myself, I can show you”. “Thank you so much!”

Jason couldn’t help but be reminded of his little pixie when looking at this girl, he felt his chest tighten up at the thought. “Hey mister, are you okay? you seem to have spaced out a bit” the girl asked. “No, I’m fine, you just remind me of someone who I miss a lot” “Funny enough, you remind me of someone I used to know and cherish a lot when I used to live here”.

“You used to live here?” Jason asked, he would definitely not have been able to tell had she not pointed it out. “Yeah, but it was a long time ago, I used to live in Crime Alley with my brother but got separated and haven’t seen him since” the girl said with a sad and pained face.

“We’re here!” Jason said as they reached the building, “Thanks for all the help mister!” said the girl and was about to walk away when Jason’s had realized that they had never introduced themselves, “Hey! What’s your name?”. The girl turned around and smiled “Sorry, I totally forgot to introduce myself, Hi, I’m Marinette” Marinette stuck out her hand, Jason shook it and said “Hey, I’m Jason”. Both thought ‘that’s her/his name! It can’t be thoug-‘ they didn’t have time to finish their though before a teenager about the age of Marinette with a coffee cup in hand and a younger child came into view.

What the younger said, shook Marinette to her core, not going unnoticed by the rest, “Todd! Finally, you show up Father and Drake have been waiting for you!”. “Marinette? What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost”, Jason looked concerningly at Marinette, “You-you’re na-name is Jason Todd?” “Yeah…why?” Jason was getting worried now but felt as if the word has stopped when he heard what Marinette said next.

Her voice cracking, Marinette spoke so quietly, almost as if whispering “Jay-Jay? Is that you?” Jason almost broke into sobs right in the lobby of W.E., could this really be happening? “Pixie, that you?”. Marinette immediately threw herself into Jason’s chest, and nodded “Ye-yeah it’s me, oh my God, jay-jay I thought I would never be able to see you again, are you really here, tell me this isn’t another dream because I don’t ever want to wake up if it is”. Jason started rubbing soothing circles on her back while shedding his own tears, “Shhh, it’s okay Pixie, it’s me, I’m really here, this is real and I thought I would never see you again either” “God pix, I’m so, so, sorry I left you all alone, I looked for you everywhere but never found you”. “Please don’t leave me again” Marinette sobbed, “I don’t want to lose you again”. Jason felt even more tears pooling and dripping from his eyes, “Never pixie, I will never leave you, ever.”

Jason tightly hugged Marinette, “I missed you Jay-Jay” “I missed you too Pixie, I missed you too”.

~fin.

#sibling jasonette #angst fluff april #reunited siblings #dc #mlb #maribat #there's gonna be a lot of crying #Mari even looks like a Wayne so she's gonna get adopted by bruce in the near future most likely #maribat angst and fluff april #boba writes

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years

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scorched | s.r. + b.b.

summary: “You utterly destroyed me, you know that? I loved you more than I needed to breathe and you just walked away. I lost everything and you walked away.”

WARNINGS: swearing, angst, violence, a post-endgame rant wrapped up as a fic pairing: steve x fem!reader, bucky x fem!reader word count: 7.3k

a/n: inspired by praying by kesha. written for @coffee-with-bucky and her 2k challenge! congrats lyn :) my prompt was “i failed you. i failed everyone.”and i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t inspired by @heli0s-writes and her series “as it was”. check her out! she’s one of my favourite writers on this site!

“She’s not at the compound,” Sam says, not at all surprised to see him and almost resentful, defensive. His phone is still in hand, screen alit from the text Steve sent him a few minutes ago. Everything he left behind is still here by the lake.

Almost everything.

It’s a ghost town.

“But she doesn’t want to see you anyway.”

“Sam—”

“Five hours for you was five, very long years for us,” he continues, but his tone softens when he catches sight of Steve’s face. Absolutely crushed, eyebrows weighed down, shoulders hunched forward, defeated. “She’s different, now. She’s not the woman you left.”

The mere mention of you makes Steve’s heart, already choked with dread, crack.

“And you shouldn’t go, man. It wouldn’t be good for her after all this time.”

Before, maybe Sam would’ve thought of Steve first, but there’s a distance, a yawning gap standing between them now. Sam was here for the bitter consequences of his departure—Steve wasn’t, and he knows they must’ve been shattering, terrifying, because by the way Sam is so cold about it, he doesn’t want to remember it.

“I made a mistake, Sam. I can’t let her go on thinking I don’t regret what I did.” He looks out at the lake where he passed the shield and mantle and responsibilities on to the man before him before he left, and the sun hits the lake so clearly that his breath nearly catches. You loved swimming, propelling circles around him in the blue-green pool at the compound, splashing it into his eyes. Laughing and laughing and laughing because you’re so limber on land but here you’re definitely a fish out of water.

Funny, funny, funny.

“She won’t care.”

“She has to.”

“Look, man. I’m trying to save you some pain.” Sam puts a hand out, hovering before his chest as if he stopped himself, as if he doesn’t even want to touch Steve, and the blond swallows the painful little knot in his throat. “It’s too late, and I know you want to think better late than never, but she’s changed. Things have changed.”

“That won’t stop me from trying,” Steve murmurs, walking around Sam to where a car is parked. His car. The damned car he drove to Tony’s funeral. He’s sure the keys are still in the cupholder beside your old coffee cup. He wonders who drove you home.

Sam? Bucky?

Who held a body with a heart that was tearing apart while he was chasing some fruitless daydream?

“Dude, the woman you knew is gone,” Sam calls, but Steve doesn’t listen. “You need to leave.”

“No, Sam. We made a promise to wait for each other.”

Okay, clause one: we wait for each other no matter what. Clause two: no matter what happens, we promise to work everything out. Clause three: this love is forever. Sign here.

I can’t believe you’re making me sign a fake contract for something we know won’t change, doll.

It’s a real contract because I wrote it, and it’s just for fun, anyway. I would never love anyone else besides you.

“That doesn’t matter. She’s fucking Barnes anyway.”

That stops him in his tracks. Blood freezing over in his body, he turns to look at Sam in his leather jacket and washed jeans, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes are impassive, severe, and dark with blunt honesty.

“Look, they’re happy. So can you just… leave? Go back to the forties. Settle down anywhere but here, because she is happy and so is he. Do you know how long it took for them to even think about trying to move past you?”

“Wait—” The word comes out ripped, hoarse, and he feels the blood drain from his legs as he takes a step back—

“You should just go.”

For a moment, Steve’s eyes, wide and impossibly guilty, shine with tears. At the thought of you with some other man—somehow the possibility never crossed his mind. In his mind, you are the girl who shelters underneath his arm when it thunders, who tucks her face into his chest when the movie is too scary, who peppers his faces with kisses and makes him lemonade after a good training session, who puts flower crowns on his head when they spend a weekend outside the city and makes apple pies so fulfilling he could cry, who would never love another man because you are so wholly, helplessly, in love with him.

And he left you anyway.

So he nods, because he deserves this.

He deserves this, and he leaves.

The wind is warm against his cheeks as he tries to think how he ended up here in Puerto Vallarta, although he does know. Sam dropped him off here with a mission that’ll hopefully lead to another, and you can build a new life for yourself, Steve. One without her in it. If you need something, you know you can call me.

An arms deal. He got a tipoff from one of his CIs that it’s happening tonight by the docks, because he needs his own resources now. There is no Ross, no Tony, no Natasha, no one on his side.

His body yearns for a fight, and he gets it when he hears a soft voice down the docks, speaking in British English, just barely over the lap of the ocean. Crouching behind a metal freight container, he tries to distinguish the voices. At least three bodies, all armed, and his target. One of the biggest arms dealers in Britain down here to make a deal.

Steve, darting out from his cover and to the fire escape by the warehouse, catches a glimpse of the silhouettes of the men waiting. Their shadows are long against the concrete of the dock. The metal clangs underneath his boots as he slowly climbs the steps.

“Where is this woman?” the first man asks roughly, impatience laced through his tone as Steve pulls himself onto the roof. Feet pattering over the metal roof of the warehouse, he keeps himself crouched as the warm, golden sunlight filters through the oily heat. He’s sweating through the kevlar suit he’s got strapped on, and droplets beads around his forehead as he adjusts the shield gauntlets along his wrists.

“She said seven, sir.”

“Tardiness,” the man tsks. “We should’ve known better than to deal with the likes of her. What did I say?”

“That you shouldn’t trust an American, sir.”

“Precisely.” Leaning over the roof, Steve spots the man in question speaking, his suit glowing from the lamplight he stands beneath and he grips the edge of the roof, frowning. The buyer and the seller in one foul swoop. A car door slams and he blinks, tearing his eyes away from his count of at least twelve men, three standing around crates and the other around the man complaining.

A woman steps out of the car, pocketing her phone as she walks towards the illuminated circle, and he frowns, narrowing his eyes. Her face is covered by hair that sways with her every step, but her figure is outlined by the fit of her pantsuit. Even through the clothes, he can see the curve of muscle, the purpose in her step.

A dangerous woman.

“Sorry for the hold up,” she calls out, her voice smooth, rich with confidence. Steve frowns as she stops just outside the circle of light, her silhouette illuminated by warm, rusty orange and cloaked in shadow. “You wouldn’t believe the legalities surrounding contraband in America,” she continues teasingly. “Let me see.”

The man jerks his head to one of his henchman by the crates who cracks it open revealing sleek black rifles, laser sights, silver canisters with a bar along the sides: EMPs, grenades of all kinds. “Is it to your satisfaction?”

“It is. I’m docked in bay four. My men will meet yours there,” she says and head honcho nods. It’s a sign for the three men to pick up one crate each and begin their slow trail up the docks. The crates are massive things, hard black metal that softly rattles with every sway and Steve’s ears prick as the woman steps closer, her heels sharp against concrete.

“I assume this concludes our business, ma’am. It has been a profitable few months. I hope you find your new treasures… helpful in your endeavors.”

“Oh, I’d love to keep communications open. You’ve been a wonderful seller, and as you know, I pay handsomely for quality goods.” Despite his previous irritation, the boss seems to straighten, smiling almost as the men around look at each other. Money. It all comes down to money.

“Of course. My London warehouse, as you know, is open to you should you find yourself across the sea.”

“Perfect. Pleasure doing business with you.” It is then that she steps into the light, and Steve’s eyes narrow at the glint of metal on her ears and in her hair as she reaches forward to shake the man’s hand.

And twist it behind his back, using him as a body shield between her and his henchmen. Her other hand goes to her head, pulling out the pin and digging it gently into the man’s throbbing vein at his neck. It sits comfortably in her palm, almost as if it is molded for her and Steve’s muscles tense, blood rushing to his fingertips.

“Shoot her, now.”

“Watch it, Fitz,” hisses the woman, voice low. She digs the tip of the pin deeper. In the washed lamplight, Steve can see the curve of the blade, the hoop her finger slots into. A throwing knife. “I want you out of this situation alive.”

The knife trails down his body to his thigh and she wraps her fingers tighter around the handle.

Schluck.

The man’s scream rings in Steve’s ears as she tosses the man aside, diving to a stack of wooden crates. Wood and stone splinters beneath the force of bullets following at her heels but she simply unclasps one of her earrings, presses a button and throws it over the crates.

There’s a moment of silence as the men stare at the device at their feet before there is an explosion of smoke. He watches as the woman vaults over the crates and sprints into the cloud and Steve leaps off the roof, pumping his arms to activate his shield gauntlets.

The first man he comes into contact with lets out a startled scream as Steve punches his lights out and his blood is singing. Smoke burns at his eyes and thickens in his lungs as he whirls around, spotting a shadow of a man and he runs toward him, sweeping out a leg to take him down before slamming his knuckles into his nose until he’s knocked out cold and there’s a painful grunt behind him, the resounding collapse of a body that has no intention of getting up again.

Bullets whiz past his face, slamming into concrete and flesh as something rushes past him and he grabs the charging man, swinging his whole body weight into his arms and bringing them both crashing into the ground. The smell of sweat leaks into his mouth as he shoves the curve of his shield into the henchman’s stomach. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The man is rolled over, eyes scrunched tight, when Steve gets off of him.

Eyes straining through the smoke, he watches as a shadow charges at two figures, latching onto the first man and striking the geezer behind him with a power kick to the chest with both legs. The second man stumbles back just as the shadow swings her legs back and brings the first man down to the ground.

Natasha.

That was something he’d seen Natasha practice a hundred times over.

The thought makes his blood run cold and he pauses for a moment, the smoke beginning to thin out as she rolls over the first man and takes down the second with two punches to the gut and a knee to the nose.

Natasha.

This can’t be real. No. Natasha is dead.

Unless they brought her back.

No, Sam would’ve told him, wouldn’t he?

He’s not sure anymore.

His throat cinches shut at the thought of the redhead, of the woman who’d been by his side for years, who encouraged him to fall in love with you. Maybe it’s Natasha’s ghost haunting him, taunting him with some lookalike spy, reminding him of his mistake, and he feels himself paralyzed. The memories, the smile of hers before they went back in time— He’d felt so exhausted at the responsibility of it all, the five years of his failure weighing down between his shoulders. It all rushes back to him: your wobbling lips, brave face on his brave girl, fingers digging into his suit, ordering him to come home safe, Natasha’s coy little smile.

See you in a minute.

Strong legs wrap around his abdomen and he lets out a grunt, yanked out of his dazed state as he wrenches the attacker off his back. The woman falls with smack but her fingers dig into his wrists. Her legs wrap around his arm, dragging him down with her.

Steve pitches forward, tumbling forward as she slams his hand into the concrete. His skull collides with the ground and he squeezes his eyes tight, pain blooming from the back of his head. A sharp knee digs into his other elbow and he sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering open to a blurry face.

“No.” The word comes out choked and he blinks against the streetlight, eyebrows furrowing together and the weight vanishes off of him. “It can’t be.” Sitting up, he feels his head swim in a dull ache, world tilting as the woman takes a step away from him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The words ring in his ears, cold, wretched, and he jerks his head up to see your face drained of blood, lips parted, eyes wide. Your shoulders are shaking, chest heaving for air and it rattles in your lungs. Steve can hear your heart pounding, your throat swallowing nothing but wet air.

“Y/N—” He soaks in your figure, the muscle, the confidence, the sharp lines where everything had been soft. You don’t even look too different—you just feel different. He used to sink into your arms thinking of golden sunlight and soft pillows. Now, when he looks at you, he thinks of serrated edges, ironwire bones. You’ve lost your heels in the fight, but you look taller than he’s ever seen you. “You’re… it’s you.”

“Steve.” For a moment, your voice is choked up and your expression softens as you scan his face, but then you tear your eyes away. Your hair is chopped shorter for practicality, just barely past your shoulders. It suits you. Suits the girl he loves, the girl he doesn’t know anymore. “Steve.”

“Are you hurt?” He reaches for you but you shrink back like he’s burned you. This isn’t who you are. You’ve never been a fighter, yet here you stand, pantsuit a bit scuffed but otherwise untouched, and his stomach twists into a Gordian knot. This is what Sam was warning him about. The snake in the garden come to life. “What are you doing here? You could’ve gotten hurt, doll—”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t have that right anymore,” you spit, voice pure poison. He pushes himself to his feet just as something makes you pause and your eyebrows knit together, raising your left wrist where a watch is strapped on. His head is spinning from his skull cracking against concrete and the new revelation that the girl he knows is a stranger again. He wobbles for a moment, arms out to the side as he tries to regain his bearings but you don’t so much as give him another second of your attention. “Docks are secure, Fury. Fitz is ready for pickup. I’ll send London co-ordinates when I get back to base.”

Steve glances at the bleeding man still panicking about the knife sticking out of his leg, and you go over to him, hauling him to his feet. The man shivers, whimpers when he puts weight on his injured leg but you give no hint that you care. As if on cue, a helicopter swerves through the air, rotors sending powerful gales of air down to the ground as it lowers itself to the ground and you look at Steve with a cold disinterest, hand a fist around Fitz’s collar.

“Believe it or not, I’m not just Captain America’s pretty little girlfriend anymore.”

“I just want to talk—”

“There’s nothing I want to say to you.” Turning around, you lug Fitz into the helicopter with a strength Steve doesn’t recognize and you climb onto the chopper with a grace he knows didn’t exist before he left you.

Don’t go. Please don’t go. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I’m going back to the compound,” you say over the loud gusts of wind whipping at the ground. “You’ll find Bucky there, if that’s who you’re really here for because if I wasn’t enough for you then, then I certainly won’t be enough for you now.” Pulling back into the helicopter, you yank the door shut with a slam, and Steve watches as it rises, a steady ascension to a place where he can’t follow.

His stomach twists, his whole body wracked with a shaking agony as his heart pushes itself up your throat. Falling to his knees, he keens over and throws up, acid splashing between his hands. He vomits out his heart, every inch of warmth you’ve ever given him so freely, every smile he’s taken for granted, the taste of your smile after you’ve made those apple pies.

He’s left hollowed out, colder than death.

He wants to cry, but even his mind tells him you don’t deserve to cry for the woman you chased away, so he laughs. Laughs until they turn into tears, and even then they don’t feel real. His body is unwilling to yield to the possibility of defeat, and yet here he is.

It was a one in a million chance for us both to survive that Snap, Steve. And Thanos destroyed the stones. If we can’t find a way to bring them back… maybe the only thing we can do now is move on.

Some people move on. But not us... Not us

Take your ring and give it to the girl you really love because it isn’t me.

Steve’s shock. There was less of a protest, only your determination to stop your lip from trembling, the tears already falling from glassy eyes. Grief bit him in the stomach, but yearning tugged his heart toward the platform.

If all you could think about in the ten years we were together was Peggy, I don’t see why I should stop you.

Y/N, you know I love you.

Not enough.

The compound is different. Different plot of land, different inhabitants, different facilities. He pulls up in the lot where the Avengers sign is carved into the stone and he walks the grounds, grounds he used to know but this is different soil.

Another man’s grounds.

“Steve,” Sam says, cautious on the track. He’s wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, skin glistening with sweat and a water bottle in hand. He’s got a comm link in his ear and it glows blue for a moment before muting itself. There are a few recruits running a few laps and Steve eyes them wearily before approaching Sam. His beard was shaved two days ago, his hair chopped clean even though it makes him more noticeable now. He hopes no one says anything about the old Captain America pathetically dragging himself back to a place he tried to run from. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. told me you came in.”

“Yeah. I… I just wanted to see Bucky.” Your name bites at his tongue and it takes all his strength not to confess what happened down in Mexico before Sam glances behind him to a building he doesn’t recognize. It’s connected to the main facility by a long tunnel but there are doors to the track as well, and they open just as Steve fixes his gaze on it.

Two figures stumble out of the building, a piercing shriek splitting the air with glee as one of them runs away from the other. Even from the distance, Steve can see the metal glint of Bucky’s arm, your favourite swimsuit strapped to your body. Bucky’s holding onto something as he chases after you and you barrel through the grass, towel cloaking your shoulders.

“They’re happy, man,” Sam murmurs lowly as they get onto the track and you’re still running but you’re no match for a super soldier. Bucky scoops you up, tossing aside his water gun and wrapping you in a huge hug from behind. “Even if Barnes wants to see you, do you think she does?”

“I already saw her in Mexico,” he utters softly. You’re laughing so loudly it makes Steve’s chest explode with light. You thrash in Bucky’s arms and he pretends to nip at your skin, growl into your ear as you tug at the towel around your neck. You’re… you. Just as he left you. Nothing like Mexico. “Why is she in the field, now? She’s not a soldier.”

“That’s for her to explain, not me. I don’t get to try to describe the hell you put her through, Steve.” Bucky puts you down and your feet in those strappy tan sandals sink into the grass as you spin around. You plant a kiss gently on Bucky’s lips, using the corner of your towel to wipe away drips from his hair before stealing another kiss. Steve’s mouth tingles, burning uncomfortably and he looks away. That used to be him, leaving the pool, smelling like chlorine and sweat and then popsicles to cool down because nothing screamed summer like fruit popsicles and swimming.

“Steve?” A tentative voice calls and Steve’s eyes refocus to the source on reflex. You’re staring at him, eyes narrowed into knife points and you hold Bucky’s arm to your chest, your fingers entwined with his as his old friend walks towards him. “Steve— you’re back? What are you… what are you doing here?”

“Guess the past isn’t where I belong,” he says with a forced smile that digs into his cheeks and Bucky lets go of your hand to hug him but his lips are parted, his eyes wide. He doesn’t believe this is real and when Steve meets your eyes over Bucky’s shoulder, your gaze is burning. Bucky’s arms squeeze around Steve tighter, tight enough that even he can’t breathe. He’s shattered in his arms, Bucky is, and Steve can only hold him.

“Let’s go inside,” Sam says, ever the mediator. Steve looks at him but his eyes are on you, and Bucky’s pulling back and then his eyes are on you, too. All eyes on you and your worried lip between your teeth. You’re tanned, toned, and your hair is shining underneath the summer sun as Bucky steps away from Steve as well. As if the euphoria of having his best friend is gone—it is. He chose a daydream over his family. “You guys need to get dry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, eyes darkening as they linger on Steve’s face. Soaking him in, thinking a thousand miles a minute, trying to sort through whatever storm lingers in his head. His eyebrows hood his gaze as he lowers his head and Steve can see him slip away as you take Bucky’s hand, cup his face, and turn him away.

“Popsicles, yeah? Gotta get the last ones before Wanda steals ‘em away,” you whisper and Bucky’s nose brushes against your head before they begin to walk away. Bucky’s shoulders are hunched over and you’ve got an arm around his waist, and there is something sacred in the way his head brushes against yours, the way his arm drapes around your shoulders. The way his fingers play with the fluffy towel around you, bringing the corner of it to your wet cheek. The way you step in tandem.

Something tender, something hallowed, something not his.

You’d been sharp and scorched in Mexico. In Bucky’s presence, you are nothing but dewy grass and a gentle fire, and he sees the tension ease in your shoulders despite a knot lingering in your back.

Once you’d been soft like cotton clouds like it was your nature, eager to stay away from the fight. You were just the receptionist at Stark Towers and Steve had fallen first, so eager to protect you because you were kind, gentle, funny and you didn’t care about who he was. Just that he was Steve and you were you.

I can’t let anything happen to you. You can’t protect yourself against these guys, Y/N. They’re… they’re monsters.

And he left you to them anyway, in a world still struggling to find itself repopulated and alive—

I failed you. I failed everyone.

The realization devastates him. No matter how hard he tried to fix the world, he destroyed his life anyway.

“Come on, man. If you wanna talk, we should do it in private,” Sam says. Steve follows him numbly into a building he doesn’t know anymore.

