#But getting back to my post I thought I had a basic understanding of howl’s character | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

realcube · 4 years ago

Text

comfort with the haikyuu!! boys hcs 💝

characters: kenma, bokuto, ushijima, tsukishima, akaashi

thanks to anon for the request (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

ALL AGED UP! (no mature themes though) (i just like the post-timeskip domestic dynamics)

tw// hurt! reader, swearing, mentions of death, fluff, angst if you squint

Kenma Kuzome

bb has cat senses so he can tell when you’re sad

he can also tell bc you do the exact same thing he does when he’s sad, which is cuddle underneath blankets in bed, play animal crossing and blare lo-fi music to conceal your faint sobs

so when he walks into your shared room and notices you wrapped up in blankets on the bed, he does his best to suppress a snicker whicH HE FEELS SO BAD FOR HAVING IN THE FIRST PLACE

like he knows you’re sad but a part of his mind is just like ‘heh, (y/n) burrito.’ like you just look sO FKN CUTE!!

anyway, the first thing he always does when you’re down is approach you on the bed, sneak under the blankets and join to you to become a (y/n) & kenma burrito

also, he might turn the speaker off depending on how loud the music is lol but if it’s at an okay volume then he’ll just leave it on and vibe with you for a bit as he desperately wracks his brain, trying to come up with something reassuring to say

you usually comes up with the something basic like, ‘what’s wrong?’ but i mean, you don’t really mind - at least he’s making an effort and you know it must be difficult for him to think of things to say lol

depending on how sad you are, you might just tell him straight-up what happened or you might text him bc you don’t think you’ll be able to choke out an answer without bursting into tears again

then he’ll ask you if you want to be alone and act accordingly

assuming that you say ‘no’ bc you want his presence, he’ll just recollect on the last time you comforted him while he was down and mimic it tbh

..you always comfort him so well 🥺 and whenever you console him, he always feels so much better so he just thought that maybe if he imitates you, then it’ll work just as well

so he started off by resting his head on your shoulder and whispering kind things in your ear just like you did to him, ‘you know i love you, right?’ , ‘i hope you feel better soon’, ‘do you want me to bring you some food?’

he’ll seriously do everything in his power to make sure that you’re as comfortable as possible

and he’ll stay as a (y/n) & kenma burrito until you feel better or until the sun rises ( *^-^)ρ(*╯^╰)

Kōtarō Bokuto

i’ve said this before and i’ll say it again - he’s such an empath and so overdramatic

so when he comes home from work and you don’t run up to the door to give him hugs & kisses- he’s about to burst into tears himself

so he sulks up to your room now IMAGINE HOW SHOCKED HE IS WHEN HE WALKS IN TO SEE YOU CRYING UNDER THE BLANKETS

emo-mode engaged :(

his hair deflates as he pounces on you and wails, ‘(Y/N)! WHY ARE YOU CRYING?! ARE YOU OKAY?! WHO HURT YOU?!’ (ಥ _ ಥ)

and the bitch dives on you while you are under the blanket, essentially scaring and suffocating you

‘bokuto, get off me!’ you shrieked, wriggling out of his grip and out from under the blanket

when he notices you had escaped the blanket with tear-stained cheeks, he felt even worse

he threw himself into your arms, howling, ‘(Y/N)!! I AM SO SORRY!’

at this point all the blood had rushed to your head and you had kinda forgotten that you were sad for a moment or two

‘bo! you should know you’re own strength by now.’ you muttered, rubbing the underneaths off your puffy eyes

‘I KNOW!’ he wailed once more, burying his face into the crook of your neck

you sighed while rubbing his back, unable to supress a slight giggle, ‘bokuto..’

there was ages of silence between the two of you before he pulled away to look you in the eyes and asked, ‘(y/n), why were you crying before i got here?’

you’d explain the issue to him and he’d do everything in his power to solve it because the way he sees it, why should he try console you when he can just fix the variable that’s making you sad in the first place?

like, if you were just fired from your job, he’ll go full karen and he will call corporate to demand for your job back if you don’t stop him

or if your loved one died, he’ll become a fkn medium or study resurrection

or if you’re just stressed from exams/tests, he’ll just be like ‘why do you need to go to uni anyway?’

‘so i can get a qualification.’

‘why do you need that?’

‘so i can apply for a job.’

‘why do you need a job?’

‘so i can make money, so i don’t starve.’

‘you can have my money!’

you couldn’t help but chuckle at how much life-experience bokuto had, yet he will still so naïve; honestly, you couldn’t even tell if he was joking or not. ‘what if we break up?-”

“DON’T SAY THAT!” he gasped, instinctively tightening his grip on you

Wakatoshi Ushijima

both you and ushijima’s pride did not allow y’all to cry in front of one another

if you ever had to cry, you’d just run to the bathroom, lock the door, turn on the tap to drown out the sound of your sobs and just let it all out

and if he ever had to cry, he’d just do it in the shower

but like- you both knew when the other one had been crying because of their puffy, damp eyes but you both mutually agreed to not mention it

i mean, up until now y’all had both been able to flourish in the relationship while dealing with emotions on your own so why bother changing?

and if anything, you both felt more comfortable crying to yourselves

that was, until today

you had cracked under the pressure of your job - you were simply sitting at your desk in the study room, doing some work then it all just came crashing down

ushijima had just stepped out of the shower in his towel and was currently wandering around the house in search of you, to inform you that he ran out of shampoo so it would be greatly appreciated if you were to add it to the shopping list

but when he entered the study to see you sitting there by your computer, bawling you eyes out..he froze

like he had to do a whole double-take bc he wasn’t sure if he was seeing this correctly

your face was buried in your hands so you didn’t notice him at first but then you heard him awkwardly clear his throat from the doorway and your neck immediately jerked to look at him

it was quite embarrassing for the both of you, ngl

like he was standing there half-naked, staring into your red eyes in hopes that what he saw was just a hallucination

after what felt like hours of deafening silence, ushijima broke it by muttering under his breath, ‘uh, is everything okay?’