You’re sitting with your legs bent and angled in towards Bucky, playing with a butterfly knife that flows too easily between your nimble fingers. Sam sits on the leather seat and Steve leans back into the sofa as you bite softly into your red popsicle. Strawberry. Your favourite.

Bucky’s sucking down a blue one but his face is placid, eyes burning into the glass table between them as Sam sits down with a cup of coffee he had offered to make for Steve. The blade flips over your index finger, and then back around again. Your hair is stringy and wet, tied away from your face as you set down the knife and turn to Bucky, eyes searching. You brush his hair away from his face even though it’s cropped shorter now and smile even though he doesn’t focus on you.

He doesn’t miss Bucky’s hand around the curve of your thigh, holding you to him as if you’ll slip away otherwise. He fights the nasty remark pounding against his teeth—that’s his girl his best friend’s got his hand on—but he knows it isn’t his place anymore. Steve watches you lick sweet strawberry melt from your lips, trail your fingers along Bucky’s head delicately and pull his temple towards you for a quick peck.

It’s almost as if Bucky wakes up at your touch, and he turns to you. He searches too, scans your gaze and Steve feels like he’s intruding on a moment so he looks into his lap.

“So?” Sam prompts, tearing everyone out of whatever bubble they’ve encased themselves in and pulling them back into harsh reality. “Who wants to go first?”

There’s silence where Bucky puts down his popsicle stick on the bowl brought out, blue melt sliding down the wood slowly as you bite down on the last of your own treat.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is quiet, accepting already.

“I have so many things to say and I don’t even know how to say any of it, but I know to apologize,” the blond says after a moment of hesitation. His breath keeps catching in your throat and you lean forward to drop off your own stick by Bucky’s, almost a statement to his own words. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Sam asks for clarity, but Steve entertains the notion that maybe even his friend wants to draw it out of him.

“I didn’t know what I had until I lost it.” Steve makes a point to meet three pairs of eyes except you refuse to look at him, instead staring into Bucky’s lap like he doesn’t even exist, like you don’t exist either. “I should’ve stayed. Should’ve thought it through and realized that... everything I had back then is everything I had here.”

“Is that all?” Bucky stares at him with something like pity, something like jealousy, and Steve knows it has all to do with the woman in his arms. Ten years of conflict to push lovers together compared to five years of overcoming heartache because of one man. Steve would be jealous—had been jealous of Steve of 2012. 2012 Steve had a whole decade of love waiting for him and he has none. “Are you here to stay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“If you think you can come here and have everything that was yours just given to you on a silver platter, then you’re wrong,” you speak up for the first time and it sucks all the warmth out of the room. Bucky turns to you, hand raising from your thigh to brush a wet strand of hair away from your cheek and you clench your jaw, lips pressed together. “We built our lives without you in it.”

“Y/N.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees but you seem to shrink away from him, eyes tortuously meeting his.

“You leaving me was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me,” you whisper with a rage unbridled, unchained, just barely containing itself from exploding. “It made me realize how much stronger I am then you have ever given me credit for.”

“You weren’t that girl when I met you.” Soft girl with sunshine smiles and gauzy white dresses—lemonade pitchers, tulip gardens—you weren’t that girl, Steve’s mind protests but when you unwind from the couch, stretch every languid muscle in your body, he wonders if he ever saw you as anything more than someone he had to protect.

“I believed you when you said I couldn’t fight.” You stand, gazing openly at him and he swallows at the hopelessness residing in your gaze, still there after five years. “That I wasn’t enough like you to even try to help. All I ever was to you was some pretty little thing who was scared to fight back and maybe I was because you sheltered me for ten fucking years.” Your voice twists with pain, overflowing with a frustration of lost time and pure, pure sadness. “You leaving me made me stand on my own two feet again.”

Bucky reaches forward to take your hand when they all see it tremble but you simply roll it into a fist and step away.

“You put me through hell, Steve. I had to learn how to fight for myself because you weren’t there. Because you left me for some fucking daydream.” For a moment, he thinks you soften because your eyebrows fall and you close your eyes. The muscle in your jaw ticks, your nose twitches, and when you open your eyes again, they are glassy with tears. “You utterly destroyed me, you know that? I loved you more than I needed to breathe and you just walked away. I lost everything and you walked away.”

Tony. Natasha. Boss. Best friend. Colleague. Sister.

“How could you do that?” you whimper, blinking as tears scorch down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily with the heel of your hand. “How could you just look at me, look at Sam, look at Bucky, and think that there is nothing worth staying for?” You throw out your hand helplessly, waiting for an answer that won’t come and Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, throat swelling shut.

“It felt like minutes,” Bucky says at last, and the darkness in the room, the stifled feeling in Steve’s chest eases only a tad because Bucky is not nearly as thunderous as you are. You twist to look at him, arms crossed over your chest and Sam reaches to touch your arm, fingers wrapped around your bicep. You spare him a glance before looking at Bucky. “We died, we came back five years later, and it only felt like minutes.”

“Bucky—”

“You chose to leave what felt like minutes after I died, after Sam died, and when Y/N told me what happened… Steve…” A shuddering convulses down his throat and Bucky looks down into his lap. You unfold your arms and immediately go to sink into the couch, wrapping an arm around Bucky. Your eyes pin him down, red-rimmed with unshed tears, accusing: you did this to an already broken man.

“I’m so sorry, Buck.” The apology sounds plastic in his mouth with how many times he’s said it, thought it. “I’m so sorry.” He says it again anyways, and he directs it at the two other bodies in the room. You gauge his expression, watch him like he’ll vanish in a flash of smoke.

“I was happy for you if leaving meant I never had to see you again. I know you deserve a happy ending, Steve. You deserve rest more than anyone I know,” he says, “but you need to know what you want before you decide to risk it all. You can’t come crawling back for second chances because there are none. You don’t come back and have everything stay the same. There’s a price every time you give something up.” He looks up, eyes like clear water. There’s nothing angry in his old friend’s gaze, just drained. “If you’re here to stay, you better be sure that this is what you want in the end.” And then Bucky is up, rubbing at his face like he’s tired rather than an inch from crying. Steve watches him go—they all do—silently, and then you look at Sam who gets up to follow.

There’s a moment when you meet eyes with Steve and he can feel the love you swaddled him in for ten years, through the Snap, through the Accords. No matter where he was, you were there.

Then that love disappears.

“I want you to hurt like you made me hurt,” you begin softly, hands folded in your lap, t-shirt hanging off your frame, stuffed into your shorts. “Like you still make me hurt. I want you to wake up crying, I want you to rub your face raw, I want you to stay awake all night just wondering why this has happened. I want nothing more than you begging on your knees for something you can’t stop no matter how hard you try because somehow you just aren’t enough.”

He closes his eyes, lets your words devour him whole.

“Bucky was there,” you continue quietly. “He was there for me in a way you never were. He drove me home after you left. Told me that the best was yet to come. That I just couldn’t see it yet, and I didn’t believe him. For the longest time, I didn’t believe a single word he said.”

“Until you did.”

“Until one day, I looked at him and told him I know. That I know, one day, things will change,” you agree and something melts in your voice when you speak of Bucky. Kindred souls, the same heartache lurking still in chests just beginning to warm from love again. “Maybe it hurt less that day so I decided that I have to accept that this was my life now or maybe I was just so sick of crying that I told myself that this isn’t who I’m going to be. I don’t know. I just woke up one day, and he asked if I wanted to go swimming. First summer after everyone came back, and I wanted to say no, but I just had to say yes because it was swimming, and it was Bucky, and he was barely holding it together but here he was… taping and gluing me like I was some abstract project.” You chuckle, a wet sound, before glancing down at your knees. There is something you’re not telling him, and he knows it’s something secret to you and Bucky alone, so he doesn’t push it. Doesn’t ask—his chest already feels like it’s cracked open. “Some of the pieces won’t ever fit again.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “did he train you?”

“Yeah.” Explains a Black Widow move. You sound proud, but not of yourself, of your own feats and talent, but of him. “He encouraged it. Said it was only right I knew how to fight.” Steve’s stomach turns and he looks down to swallow. Bile is burning in his throat. The threads of his heart are tearing.

“I know it’s all I’ve been saying, but I’m sorry. I… I just tried to protect you in every way I could.”

“I know.” Your words are soft against his battered ears, and he looks up at you sitting there, ramrod straight but a certain gentleness that reminds him of the past. “I know you loved me in the way you could.” Clutching, grasping, desperate not to lose another woman he loves. “When you saw Peggy, did you just decide that that was easier?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I just felt like I was missing something. Something…”

“... you couldn’t find here?”

“Just something.”

You ruminate on that, eyes fixed on the popsicle sticks and Steve rubs his hands together, head bowed. The silence is terse but not hostile, and you pick up the butterfly knife on the cushion. You don’t flick it open, just run your thumb over the edge and Steve thinks you might cut him stem to stern before you place it down on the glass table.

“I used to stay up all night wondering where I went wrong,” you say it frankly. It’s not meant to hurt him anymore. You seem tired of being angry, but it’s still there, just there underneath your skin. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t eat unless Bucky made me. I would’ve rather starved than live in a world where you didn’t love me, but he said if he had to go on, then so did I. He never asked for anything in return, and I was just so fucking angry at myself that I listened to him just to spite myself. I cried all the time. I didn’t move from my bed for months. Yet, one little part of me,” you murmur, gaze rising to meet his, “always just wanted you to be happy. I wanted so desperately for you to make the right choice because then maybe this would’ve been worth it for you.”

It’s big. Your words hang on imaginary strings around his head, whistling in the faint air conditioned wind, and he clenches his jaw, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Although you’re barely holding yourself together before him, you’re deathly beautiful.

“I’m so glad that you’re so loved,” Steve intones quietly. “I’m so thankful that Bucky loves you.” He doesn’t need eyes to feel it. It’s a quiet thing, unshaking yet fragile as flowers and light as dandelion wisps.

“I didn’t think he did.” You lean back into the couch, tuck your feet underneath yourself and cross your arms over your chest. “It took me a long time to accept that he does, and now he won’t believe that I do, too.”

The confession sinks its teeth into Steve’s throat and threatens to tear his flesh.

“I tell him and I can tell he doesn’t believe me sometimes. No matter how much I want him to, it’s the one thing he can’t believe because…”

You were my girl, Steve thinks.

“He doesn’t believe he’s worth staying for. Worth choosing. You did that to him, you know? Did that to me.”

“I know.”

You stare at him and he looks at you, curled up on the couch. Your face is drying, but that torn expression still sits on your face as you run a hand over your middle, fingers folding as you close your eyes and duck your head.

His eyes trace the gesture, eyebrows knitting together, and then he looks at you because he knows. Because it had been their dream once, and when the fight is over, baby. The world still needs you, Captain America.

He had said, half joking, When will they ever stop needing me?

When you grow old and grey, and another Captain America is ready to take your place.

“Bucky’s?” he asks, body numbing. You nod, raising your eyes to his. “Does he know?”

“No. I only found out a few days after Mexico.” Three weeks ago. “I want to make it past a few more weeks, just to make sure.” You tuck your knees to your chest, arms folded over your abdomen and Steve tries to imagine it swollen with life. No longer lean with muscle but bountiful with a miracle. Blue eyes, blonde hair— no. Not anymore. “Just wanted time.”

Time. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and now…

“I know.”

Now he has none at all.

Your eyes meet his, fluttering and haunted, and he simply meets your gaze. There’s a quiet understanding in that moment as you bring your hands up to hug yourself, and he swallows, leaning back into the couch. His hands rest on his thighs, and your back sinks into the back cushion of your loveseat as he thinks of what to say.

Perhaps there is nothing to say.

Instead, his right hand goes to his pocket where a ring is still pinched tightly in between the creases. The diamond is sharp against his flesh, and he tugs it out carefully before setting it on the glass table between them. You stare at the thing, watch it glint. It’s mocking you, but Steve doesn’t want it and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s always been yours,” he says, pushing it to your side of the table. The diamond scrapes against glass but doesn’t leave a mark. “It’s never been anyone else’s but yours.” The ring clatters against the gass. You’d worn that damned thing for years on end. First it was the Accords, then Wakanda, then the Snap, and he should’ve married you when he had the chance—he should’ve done so much more than what he did.

“Do you love me?” you ask quietly, eyes unmoving from the winking gemstone. The golden band is glowing in the pale lights of the compound as he nods.

“Yes.”

You reach forward to grab it, extend a leg to shove it into the pocket of your shorts, and then you’re sitting there, feet on solid ground again. You gauge him, study him, eyebrows down, lips curved into a soft frown.

“Okay.”

You stand and pick up the knife before grabbing the bowl as well. You clear your throat and look over Steve’s head, at the walls with photographs and paintings and a dartboard by the doorway, and then you look at Steve again.

Your futile attempt at a smile makes Steve smile, just barely, before you walk past him and head for the open kitchen. You set the bowl down in the sink before heading for the hallway, and Steve can hear your step, your off-rhythm breathing.

“Do you love me?” he asks, turning to look at you, and a sigh whispers past his lips as you pause. Your hand is in your pocket as you turn around, playing with the knife or the ring, he doesn’t know.

“You can’t ask me that, Steve.” Your voice is steel, your eyes unforgiving, and that soft girl is swallowed up by the scorched woman, burned by his absence. You haven’t forgiven him. You never will. “Look, I’m going to go find Bucky. We have… we’re going berrypicking in the afternoon, so…”

“Yeah, no, go. Don’t let me keep you.”

“See you tomorrow, Rogers.”

There’s an utter sense of finality to it. A chapter closing permanently and you’re already on the next page.

“See you.”

The door slides shut and you’re gone.

2K notes · View notes

suntrastar · 4 years

Text

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful.

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog.

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed.

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him.

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves.

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief.

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine.

You hate him immediately.

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance.

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh.

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime.

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say.

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue.

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace?

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left.

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached.

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile.

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good.

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet.

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door.

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better.

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

***

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned.

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy.

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number.

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?”

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever.

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right?

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds.

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled.

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date.

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath.

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted.

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face.

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own.

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep.

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say?

That you like it?

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent.

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand.

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls.

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles.

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier.

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before.

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it.

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay.

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet.

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin.

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn.

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for…

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.”

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse.

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him.

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes.

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say.

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold.

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing-

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence.

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn.

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up.

***

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden.

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump-

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier.

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong.

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you.

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?”

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks.

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

310 notes · View notes

calpalirwin · 4 years

Text

Crush, Crush, Crush

Summary: As if having one crush wasn’t complicated enough.

Word Count: 3.4k

And away and away we go!

Delilah let out a loud shriek, flinching away as an ice cold water bottle was pressed against the back of her neck. “Mikey!” she kept shrieking as the boy burst into a fit of giggles, pressing the bottle firmer against the girl’s neck, water droplets running down into the back of her shirt. “I’m gonna kill you!” she laughed, turning around.

Michael dropped the bottle and ran for his life, Delilah giving chase, their socked feet sliding around on the hardwood floors, both of them screaming wildly. As a last ditch effort to catch him, Delilah pushed off with her right foot, launching herself towards Michael’s back, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, and his hooking under her legs so they wouldn’t fall.

“Um… wish I could say this usually doesn’t happen… But uh… that’d be a lie,” Calum’s voice sounded from in front of them and both Delilah and Michael snapped their heads to the sound, finding Calum, Luke, and a boy Delilah had yet to meet standing there.

“Didn’t know Mike had a girlfriend,” the boy said, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Delilah let out a high pitched giggle as she climbed off Michael’s back, who scoffed, “D’s not my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” the boy said, brightening slightly.

“Yeah, she’s actually my girlfriend. Mike, how could you?!” Calum cried with fake dramatics.

Delilah fake gagged. “Not even in your dreams, Hood,” she told him before focusing her attention on the boy whose name she still didn’t know. “I’m Delilah. And you are?”

“”M Ashton,” he smiled softly.

“Oh, the drummer!”

“Heh,” Ashton giggled nervously, a dimple indenting his cheek. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah, and now that we have a drummer, can we get our other guitarist, and practice?” Luke quipped.

Delilah rolled her eyes at the boy. “I guess you can borrow, Mike. But you owe me one, Hemmings.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

As the group of five made their way into the living room, Michael nudged into Delilah, “Stop staring at Ash,” he teased, low enough so only she heard him.

“I am not staring,” she whispered back. “But if I was…?”

Michael chuckled, understanding her only the way he could. “Two grades above us. Different school. No girlfriend. Good drummer. Definitely sticking this out with us.”

“Fuck, that doesn’t help me not like him, Mike.”

Michael chuckled more. “Yeah, I know.”

~5 Years Later~

Ashton spotted Delilah and Michael already lounging in the sun, sighing internally. How was he ever supposed to think he stood a chance at having either of them, let alone make a move when those two were always joined at the hip? His phone pinged in his hand, and he hoped it was either Calum or Luke saying they were finding parking. Fortunately it was both Calum and Luke. Unfortunately it was both of them saying that something had come up, and they couldn’t make it. “Fuckin’ great…” Ashton muttered under his breath, trudging the last few feet across the sand towards Delilah and Michael. “Hey, guys.”

Both of them shielded the sun out of their eyes as they looked over at Ashton, bright smiles on their faces. “Oh, hey Ash!”

“Hey,” he repeated. “Um, did you see what Cal and Luke said?”

With frowns, they both looked at their own phones. “God damn it…” Michael groaned. “They do this all the time… They wanna hang out, and then they bail on us.”

Delilah shrugged. “Well fuck them. We don’t need them to have fun, do we?” With that, her fingers tugged up the hem of her shirt, to pull the fabric free from her body. “Can one of you help me get my back?” she asked, digging through her bag for a bottle of sunscreen.

Michael almost dropped the bottle, as Ashton gulped, both men sharing a glance. Taking the path of least resistance, they both shared the job of covering the woman’s back in shoulders, Delilah sighing in content as the way their fingers gently massaged her skin. “Thanks guys.”

“No problem…” they mumbled in a rush, their cheeks bright red.

“Um, I can do your guys’ backs if you want…” she suggested.

“Yeah! That’d be great!”

Delilah had to bite down on her lip as both men discarded their shirts, and all three of them took a small moment to clear their throats. “Um… Wanna help me with Mike first, ‘Lila? He might burn quicker than me…” Ashton all but squeaked.

“Good idea,” Delilah giggled, squirting the sunscreen in Ashton’s waiting hand, and then her own. She shared a covert smile with him as they started covering Michael’s back, their fingers knocking into the other’s.

When it was Delilah and Michael’s turn to get Ashton’s back, Ashton shuddered at the way his friends’ fingers carefully went over the tattoo on his neck, before moving to get the rest of his back and shoulders. “Fuck, that tickles,” he giggled airly. “Maybe you should think about getting a spray.”

“Aw, where’s the fun in that?” she started to flirt, then immediately felt bad at the way Michael’s face scrunched. “I don’t have a lot of faith in spray sunscreen. Every time I use it, I get burned,” she added quickly as an explanation.

After they finished applying the sunscreen to the rest of their exposed skin, Ashton glanced out towards the water. “Shall we?”

“Let’s go!” Delilah said, skipping off ahead of them.

“You should go for it,” Michael mumbled to Ashton as they walked together at a slower pace. “You and D… You’d uh… be cute together.”

“What? Pfft… Nah… You think?”

Michael shrugged. “I see the way you look at her. And if I trust anyone with her, it’d be you, ya know?”

“Thanks, Mike. That, um… means a lot. But, I don’t think she sees me that way. Pretty sure she’s into someone else.”

“Shit that blows…”

It was Ashton’s turn to shrug. “Eh, it’s alright. Can’t say I blame her. She has pretty good taste.”

“That she does,” Michael nodded.

~~~

“So, you ever gonna ask him out?” Delilah asked Michael as they sat on the shoreline, watching Ashton still out in the water.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? Ash! When are you gonna ask him out?”

“Uh… never? Cuz he doesn’t like me.”

Delilah snorted, “Yeah, okay. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Michael shook his head, then sighed. “I’m serious, D. Would it be great if Ash liked me the way I like him? Yeah. But that’s not reality.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he likes someone else.”

“Aw, fuck. Sorry, Mike.”

“S’alright. Can’t say I blame him.”

~~~

“You know,” Ashton said to Delilah as they waited for Michael to come back with food for them all. “With Mike, you might have to make the first move.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, c’mon, ‘Lila. You know him better than anybody. You know how shy he can get with stuff like this. Be brave for the both of ya. Make the first move.”

“Waves knock you around a lil too hard there, Ash? You’re talking nonsense.”

“You’re really gonna sit there, and tell me you don’t like Mike?”

“Of course I like Mike. He’s my best friend. But it’s… complicated. There’s a lot of layers that I haven’t figured out. That I don’t think I ever will.”

“You’re telling me…” he muttered under his breath.

Michael approaching with food put an end to the conversation, all three friends sharing a tight lipped smile, more confused than they’d ever been.

~3 Years Later~

Delilah checked the time on her phone, sighing and feeling tears of frustration brim up in her eyes. She had been five minutes early to her date nearly an hour ago. She wasn’t sure which stung more: her messages asking where her date was being left on read, or the look of pity in the waitress’ eyes as Delilah ordered her third glass of wine.

So, rejected, a little tipsy, and unsure of what to do, she called the one person she knew she could always count on.

“Hey ‘Lila,” Ashton’s voice picked up on the second ring that had Delilah feeling even more flustered.

“Oh… H-hey Ash… S-sorry I didn’t mean to call you… um…” she fumbled over her words as she scrambled to hit the end call button.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Aren’t you supposed to be on a date? Are you alright? What’s going on?”

The weight of concern for her in his words was the breaking point. “I got stood up…” she whimpered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Okay. Sit tight. I’m coming.”

“Ash-”

“Shh, it’ll be alright. I’m already on my way.”

“You’re heading out?” Calum questioned as Ashton placed Michael’s phone down on the table.

“I have to.”

“No. Mike has to. She called Mike, Ash.”

Ashton narrowed his eyes pointing into the sound booth where Michael and Luke were laying down tracks. “He’s a lil busy at the moment, and she needs someone now. What am I supposed to do? Not go to her?”

“No, of course not. It’s Del. But… Ash, it’s not a secret that things are all a little complicated between you three. I don’t want to see you get hurt because you played hero to her when it was supposed to be Mike.”

“I’m not doing this to swoop in, and take Mike’s hero moment away from him, Cal. She’s my friend too. And she needs somebody. So you really think I’m gonna let you stop me?”

Calum raised his hands in surrender. “Look, I’m only trying to protect you from getting your heart crushed if this doesn’t match up to the fantasy in your head.”

“And I appreciate that. You know I do. But I got this, Cal. Promise.”

“Alright. Go on then, I’ll explain to them what happened when they’re done.”

“Thanks, Cal.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now get out of here already.”

Ashton made it to the restaurant in minutes flat, hitting the ground running. He muttered a few apologies and “excuse me”s as he weaved through the people in his way, before finally spotting Delilah staring dejectedly at her empty glass of wine. He steeled himself from the thoughts swirling in his head about how if this had been their date he’d never dare leave her waiting on him. That wasn’t a road he needed to go down right now. “Hey,” he said softly as he took the seat across from her.

She raised her eyes slowly to look over at him, a tearful smile coming to her lips. “Hey…” she whispered.

“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”

“I have to pay my bill… Shoulda stuck with water…”

“That’s alright,” he told her, flagging down a waitress. While Delilah got lost in her mind, Ashton settled the bill in hushed tones. “Okay. C’mon,” he said, resting a hand gently on top of hers to get her attention.

“The bill…” she repeated.

“It’s taken care of. C’mon.” He helped her up from her seat, taking off his jacket to drape it over her shoulders, his fingers brushing against her exposed skin.

“You wanna know something?” she asked numbly as they headed for his car.

“What’s that?”

“If I told you how many times I imagined you rushing in to save the day like this… well… your head would spin. And now that it’s real… my head’s spinning.”

“That might be the wine,” he chuckled lightly, opening the door for her. “And uh… I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“How do you not know? Everyone else does…” she sighed, relaxing against the leather of the seat.

“Everyone else knows what?”

“That I like you.”

In his shock, he closed the car door with more force than he meant to. When he got in on the driver’s side, she was giggling. “What?” he asked nervously.

“Well that was dramatic,” she continued to giggle. “I like you, slam!”

“I- Wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. I thought you still liked Mike.”

Delilah sighed somewhat dreamily, and Ashton’s stomach churned. “Yeah. I like him too.”

“Yeah, I kinda gathered as much. I mean… you did call him, not me. I was just the one who picked up. Still not sure why. I just saw your name and...”

“Had to?” she supplied the rest of his thought.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s you. I wasn’t going to not answer, even if it wasn’t my phone.”

“Just because I like Mike, doesn’t mean I can’t like you too, Ash.”

“Yeah, but it’s different kinds of like.”

“Says who?”

“Says the obvious. You two are the closest, you always have been. And look, I get it. I’m not mad. I get what you see in him, because I see it, too. I just also happen to wish sometimes you saw that in me, too.”

“I do! It’s…” she scrambled to find the words to finally lay this all out on the line.

“Complicated. I know. I remember.” The words came out bitter, and they both hated it. Delilah for not having the words to fix it, and Ashton for the crushed look in her eyes when she was already having a shitty night. He let out a slow sigh, collecting himself. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “We shouldn’t be doing this right now. This is a conversation we can have at a different time. I should be taking you home.”

“No,” she pressed. “I want to have this conversation now. Ash… I like both of you. I’ve liked Mike my entire life, and I’ve liked you since the minute I met you. And… the reason I haven’t been brave enough to do something about it is because I also know that you two like each other. And… I like you guys too much as my friends to ruin the dynamic I guess? When I don’t choose, it’s only me who gets hurt. Because I’d rather have neither of you, than have one and the other feel jealous.”

“Oh… Damn… That adds a whole ‘nother layer to this, doesn’t it?”

“Yep… They don’t have books or movies for how to deal with love triangles like this… this is… uncharted territory.”

“Yep… Well fuck. If all three of us like each other, why don’t we all just date?” Ashton suggested.

“How would that dynamic work?”

“No idea. But, if anyone could figure it out, I’d bet it’d be us.”

“And if Mike doesn’t… Would you and me still…?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“You don’t… feel like that makes us consolation prizes to each other? Like we can’t both have Mike, so we’re settling for each other?”

“Nothing about being with you is me settling for you, ‘Lila. I want you.”

“I want you, too.”

“And we just happen to also want Mike,” Ashton couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“Do you think he wants us, too? I mean, I know he wants you. I just don’t know if he wants me.”

“Oh, he does. Trust me, he does. Anybody would be stupid not to.” Ashton let out his next breath slowly, running his hands through his hair. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Please,” she breathed, leaning across the center console towards him. He met her in the middle, his fingers gripping lightly on her chin to guide her lips to his, her own hands coming up to cradle his face. “Thanks for coming to get me,” she murmured as they broke the kiss.

“Of course,” he smiled softly. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

Ashton giggled and started the car. “Alright, we’ll grab some food, and then I’ll take you home.”

“We should get something for Mike, too. He’ll have known by now that I called, and that you came to get me, so he’ll be waiting for us. Right?”

“If he’s done laying down tracks with Luke, yeah. That’s probably a safe bet.”

They fell silent, Delilah finally breaking the silence only after they had picked up food for themselves and Mike. “Hey, Ash?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, reaching out to lower the volume of the radio.

“Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he nodded. “It’s uh… not every day you tell the girl, and the boy, you’ve been crushing on for years that you’ve been crushing on them for years, with the follow up being if it’s cool if you can all date each other.”

Delilah giggled, “God, this is fuckin’ crazy…”

“100% certifiably nuts,” Ashton giggled with her as he pulled into her driveway, next to Michael’s car and spotting the man waiting for them on the porch. Ashton shut off the car and turned to look at Delilah. “Ready?”

“God, no.”

“It’s Mike. He’s our best friend.”

“I know. But I’m still…”

“Scared? Yeah, me too. His hands grabbed hers, brushing soft kisses across her knuckles. “But I’ll be right here with you. C’mon,” he coaxed.

They left the security of the car, and walked up to where Michael was waiting. He rose slowly to his feet, eyes locking on Ashton and Delilah’s hands that were clasped together. “Oh… I see you two have uh… that’s great. Happy for you guys…” His gaze flickered over to the food bag in Delilah’s other hand. “And I’m intruding, so I’m gonna head out. Glad your night worked out.”

“Mike, wait,” Ashton said, reaching out to stop the younger man. “There’s something we wanted to talk to you about.”

“No offense to either of you right now, cuz I love this for you guys, I really do. But uh… I’m a little tired and hungry from the studio. I just stopped by cuz I saw you had called, D, and wanted to make sure you were okay. And you are. So um… can we save the ‘we’re dating’ conversation for tomorrow?”

Delilah shook the bag of food. “We picked you up something, too. Please, Mikey?”

~~~

“So… let me see if I got this right. In addition to crushing on each other, you both also have a crush on me?” Michael asked, after Ashton and Delilah brought him up to speed.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Delilah nodded, leaning forward to set the now empty take out food container on the coffee table.

Michael looked over at Ashton with a raised eyebrow, “How drunk is she?”

Ashton giggled, while Delilah gaped at Michael and gave him a small shove with an indignant “Hey! I’m not that drunk. Anymore…”

“Well fuck! So we’ve all just been crushing on each other, and swallowing our pride, so nobody gets their feelings hurt except ourselves?”

“Can’t leave out the stupidest part of how all of us at some point encouraged someone to make a move on someone else.”

“Fuck, no wonder Cal and Luke bail on so many plans with us… This shit is infuriating… But now that it’s all cleared up, what do we do? How does this… work exactly?”

“I don’t know… I have enough trouble figuring out how to date one person…” Ashton admitted, making the other two laugh in agreement. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s us, yeah?”

“Exactly,” Delilah smiled at him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “We’re all friends first. There isn’t anything we keep from each other.”

“Minus the crushes we all had on each other, that is,” Michael amended. Then, “So… have you guys kissed yet?”

“We did, yeah,” Ashton told him, with a sheepish grin.

“Fuckers…”

“Aw, poor baby,” Delilah teased, leaning towards Michael to press a kiss to his cheek. At the last possible second, Michael turned his head, so her lips locked onto his rather than the intended target of his cheek.

He sighed in content against her lips, tasting the barest traces of wine still leftover, sweet and savory. “Can’t begin to tell you how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmured as they broke apart.

“Well, now you can do it whenever you want,” she smiled.

Ashton cleared his throat. “Still here.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed. “Right. Yeah… erm…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ashton groaned, hooking his fingers under Michael’s chin to get them to look at each other. “It’s a kiss, dumbass, not rocket science.”

“Calling your boyfriend a dumbass isn’t very nice of you,” Michael teased lightly.

Ashton shuddered as his lips crushed into Michael’s, “Fuck, say that again.”

“Boyfriend,” Michael grinned against Ashton’s mouth.

“My boyfriends,” Delilah beamed proudly at them.

“Our girlfriend,” they chorused back.

Tag List

@aquarius-hood1996 @creator-appreciator @philthepegacorn @myfavfanficsever @cxddlyash @youngblood199456 @stormrider505 @tarltongrl96 @iknowyouthinkimbulletproof @hoodhoran @metalandboybands @maybeememez @major5sosstan

#crush crush crush #michael clifford #michael clifford fic #michael clifford x oc #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin x oc #mashton #mashton fic #michael clifford x ashton irwin #poly!mashton #5sos #calpal irwin

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thedeathdeelers · 4 years

Text

anyway so i finally finished another Juke drabble (at 12:45am on a Tuesday when I have to be up for work in 5 hours lols) based on the word prompt “Dancing” sent in by @nervousmiracletrash

the word mostly just inspired the idea for this fic - but ya. still counts :) enjoy!

(also this fic refers to a movie about a friendly ghost from 1995, so i hope it still makes sense to you even if you haven’t seen it)

Now also up on my AO3

————

childhood crushes

“So you’re sure it’s in one of these?”

Julie’s eyes remained focused on the notebook balanced on her knee, skimming through the never ending lines of poems and lyrics covering every page as she answered Luke.

“Yes! I swear, I remember working on something similar with my mom a few years before she- A few years ago. If we can find it, we won’t have to start from scratch.”

Feeling a little stiff, Julie leaned back, her eyes never leaving the pages, as she rested against the foot of her bed, stretching her legs out in front of her. They had been sitting on her bedroom floor all morning, surrounded by piles of scattered old notebooks of varying colours.

“I know, but we’ve been up here for ages and we haven’t even taken any breaks yet.” She could almost hear Luke’s pout as he continued, sitting cross legged and leaning against her closet door. “I’m nearly done with my stack. Maybe we should just consider focusing on one of our other songs for now? Come back to this one later?”

Julie shook her head as she looked up, her eyes needing a second to readjust.

“I’m telling you Luke, we’ll find it. I won’t be able to work on anything else unless I get this melody out of my head. I know I can find the lyrics. They’re definitely here. Plus we’ve pretty much gone through the majority of my notebooks - there’s barely a few left. We’ll be done before it’s time to head down for band rehearsal, chill.”

Without waiting for a reply, Julie lowered her gaze back down, quickly finding her spot on the page she was in and resuming her search. Luke shook his head at the stubborn girl sitting across from him, a small smile touching his lips. He knew there was no point in arguing with a Julie that had already set her mind to something. Adjusting his sitting position to avoid cramping (who knew ghosts still had to deal with pins and needles, eh?), he dived back into the book in his lap.

It stayed quiet for a while after that, only sounds of paper crinkling under fingers, and soft whispers of words being spoken disturbing the peace.

That is, until disaster struck.

“Uh, Jules, why does this notebook have “Julie hearts Casper” written all over it?”

Julie was so focused on the poem she was reading, that Luke’s words took a few good seconds to fully sink in. But when they did, her head snapped up while her heart sank, the blood draining from her face. It would have been funny if she wasn’t the one panicking right now. Her eyes, now as wide as saucers, zeroed in on the offending journal, balanced on Luke’s left knee. She had completely forgotten about that.

“It’s nothing! Nothing just a- a- a pet’s name! Yes! We had a dog named uh Casper and I really loved him.”

She scrambled up, the notebook she had been so focused on only a few moments ago hitting the floor with a soft thud. She quickly reached Luke’s side, swiping the journal off his knee and out of his reach.

“I thought you guys never had any pets? What with your dad’s allergies?”

Julie froze on her way back to her spot by her bed, having completely forgotten that her dad, who she’s literally known her whole life, was allergic to dogs. Trust Luke to remember that tiny, throwaway detail, but completely “forget” that her dream box was out of bounds.

She slowly resumed her half hop trek to her spot, avoiding the minefield of papers and journals, making sure Luke couldn’t see her face for as long as possible. Her mind, on the other hand, was busy hastily trying to come up with a plausible excuse.

“Yeah, we uh- we had Casper for a week before we found out Dad was allergic. Had to give him away after that.” Julie held the journal tight against her chest as she turned back around to face Luke now that she was at a safe distance.

Luke’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing under his beanie. The disbelief on his face was palpable. He could always see straight through her.

“So you’re telling me that your dad didn’t know he was allergic to dogs until he was in his thirties?”

“He was still in his late twenties, thank you very much!”

“Jules, you know that’s not my point.”

“The point is we had a dog, I loved him very much and then he was gone. It was a sad time, can we just move on?”

He was still looking at her sceptically, but nodded his head regardless, diverting his attention to the dwindling pile of notebooks yet to be explored, spread out on the floor next to him.

Julie was just glad Luke hadn’t noticed the little ghost doodles decorating the spine of the notebook. She plopped back onto the floor, sneakily pushing the accursed nightmare under her bed.

It was only half an hour later however, just as her heart had finally reached a normal tempo, when Luke spoke up again.

“So, Casper huh? You guys really named a dog after a ghost?”

Trying hard not to groan out loud, Julie forced her features to adapt a natural expression, before lifting her face towards her band mate.

“Yes. Mom had just introduced me to the movie, and the name was still fresh in my mind.” She could see that he was still not buying her story, but there was nothing she could do. She was definitely not about to spill the truth to him.

Luke scratched his head, his beanie shifting with the movement.

“I see. So the little ghost doodles down the side there, have nothing to do with the actual friendly ghost? The one from the Casper movie released in the summer of 1995?” He was pointing in the general direction of where she had thought she had managed to carefully dispose of the journal. Apparently not.

Julie could feel her cheeks getting warmer, and curse it all, Luke had definitely noticed. That damn smirk.

“Not to mention the ghost painted on the back pocket of your favourite pair of jeans.”

She threw her head back, bouncing slightly against her mattress as her hands flew up to hide her warm face. Luke chuckled.

“Fine! This is mortifying, but fine! I had a crush on Casper as a kid, okay? Happy?” Her voice came out muffled, her palms pressing hard against the horrified expression taking centre stage.

But not even a few seconds later, did she feel hands wrapping themselves around her wrists and pulling her fingers away from her face. She hadn’t even heard him move. She kept her eyes closed, scrunching her eyelids together as tightly as she could. Maybe if she thought of it hard enough, her carpeted flooring would eventually swallow her up?

“So, you had a thing for ghosts, huh?”

She could hear the barely suppressed glee in his voice, making her eyes pop open in disbelief.

“Ugh! This is why I don’t tell you everything!” Now that her eyes were open, she didn’t know where to look. Maybe over his left shoulder?

A soft chuckle made its way out of his mouth.

“Aw, come on Julie! This is actually pretty cute. Kinda feels like fate, huh?”

“Really?” She deadpanned. Her eyes diverted to his face of their own accord.

“I mean, he’s a ghost from a movie from the 90s, the girl has the hots for him even though he’s clearly dead...I’m getting similar vibes here.”

“He was just a floating orb!”

He tried to cut her off with a sly “As opposed to cute air?” But she continued speaking over him, wanting to defend her old childhood crush.

“It was an emotional connection. A deep connection, exploring different emotions and representations of love, resulting in some pretty iconic lines and moments in the movie.” She sounded a little hysterical, a little ridiculous. But the whole situation she currently found herself in was ridiculous in and of itself, so there really wasn’t much pride left for her to hold onto anymore.

Luke hummed at her reply, his eyes brimming with humour.

“Thought about it a lot, have you?”

“Ugh! You’re impossible. Fine. You might as well know. It was my favourite movie for a long time. I’d watch it whenever I was having a bad day or whatever.” She shrugged, casting her eyes downwards towards her lap where their hands lay; his fingers still locked around her wrists. She knew she wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Was?”

“Yeah, well...It started hitting too close to home a few years ago so I just.. stopped.”

Understanding dawned on him, as she felt more than saw, the energy leave him in one fell swoop. She chanced another look at his eyes, and saw that the humour previously taken up residence had now shifted to something softer.

“Julie I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that, I-“

“No, no Luke really. It’s fine. I’m okay now. I haven’t felt the need to watch any comfort movies or shows lately anyway. Maybe I’ll even revisit it sometime soon, who knows. See it with a fresh set of eyes.” She gave him a small smile as she tilted her head to the side. “Honestly, don’t worry about it.” After a beat of silence, Julie grasped at the chance to steer the conversation away from anymore embarrassing questions.

“Do you think we could stop looking through these for now? I’m getting hungry, and it’s nearly time for practice so...” She gestured towards the mess on her floor.

“Yeah, of course.” Luke looked at her for another second, checking that she really was okay, before letting go of her wrists and jumping up. He then extended his hand down to her, waiting to pull her up with him.

As she got up, she couldn’t help but appreciate how sensitive Luke could be when it came to her feelings. She reached up on her tiptoes, and sneaked a quick peck on his cheek, before pulling him along with her, leaving the mess of notebooks (and hopefully that whole topic of conversation) behind them.

A few days had passed, and Luke hadn’t brought up the movie again. She had assumed he had forgotten, or at least accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to get much more out of her concerning that topic. Or maybe he even felt bad. But then a week later, while Julie was sat in the studio on her own (a rare occurrence), she was proven wrong.

She was sat on one of the armchairs, scribbling away furiously in their songbook, inspiration having finally struck. She was so focused, her hands gliding through the page as she hurried to get every word down, that she barely glanced at Luke when he popped into existence to her right.

She didn’t even notice when he moved to stand in front of her, knees nearly knocking into hers.

“Okay! So I finally figured out the second vers-“ Julie looked up, stopping mid-sentence as she finally took in the sight of the boy standing in front of her.

“Can I have this dance?”

“Luke? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Humour me, Julie. Dance with me?”

The fact that there was no music currently playing was on the tip of her tongue, but Julie held back. She takes a few seconds to reply though, too busy drinking in the sight in front of her. He had his hand outstretched towards her, dressed in black pants and a white dress-shirt. She was hyper aware of the fact that he was dressed in the near exact way she had imagined him during her imaginary Perfect Harmony routine. The only difference was his hair - but she had to concede to the fact that he looked better this way. It was 100% Luke, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.

Putting her notebook with the pencil tucked inside on the coffee table to her right, she reaches over towards Luke, taking his proffered hand.

He pulls her up, just like he did in her bedroom the other day, and guides her to the centre of the studio. They stand there, staring at each other for a few seconds before a song starts playing on the old garage stereo - the same one that had brought them, him , to her in the first place.

every now and then,

we find a special friend,

who never lets us down

who understands it all

reaches out each time we fall

you’re the best friend that i’ve found

I know you can’t stay,

a part of you will never ever go away,

your heart will stay

Luke reaches over to grab her other hand, lifting both up to his shoulders. Once settled, he lets go and finds her waist, pulling her in a little closer. Following his lead, Julie wraps her arms around his neck, her eyes focused solely on his. She listens to the song that is playing, gently swaying from side to side with the boy in her arms.

She cocks her head to the side as she tries to figure out why the melody and words sounded so familiar to her.

“This song sounds so familiar? Like I’ve heard it so many times but I just can’t place...” As her sentence dies on her lips, a small gasp is heard escaping her. Julie’s eyes widen as memories of her younger self listening to this song and swaying along in her mother’s arms flood her mind.

cAll the while, Luke’s eyes are intent on hers, reading her reactions. His hands resting on her hips, slide past her hips towards her lower back, his arms fully wrapping themselves around her, pulling her closer to his chest.

“You didn’t!” Her eyes still wide, still unbelieving.

“I figured of all the things I could actually accomplish as a ghost, any childhood dreams you might have had - this might actually be it.” He shrugged, his shoulders moving under her hands. His grin turned boyish. “Plus I didn’t like the idea of another ghost having a hold on your heart.”

Julie has to try hard to focus on the questions she wanted answered, and not on his sweet confessions.

“But- I assumed you guys never got to watch the movie? It came out around the time you were too focused on the band and the gigs, and then...” She let the rest of her sentence trail off, never too comfortable mentioning their early demise.

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” She felt his shoulders shift up and down again. He shook his head at her as he continued. “I gotta say Jules, you really know how to pick ‘em.” She could see the mirth brimming in his eyes, his lips twitching as he tried to keep his amusement under control.

Julie’s eyes narrowed at him, even as she tried to keep her own smile from forming on her lips.

“Girls are all about that star crossed lovers’ life. Add in a dash of supernatural? Absolute dream.” She moved her hand, gesturing wildly to convey her (ridiculous, but secretly truthful) point.

Luke chuckled at that, the laughter finally spilling out of him.

“Lucky for me then, eh?”

Julie’s eyes softened, her mouth curling into that special smile she only ever reserved for him. She stood on her tiptoes, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his.

“Who said I wasn’t the lucky one?”

They stayed that way for a few seconds, still moving slowly from side to side as they stared at each other. They were so close they were breathing the same air. And just when Julie was about to close the distance, Luke shifted, tracing his lips across her cheek, her jaw, until they hovered by her ear, warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

And then he whispered to her the four words she had been dreaming of hearing ever since she was a little girl.

“Can I keep you?”

FIN

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #julie molina #luke patterson #juke #juke fic #jatp fic #julie x luke #my fics #aaahhh #i’m kinda proud of this one?#thedeathdeelers fics

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hawkbucks · 4 years

Text

Prompt: AU where everything is the same except Howard wasn’t Uber-rich and Tony built SI ground up, focusing on clean energy and science and tech and Bucky meets him for the first time at the expo. (Nat can be his PA?) (modern setting AU?)

“What the fuck!” Bucky exclaims as he drops the laminated badge on the table. He stares at it in disbelief, ignoring Steve’s snickering. Then, he picks it back up and holds it up to the light coming in through one of the windows, scrutinizing it like a hundred dollar bill. His name is typed neatly in the middle, a string of words underneath declaring him to be a VIP pass holder which, holy shit. General admission tickets are hard enough to come by—they’re surprisingly cheap and, by that virtue, sell out faster than Bucky can recite the Stark Industries motto, but VIP passes? Those are usually reserved for rich tech enthusiasts. Insiders. CEO’s of the damn companies that went to the Expo to do some schmoozing, grandstanding, and bragging. People who are people. Not someone like… him.

“Nat thought you would like it,” Steve says, patting him on the back and picking up the now discarded box the badge came in. “Said that it’s her apology for not being able to celebrate with us today.”

“Natasha got me this?” He waves the badge around, wide-eyed, the laminate making wobbly noises with each pass back and forth. “How the hell did she afford it?”

Steve’s genial smile fades away, replaced by furrowed brows and a small frown. “She’s… Tony Stark’s PA.”

“What? Since fuckin’ when?” Last time Bucky checked, Natasha was still working in that old record store down the street with Sam and definitely not working as the personal assistant of one of the most influential men in the world of technology. Maybe the most influential, if Bucky is allowed to be a fanboy.

“Since 2 weeks ago?” Steve tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Remember when she brought you that mug? She said that she told you right after.”

Bucky ponders for a second. “She might’ve, but honestly, I was distracted by th’ mug,” he admits sheepishly. It was a very good mug, in his opinion. It had Tony Stark’s signature printed on it, along with their signature arc reactor logo (and, given the chance, Bucky could gush all day long about the arc reactor and the sheer brilliance behind it, but so far no one has been willing to sit down and listen to that).

Steve sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”

(As he scrolls through his Twitter feed before bedtime, he’s immediately hit by the memory of him fawning over Stark’s appearance in a video uploaded by Stark Industries a week ago. Natasha was visiting, humming as she listened to his adjective-filled rant.

Natasha heard him say that her boss has killer thighs and pretty lips.

He grabs one of his pillows and slams it down over his face, hoping that if he stays in that position long enough, he’d suffocate.)

“I don’t know what to wear,” he moans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“It’s a convention,” Sam says, throwing him a sidelong look, “not a date.”

He lifts his arm up just enough to glare at Sam. Judging by Sam’s shit-eating grin, however, it’s not very effective. “Exposition,” he corrects. Blegh, he’s starting to sound like one of those pretentious technobabble YouTubers. “It’s an exposition, and I’d rather not go there lookin’ like I was thrown into a washer with my clothes and came out wearin’ whatever stuck.” He breathes in deeply. “And did you know that Nat is Stark’s PA?”

Sam laughs. “Dude, she told me that before she even went in for the interview. She was confident and, hey—” he shrugs his shoulders— “it worked.”

Bucky grunts. “Unfortunately. Or fortunately.” Without her, he wouldn’t have that pass, even if it is proving to be more of an inducer of anxiety than excitement. “Now are you goin’ to help me pick out an outfit or what?”

“Or what,” Sam snickers.

“No, no, the grey one would be better. It brings out your eyes,” Sam comments, leaning against the doorway and watching as Bucky takes off a dusty mauve long sleeve and replaces it with a dark grey button-up.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “What happened to not helpin’ me pick out an outfit?”

“I thought about it, and, man… I can’t let you go out looking like a hot mess ‘cause you didn’t get my advice. I’d feel bad.” Sam crosses his arms. “Especially when you’re gonna meet your crush.” He wiggles his eyebrows and deftly dodges the discarded mauve long sleeve that Bucky launches his way.

“S’not a crush,” Bucky hisses, “and the pass isn’t a guarantee that I’ll meet him.”

Sam snorts. “It’s not a crush, you say, as if I haven’t had to listen to you go on and on about how Stark’s revolutionizing clean tech or how he’s donated, like, 3 gajillion bucks to a water charity. And c’mon, Nat’s his PA. You’d be lucky if she didn’t come up with a plan to keep him near you for every damn second you’re at that expo.”

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, Sam does have a point. Nat is notorious for meddling in their love lives for her own amusement, and she has concrete and definite proof that Bucky finds a modicum of attractiveness in Stark. He covers up a pained groan with one hand. Is it too late to send the badge back?

He is horribly, painfully aware that his expression must resemble a fish out of water as he steps into the admissions line. Double-check, triple-check. He has his ID, the badge, and his debit card just in case. Plus his phone, a portable charger, and its actual charger if he’s able to find the time to sit down. A backpack is slung over his shoulders, decorated with pins of his favorite sci-fi shows and a couple superheroes.

The smile he gives to the woman checking his items in is shaky at best, but he finds himself comforted when she picks up on his nervousness and tells him that there’s nothing to worry about, go and enjoy yourself now.

He clips the badge onto his front pocket and tries not to trip over his own feet as he enters the exhibition hall.

Pym Technologies is too busy showing off some sort of shrinking-slash-enlargening formula and he’s too busy trying to desperately not let his mind wander into the gutter to notice Natasha stepping up behind him.

“James,” she says, hand clamping down on his shoulder.

He does not yelp, thank you very much, but he does whirl around quicker than what should be humanly possible and levels her with one of his frowns.

“Grey looks nice on you,” she comments, ignoring his sour face. “It makes your eyes pop.”

“Sam helped.” His gaze flickers down to the clipboard that she’s cradling in one arm, then to the official-looking nametag that she has hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “An’… thanks for the pass.”

“It’s the least I could do for one of my best friends.”

Bucky narrows his eyes as Natasha’s sparkle. That sentence is so not Natasha that his gut is telling him that either a) Natasha has been replaced with a remarkable lookalike who is still trying to get the hang of it or b) she’s about to pull something devious and amuse herself at his expense. Going off the amount of time that he’s known her for, he’s assuming it’s option b.

She looks down at her watch that Bucky is pretty sure is non-functional and says, “I have to go, but you should come by the Stark Industries presentation area at 2. We’re not due to present until 3:30, but your pass will let you in.” She winks, and Bucky knows that should really means you better come or I will hunt you down and not even Steve could save you from my fury.

Each step he takes towards the Stark Industries presentation area feels like another step towards his demise. He can’t help the pounding in his chest or the way his arms start to turn into jelly. He can’t help the sweat threatening to fall from his brow or his knees valiantly attempting to give out. He has a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind of what Natasha has planned, and he thinks back to what Sam said earlier about how Natasha would not let a second pass where he and Stark were not in close proximity.

He doesn’t even notice that he’s arrived until an arm clad in a black sleeve collides with his chest. He looks up, startled, at a stocky man with a severe expression. “You’re not allowed back here, buddy,” the man says, a firm crease between his brows.

“Uh.” Bucky fumbles with his badge before holding it up. “My friend said that my pass would let me in.”

“Well, your friend was wrong.” The man crosses his arms. “You should get going before—”

“Let him through, Happy.” In swoops Natasha in all her glory, looking like a fiery-haired angel sent down from the heavens. “I told him to come.”

The man—Happy, which is an unfitting nickname if Bucky’s ever heard one (and he’s heard a lot)—stares at him long enough that he contemplates leaving the exposition and quite possibly the country, before grumbling something unintelligible and stepping to the side.

He steps through, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t relax until he’s face-to-face with Natasha. “M’here. Like you told me to be.”

“Color me impressed. I thought you’d ditch.”

He snorts. “And risk havin’ you hunt me down ‘til I die? No thanks.”

“Smart.” She turns around, nearly whipping him in the face with her hair. “Now follow me. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Oh, god no, he thinks as he trails behind Natasha like a duckling. Her heels clack against the polished floor. People scramble to get out of her way, and, judging by the smirk she gives him over her shoulder, she enjoys it. “Tony!” she calls out as they approach a figure with a turned back and no, no, don’t turn around, don’t turn around, do—

and Stark turns around and he has to fight down a weird sobbing noise because Stark manages to look even better in person. Fierce intelligence glitters in his eyes and there’s an ever present curl to his lips, like he’s thought of a joke that he wouldn’t mind sharing if you asked nicely. “Romanoff!” he calls back. “My favorite PA.” Stark locks eyes with Bucky and he holds that gaze for just a moment before tearing away and focusing on Natasha.

“Please, you say that to all your PA’s.” Natasha pats Bucky’s back a bit harder than necessary. “Do you remember that friend I told you about? The one who is a fan of yours? This is him. His name is James and he is very excited to be here.” She lets her hand wander down to his side and pinches him lightly. You talk to him, he can hear her say in his head, because I do not want you to go home and mope to Steve about how you couldn’t. (Is Natasha actually telepathic or has he hanged around her enough that he has adopted a mini-Natasha in his mind? He doesn’t know and at this point he’s too afraid to ask.)

“And I’m very excited to meet him,” Stark says with a wink. Bucky wonders if he died somewhere along the way, because there is no way that Tony Stark just winked at him. Stark sticks his right hand out for a handshake.

Bucky swallows down his anxious thoughts before clasping his left hand with Stark’s right and giving it one, two, three quick shakes. They withdraw, and Bucky tries not to think about the fact that he already misses the weight of Stark’s hand in his own.

“Firm grip,” Stark whistles, and Bucky feels heat rise up on his cheeks. “Stark-made?”

Bucky rolls his left arm—his prosthetic that he’s been wearing since he’s come home from the military. “Baintronics.” Even if he wanted a Stark Industries prosthetic, Baintronics was the one with the military contract.

“Least it’s not Hammer,” Stark jokes.

Bucky chuckles, and that turns into him biting down on his lower lip when Stark smiles, pleased that he was able to draw a reaction. He really doesn’t need to be blurting out something like your smile is so pretty, please let me buy you lunch or I’ve admired you ever since you were in the newspaper for making an advanced medical drone at the age of 18, you’re so smart, please let me buy you lunch or I appreciate the fact that you donate so much to clean energy coalitions, please let me buy you lunch or anything else that would end in him extending an invitation to Stark for lunch. He might be a bit hungry.

“But you know,” Stark starts, taking Bucky out of all of his lunch-related thoughts, “we are starting a round of clinical trials for a new prosthetic designed by yours truly. It’s supposed to introduce finer motor control—sew some thread through a needle kind of fine, if my prototypes are to be believed—and the touch receptors are a thousands times more sensitive. You should be able to feel the ridges on the side of a penny!” Stark beams, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “The installation, though, would be a lengthy process—hopefully not too painful, I’m trying hard not to make it that way, and we won’t be able to get you fitted with one right away, but if it sounds like something you’re interested in, I can, uh… you can sign up. I can’t guarantee that you’ll be picked, but…” Stark looks at him with something like hope glittering in his eyes. “If you want.”

Bucky considers Stark’s offer for all of 5 seconds before going, “Yes. Yeah. I know you’re not promisin’ it, but if I do end up gettin’ it, it’d be a hell of a lot better than this weighty thing.” He rolls his left shoulder, wincing as the anchor point tugs at his skin.

Stark hums and nods, a flicker of concern crossing his face when Bucky winces. “Much better.” He turns to look at Natasha. “Mark him down, will you, Nat?”

Natasha smiles graciously, whipping a pen out from god knows where, and scribbles something down on her clipboard. “His name is down, Tony. I took the liberty of adding his number, too. Now if you excuse me, Ms. Potts has just arrived and if I remember correctly, you asked me to escort her here.” She bows out of the conversation, subtly jabbing Bucky with her pen as she does so.

“Don’t forget to give her the slice of cake I saved!” Stark shouts as Natasha walks away.

“I never forget, Mr. Stark,” Natasha replies at a much quieter volume.

“She really doesn’t,” Stark comments to Bucky, shaking his head with a fond look on his face (and no, Bucky is not jealous that it isn’t directed towards him). “A true miracle worker. So, James—” and that bright smile is back on his face— “care to talk a bit longer?”

Bucky still isn’t entirely sure if this is a lucid fever dream that he’s having or not, because out of everyone that Tony can talk to, like Rumiko Fujikawa, the runner of one of the most popular tech-focused YouTube channels on the face of the planet, or Reed Richards, the founder of the ambitious Future Foundation, he chooses to talk to him. Plain James Barnes.

It’s mind-boggling.

And seeing this side of Tony Stark? Where he’s relaxed, his tie loosened with no qualms on questioning whether Anakin’s midi-chlorian count would’ve shrunk due to losing a good chunk of his body or whether his blood would simply make more to make up for it while they lounge on a couch that’s too comfortable for its own good? Well…

Bucky clears his throat, cutting Stark off mid-rant. “In Empire of Dreams, Lucas says that if Anakin didn’t get, uh, cut in half on Mustafar, he would’ve been as twice as powerful as Palpatine, so, yeah, I’d say that he lost some of his midi-chlorians.”

Stark stares at him. He looks down at his lap, unsure if he should’ve said that or if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. “God,” Stark breathes out, “I could kiss you right now.”

Those words send a jolt of electricity down Bucky’s spine; he’s stunned into silence.

“Sorry. Sorry, that probably made you uncomfortable.” Stark waves a hand, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks. “I’m just—I’m not used to anyone listening when I talk about this stuff, so having you respond… I don’t have a filter. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says quickly. “S’flatterin’. Never had anyone want to kiss me after a conversation about Star Wars.” Sam did want to do something to him after he forced him to sit through a marathon of the entire series, but he’s pretty sure that that want was the want to strangle him with a plastic bag as opposed to kissing him.

“Maybe you just hang out with the wrong people,” Stark teases.

“I should tell Natasha you said that.”

“Perish the thought.” Stark grabs a handful of pretzels from the bowl set out in front of them by an intern more than likely wanting to get on Stark’s good side. “Anything you’re particularly looking forward to this Expo?” he asks, popping a pretzel into his mouth.

“Pretty much just SI’s presentation,” Bucky admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, Pym’s formula sounds promisin’, but… god, I must sound like a kiss-ass right now.”

“Keep going,” Stark says around a mouthful of pretzel, “it’s doing wonders for my ego.”

Bucky laughs, shoulders becoming less stiff. “Yeah. SI. I’ve been keeping up with your progress on the miniature arc reactors. S’probably the one thing that I’m real into right now.”

Stark leans forward. “The arc reactors?” he asks, intrigued.

“Yeah. They’re small, but they have so much energy in them, you know? 8 gigajoules per second, man,” Bucky whistles. “That’s pretty damn amazin’. Could probably run Times Square for a couple of weeks.”

“More like a couple of hours,” Stark chuckles. “If you ever want to see them up close, I’m sure I can arrange something.”

Bucky can’t stop his jaw from dropping. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. We actually have the big one that powers Stark Tower on display for the people that take the tours, but you said you were interested in the minis…” Stark trails off, tapping his chin with his index finger. “Well, Nat… Nat trusts you, so I think it’s fine if I trust you. I wouldn’t mind bringing you down to show you the minis. ‘Course you’d have to sign some NDAs and go through some security, but, honestly? You seem way more excited and into this than the other people I’ve showed them to. Pretty sure they just want to brag about how the Tony Stark gave them the nickel tour as opposed to being genuinely curious about the science behind the reactors.” Stark leans back into the cushions. “You’re a breath of fresh air, James.”

“Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“You can call me Bucky. It’s what my friends call me.”

Stark throws him a pretzel which he thankfully catches. “And are we friends, Bucky?” he asks with that curl to his lips again.

Bucky barely represses a shudder at the way his nickname rolls off Stark’s tongue so casually, like it was meant to be there. “If—If you want to be.”

“Then we are.” Stark rolls his shoulders and allows himself to sink further into the couch. “I’d also have to insist on you calling me Tony, by the way. Stark is too formal. Because we’re friends.”

Bucky smiles. “Okay, Tony.”

“And, since we’re friends, why don’t you come out with us to dinner? Nothing too fancy, I promise, just some burgers and a milkshake. You up for it?”

Oh, god. He’s gonna have to pay Natasha back big time. Buy her some expensive knife that she’s been eyeing or something. Clean her apartment for a week. Grill her those steaks he makes that she likes so much. To have been given the chance to take Tony off of the pedestal that he built for him and be shown that he’s very much human, then to be given another chance to talk to Tony along with being offered a glimpse at the arc reactors, then to be invited out to dinner by the man himself… damn. “Burgers and a milkshake sounds good. Fries?”

“What meal would be complete without it?” Tony looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta head off to makeup now—they’re gonna make me look all pretty—but I’m gonna be looking for you when I present, okay? Ask Happy to bring you to the front row.” He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Bucky. “If you’re fine with it, can you give me your number? I need a way to contact you for the arc reactor thing.”

Bucky hopes his hands aren’t shaking as he adds himself into Tony Stark’s contact list under “Bucky :)”. He hands it back to Tony, careful not to drop it.

“Thank you,” Tony singsongs and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll hopefully see you later, Bucky.” He mock salutes him and ff Tony goes, a woman with a black apron and a brush immediately magnetizing to his side the second he gets more than a few steps away from the couch.

As he watches Tony leave, Bucky suddenly remembers that Natasha had already put his number down.

#filled #old posts #3 #4 #5 #winteriron

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parasite-core · 3 years

Text

Man. So we started Wrath of the Righteous last night. And it was…quite the session. It was…let’s say tonally fitting. In that we’ve had our first ever permanent PC death.

So my half-elf warpriest of Iomedae Draven was mentor of sorts to the party’s paladin Auriel, a shabti seeking his purpose and finding it as a crusader of Iomedae. They were both part of the Raven Corps, the lowest ranking members of the crusaders, basically the reserves, kept for glorified guard duty at best, and looked down on by everyone as the weakest links.

The day of the Armice festival, Draven and Auriel stumbled upon a notorious serial killer called the Butcher of Bellstreet in the storage house of the nearby temple, where they also found a symbol of the demon lord Deskari carved into the floor. The Butcher told them it was there when he got there, and they should be more concerned with the metal box in the room. Then he made a run for it. Draven told Auriel to check the box while he ran after the Butcher. Draven and the Butcher had a rooftop chase, while Auriel uncovered a mummified locust demon in a box with more Deskari symbology on it.

At the same time, an inquisitor of Shelyn, Melody, who had just arrived to town following a songbird across the continent saw Draven giving chase to the Butcher. She ran into Auriel in time for him to try to ask for assistance catching the Butcher, who they all believed was responsible for the Deskari conspiracy they’d just uncovered.

In the roof, Draven had fallen behind due to his heavy armor slowing him from climbing compared to his swifter foe, forcing him to find an alternate path. However the Butcher was slowed when he came to a bridge he needed to lower. At that time Melody got into range to cast forbid action, forbidding the Butcher from moving. Draven was able to catch up to him, and noticed that strangely he’d stuffed his clothes full of oranges to appear more bulky. He didn’t have time to process this however because a moment later he was yeeted off the root, landed near the festivities. Members of the color guard came to check on him, and he informed them that he’d been pursuing the Butcher, and of the Deskari symbol in the storage room.

On the roof Auriel tried to smite evil the Butcher after he insulted Iomedae, but the smite didn’t take, instead redirecting to the nearest valid target—the box the Butcher was holding. Melody tried to talk to the Butcher, who was frustrated and snapped at her that he was the Butcher of Bellstreet and he’d kill her whole family yada yada if she didn’t get out of his way. She realized he was just saying what he expected her to hear and maybe wasn’t really the threat he was trying to seem like. She tried to cut off his escape route so they could talk…but slipped up on her attempt and fell to the ground beside Draven.

The Butcher made a run for it, but the Eagle Watch Brigade cornered them, with Draven tailing behind them. The Butcher doubled back and tried jumping off the bridge and making a break for it, but then someone else used hold person on him. Another high ranking member of the crusades, Lady Salzara, showed up with her own sect of crusaders. She had Draven, Melody, and Auriel come with her along with forcing the Butcher to come along.

She went to give a speech, about how on this auspicious day a ‘lost lamb’ had been returned to them. When suddenly there was a horrible cracking noise. The building that housed the Ward Stone, the artifact that protected the city from the demon incursion, shattered. The barrier was destroyed. Demons began swarming in, slaughtering people. The head Paladin Commander Hol Rune was killed instantly without even being able to put up a fight.

Then the silver dragon Trendelev swooped down. He told us that the four of us had a grave destiny ahead of us, and that despite any misgivings we might have about one another we needed to work together to stop the evil that had befallen this city. He cast a spell, and the four of us, and three others, were cast down into the bowls of the earth, and into darkness, as our final sight was the great dragon, protector of Kenabres, facing the Storm King Khorramzadeh.

We woke later in a dark space with scattered memories that slowly returned. The Butcher removed ‘his’ hood after Draven made a quip about the oranges and revealed he was actually a middle aged woman with one demonic red eye, by the name of Luna. She was accused of being a serial killer in her teenage years for reasons we don’t yet know, and leaned into it, making an infamous name for herself in her Butcher guise. In reality, according to her she’d never killed anyone.

Melody lit a light cantrip, and we found the four of us weren’t alone. We were joined by a merchant noble, a crusader with a crushed and broken leg, and an elven wizard whose eyes had been completed blinded.

Draven healed the crusader, Anevia Tirabade, to the best of his ability, and realized she is the wife of the head of the Eagle Watch, Irabeth Tirabade. Someone he and many members of the Raven Corps look up to as she was originally a member of the Raven Corps who foiled a plot to destroy the Ward Stone many years prior and earned a name and rank for herself in the process.

Afterwards they checked on the elven man, Aravashnial, and had to break the news to him that they were not simply in magical darkness, but that he’d been blinded. Aravashnial was proud and didn’t want to be sidelined by this and was a bit headstrong initially. Draven tried to reason with him, trying to connect with the fact he’d lost one eye himself and had to relearn how to fight without the use of his left eye. He told him while he did believe in time he’d be able to relearn how to do what he could before, it *would* take time, and they were in a dangerous situation where rushing in (literally blindly) would be a poor choice. He and Melody also said he’d still be very helpful for his knowledge of the arcane, as absolutely no one else in this group knew a damn thing about arcane anything. Aravashnial couldn’t be said to be happy about his situation still obviously, but he was a bit less hard headed about trying to force his way into the lead into a dangerous position in his current state.

Last, there was the merchant, Horgus Gwerm. He was…unpleasant. He ended up in an argument with Luna and they went off on their own. They opened the box that Auriel had detected as evil, and removed a book from inside. Horgus tried to burn it, but it wouldn’t take, to which Aravashnial made a snide remark. We took notice that this trio seemed to not get along particularly well.

We moved forward, fighting through a number of nasty vermin, until we found an abandoned temple to Torag. Auriel and Anevia both wanted to stop here, Auriel to pay respects and to cleanse the forgotten temple, and Anevia to rest and mourn the state of the fallen temple.

Horgus didn’t want to stick around. He felt like Anevia and Aravashnial were slowing us down. He told Luna they were leaving—apparently he’d hired Luna as his bodyguard. He told us that he could pay us to come as well. The rest of us said in no uncertain terms that we wouldn’t be abandoning the injured for any amount of gold. Luna then managed to talk to him and convince him that it would be in his own best interest to keep strength in numbers, because even if the injured would slow us down, having four able bodied warriors as opposed to one was better for him. (In reality she was more worried that the injured people would get killed sticking with just the three of us without her, and tbh so were we, she’s definitely the strongest out of the four of us. Draven would admit it without pause at this point.)

We managed to reopen the temple and get inside, only to be accounted by the undead inhabitant: the remains of the priest who died in blaspheme in his final moments.

Our three holy members smote him, used judgements and blessings to empower our weapons…and all three of us missed all of our attacks. And Luna, the atheist who has a chip on her shoulder about religion, destroyed the undead priest in two attacks with no help from any holy magic at all. She was feeling very smug about it.

We decided to take a rest there. Auriel spent eight hours cleansing and reconsecrating the temple. Draven and Melody spent some time talking to Aravashnial and Anevia. Melody got…inquisitive…and got some backstory from Aravashnial about how his relationship had been ruined due to Anevia’s wife’s attempts to get the riftwardens to work with the crusaders. Then she found out about how Anevia and Aravashnial accidentally almost ruined Horgus’ reputation with accusations of being a worshipper of Baphomet, which ended up being proven to be baseless, but which led to someone ransacking Horgus’ place of work and besmirching his name. Draven, Melody, and Luna gently suggested/twisted Anevia’s arm that she and the other two should have a conversation like adults and apologize to each other because it sounds like they’ve all screwed each other over a bit and if they’re going to work together to get out of here they need to start with a clean slate. She wasn’t happy about it and said it sounded more painful than her broken leg but she reluctantly agreed, and in the morning the three of them did talk and seemed to be on more amicable terms going forward.

The next day the party met a group of people living beneath the city whose appearance was warped by demonic influence, known only as mongrel-men. We helped to rescue one of their number, Krel, from a cave in after convincing them we weren’t there to hurt them. They asked us to come with them to meet their chief, and we agreed.

On the way, we went through a cave, where we found what at first appeared to be two dead Iomedae crusaders. However the weapons they held weren’t longswords, and upon examining their bodies they had an unholy symbol of Baphomet on them. False crusaders, masquerading as one of our order. Draven and Auriel were incensed, and upon learning these people were the reason the village of mutants had thought we were enemies, we had all the more reason to want to meet with their chief. Draven and Auriel had decided we were going cultist hunting.

We met with the chief, who was happy to let us pass through his village if we intended to deal with the Baphomet cultists and the traitors of his people who had joined them. He asked only one thing in returned, which was that once we reached the surface, if we could put in a good word for his people. He believed it was time for them to rejoin the fight against the demons, as they were the descendants of the original crusaders, and the fight against the demons was in their blood. Auriel, Draven, and Anevia agreed to put in a good word for them, and Anevia brought up that her wife, the head of the Eagle Watch, is a half-orc, so times and old biases are changing, and hopefully people will be able to see past appearances.

After stocking up on some supplies, the party made for the fortress of the Baphomet cultists. The alarm got raised immediately, and it was a fight the entire way through. There was a nasty ranger who kept popping up and taking pot shots at Draven (because favored enemy) and he’d knock out most of my health in a single shot despite me having a ton of health for level 1. And then I got poisoned by a monitor lizard. And then I jumped down a hole and got shot again right after healing. And Auriel almost got eaten by an amoeba.

Anyways we slowly pushed our way forward, until we found the cultist of Baphomet, her tiefling servant, and that damn ranger. The cultist told us to throw down our weapons and surrender to be sacrificed at a more dignified location. Each of us said ‘fuck you’ in our own way.

Auriel’s way was to smite evil on her, rush in, and get a critical hit on his attack. He almost killed her in a single attack of holy fury.

Then she retaliated. As did her tiefling servant. Auriel went down. Luna and Melody went after the cultist. Draven went after the tiefling. Then the ranger stepped back out. An arrow in Draven’s back, and he went down too, right next to Auriel, right as Auriel failed his final con save and breathed his last breath.

Melody killed the tiefling. Reinforcements arrived, but at the same time Aravashnial and Anevia arrived—too stubborn to allow themselves to be left behind after all. Luna crit and killed the cultist as she tried to escape with a box she pulled out from the corner she’d been trapped in. The box flew open. A shining holy sword flew out, and stabbed into Auriel’s body. In the place between life and death, the spirit of the sword spoke to Auriel’s spirit, barely held together, and gave him a choice. Did he feel he had completed what he had been out on this path to do? Did he find the answers he’d been seeking? If so, the spirit would guide him to the Boneyard, and final rest. If not, he would return, bound more closely than before to Iomedae’s will.

Auriel decided that he had his answer. In his final act he’d done something in Iomedae’s name, and that was enough for him. He was ready to move on. And so he was guided away, and as shabtis do, when he died his soul shattered. A piece remained with the sword, and allowed Radiance to awaken for Draven—a warpriest, not a paladin, but someone trusted by a paladin so strongly in his final moments that it allowed it nonetheless.

Unconscious, Draven began to hear the sword calling to him, and its magic began to slowly heal his wounds.

At the same time Melody and Luna were brawling with the ranger, who was continuing to be a pain in the ass. I hate this guy. So much. He was played really smart. Good on the GM. But also fuck this guy so much lol.

Aravashnial healed Draven with a potion, and back to consciousness he heard Radiance speaking in earnest. He also saw that the holy blade was planted in his friend and mentee’s chest. For the first time the smile Draven always wears fell. He drew Radiance, stepped over to the ranger who had been shooting him full of holes this entire dungeon, and skewed him without a quip or a flourish.

Draven lost it a bit after that. Melody and Luna both blames themselves and he told them no. Then Melody said not to blame himself but he laughed manically and said it *was* his fault because everyone around him always dies, not because he’s a crusader but because he’s him. Then he carried Auriel’s body back to the underground city. Even Horgus mourned when he saw what had happened.

That night Draven tried to go off on his own but Melody wouldn’t let him. Draven told her it was better if people weren’t around him, to which she disagreed. He told her again that everyone around him dies, to which she disagreed. He told her that he’d run into demons two times before the most recent attack. The first time he lost his family. The second time he lost his friends and his eye. And now this time he lost his city, and his friend, and…possibly even Leto, he realizes. He’d been trying not to think about it, but his best friend, his childhood friend, had been in the city when the demons attacked, he might be dead too. He went a little manic again at the idea that even the golden boy, his brother, the one person who always escaped Draven’s bad luck, might be dead. Melody snapped at him a bit, telling him he wasn’t the only one who had lost people, and that if he was going to make it a one upping thing, then what hurt worse, losing it all at once, or seeing everyone you love slowly wither away and being helpless to do anything? Draven couldn’t and wouldn’t answer that, and Melody didn’t want an answer because there was none. They ended up going their separate ways for the night.

The next day Draven told Melody to forget about everything he’d said. She told him he couldn’t, because that would cheapen everything he’d felt. Draven reluctantly compromised and asked that she just not tell anyone about what they’d talked about, to which she agreed, and he in turn said for fairness sake he wouldn’t share what she’d told him in the heat of the moment either.

The party travelled through the underground until the arrived in a sewer tunnel. They found three orphans, who recognized Luna and were happy to see her. With them was a tiefling woman (Auriel’s player’s backup character), who told the party things had gone to hell outside. And that’s that.

#pathfinder #wrath of the righteous #wrath of the righteous spoilers #Draven Imani #long post #PC death #RIP buddy

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radishaur · 4 years

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hi, i love how you write and i was wondering if i could request a zuko imagine with prompts 23 and 87 from the make a reader swoon list? maybe reader has had her heart broken before so she's hesitant about believing zuko or something like that?

Ah, to be Y/N, having Zuko comfort you and attend to your needs. I love this idea! I hope you like how it turns out. For those who haven’t read the prompt list here they are. #23: I fell for you without even knowing it and, jesus, does it hurt that you can’t see it” and #87: “Don’t tell me you love me unless you mean it”.

- Zoe

•••

Breaking The Rules (Zuko x Reader)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst

Part: 1/1

Summary: See Request

•••

Heartbreak can make you do stupid things. It turns you into an empty shell of the person you used to be. Each person you let in takes a piece of you that you never get back. That’s why love is for the blind. Those who will happily open themselves up to the pain of abandonment and heartache.

I wasn’t one of those people anymore.

Ever since my ex broke my heart, I had created a set of rules to follow. They were simple and straightforward, designed to make sure I never repeat my mistakes again.

Little did I know, Zuko would soon have me breaking every single one.

•••

Rule #1: Don’t talk about yourself

The Western Air Temple was quiet as everybody slept. The soft sounds of snoring filled the air but otherwise there wasn’t a sound to be heard. I sighed, getting up and deciding to go somewhere else.

I decided to go for a walk. I walked up the stairs of the temple and began walking through the forest. I had only gotten a few feet away before I heard rustling.

I turned cautiously to the area the noise came from and got into a fighting position.

“Hello?” I called out.

There was a bit more rustling before Zuko popped out from behind the trees. I sighed and dropped my fighting stance.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologized awkwardly.

“It’s ok,” I said.

He stood awkwardly for a few seconds, shuffling around on his feet as if debating wether to stay or not. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me hopefully.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asked.

I shook my head no, not trusting my voice to work properly. I was still cautious of him, after all he did chase us across the world, but he just had a way of making me drop my guard.

Frankly, that scared me. It should have been the reason I said that I do mind and sent him on his way. But, of course I didn’t. I simply nodded and walked beside him.

“Couldn’t aleep?” he asked softly.

“Not really,” I replied, a sigh escaping me as I did.

I had always had trouble falling asleep. I was a night person so my mind just loved to keep me awake.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

The air was thick with a tension I didn’t know could exist. I desperately wanted to be back down in the temple so that I could avoid having a conversation with him. I needed to stay neutral about him.

“So, where are you from?” he inquired, looking at me from the side as he did.

I stayed silent, meeting his gaze with an apprehensive look.

“I just don’t remember seeing you in the group until a few months in,” he elaborated.

I pursed my lips and looked ahead, determining how much was too much. I would be walking a thin line by answering, but it would be kind of awkward for me to stay silent the entire walk.

“Right,” Zuko mumbled, mostly to himself, “I guess I probably should have assumed you still hate me.”

I felt a small part of my heart ache. The group had been giving him a hard time since joining, not that I blame them, but I also felt somewhat bad. I mean, he did seem like he was trying. I sighed.

“I’m from the Fire Nation originally, but I joined the group in Omashu,” I explained.

Zuko smiled slightly at my answer. I’m sure it felt nice for him to know he wasn’t the only Fire Nation one in the group.

“Can you firebend?” he asked excitedly.

I couldn’t stop the small smile that broke out on my face at his excitement.

“Yes, but I wasn’t allowed to train so I never use it to fight. I use throwing daggers for that,” I explained, lighting a small fire in my hand as I spoke before putting it out.

“Maybe I could teach you. Aang is still doing the basics so it wouldn’t be hard to add you into the mix,” he offered.

I hesistated. I really would like to learn how to firebend properly, but it would mean spending more and more time with him. Shirtless.

Eventually, my desire to learn won out.

“I would love that,” I answered with a smile.

•••

Rule #2: Never admit you have feelings

The Fire Nation emblem was unmistakable. The airships that surrounded us were definitely not friendly. Azula stood inside one of the ships and taunted Zuko.

I knew what he was about to do. He was going to be an idiot and fight her alone. She was getting under his skin and I knew as soon as he started running that I couldn’t stop him.

The Gaang rushed onto Appa and began flying through the sky, avoiding the ship’s attacks as we did. I kept my eye on Zuko the entire time. He was holding his own pretty well, but Azula was a formidable appontent.

“We’ve got to grab Zuko and get out of here,” Katara exclaimed.

“I know, but how? He’s standing right next to Azula!” Sokka said.

I turned to look back at Zuko just in time to see him hurtling off the ship and down into the abyss below.

“Zuko, no!” I screamed.

The Gaang watched in horror as Zuko began to fall. His own expression of horror etched itself into my mind. He was going to die.

Appa flew furiously through the air until we were swooping underneath Zuko. Katara managed to grab him hand and yank him down into the basket. I unknowingly let out a sigh of relief.

We flew to a new campsite far enough away from the temple and began to set up camp. I was sent to collect firewood, which left me plenty of time alone with my thoughts.

I had thought for sure that Zuko was going to die. The heart wrenching feeling in my chest as I watched him falling was unmistakable. I felt a nervous pit begin to form in my stomach.

I knew without a shadow of a doubt why I was so scared when he was falling. I knew why that feeling of relief that washed over me when Zuko was safe was also accompanied by a warm feeling in my stomach.

“I like Zuko,” I whispered, burying my face in my hands.

•••

Rule #3: Avoid physical affection

Zuko was right: the Ember Island players butchered every play. This one especially.

In hindsight, going to see a play about ourselves written by someone from the Fire Nation wasn’t a great idea. Everybody was in a bad mood, but especially Zuko.

I caught him wallowing out on the porch when I went to grab a midnight snack. I wondered wether to leave him alone or check on him. We had grown to be close friends since he joined us and I felt guilty about the idea of leaving him alone.

“Hey,” I said as I sat beside him, “Are you ok?”

He looked over to me with a sad smile before looking back out at the ocean.

“Yea, I’m ok. I just really didn’t like the play,” he sighed, bringing his knees up and hugging them to his chest.

“I didn’t like it either,” I admitted.

Particularly, I didn’t like the implied romance between Zuko and Katara. But of course, I didn’t say that.

“It just took every mistake I’ve ever made and threw it back in my face. It made me realize how undeserving I am of everyone’s forgiveness,” he explained, the same sad smile on his face as he spoke.

I hesistated. Normally, this is the point where I would wrap them in a hug and give a huge speech about how valued they are. I wanted to do that so badly right now, but the little voice in the back of my head that screamed no made me weary.

I settled for putting my hand on his shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile.

“You’re a good person, Zuko. Even good people make mistakes,” I said.

I stood up after a few moment of silence and began to walk away.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, grabbing my wrist as he scrambled to his feet.

I stood frozen to the spot, a look of shock and apprehension on my face as I wondered what he was doing. My skin tingled at the contact and sent a swarm of butterflies off in my chest.

I was about to say something before I felt Zuko wrap his arms around me. I hesitated for only a moment before returning it. He was incredibly warm and I found myself melting into him with every passing moment.

“Thank you,” he whispered, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, my voice barely audible.

•••

Rule #4: Never be emotionally vulnerable

Zuko’s battle with Azula had not gone to plan, but he had still won. Today, he was getting crowned as Fire Lord and I couldn’t have been happier for him.

I went to go see him before the ceremony and found him struggling to get into his clothes. I giggled slightly which caught his attention.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed happily.

I hadn’t been able to see him since he left at the White Lotus camp. I glanced at the bandages wrapped around his chest and walked closer to him. I helped him pull his sleeve onto his arm as he smiled.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” I admitted softly.

“Same here. I heard you took some nasty hits,” he said, looking down to where my own bandages were wrapped.

“All for the good of the nation,” I replied, a joking smile on my face.

He laughed slightly before hugging me. At this point, I was no longer surprised when he did, but I still got just a flustered. I let myself enjoy the warmth of his embrace a little longer before pulling away.

“I’m glad you came to see me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his good arm before adding, “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

“Oh?” I asked in surprise.

“I wanted to say something before I left to fight Azula, but I kind of chickened out. And then I almost died and realized I just needed to come out and say it,” he explained, taking a step closer to me.

My breath hitched as my eyes met his. They were so beautiful and more filled with emotion than I had ever seen before.

“Y/N, I really like you. I’ve had a crush you on pretty much since the beginning, actually,” he admitted, chuckling slightly as he looked to the side.

My heart dropped in my chest. Part of me was over the moon elated at the fact that he returned my feelings and the other half of me was too scared to say it back.

“W-Why?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“Why? Because you’re insanely beautiful and smart and funny and supportive. You believed in me when I didn’t and you make me a better person,” he said, a breathy laugh leaving his voice as he spoke.

I shook my head. I couldn’t believe it. It had to be some kind of joke.

“That’s not true,” I said quietly, beginning to step back from him as I did.

Zuko stepped forward again and took my hand in his. I met his gaze with tears in my eyes.

“It is true. I didn’t know until a little while ago, but it’s true. I fell for you without even knowing it and, Agni, does it hurt that you can’t see it,” he said.

“I...,” I began, my voice cracking with all the emotions I was feeling.

“It’s ok. I figured you probably wouldn’t feel the same,” he sighed, stepping back before saying, “I just wanted you to know.”

Seeing the heartbreak in his eyes only made mine worse. I took a deep breath.

“That’s not it. I....,” I trailed off, my confidence faltering slightly as he looked at me.

I ran a hand through my hair nervously before crossing my arms over my chest. Zuko simply watched me patiently, waiting for me to finish.

“I do like you. A lot. I’m just scared,” I admitted.

“Scared I’ll bertray you like I did the others,” he said softly.

“No! No, this has nothing to do with you,” I assured him quickly, desperate to stop him from going down that train of thought again, “I just...my ex really hurt me and I’m afraid of trusting someone that much again.”

Zuko stayed still for a moment before pulling me into a hug. I immediately began to cry as he held me, his hand rubbing up and down my back.

“I don’t know what your ex did, but I promise you this isn’t a joke. I’m so head over heels for you, Y/N. Even the Gaang can back me up,” he assured me, his arms tightening around me slightly.

I took a deep shaky breath before pulling back slightly. I felt the nervous pit in my stomach once more, but in that moment I wanted to ignore the rules. I leaned up and kissed him.

It was soft and nurturing and so very different from how my ex and I used to kiss. Zuko kisses me like I was a treasure he never wanted to lose. Like I was the air he needed to breath. It sent a warm feeling across my entire body.

“Does this mean you’ll be my girlfriend?” he mumbled into my lips.

I cracked a small smile before responding. I ignored the voice in my head that told me to run away.

“Yes.”

•••

Rule #5: Never say I love you. Ever.

Things with Zuko have been going great. I had been dating him for a few months and even with him being Fire Lord, he always made time for me. Wether it was small breaks in the garden to impromptu lunches, he always managed to fit me into his busy schedule.

Today, it was early morning tea. The morning was still bright and the tea I held on a tray as I walked towards his room left tiny curls of steam billowing behind me. I didn’t bother to knock before opening the door, but apparently I should have.

Inside, there was Mai. Kissing Zuko.

I felt the tray slip from your hands and crash onto the floor. Zuko shoved Mai off of himself as the tray fell and then looked to the doorway when he heard the crash. His expression of anger dropped when he saw me standing there.

“Y/N, wait!” he exclaimed, his expression of horror clear as day.

I ran out of the room. I didn’t even know where I was running, I just let my feet take me wherever they wanted. I knew I had been stupid to trust him. I felt my breathing become shallower as I ran and the panicked feeling in my chest grew as well.

I finally stopped in the garden by the turtle duck pond and cursed myself inside. Of course I had come here. This used to be Zuko and I’s stress free spot. I felt myself struggling to breath as I let my tears fall.

“Y/N, let me explain.”

I turned to see Zuko standing a few feet behind me. I hadn’t even heard him walking towards me. I turned back around and began furiously wiping my tears away.

“Go away, Zuko. I have no interest in hearing what you have to say,” I spat.

“Y/N, please. She kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. You just happened to walk in at the wrong time,” he pleaded, taking a step closer towards me.

I scoffed before turning around and glaring at him angrily.

“I don’t believe you,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Y/N, I would never cheat on you. You’re the most important person in the entire world to me. I don’t love Mai, I love-“

“Stop! Stop it.”

My scream cut him off and sent the atmosphere into one of tense silence. My tears had begun falling once more. I didn’t want him to finish. I couldn’t hear him finish.

“Don’t tell me you love me unless you mean it,” I said quietly, my voice wavering.

“I do mean it,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he spoke, “I mean, this isn’t by any means how I was planning on telling you, but it’s true. I love you, Y/N.”

I met his amber eyes and felt a piece of my heart shatter. He had real genuine pain in his eyes, like he was begging me to believe him. I wanted to. I wanted to believe so badly.

“How can you expect me to trust you?” I choked out, wiping my tears away once more.

“Because I’m not your ex. I’m your loving boyfriend who wants to spend the rest of his life treating you with the love and respect you deserve,” he answered, taking another careful step forward.

I let out a shaky sigh and balled my fists. I forced myself to shut my eyes and look down at my feet. I felt tears building up once more as I fought with myself about what to do. I wanted to believe him because I did trust him. But, that tiny voice was still screaming at me to run.

I wanted to say it back. I wanted to admit that I did love him. But I knew that once I said it there would be no going back. I would be sending myself down the very path my rules were set to keep me from.

I felt Zuko’s arms wrap around me and realized I had begun to sob. My hands were at my mouth to muffle the sounds and I could feel Zuko’s hand rubbing circles onto my back. I latched onto him and cried.

“Shhh. Shhh. It’s ok. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so so sorry,” he whispered soothingly into my ear to calm me down.

He knew I was fighting a battle within myself. Even without me having to tell him, he knew. Maybe it was because he knew the signs of what he had gone through himself or maybe it was because he knew me so well. Probably both.

I found myself melting once more into his soothing embrace and I allowed my sobs to die down. Zuko never loosened his hold on me or stopped comforting me. I felt the familiar warmth I felt when I was around him return.

“I love you too,” I said, my voice cracking as I did.

I heard Zuko laugh and pulled away to see that he had also been crying. I wiped his tears away and pulled him into a kiss. He kissed me again and again and again, smiled wider after each one.

I pulled away from his to give him a stern look. His smile faltered for a moment, scared of what I was going to say.

“I’m still mad at you though. I don’t want Mai anywhere near you alone again,” I huffed.

“Deal. You don’t even have to ask again. I’m all yours, Y/N. I promise,” he responded immediately, his smile returning.

Satisfied with his answer, I hooked his arm with mine and began leading him to the kitchen.

“Let’s go make some more tea. I could use some after all that,” I joked.

I heard him laugh and press a kiss to the top of my head as we began to walk.

“I’m so in love with you, Y/N.”

“I know.”

#zuko #prince zuko fanfic #prince zuko fanfiction #prince zuko fic #zuko imagine #zuko x reader #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader

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crazyclownthanos · 4 years

Text

White Clover

Page 1: Passing the baton

Words: 3823

The Clover Kingdom

The title of 30th wizard king, now belonging to an orphan who grew up in the forsaken realm, who had no magic and better yet was a devil host

Asta achieved his long life dream and he couldn’t be more happier

Standing on the clover castle balcony with his wizard king crown on his head and his signature smile

Right beside him was his fiancé at the time Noelle Silva who was given the role of one of the many advisers

Standing on his left side Secre Swallowtail or known as Nero in simpler times,another adviser to the wizard king

Along with Finral Vaude, another advisor to the wizard king

Together with Noelle was Mimosa Vermilion known to be clovers best healing mage

The whole entire kingdom was there to watch

From the noble realm

From the common realm

From the forsaken realm

All the citizens were there to watch

Sister Lilly, Orsi, Nash, Recca, Auru and Hollo were standing on one of the castle towers. smiles all around, cheering and some tears from father Orsi.

House Vermillion, House Kira and House Silva stood proudly watching the ceremony. King Augustus was actually bothered to watch the ceremony but all the swine did was sit and squirm in his throne. Some people don’t ever change.

All the captains stood proudly with their squads and robes on

The magic knights all yelling praises and singing for joy

Drouot within the crowd crying happy tears proud to see that boy grow up and soar over the years

The diamond kingdom mages showed up too

Mars

Ladros

Ragus

Broccos

Yagos

Galleo

Mohawq

Human Fana

All showed up to show their support to Asta

The seabed temple folks also saw

Gifso

Gio

Kahono jumping up and down screaming to see Noelle on screen.

Kiato

And the rest of the citizens

The Witches Forrest were also able to watch the ceremony

The elves were invited too. Patri, Elf Fana, Vetto and Rhya watched from the top of one of the buildings filled with joy

The newly crown spade king was just arriving landing right beside Asta with his crown and not to forget Belle still sitting on his shoulder

They didn’t say anything to each other but only smiled. Yuno and Asta shared one last bump fist

The journey ends. A new era starts......

A story of a new devil

This story starts off in a library, dusty books in sight, lightly lit candles illuminating the space, a chalkboard in sight and in front of the chalkboard was a wooden table and chairs

Two boys, one standing in front of the chalkboard and the second one sitting on one of the chairs

The first boy apperance was thin and fair, he was wearing a black turtle neck hemmed to his hips, along side white pants and an over sized wool cardigan. Cherry colored triple bangs and eyes of blooming sakuras seen from a distance

The second boy had two light grey braids on the left side of his head tied up in in a ponytail with bangs on the ride side sprouting out. Heterochromia irises of blue on the right and purple on the left. Wearing long puffy sleeves faded blue shirt connected to circle pins with the house Silva emblem splatted on, having a bit of a hole appears above it on both sleeves and on both side of hips, a lilac slash tired around his waist with the knot on the right side, navy blue pants along side pockets with the same pin at the ankle and the hole above.

Please meet

Ace Silva! The youngest of the Ideale Branch

And

Reagan Silva! The second son of the main Silva branch

“When making a paper crane you need to pull the wings, but not too hard!”

“Ta-da!”

Placing the paper crane on the table Ace gleed with Joy considering it was his 1000th time making a paper crane.

Meanwhile Reagan on the other hand was still struggling doing the top fold, his cheeks were turning red out of embarrassment

“You’ll get the hang of it!” Ace remarked hands on his hips smiling ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat. Hearing someone slam the door open frightened Ace causing him to fall on the ground and duck for cover.

Three people walked inside two girls look around the same height, and one male taller than the two girls

“Yo-ho! Regan, Ace!”

Please meet the next generation of Silvas

Be mentally & physically prepared

Seriously.

There beasts.

Haskell Silva.

Nozel Silva’s first son and the heir of the royal Silva family. A hyperactive 20 year old and a 1st class senior magic knight of the Silver Eagles squad. Currently rocking ankle length blonde hair to the ankles tied up in low length ponytail with bangs out. Wearing a sleeveless tight shirt of yellows and golds showing the design of a golden eagle in the middle and golden rays of the sun symboling the eagle, white pants and calf length white boots with golden edges.

Next was Nozel’s first daughter, claimed to be one of the finest ladies in the kingdom. A cunning lady who went by the name Nereida Silva. A rookie member of the Black Bull who got into the squad by persuasion by her aunt, Noelle. She had the facial features and silver hair, a normal Silva appearance (though unlike her yellow eyes that textured her irises) tied up at the buttom and pinned up by a clip with a somewhat curly fringe the swooped up a bit. Wearing something similar to Haskell but instead of the golden edged boots it’s dipped in a silver color altogether. Her tight singlet that caressed her skin in a purple color.

The last one of the bunch

Josslyn Silva.

The eldest of the Ideale branch.

Told to be one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, blessed with mint green eyes like her grandfather, pink luscious lips, quite noticeable and long cherry blossom hair that was normally tied up in a high ponytail along with her bangs that covered her forehead and hair spilling out at the front. Complementary to Nereida and Haskell she of course rocked the silver edged boots, white pants and a pink tight top.

“A-ah! What bring you guys here? I thought you guys were meant to do your intense trial or something else...” Ace murmuring his last couple of words, peering his pink eyes at the three

“I’ll comment and say Haskell was a walking fire hazard in today’s sparring session.” Nereida shared a smile making it look like nothing happened at all.

“Now we’re punished to read all books on magic tool history.” Josslyn cocked her head towards her younger brother.

A vein popped out of Nereida still fuming with rage knowing she got punished for something she didn’t do though appearances such appearances had no effect on her smile.!

“Oh I’m sorry Regan and I will take our leave” Ace stumbled on his words picking up the pieces of the paper he walked to the door expecting Regan following right behind him

“Rega- Aaah!” Ace let out a girly scream seeing Regans face turn purple from being suffocated from the squeeze of Haskell’s biceps

“HASKELL YOUR GOING TO KILL HIM~!” Ace mustered all the strength he could to let Reagan have atleast one breath of air pass his lips. Unfortunately it had no affect on Haskell, the guy was just too buff not like Asta buff just the unequaled type of buff.

Noticing the tears swell up in Ace’s eyes he took note of the state Reagan was in and joined the panic feast

“AAAAHHH WHAT DID I DO?!” Letting the poor six year old rest on his back, Haskell had no other option but to perform cpr on him.

Performing at least 60 chest compressions per 30 seconds, Haskell and Ace haven’t even checked for a pulse better yet done mouth to mouth.

The sound of a sharp inhale was a wave of relief crashing over Haskell and Ace.

“AAH! MY SWEET BROTHER BLOODHOOD YOURE BREATHING AGAIN~!!” Haskell shaking Reagan by the shoulders, waterfalls spilling down his cheeks. Concurrently Josslyn and Nereida stood there witnessing the turn of events not even changing their facial expressions

Squirming around the young boy Reagan sat there dumbfounded still picking up the pieces on what just turned.

Exhaling sharply, Josslyn stepped one foot forward resulting in both Ace and Reagan sitting on their assess kicked out of the room.

Somewhere outside Clover castle, busy by a chain of stalls selling fresh produce and in an alleyway a red fox growling its teeth at some crows over a crushed rotten apple. Successfully the red fox scared the crows away able to eat the apple without disturbance.

A gust of wind came along not disturbing the red fox but the newspaper blown right in front of the apple. Looking at the newspaper the front cover was in view displaying the new generation of Silva’s all standing, hands behind their backs, legs straight plus posture and not to forget their serious expressions. Wrinkling the red foxes expression somehow it didn’t happen to wrinkle on the last boy with the red hair on the left instead it only tilted it’s head. As the red fox shifted its head to the visible sign of the House Silva emblem.

Back at the Silva palace Ace and Reagan walked down the corridor going pass all the Silva’s portraits that came before them, their luxurious silver hair was never out of sight, they had forgotten they were the first generation of Silva’s that all possess their own individual hair color, the pressure was definitely on for them. At the rate their generation is going the pressure might be able to kill them knowing that both Ace and Reagan have not manifested a magic attribute yet, always the word “yet” has to taunt Ace, other children his age are already performing and practicing magic.

“Grandmother......” Reagan said in awe

Hearing those words Ace tapped back into reality seeing that both him and Reagan approached the portrait of Acier Silva looking all beautiful, Ace could only bite his lip in shame, knowing that this was the woman he was named after, he wasn’t reaching the expectations of royals, he wasn’t out there with his cousins using magic neither doing his duty as the bridge between royals and peasants making a difference.

Why wasn’t he never good enough.....?!

Ace’s hands started to shake, noticing this Reagan took Ace’s closest hand to him and started to pet it attempting to give it warmth. Taking his hand out of Reagan’s grasp, Ace held them together forward and bowed deeply altogether with a sad face for a few minutes. Standing back up he turned to see the stern expression of what Reagan was making, squeezing his fists right near his face, quivering his lip and his eyes look like they were about to pop out of his head. Ace almost felt if he we’re to poke his cheek he would explode. Lifting up his hands in surrender, not knowing what he could do next. “R-Reagan d-do you need to go p-p-potty?” Reagan took back his composure, he stopped squeezing his fists, took them to hip level and made hand gestures to Ace ordering him to get onto his height level. Somehow Ace cleary understood what Reagan was communicating and did what he got told. Now kneeling right in front of Nozel’s second son, Ace was not prepared on what was going to happen.

Reagan slapped him.

Before Ace could recover from the first slap a mountain of slaps came flooding in.

Screaming Bloody Mary for a good 5 minutes. Reagan finally finished. Sitting on beaten up Ace’s stomach, huffing and huffing before speaking out to him one last time. “Now have you learnt your lesson?”

“A lesson?! How is this a lesson! You just continuely slapped me without say?!” That’s what Ace really wanted to say. Instead he just breathed out, saluted him and replied back. “You got it captain Reagan.”

Reagan nodded his head in approval. Getting off his stomach. Reagan starred at the glass door near by echoing the songs of spring. “Hurry along Ace! It’s time we go outside.” Pointing to the glass door leading to House Silva’s garden. Ace lifted up his head (still red slap marks kissing his face) scrunching his nose in confusion.

“But why?” Ace questioned. Replying to the question, Reagan had already walked over to the glass door and tried to grab onto the door handle.

“Oh.”

He had to open to door for Reagan. Forgetting that Reagan was shorter than the average six year old male and the door handles around the palace tend to be far higher.

While Reagan was running around the garden on a quest to find as many bugs as he could. Ace spent his time laying on the grass, face down and pretending he wasn’t listening to a kid on crack. Feeling the sudden pain of an object hitting his head, Ace lifted his head off the grass to search on what could of strike him. His eyes couldn’t pick up anything unusual, maybe it was just the pain of the slaps finally coming to fry his brain. Scanning one more time Ace finally saw what it was. An acorn? Sweeping the acorn off the ground Ace held the acorn in both his hands, lifting up his upper body to take a proper look, the acorn was just another ordinary acorn but what felt odd about it that squirrels don’t even take habit around the capital, usually their spotted in places like the woods.

The curiousity caused Ace to take a closer look around the garden to see if maybe Reagan had shifted from scouting bugs to acorns instead. Wasn’t the case at all. Instead of a kid on crack Ace had spotted a baby red fox using it’s amber eyes as a somewhat attempt of brainwashing him. This wasn’t the first time Ace had crossed paths with a red fox, you can spot them sometimes, never in packs but just a single red fox always startling Ace somehow.

A few blinks was traded among the two, soon enough Ace passed on a small smile and wave. The red fox maybe had mistaken the small gesture as a way to tell the fox come fourth. One paw in front of the other Ace did wonder where did the red fox came from. Maybe it was the adult foxes baby? But shouldn’t it stay close to its mother? Finally in arms length, Ace sat up cross legged and let out an open hand for the baby fox to get a closer sniff on his scent, it all went well until Reagan decided to run pass still continuing to scream. The scream had startled the baby fox causing it to hide behind Ace. Evoking Ace to crackle a chuckle he simply laid a hand on the foxes head, while he continued to chuckle with his other hand over his mouth. This brought back a memory of the times whenever he would get scared and hold onto his mother’s leg or hide behind her dress as hypocritical it sounds. Maybe this was the feeling Nebra got whenever Ace would do this

The baby red fox came back around with pleading sounds of joy that only worked Ace over more. Starting to come closer the baby fox began to lay its head on his lap for comfort. Not wanting to wake up the baby fox Ace sat there only focusing his eyes on the sleeping fox.

Regrettably that soothing peace didn’t last long. Reagan came up to Ace holding bugs that he dug up, together with dirt in between his fingers. This time the fox ran out of sight as soon as the oath approached. Ace pulled a face of disgust stirring his head away from the sight.

“Something the matter Ace?”

“Uh. Not really actually.” Ace held the barf in his cheeks.

“You look sick...wanna go see Mimosa?” Dropping his hands. Having the tone of a concerned mother.

Ace cocked his head the other way not wanting to see the sight of his hands again.

“No thank you! Really appreciate it but I think I’ll be fine.” Just when Reagan was going to say something else the scent of gasoline hit them like an arrow.

“Is that the smell of gaso-“ Ace didn’t even finished his scentence. The damage had already been done. The three tater tots had successfully blown up one of their families libraries and some areas outside the library. They can already imagine the headache in front of them.

“Oh come on you old meanie! Is hitting us THAT necessary?!!” Haskell yelped just after gotten a smack a head from one of Nozel’s Mercury stick thingos.

Haskell, Josslyn, Nereida plus Ace and Reagan was currently getting interrogated none other then the head of the family. Nozel Silva, for damaging their “beloved” library.

“Indubitably it is. I could punish you 5 far worse but by all means I’ll keep you alive for now.”

“Oooo you’re so intimidating Mr frostbite~ What are you going to do to that library? DIG IT A GRAVE?” Haskell was getting sharp with his words, he wasn’t the compulsive type though if you were to trigger that all you could do was pray and hope for the best.

That triggered Nozel. The air became thin and the room began to shake in an attempt to scare these children.

Unsuccessfully his plan didn’t work out at all. These children weren’t fazed in the slightest bit. Haskell stood there crossing his arms and tapping his foot, Nereida only stood there with no facial expression expressed and Josslyn could only stare at the ugly paperweight on Nozel’s desk. Meanwhile in Ace and Reagan case they couldn’t even detect mana at all, not to forget this rapid cold feeling wasn’t the first time they had felt it.

As soon as the room felt more lighter Haskell had a bucket of insults ready to missile at his father, however Nozel was able to summon a piece of mercury taped to his mouth to keep him shut.

“At this age of your lives. You three should know how to maintain your magic and keep it away from harms way.” Walking past all Silva’s like they were at military camp.

Nereida lifted up her hand to say something.

“I competely agree with you father, but if you will I need to comment that it was all Josslyn’s and Haskell’s fault. You see Haskell kept on mocking Josslyn and you get the idea that Josslyn is quite short tempted. To flourish her anger she activated one of steamed based spells to fill the area of gasoline so on and so forth.” Ace sometimes wondered how Nereida can stay efficient.

Josslyn rolled her eyes. Haskell was trying to shout profanities with the mercury still taped to his mouth. “Thank you Nereida. I do appreciate your truth. Momentarily I assure its all time you five gets some shut eye for tomorrow’s event.”

All of them except for Haskell saluted and 4 of them made their path outdoors in the meantime Reagan rushed to his fathers side. Ace whispered to Nereida covering his mouth “wait. I still don’t understand why Reagan and I were dragged into this.”

“Better not to question it.” Nereida replied keeping her hands behind her back. Ace slopped forward looking forward to the comfort of his pillow.

The baby red fox ran through weeds in the moonlight. Stopping at a rock placing both paws onto the rock. Then the impossible happened. A illuminating red glitter had taken shape over the fox. The red fox shifted into a baby red fox to an adult red fox. Gawking at the offical royal magic grimoire tower in front of it.

Tick-Tock

CLING

It was already mightnight. The grandfather clock had sure done its job waking up Ace. Reaching out towards his bed side table for his glass of water but this time as he picked up the glass and lifted it towards his lips no water dropped down.

“Dammit.” He had ran out of water. He had two options. Go downstairs to refill the glass or two swallow his own saliva. He went for the first option. Getting out of his comfortable position, Ace walked down stairs wearing a white shirt and grey sweatpants. Walking down silently, wary not to wake up his parents or sister. Refilling the glass cup he had caught something phenomenal.

The semita blue butterfly. A rare butterfly that glows, which can only be founded during darking hours. He wasn’t letting this chance slip through his fingers. Taking a big sip of the water he started to walk towards the butterfly. Unlike other butterflies that would fly away if they spot danger, many have stated that the semita blue butterfly dosen’t fear danger.

Following the butterfly through the double doors outside the sleeping quarters of the Ideale branch. Pass the portrait of his grandmother. Flying through the main kitchen. Cursory every corner. Making it to the outdoors where Ace never stopped chasing the butterfly. Even when approaching the royal grimoire tower he didn’t take his eyes off it. The butterfly was his goal.

But a slight problem occurred. Reaching the insides of the royal grimoire tower the butterfly started to fly up out of Ace’s reach. To describe the interior of the grimoire tower it was not like any other grimoire tower scattered all over the kingdom. There was windows near the top displaying crystal shaped windows, circling that part. Most fascinating there was floating book shelves carrying books.

Ace had no facnation checking the place out. All he wanted was to get one touch from the semita blue butterfly.

Reaching out his right hand trying to grasp the blue butterfly, his eyes went wider and wider.

He lost contact for a minute then somehow a miracle transpired.

A blue arrow shot out of his palm.

And not like an arrow you find in a bow and arrow. The symbol arrow.

The blue arrow came streaming out of his palm, the length continued to grow as it went up. The blue arrow punched one of the floating book shelves resulting in some books losing balance and to fall off the shelve, flying towards the ground. One of them happened to come flying down to Ace. Covering his head with his hands pleading that the book will somehow move. Taking one more good look at the book as it’s about to hit him. The book stopped. Floating in the air. Wait did he saw a thumb by the spine?!

Taking the book out of his sight Ace flexed his head towards the book direction uncovering a man twice his height, pale skin, black split hair on an angle and pericing red eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you. Ace”

#White Clover #Ace Silva #Nozel Silva #Black Clover #White Clover: Black clover next generations #Next generations #fanfiction #Josslyn Silva #Nereida Silva #Haskell Silva #anime

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cheeri0-queeri0 · 4 years

Text

My First Two Loves (WLW version): Chapter 3

Is she gaping? Emma has to be gaping.

“Ava… y-you and… Mason? Are…”

Ava grins rakishly, rubbing a hand along Mason’s back. “Madly in love? Or, well, lust - we haven’t gotten to that other L-word yet.”

Nails. Nails are being driven into her heart.

For his part, Mason looks taken aback by her reaction. “I meant to tell you last night, Emma.”

“You could’ve texted!” A lump is rising in her throat.

Mason scratches the back of his head. “I wanted to tell you in person. I tried to call, but when the line kept dropping, I thought…this is better?”

No. No it is not. It is one million times worse.

“Yeah, you’re right!” Emma forces the words to come out chipper, forces a placid smile. “I… I’m speechless. Congrats, you two.”

Congrats on secretly shattering her heart. But hey, what’s another secret to the now-sure-to-grow pile?

Mason’s shoulders relax, the tension falling from his face as he turns to Ava. “I almost forgot, babe! I got a little something for you.” He reaches over on the hood of Ava’s car where he put a cute little thermos.

Ava tentatively takes it from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Caramel macchiato?”

Mason gives her a shy, crooked smile. “With two shakes of cinnamon.”

Ava’s favorite.

The girl slings her other arm around his neck and rests her head against his cheek. “You remembered! Best boyfriend ever!”

Emma...is going to combust from agony.

“You guys are just so...perfect together,” she grits out, hoping it sounds passably pleasant.

Ava’s eyes find hers, softening just a bit.

Mason lets out a breathy laugh that seems more like a sigh of relief. “See, Ava, I told you she’d be happy for us!”

Ava blinks, breaking her gaze away. “I knew she would be. She is my bestie, after all.” There’s something off about her tone. If she hadn’t told Emma in the car that they were still solid despite Lauren dying to usurp her place, Emma would worry that maybe they weren’t best friends anymore.

Hell, maybe she’s still a little worried. And now for more than the Lauren reason.

“I should leave you alone for some...couple time. Catch you later!” Cue an ungraceful escape.

Mason jogs to catch up. “There’s so many times I tried to call. To tell you.” His voice turns plaintive. “Emma, I just want to double check. Are you okay with this?”

No! I am unequivocally not okay with this! God, how badly Emma wants to shout that at the top of her lungs. If she said it, Mason is exactly the kind of guy who would follow through and break up. He’s good. And that’s the problem.

“Mason. I’m happy for you. And for Ava.”

“...Yeah? Because your happiness means a lot to me.”

And now she has to sell it. “Yeah. I’m stoked. You’re so cute together. I should’ve played matchmaker years ago.” That...might have been overkill. “I just have some things to take care of right now. Talk later, okay?”

Mason nods. It worked. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Emma power-walks away, tears pricking at her eyes as she let her feet take her anywhere else.

After a short time, she rounds a corner, realizing too late that she’s behind the gym near the back parking lot she usually avoided.

And she wasn’t alone.

“Hey there, princess. What brings you to my place of business?” The boy is smarmy, leaning against the brick wall, hair gelled so thickly it wouldn’t move even in a tornado.

Emma stills, confused. “Your...uh, what?”

He frowns, pushing off the wall and wandering closer. “My store. My shop. My livelihood. What you buying?”

Oh. Shit. “I’m not - I’m just trying to get away from some people - ”

The boy comes to a stop too close. “Save it. A sob story won’t get a discount.” He looked her up and down, calculating. Though he definitely didn’t look like someone who was good at math. “Adderall. Has to be. A study buddy. Everyone needs one, right?”

He yanks a plastic bag out of his pocket.

“Oh, no thanks. I appreciate it, but I am not interested.”

His jaw works, clenching and unclenching. “The offer isn’t optional anymore. You saw what I’m selling. You’re part of this.” He takes one more step, his Axe body spray stinging the inside of Emma’s nose. “Now open up that bag and find me two hundred bucks.”

Several thoughts race through Emma’s head. The first, unhelpfully, is two HUNDRED dollars for one bottle of pills? Shortly followed by If I run, will he grab me?

Sensing the direction of her thoughts, the boy huffs. “I don’t like having to hurt people, really.” But he would, hung unspoken in the air.

“Leave her alone, Darren.” The voice is unfamiliar, low, with a rasp to it.

Emma whirls around to the girl stalking toward them. She’s...dangerous looking, leather jacket slung around her broad shoulders, green eyes boring unwaveringly into the aggressive pill-pusher.

The boy - Darren - backs up quickly. “N-Noelle? I didn’t know you were back in town. I’m just trying to run a business, okay?”

Noelle doesn’t speak, just wrenches the bag out of Darren’s hands and flings it onto the roof.

“You bitch!” Darren hesitates, glaring, then turns tail and runs.

The other girl watches him go, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. Up close, she’s taller than Emma, but only just.

It’s like the bubble of nervous energy inside her just bursts, and Emma blurts out, “W-wow, that was...kind of amazing -uh, amazingly stupid!”

Noelle hums, glancing at her. Emma doesn’t miss the way her eyes drift down to her stomach and back. “You gotta fight like with like.”

Emma laughs, a tittering little sound that she hates. She bites her lip, hard. “You’re lucky it didn’t come to a fight.”

The other girl shrugs, unbothered. “I like my chances better than yours.”

Okay...fair.

Noelle sighs, swiping a hand through her bangs to push them out of her chiseled face. “You should get out of here. I can’t spend all day playing guardian angel.”

“Oh.” The comment rubs her the wrong way, but Emma brushes it off. After all, she did call the girl’s heroics stupid. Maybe...maybe there’s a way to make it up to her? “Unless…you’re new, right? Maybe I can repay the favor and show you around?”

Noelle raises a brow. “How do you know I’m new?”

Not an outright rejection, Emma can work with that. She smiles. “I happen to know pretty much everyone here.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“So you’ve been invisible the past four years? I would definitely have remembered you.” The last part comes out without her even thinking it.

Green eyes drop to the ground, expression shuttering off. “I’ve...been away.”

“Like on a trip?”

“Not exactly.”

Emma pauses. She honestly can’t tell what the other girl is thinking. “You...don’t seem to like answering questions.”

Noelle’s lips twist into a humorless smile. “I’m told it’s one of my best character traits.”

Emma’s heart pangs. That’s messed up. “I’m not sure who told you that. It’s...sad. It keeps people away.”

“Sometimes it’s better that way.” Her voice is flat, either matter-of-fact or defeated. Who’s to tell?

“Not always,” Emma shoots back, challenging.

Noelle studies her curiously, weighing her words. She runs her tongue over her lips, then clicks it against her teeth, coming to a decision. “Fine. So, hypothetically, let’s say I take you up on this offer. What are you gonna do? Draw me a map or something?”

Emma snorts. She’s dismal at drawing. “I’d give you a tour. The campus has changed a lot the last few years, and I know all the best new spots. Besides, I’m not letting you get away that easy.”

She means it as a joke, but - she means it as something else, too.

Noelle’s back straightens, and there’s a renewed interest in her gaze. She gives her an easy grin. “I like the sound of that. Alright, I’m in.”

Something in Emma’s chest swoops. She can’t help but beam. “Welcome to Eastridge High tour extraordinaire.”

She takes the other girl around the school, pointing out landmarks important and trivial. Noelle opens up, not by much, but enough that Emma gets a glimpse of who she is underneath all the stoic backtalk. Intuitive, dry humor in spades, and…

And maybe...very, very attractive.

Emma’s only ever really had a crush on Ava, so she’s not totally sure what her type is, but damn. Apparently badasses check a lot of her boxes.

They wind up at the greenhouse, bequeathed by wealthy alum’s generous donation. It’s dubbed the Garden of Truth, the legend going that questions asked near the fountain in the center must be answered truthfully, with a magical limit of one a day.

Noelle chuckles, like legitimately chuckles. “You have to be making that up. Right?”

Emma tuts, kneeling to dip her fingers in the fountain’s water. “One question only, so choose wisely.”

Noelle looks up at all the hanging plants, the vines climbing towards the ceiling. “You first.”

Are you into girls?

“Have you ever been in love?” Close enough, right?

Noelle stiffens. “No,” she says, sharply, then reconsiders. “Maybe. I had feelings for someone I- someone I shouldn’t have.”

No pronouns. No closer to an answer for that, then. There’s silence for a moment, Emma tracing patterns on the water’s surface.

“You looked upset when you showed up at the parking lot today. Why?”

Emma jumps, drenching her sleeve. She stands. “I wasn’t - ”

Noelle sends her a look. “We’re in the Garden of Truth, remember? Be honest.”

Emma takes a deep breath. It might be nice to tell someone, someone with no stake in the fight. “I found out the girl I like is dating my best friend.” She wraps her arms around herself, holding Noelle’s gaze. “N-no one knows that I’m… Don’t tell anyone.” Her voice actually quivers.

Noelle reaches out and puts a hand on Emma’s arm. “I won’t. I’m good at keeping secrets.” She takes her hand back, and Emma immediately misses its warmth. “This girl… Does she know how you feel?”

Emma’s vision clouds with tears. “No.”

Noelle tilts her head, eyes crinkling in sympathy. “Figures. It’s hard to imagine someone turning you down.”

It isn’t hard for Emma - that seems to be all she has been able to imagine. The way Ava’s mouth would hang open, the way she would back away, turn her down. How it would get out, first to the cheer squad and then to the whole school. There’d be whispers, cruel jokes, pity. Everything would change.

They walk back out. Emma spots a few cheerleaders lounging around a picknick table in the courtyard. They wave her over.

Noelle slows, shoving her hands in her light-wash jeans pockets. “Looks like that’s the end of the tour. Bye for now, Cheer Squad.” She walks off before Emma can reply.

“...Bye?”

Her steps felt lighter as she joined the group. Like Noelle had lifted the weight since the Ava-Mason bombshell went off this morning. A distraction, if only for a few minutes.

Ava’s watching her with a somewhat shell-shocked expression. “Emma, I can’t believe you were talking to Noelle Harris!”

To her right, Lauren looks delighted. She twirls a lock of black hair in her manicured fingers, eyes sharp. “Don’t you know who she is?”

Emma searches the team’s faces for a hint, but she can’t find one. “What, is she famous or something?” It’s meant to be sarcastic, but she’s so confused it comes of as genuine.

Toni clears a spot for her, patting the bench. “You’d better sit down. You need to hear the truth about her!”

Taking trepidatious steps, Emma has the sinking feeling she’s gotten herself further into a mess.

#playchoices #choices mftl #mftl

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hookedonapirate · 4 years

Note

Hey Hannah hope everything is well during this weird time. Quarantine and all that :/ I would like to submit a oh daddy prompt if you’re still accepting those? I was thinking Emma and Killian need a Plummer or a cable guy to come to their house but it turns out to be one of Emma’s ex and killian feeling a bit territorial takes her to their bedroom to make her scream to prove a point 😉

A/N: You got it, Nonnie! Hope things are going well for you, too :)

Based on this one-shot: Oh Daddy

Other Oh Daddy Prompts: 1. You’re being an awfully bad girl l 2. Daddy, can you pass the potatoes? l 3. Better than coffee l 4. Caught In a solo act l 5. Naughty School Girl l 6. Busted l 7. Bless Me, Father I 8. Tell Me When to Grab the Cupcake

Rated: Explicit

Proving a Point

Oh, fuck. It's him.

Peering through the peephole, Emma's initial inclination is to dash to the bathroom and climb out the window which leads to the backyard. But then Killian would have to answer the door which would not be good. Her boyfriend and ex-boyfriend alone in the same room to talk about her? Oh no no no, that was not going to happen. And based on his timing, and because they were expecting a plumber, Graham must be him, because why else would he be here? No, he's here to do a job, not get her back. Besides, she’s a grown-ass adult in a committed relationship, and for once in her life, she's unbelievably happy, so she can open the freaking door to let her ex-boyfriend unclog her pipes. Ew, not in that way. Her sink’s broken and needs to be fixed. So she hauls the door open to let him in.

His face lights up when he sees her, and she doesn't fail to notice how his eyes leave her face for a second to roam down her body. She's wearing nothing but a silk pink robe since his knocking had interrupted a hot, steamy moment in the bedroom.

Yesterday, Killian told her what time to expect the plumber so she wouldn’t be surprised to find a strange man in the house when she woke up, nor would she be waltzing around the house naked (because when it’s just the two of them, Killian definitely isn’t opposed to her walking around in the nude, and in fact is always trying to enforce a no pants policy for the evenings. But because Mary Margaret and David have a key to the house and walk in whenever they feel like it, the no pants policy is out of the question). But she couldn’t help herself when Killian is in bed with her, his morning wood pressed to her butt. She thought they’d have enough time for a quickie, but they were sorely mistaken when there was a knock on the door earlier than expected. Instead, he asked her to get the door so he could take a moment to cool down.

~*~

“Emma?”

He doesn't recognize the voice when he leaves the bedroom, but he hears Emma greeting him in a similar manner as if they know each other.

“Graham…”

Killian stops in his tracks and lingers in the hallway, his brows creasing as he tries to recall why that name sounds familiar.

“It’s been a long time. How are you?” he hears Graham say enthusiastically.

Ah, yes, Graham is one of her ex-boyfriends. He remembered Emma talking about him a while back. They had a three-month fling a few years before Killian met her. He remembered Emma saying he was too emotionally unavailable after a jealous, manipulative ex-girlfriend sort of broke him when she ripped his heart out without so much as batting an eye, and he couldn’t seem to bounce back from that.

Knowing his relationship with Emma wasn’t serious, knowing that, despite the sex being the key component in that relationship, Graham wasn’t able to bring her to orgasm, and then hearing how tight Emma’s voice is when she talks to him, Killian exhales a deep breath of relief. He’s not worried.

When he steps into the living room, he notes that the guy is... somewhat attractive. Brown, curly hair, slightly defined muscles, a face that could probably qualify as aesthetically pleasing to most people. He appears to be around Emma’s age, maybe even younger, but much taller than her, Killian bitterly notices when Graham is close enough to her.

Too close.

Especially when Graham throws his arms around Emma and draws her into a hug. A hug that’s way too tight and far too long for Killian’s liking. Not to mention, very unprofessional and inappropriate. Isn’t he the fucking plumber?

Killian’s jaw ticks as he watches this complete stranger, to him at least, rubbing Emma’s back affectionately.

Who the bloody hell does this wanker think he is?!

But judging by how Emma doesn’t mold into the hug, whatever feelings Graham still harbors for her are definitely not mutual.

Killian’s presence is not even noticed yet, by Graham at least, as he enters the living room and stalks toward them.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Graham says huskily in her ear, as though he’s speaking to a lover, rather than an old fuck buddy. He pulls away only slightly, still gripping her shoulders.

And Killian doesn’t like it one bit.

Graham takes his time giving her a once-over, and Killian balls his hands into fists, suppressing the urge to lunge at this ponce and punch him in the nose. “You look good, Em. Real good.”

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Killian asks condescendingly before jumping into Graham's line of sight, placing a possessive left hand on Emma’s back and pulling her in for a quick kiss on the cheek. Graham finally tears his gaze away from her, taken off guard as Killian turns his head to look at him, extending his right hand and smiling widely—and ironically. “I'm Killian, her boyfriend.”

He can see out the corner of his eye, the slight smirk on Emma’s lips as Graham shakes his hand in hesitation. “Graham Humbert,” he says, and of course has to add very casually, “Emma and I used to date.”

“Briefly,” Emma adds quickly and turns toward Killian, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing him on the lips as though to ease his worries, letting him know anything she once felt for Graham is nonexistent.

Killian knows this, he knows Emma’s love for him runs so much deeper than anything she ever felt for Graham. No, it’s not Emma he doesn’t trust. It’s the wanker staring at his girlfriend with longing looks, googly eyes and also perhaps a hint of jealousy as Killian grabs her hips and pulls her into him. Emma responds by placing her hands on his chest, nuzzling his nose with hers and kissing him softly. Killian smirks against her lips as he feels the other bloke’s jealousy intensify.

Graham clears his throat, speaking awkwardly. “So, uh… I’m here to look at your pipes.”

Emma and Killian force themselves apart and return their attention to Graham after his words remind them of his presence.

“Right,” Emma says, forcing a smile at Graham.

As she leads the plumber to the kitchen, Killian watches as he openly checks out his girlfriend’s ass. He growls.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

“The pipes are the only thing you should be looking at, mate,” he barks with evident disdain, emphasizing the t. But it’s not until Graham stops and turns around to look at him, when Killian realizes he actually spoke out loud, instead of to himself like he’d intended to.

“What was that?” Graham asks, cocking a brow.

Killian heads for the bathroom, passing Graham along the way and planting a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing it with a warning grip as he murmurs in a polite tone, “You heard what I said.”

Embarrassed for getting caught staring, Graham hangs his head, whispers an apology and proceeds to the kitchen.

Killian goes to the bathroom to calm down, clutching onto the edge of the counter to prevent his jealousy from consuming him. He has to take a long, deep breath and splashes some cool water over his face to cool down, but knowing Emma’s in the kitchen with her ex in nothing but her bathrobe, knowing how unbelievably sexy she is and knowing very well Graham is taking full advantage, makes his blood bubble. He’s not happy Graham turned out to be their plumber. He should’ve just figured out how to fix the plumbing issue himself, but his attempts only resulted in him discovering that the blockage seemed to be further down where the pipes disappeared into the wall and he knew it was time to call a plumber.

He dries his face with a hand towel and returns to the kitchen to find Graham not working and instead, leaning against the counter engaging Emma in small chit chat.

Un-fucking-believable.

Graham is being all flirty and charming, and although Killian knows Emma’s only trying to be nice and is not at all interested in her ex or his attempts to reconnect, he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one bit.

So instead of listening to any more of Graham’s bullshit, Killian swoops in, grabs Emma’s hand and tugs her out of the kitchen so fast, she giggles over the threshold. And because he wants so badly to show Graham what he’d missed out on by not caring enough about Emma’s pleasure and instead, leaving her unsatisfied in the sack (and because apparently he’s a child) Killian pulls her into the bedroom, closes the door, crushes her lips with his and throws her on the bed like a rag doll. Her giggles echo against the walls as he drags his lips down her neck, growling against her skin.

“Daddy’s not jealous, is he?” she asks in amusement while tipping her head back, moaning as Killian nips the soft skin at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

“Of course not,” he claims breathily and undoes his pants. He rips Emma’s robe away from her lovely breasts and draws her soft nipples into his warm mouth, instantly making them hard as his cock stiffens against her nub. Without wasting another second, he takes his cock in hand and places the tip against her entrance, thrusting into her.

Emma moans and snakes her legs tightly around his waist, eagerly taking his entire length as he fucks her rough and hard, making her scream, “Oh, Daddy! Harder… please!”

Killian groans and gives his Swan exactly what she wants. What she needs.

“Yes, Killian, yes!”

There’s something about knowing her ex is just outside the door listening to Emma scream her boyfriend's name in ecstasy, letting Graham know exactly who she belongs to as he makes her come undone—something Graham could never do—that makes his blood run hot. Killian brings her to orgasm over and over again, each time making her scream so loudly, he’s sure the entire neighborhood can hear.

After they’re done, both flushed and clothed and back in the kitchen, he doesn’t have to wonder if Graham heard them or not because judging by how flustered he is, how crimson his cheeks are and how much he stutters when explaining how he fixed the sink, he definitely heard.

Killian has to suppress a smirk.

Graham gathers his tools and says earnestly to Emma, “I’m glad you found someone who’s capable of making you happy after I couldn’t.” In more ways than one, Killian is tempted to add. “It was nice seeing you again.” He glances at Killian. “And it was nice to meet you.”

Killian grins big and wide as he opens the door for Graham. “Oh, believe me when I say, the pleasure was all ours.”

Graham stumbles ungracefully over the threshold, almost tripping and falling and dropping his toolbox but catching himself on the doorframe. Killian can sense Emma is suppressing a laugh as Graham flashes them a forced, awkward smile before turning around and taking off.

Killian chuckles as he flings the door closed, never seeing a man so flustered or embarrassed in his entire life. As he scoops Emma up into his arms and carries her off to the bed again, her giggles reverberating through the house, he almost feels sorry for the poor bloke.

Almost.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs smut #oh daddy prompt #proving a point #my fic

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fieryanmitsu · 4 years

Text

If Only | A3! (one-sided Itaru/Izumi, Sakyo/Izumi)

This story plot suddenly just cannonballed into my head while I was listening to Shintarou Asanuma’s cover of “So Close” from Disney’s Enchanted. For those of you who don’t know, he is Itaru’s Japanese voice actor! I really do love AsaShin’s singing voice, and he seriously just knocks it out of the ballpark with this song. I’m just heartbroken forever now, and the lyrics made me cry, so here I am with an angsty story that no one asked for, hahaha!

Because of the way I envisioned this story, it felt most right if I wrote it in present tense. However, this style of writing is definitely something out of my comfort zone and I can’t remember the last time I tried writing in the present tense. So, I’ll apologize in advance if I make your eyes bleed with my terrible grammar and any unintentional switching to the past tense (especially since I don’t write with a beta)!!

IF ONLY

CHARACTERS: Itaru Chigasaki, Izumi Tachibana, Sakyo Furuichi

PAIRINGS: unrequited Itaru/Izumi, Sakyo/Izumi

My fanfic masterpost: Here

AO3: Link in my Blog Menu

Itaru finds himself in an unfamiliar situation: on the sidelines of a blaring dance floor. He has attended many weddings in his lifetime – he was at that age, after all, as his parents often remind him – but, he can count on one hand how many wedding after-parties he has bothered to join. Actually, he didn’t even need one whole hand. One experience was enough for him to have his fill of plastering on a fake face and dealing with obnoxious drunk people – especially drunk women trying to get into his bed. Not to mention, he would lose out on his precious free time.

However, there was no way he could get out of this particular after-party. After all, it is the Mankai Company-exclusive after-party for Izumi and Sakyo’s wedding. Or was it the after-after-party? Did the impromptu karaoke session thrown together by Banri and Tenma count as an after-party? Regardless, much to Itaru’s misery, skipping out on the current celebrations is not an option – according to Tsuzuru, anyway.

Nibbling half-heartedly on one of the finger sandwiches that Omi had prepared, Itaru lounges casually at one of the cocktail tables. A beautiful bouquet of flowers sits upon the pristine tablecloth – lovingly hand made by Tsumugi, of course – but his eyes spare them no glance. Instead, his gaze is glued on Izumi’s slender figure as she sways her hips on the dance floor, surrounded by a gaggle of the younger Mankai Company members. They cheer her on as she clutches the skirt of her floor-length white dress, whirling around with abandon. Her smile flashes brighter than the tacky disco ball suspended from the ceiling, and Itaru is unable to look away.

Suddenly, the dance music fades out and the mood in the ballroom completely changes as the DJ – Sakoda, because his services are free – starts playing a mellower tune.

Picking up his glass, Itaru throws back the rest of his drink, feeling the alcohol burn a hot trail down his throat. There was no way he was going to get through this evening sober. He clunks down the empty glass and vaguely registers Sakoda loudly announcing that it was about time that the boss gets his butt on the dance floor already.

The young salaryman absentmindedly shoves another sandwich into his mouth as he watches Sakyo being pulled from his seat at a nearby table and shoved into the centre of the rented hall by Taichi and Misumi. The bespectacled man stumbles as he nearly trips on one of the table legs, and Izumi catches him in her arms as the two young men laugh rather than help.

After Sakyo regains his footing, the newlywed couple wrap their arms around each other to the cheers of the audience and they begin swaying to the tune of a slow, romantic song. The usual hard expression on Sakyo’s face softens as he looks down lovingly at his bride, and the smile that Izumi returns is blinding.

Itaru tears his eyes away. He doesn’t know why he still feels bothered. Did he not literally witness those lovey-dovey faces all day as they had been exchanging vows, giving their speeches at the reception, and cutting the wedding cake? Maybe the alcohol was exacerbating it, but the remaining sandwich in his mouth suddenly tastes like sand and he feels sick to his stomach. He wants to run away, wants to get away from the awful feelings wrapping their fingers around his chest and squeezing his heart painfully.

But, as usual, he doesn’t do anything. Just like the countless other instances in the past years. How many times had the voice in his head shut him down when he wanted to reach out to her, only to freeze and pull away?

‘Why bother – you’re not good enough, anyway,’ the voice lamented.

‘You’re just useless gamer trash – you’ll never be able to give her what she deserves,’ the voice sneered.

‘Why compete with him – he’s better than you in every way,’ the voice demanded.

He has long lost count.

Itaru is drawn out of his thoughts by loud whooping and wolf whistles. Turning his head to the source of the attention, he sees Azuma confidently step onto the dance floor while flicking his ponytail over his shoulder. Moments later, the long-haired man gracefully steals Izumi away from her groom with a wink. Even though the lighting in the room is dim, Itaru can just make out Sakyo rolling his eyes as he steps aside, but not without a good-natured smirk on his lips.

Izumi giggles with delight as Azuma leads her across the dance floor. Before long, the professional cuddler’s actions start a chain reaction. Kazunari swoops in shortly after with a cheeky grin to enjoy his turn with Izumi before he twirls her away to – a very drunk, Itaru notes – Tasuku. The director is nearly crushed by his burly body when he fails to keep his feet under him, but Citron rescues her and begins spinning her around the dance floor. Izumi’s laughter rings in Itaru’s ears as she continues to waltz through a succession of more Mankai Company men.

And, then, suddenly, Izumi is standing in front of him, and her hand is on his wrist.

“Dance with me, Itaru,” she requests – no, commands – and tugs lightly on his arm with a big, innocent smile and flushed cheeks.

In any other situation, his rejection would be instantaneous. He doesn’t dance – can’t dance. Izumi knows this, too, considering the countless number of times he has trampled on her toes during practices.He knows he should turn her down, because nothing good can come of this.

Maybe, he could use Masumi as an excuse – the young man was slumped over on one of the tables, dead to the world. He could say that he was taking Masumi home to rest (and mope) in his bed instead. But, something about Izumi always makes his brain short-circuit and he can’t bring himself to say ‘no’.

Still in a daze, he lets her pull him onto the dance floor. It’s not until he feels one of her hands settle on his shoulder and her other hand clasp around his own, that it really hits him.

An intense surge of emotions wrenches through his gut and he wants to throw up. His mind is a tornado of competing, conflicting thoughts, threatening to rip him apart from the inside. He feels a telltale prickling behind his eyes and he bites down so hard on the inside of his cheek that he can taste blood.

Hide it, he screams at himself. SMILE, damn it.

So, he does. Except, it’s not the smile he means to give – the princely, aloof smile that deflects everything. Instead, he gives Izumi a smile he has hidden for years. The one that he only permits himself to give her in his dreams.

Itaru wants to kick himself – wants to stab his own traitorous heart – because, in his moment of weakness, he is succumbing to the escapist habit he has depended on since childhood. However, this time, instead of imagining himself as Lancelot, as he often did in his youth, he imagines that he is… hers. Imagines that this is their dance. Imagines that he is the one that said ‘I do’ at the altar. Imagines that he can make this beautiful woman, in her pure white dress, happy – for it was this woman that gave him a place to belong and he can’t imagine being anywhere else but by her side.

And, in that moment, Itaru is the happiest he has ever been and he wishes he could keep holding her hand forever. Maybe, this moment could have been real–

If only he didn’t always just decide to give up, then maybe he could have said ‘I’m serious’ instead of ‘I’m just joking.’

If only he was brave enough, then maybe he could have returned her embrace, instead of wrenching himself away.

If only he could hate himself less, then maybe he could have told her: ‘Choose me.’

If only this dream would never end.

If only–

But, he hears the melody beginning to slow down…

Not yet.

… and the last notes of the song fade away.

Please.

Then, their feet come to a halt, and Itaru wakes up.

“Thanks, Itaru! You’ve made me so happy!” she exclaims with a smile that burns its image into his eyes.

And, despite the irrational part of his mind screaming at him to keep hold of her hand, he just gives her a smile – a real one, because he loves her – and gently plants a kiss to the back of her hand before he lets her go.

It took me a long time and many late nights of fiddling around before I was satisfied with this, so hopefully my words got through and you were all able to the fruits of my labour!

I would also highly recommend you all to take a listen to AsaShin’s cover of “So Close” if you can (it’s from the Disney Koe no Ouji-sama Voice Stars Dream Selection II album). There is also the original Japanese version on YouTube with subtitles last I checked as well. Ultimately, this story was a culmination of my feelings and thoughts as I listened to that song.

Anyway, thank you again for reading and feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts or any constructive criticism!! If you enjoyed, please reblog~

-Anmitsu

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shakespeareintellectualbadass · 4 years

Text

http://andthenshesaid.co.uk/expertsofourownexperience/queer

Feels weird to advertise a blog on a blog, but I'm writing a series called Experts of Our Own Experience around pieces of my personal experience of life - being neurodivergent, dealing with depression and anxiety and an eating disorder, and most recently, being visibly queer for the first time in my life. I've learned more about myself from hearing others talk about their experiences, and I'm a big believer in learning about experiences other than your own, so whether any of these things apply to you or not, maybe you'll find something connective.

If you're interested, check it out, lmk if you have thoughts ✌

I’ve known I’m not straight since I was seventeen.

I went to all-girls school for fourteen years, from age four to eighteen. All my friends were female until I got to college. For most of my youth I was more consumed by the romantic stories my imagination conjured up, and generally those stories starred princes rather than princesses. I never spent any time overanalyzing it because it never felt wrong, to imagine either but focus more on boys.

And yeah, I’m definitely attracted to men. I obsessed over the boys we met at parties in high school like my friends did. I enjoy flirting with and dating men (most of the time…). I have a longstanding, embarrassingly strong celebrity crush on Jensen Ackles (like full blush, swooping in my stomach listening to him sing or when he winks at the camera). I remember one particular boy who my best friend and I fought over for about an hour at a friend’s quinceañera freshman year (that might be the most heated fight we’ve ever had and we’d only met him at that party, which is ridiculous). I also had really intense female friendships I didn’t think anything of. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see how those friendships with girls I liked and admired - the really earnest ones where I’d go out of my way to do things for them and be around them because I just really want her to want to be my friend - were actually crushes. I’m a people pleaser (with people I care about anyway), but I recognize that higher intensity now that I’ve been through more serious relationships. Definitely bisexual.

It clicked in the autumn of senior year, when I fell for one of my friends from school. We spent a few months pining and then dated for about half a year (though we were both dealing with shitty mental health struggles at the time and were overall not very good for each other) and broke up right before I graduated. All our friends knew we were together, as did my family and probably hers and probably quite a few more people than we knew. What can I say, I’ve never been known for my subtlety, especially when romantic interest is involved.

But right now is the first time I’ve been obviously queer. Visibly, aesthetically queer in how I choose to present myself.

I’ve easily passed for straight all my life. I’ve had long hair and lengthened my eyelashes with coats of mascara, worn low cut tops and tall heels and tight jeans. I’ve flirted with men more than women and leaned into my soft, feminine energy more than my assertive, masculine energy.

But I’ve never had to adjust to being bisexual, to accept that about myself. I never worried about what my parents would think. I know I’m enormously lucky because of that. That said, there’s a difference between coming to terms with being bisexual and being comfortable presenting as queer. My parents are both artists; they both went to college for performance (acting for mum, singing for dad) and are wonderfully open minded and raised me with that same open-mindedness. I don’t think I ever actually came out to them. I could tell they knew about my interest in my high school girlfriend, so I just started talking about it, and that was that. My whole extended family is very accepting, and there are other LGBTQ+ members of the family. One of my cousins is trans and bi; we make a lot of jokes about being the gay cousin (“every family has a gay cousin; if yours doesn’t, you’re the gay cousin” “but if I’m the gay cousin, and you’re the gay cousin, who’s flying the plane?”). My dad’s mom and her partner have been affectionately dubbed The Grandmas for my whole life. Grandma Natalie is as much my grandparent as Grandma Gayle, though we’re not related by blood. I don’t know how many members of my family know I’m queer - I’ve never specifically come out to any of them either - but I don’t worry about it. It’ll become obvious at some point, or I’ll drop it in conversation like I do so often now.

It does vary, how out I am - in high school I was comfortable with it in my personal life, but I never considered joining the LGBTQ+ club - and it’s been different when I’m in a relationship. Both my long term boyfriends were queer/on the bisexuality spectrum, but we presented like a heterosexual couple so never had to worry about coming out. While my high school girlfriend and I weren’t subtle, we also weren’t fully out as a couple. Her family was religious and she was worried about their reaction. On top of that, we were both fairly femme, and in Catholic school the general assumption is that everyone is straight. When I got to college, I only dated men. Part of that was residual fear left over from how badly that high school relationship ended. Part of it was I went to a Catholic university (seriously, how did I spend eighteen years in Catholic institutions when I’ve never been Catholic). A lot of it was compulsive heterosexuality - something queer women fall into a lot because our society is set up with men as the be all and end all (“how could anyone not be attracted to men?” “Of course the ultimate happy ending is settling down with a man...”). A lot of it was how much more I was around men. For the first time, there was a lot of choice, which was an exciting prospect. Even when I wasn’t in a serious relationship, I tended to only focus on men as romantic prospects.

Again, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how much I’ve been and still am guided by that ingrained need for male attention and validation. It’s also easier to pick up men than women - there’s no is she flirting or is she just friendly to deal with – because men and women are socialized so differently that men don’t usually gush and compliment women they’ve just met in the same way that women do. Maybe it’s just easier to assume men are flirting because of the stereotype that men always want to get laid. Maybe it’s scarier to flirt with women. Maybe both. It’s certainly possible that’s my own projection rather than fact. That said, I did once have a two hour conversation with a lady in a shop during which we effusively complimented each other multiple times, and I have no idea if she was flirting with me or if she was just nice. Girls in bar bathrooms consistently hype each other up without ever exchanging names. It’s wonderful, but it does make things a little foggy when one is trying to flirt with a lady.

Anyway - I was talking about being obviously queer for the first time. It’s odd because I’m very comfortable talking about being bisexual. I bring it up in conversation easily. I post about it for pride. I talk about it a lot on my podcast. I’ve been comfortable with it since I recognized it - I have a wonderfully supportive family, and accepting that part of myself came easily. Presenting it to the world aesthetically is different - more personal, more vulnerable. Even writing about it here, thinking of you reading this, I feel more shy than I would were we face to face. While I didn’t spend any time reassessing my personality when I realized I’m bi, I’m just now recognizing that I do have internalized biphobia and compulsive heterosexuality I need to work through. I think the difference right now is about presentation, that I’ve never felt like I looked bisexual. Which is silly, right? As much as we talk about gaydar and queer trends (bisexuals cuff their jeans, etc), both within the LGBTQ+ community and out, you can’t actually tell anyone’s sexual orientation from their appearance. Queer people just tend to be more adventurous with their self-expression, perhaps because they’ve spent time at one point or another repressing who they are. Perhaps there’s just a joy in exploring something different, that makes you stand out. I don’t know - that’s true for me, though I’m only just starting to experiment myself, and I’m sure it’s different for everyone. I certainly don’t know if I would experiment with my style in the same way if I was straight, having never been straight.

My style has slid less feminine during this year of lockdown. Part of it is that I’m rarely going anywhere, and when I am, I’m walking a lot, so sneakers are a must. I exercise a lot more now, so often when I leave the house, it’s for a workout in a park and I’m dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt. I’ve gravitated toward looser trousers for the last year and a half or so; after years of skinny jeans, I’m obsessed with how comfortable they are. Now that it’s winter, I’m more focused on being warm and comfy than being fashionable. Also, I sort of feel like any moment an apocalypse movie is going to start and I need to be dressed to live in the woods. This added up into a vibe more butch than I’m used to, but with my hair longer than it had been in years, I didn’t really notice.

And then I chopped all my hair off. Like actually all off. A full pixie cut, shorter than I’ve ever gone.

Leading up to it, I guessed I was going to want to lean more into feminine fashion again to balance the cropped cut. I like being feminine and I’m in no hurry to give it up. I planned to pull out my comfy knit pencil skirts and my heeled ankle boots. I expected to forget about my new habit of dressing like I live in the woods. That hasn’t really happened. I’ve still been dressing for comfort, and my style choices have gravitated more toward sweater vests and flare trousers. Both Harry Styles and Phoebe Waller-Bridge in the “Golden” music video. The other day I caught sight of myself in a window and needed a moment to recognize myself: the combination of loose jeans, sweatshirt, raincoat, sneakers, and short hair just didn’t feel like the me I remembered. I looked at myself and didn’t see the femme, straight passing person I’ve looked like for most of my adult life. Let me be clear - I am by no means saying that looking obviously queer is a bad thing. It’s new to me, but I’m rediscovering myself. I still saw me - and that’s key, that this haircut has always felt like me - but a different me than I’m used to seeing in the mirror.

I have a lot of affection for this new aesthetically masculine and feminine mix, and the other day, stuck in the house at the beginning of lockdown no.3, I felt the urge to dress up a little. I put on lipstick for the first time since May, pulled out a plunge bodysuit and a pair of one-of-a-kind flare jeans I found in a vintage shop on Brick Lane the other week (looser jeans are a masculine leaning I’m embracing wholeheartedly). I decked out my fingers in rings and pulled out my wire-rimmed blue light glasses (my eyesight is so bad that my actual glasses look like something from the wardrobe of a nerd from a 1980s movie, so I stick with contacts). I snapped this photo, just to see the full effect as I no longer have a full-length mirror, and - bam.

I love how I look. I’m obsessed with my hair, with the bright red lines of the bodysuit (and isn’t me in a bright color shocking enough!). I love the jeans, love that they’re a little too big in the waist and just keep flowing out from there, a feminine line in a masculine fabric. I love the wire rim glasses (even if I do look like my dad in the 80s). I love the muscle I can see in my arms from months of pushups and calisthenics. I love how much space I take up, both physically and just in my presence. I am feminine and masculine. I am impossible to miss. Once, even a year ago, that would’ve been stressful. Now, I feel like shouting from the rooftops. This is me.

It’s gone up on Instagram. It’s my new profile picture on various apps. The only caption has been a peace sign emoji - a joke within the LGBTQ+ community about how bisexual people never know what to do with our hands (“point a camera at a bisexual and see how long it takes them to flash a peace sign or finger guns”). It’s a very different vibe from my last profile photo - almost two years ago I smiled at my friend behind the camera from a flowering yellow bush as I watched my last relationship coming to an end.

I keep coming back to how much it is different. This is a change - not of who I am, but of how I reflect it to the world. Proud and excited as I am, and as much as I want to care only for what I think, the fear of rejection lingers. The fear that my friends’ love isn’t malleable and won’t fit this new me anymore. The yearning for the people I love and admire to be proud of me. And on top of that, I wonder how I am different, how my change in appearance reflects an inner shift. How it necessitates it. I’ve always felt the inner shone through to the outer - now that I’m changing the outer, does that come from a shift I’ve already made or is there one still to make? Do I have to act more queer because I look it? What do I feel I need to prove?

Maybe I’ve spoken so much and so easily about my sexuality because I knew it wasn’t visible. Now it’s far more clear, and I feel both more confident and shy. Who is this woman who wears red and casually takes up space? I know her, have seen her in flashes, but this is the first time she is stepping out so boldly. That’s it: I am bold in a way I haven’t felt before. I know, logically, that I have been (again, I’ve never been known for subtlety), but not so consciously. Not with so much intention behind my choice. Some boldness comes so easily I never think of it, but this - this was like bursting out of water for that first breath of air. Natural, intuitive, but not easy.

All this comes in the middle of a period of great change in my life. I’m moving back to my home country after living in London for almost three years, back to my parents’ house after living alone for a year during this pandemic. I’m reconsidering everything I want to spend the next few years doing, much less the rest of my life. I’m trying to figure out how to fund seeing the world and how to organize running a podcast with guests from everywhere I go. I’m consciously focusing on myself and what I want rather than delaying or sacrificing my goals for anybody else. I’m putting off putting down roots for a bit and relying on the knowledge my family is there to come back to. My future see-saws between the safety of family and the unquestionable boldness of adventure.

There is an apprehension that comes with change, an acknowledgment that I am growing and becoming something new, something that is always myself though I did not know it was there. It is freeing and exhilarating and terrifying, growing. Like jumping off a cliff, I have to squeeze my hands into fists and tighten my core and rely on the knowledge that the water below will catch me, that I will catch me, so that I can enjoy the fleeting moment of flying into something new.

#selfpost #experts of our own experience #and then she said #queer #lgbtq+

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chaptersinprogress · 4 years

Text

demolition lovers | 5

"He's dangerous, Bohn!" hissed King. "Code RED level dangerous." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "We know next to nothing about that guy and you're about to go on a date with his SON. Sue me for caring!"

Rating: T

Warnings: swearing, mention of alcohol

Pairings: Ram/King, Bohn/Duen, Prae/Ting

"Bohn, I'll drop off and pick you up," stated King, tossing his phone onto the bed.

"What?!" exclaimed Bohn, looking up from his own phone. "Dude, I'm not a kid. You don't have to chaperone my date for fuck's sake."

King gave him the stink-eye. "You're heading to a bar for a date. Were you planning on not drinking the entire time? Because I'm sure as fuck not going to let you drive drunk. You should know better."

"Oh… right."

"Oh… right," mimicked King. He stared up at the ceiling, carefully considering his next few words. "Bohn."

"Yeah?"

"It's… nevermind. Look. Just be careful, ok?"

Bohn propped himself up and studied King. "You're worried about that man."

"Wouldn't you be? Our parents are remaining tight-lipped about the whole thing."

"Yeah, but we don't exactly have much to go on," Bohn pointed out. "Are we supposed to tip-toe around until something happens?"

The room fell silent, almost deafeningly so, in the aftermath of King's heated proclamation.

Bohn reached out and curled a hand around King's wrist. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, you can hang around us the entire time."

"No, it's ok. Maybe you're right and I'm just being stupid," King replied, huffing.

Bohn raised an eyebrow. "Ai'King, we've always stalked each other's dates. The only difference is that you have permission from me this time. Just, keep out of the way. I don't need you third-wheeling us and scaring Duen off with your ugly face."

King laughed, relaxing slightly. "Ai'Bohn, it'll be your face scaring him off. He has to be blind to chase you. I’m surprised he hasn’t already run away screaming."

"You take that back!" Bohn yelled, pouncing on King.

The two boys tussled, rolling around on the bed, the sound of their laughter drifting out of the house.

9.15pm

King let his head drop against the wall outside the bar. It was unlike Prae to be running late; she was a stickler for punctuality. Maybe it was the traffic. It was a Friday night after all, and would explain the lack of response to his messages.

He checked his phone once more. Still nothing. Turning his head slightly, he caught sight of Bohn and Duen snuggled together through the glass door. At least some people were having fun.

"Sawadee khaa. You're P'King, right?"

King froze. That voice… He turned back to the front. Oh for fuck's sake…

He nodded stiffly and Ting smiled at the senior.

"I didn't know you were coming. Are you here to stalk P'Bohn and Duen like us?" she asked, gesturing at herself and Ram, who was stoically standing beside her. She giggled before leaning in conspiratorially. "You can join us you know, I even brought a camera to capture all the cute moments! I'm going to store them in a scrapbook and hand it over on Duen's birthday - baby's first date!"

Swooning dramatically, she clutched Ram's arm. "Mommy and Daddy are so proud of him! Oh our boy's all grown up, isn't he, Ram?"

King's eye twitched. Ram shot her an exasperated look. Ting immediately straightened up, pouting at him.

"You're no fun."

The urge to gag at their interaction rose, and immediately after, guilt clawed at his chest. Shit, why was he reacting this way? He had no right to behave as such. Ting was a perfectly lovely girl, if a bit over-enthusiastic outside formal settings. So what if she was acting all cutesy with Ram? It wasn't her fault that King was dumb enough to fall for her boyfriend. The nausea intensified, this time from shame.

'Pull yourself together!' King scolded himself.

King fixed a pained smile on his face. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm here as Bohn's designated driver. Just wanted to make sure they stay safe after drinking. I mean, they are at a bar for their date."

"Aiya, that doesn't mean you need to stand outside the bar like some billionaire's chauffeur," Ting replied, waving a hand carelessly. "At least come inside and sit with us while you wait!"

'Billionaire's chauffeur… she has no clue how right she technically is,' thought King wryly.

He shook his head, carefully not looking at Ram. "It's ok, I'm actually waiting for someone. Please, don't let me interrupt you both."

"Oh…" Ting frowned. "Who are you waiting for?"

The roar of a motorbike shattered the silence. The three students watched as the sleek bike raced down the street before skidding to a stop in front of them with an impressive 90 degree turn.

King huffed. "You're late," he called out.

The rider kicked the stand down before getting off the bike. Pulling the helmet off, Prae shook her hair out.

"Would it help if I said sorry?"

King snorted. "I told you not to come in the first place."

Leaving the helmet on the seat, Prae walked over to King's side. "We've already gone over this." She nodded at the two freshmen. "Ting, Ram, good to see you both."

"That was brilliant!" Ting gushed, her whole face lighting up. "You had such fine control over the bike, it took my breath away!"

Prae blinked, stunned by the effusive praise. "Thanks?"

"Now that we're all here, why don't we head inside and get to know each other better? We're all friends here," said Ting. She stepped forward and grabbed both Prae and King by their wrists. "Come on!"

Steamrolling their protests, Ting enthusiastically dragged the two behind her and into the bar. Shaking his head, Ram followed them inside. Ting ushered them into a booth tucked into a corner, with clear sight-lines to Duen and Bohn's table.

As Ram slid into the seat opposite them, Ting clapped her hands. "Alright, since the two of you are driving, I'll just get drinks for Ram and I. Any snack preferences?"

Bemused by the sudden turn of events, King and Prae glanced at each other before shaking their heads.

"Okay, I'll head to the counter first!" Ting cheerfully replied, before spinning and flouncing off.

As the hurricane that was Ting left, the booth fell into an awkward silence. Ram kept his eyes fixed on Bohn and Duen, giving no indication that he even knew that there were two other people at the table with him. Prae studied him for a moment before turning to King.

She cocked her head. 'Now's your chance.'

King's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. 'No way. Besides, he has a faen.'

'You don't know that. Seduce him dammit,' screamed Prae's unimpressed face. She nodded slightly in the direction that Ting had gone. 'I'll take care of her.'

King's eyes widened. 'Are you crazy?'

Prae stood up. King let out a strangled sound of panic and disbelief. Smirking, she walked out of his reach and turned to Ram.

"I'm going to help Ting with the food," she said. "I'll leave you two to get to know each other."

Cheerfully ignoring King's pleading gaze, she waved and left. She grinned as she strode through the bar, searching for Ting. The sheer panic on her brother's face was exquisite. That'd teach him not to mess with her.

He should be thankful really, she was helping him create opportunities to win over his crush. Wasn't she the best wingwoman ever?

Prae had almost reached the counter when she found herself halting abruptly at the scene in front of her. A female was tending the bar, mixing a couple of drinks while talking to Ting. But what had made her pause was the way the two seemed to lean into each other's space, sharing coy looks and conversing in a hushed tone that was far too intimate to write off as just friends.

Huh, perhaps this could benefit both King and her after all.

"Is the food ready?" asked Prae, sliding into the empty seat beside Ting.

The two women broke off their conversation, turning to look at her. The bartender studied Prae curiously before turning to Ting and quirking an eyebrow. Ting shrugged minutely in reply before answering Prae.

"Not yet, it'll take a while longer. Prae, meet Lisa. Lisa, Prae."

The two of them acknowledged the introduction. Lisa glanced between Prae and Ting and smiled widely.

"I've got quite a few orders to handle. I'll be off then, nice meeting you Prae." Without waiting for a reply, she winked at Ting and strode away to join one of her colleagues.

Prae raised an eyebrow at the abrupt exit before turning her attention back to Ting. "You both seem quite close."

The latter seemed amused. "We're not really. We're just… intimately acquainted."

"Oh?" Prae leaned forward. "And what does your faen have to say about that?"

Confusion flashed through Ting's eyes before clearing. "Ram? Oh no, he's…. Well, you could say we're co-workers."

Prae's interest grew at Ting's choice of words. Not siblings, or friends, or even acquaintances, but co-workers. Interesting. They appeared close if she considered how easily Ram accepted (or tolerated?) Ting's tendency to touch, but the term implied a certain amount of frigidity, or perhaps formality, in the relationship.

Ting matched Prae's posture with a smirk. "Why? Are you interested? Not sure your faen would be too pleased."

A laugh escaped Prae. "Oh I assure you he'd be more than happy, since P'King and I definitely don't swing that way."

Prae's lips curled in satisfaction as Ting's eyes widened in realisation. And her stomach swooped as Ting raked her eyes over her figure appraisingly - taking in the pitch-black leather jacket hanging open to reveal a crimson halter-neck, the ripped black skinny jeans, and tightly-laced combat boots.

"Hmm, are you worth my time?"

"Are you worth mine?" Prae challenged.

Ting trailed her fingers over the buttery leather of Prae’s jacket teasingly, “Shall we find out?”

At that instance, Ting's phone pinged. She glanced at it and hurriedly tapped out a few messages before turning back to Prae, "Looks like we'll have to take a raincheck on that. I have places to be and things to do."

Prae itched to unravel the enigma that was the other girl. And she certainly wasn’t beyond seizing the opportunity presented to her.

"Need a ride?"

Ting smirked as she stood, "Sorry darling, where I'm going, you need an exclusive invite. Big girls only."

Sliding off the stool, Prae walked up to Ting and tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear, then murmured lowly, "Good thing you have me then."

#chaptersinprogress #my engineer #ram x king #bohn x duen #ramking #bohnduen #prae x ting #duen x bohn #king x ram #fanfic #fanfiction #demolition lovers #I'm so sorry it took so long haha #hope y'all are still reading lol #actual plot in the next chapter #I will update soon I promise

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