‘everything is fine, toshi.’ you replied, forcing a bright smile onto your face as you went back to typing, ‘did you come down here to tell me somethi--’

‘i can tell that there is something wrong.’ he stated, walking towards you while using one had to hold his towel in place and draping the other over your shoulders to pull you into his chest. ‘do you want to tell me?’

you let out a long sigh, resting your cheek against his chest while still staring at the many tabs you had open on your desktop

but ushijima quickly fixed that by taking your chin in-between his thumb and index finger, then turning your face to look up at him,

‘work?’ he hummed his assumption

‘yeah.’ you mumbled, quite surprised at how understanding he was being

but then again, ushijima obviously knows what it feels like to be overworked and burnt out too, so he was able to provide a lot of empathy in that sense

Kei Tsukishima

ok a bit of tsukki slander but i feel like tsukishima would make it worse WEILUBRGBE

wait no well, he doesn’t make it worse but he doesn’t make it better either

like he’ll walk into the living room and see you curled up under a blanket on the couch, lightly sobbing from underneath- and he honestly doesn’t know how to act

this is the first time he’s seen you cry bc usually y’all keep your emotions to yourselves - you’re both v independent like that （￣︶￣)

anyway, mans thinks he can just tease the sadness out of you 🙄

‘awh, is my little couch goblin feeling sad?’ he said shakily, clearly intimidated by your figure lying on the couch, and you could tell he was nervous per his use of the nickname ‘couch goblin’

‘‘TSUKISHIMA, FUCK OFF!’ you barked, hastily wiping away your tears and clinging to blanket to prevent him from pulling it away, as the last thing you wanted him to see was your weary figure just so he could tease you about it

‘bitch, i live here.’ he hissed, rubbing the back of his neck - feeling rather conflicted

on one hand, you seemed serious when you asked him to leave; plus, the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable by staying when you’re already sad

but on the other hand, he genuinely wanted to help

he’d feel bad if he were to just leave his s/o in tears when he could’ve done something to make you feel better

‘do you really want me to go?’ he asked and for a change, not a hint of mockery or sarcasm was found in his voice

there were several moments of silence until you mumbled from under your blanket, ‘no.’ then proceeded to lift up your arm to allow him to crawl under the blanket and join you

he did so, pulling you against his chest so you could sob lightly against his cotton shirt while being engulfed by warm darkness

‘what could’ve possibly went wrong to make the evilest blanket demon cry?’

‘evilest blanket demon’ - that was definitely a new one, and you’d be lying if you said a small snicker didn’t escape your mouth at how monotonously he was able to deliver such a unique nickname

and after years of being in a relationship with tsukki, you’ve learned to find comfort in these nicknames considering they were a big part of how he expressed love

in his vocabulary, ‘you’re so annoying.’ is equal to ‘i love you’

so him calling you an ‘evil blanket demon’ was, in his eyes, the highest and most sincere form of flattery

you eventually tell him what happened that made you sad and he just listens

feel free to ramble on about anything/everything that’s worried you for the last few months bc he’s all ears

he figured that other than make you dinner and hug you, that was the best thing he could do to help bc he was far from a romantic who’s good with words

if he tries to console you verbally it would probably come out like ‘uh, don’t cry - i understand what you’re going through, i think, but like- cry if you want. this must be tough for you, to be honest.’

so he just listens to what you have to say and occasionally inputs a lil’ ‘mhm’ or ‘yeah’

he’s probably the most patient with you so you could stay sad on the couch for the next few weeks, as long as you’re eating the meals he delivers to you and you’re staying healthy, he’ll just let you mope until you feel better tbh

Keiji Akaashi

boyfie material right here

i’m hardly an akaashi simp but he’s probably the best at comforting you while you’re sad tbh

because he’s literally been dealing with bokuto and his emo-mode for god-knows how long so he’s very good with reassuring people😌

also, i just know that this man can detect emotions so well- evEN THROUGH TEXT ISTG

he’d text you the usual ‘goodnight ❤’

and you’ll quickly wipe away your tears that were blurring your vision to reply ‘goodnight 💕’

then he’ll deadass text back like ‘i’m coming over. what’s wrong?’

HE JUST KNOWS!! don’t question it bc he doesn’t even have a logical answer lol

anyway, he’ll arrive and immediately begin with the reassurance before you even tell him what’s wrong

‘you’re coping so well, (y/n).’

‘i’m so proud and i love you so much.’

‘is there anything i can do to make you feel better?’

‘would you like a hug?’

‘you’re beautiful, (y/n). i hope you know that.’

‘do you want me to get you ice-cream?’

a king- 👑

also, you weren’t embarrassed to cry in front of him either bc you had seen him cry before

plus, y’all both established at the very beginning of the relationship that you’d both try be as honest and open with your emotions as possible

so now, you were both sitting beside each other on your bed while sharing a banana split that akaashi made (you put the sprinkles on though so you basically gave it flavour ✨)

akaashi is definitely the therapist friend to so he gives great advice

but if you don’t want his advice and you’d prefer him to just listen, then he can do that too

honestly, he’d do basically anything to make you feel better 🥺

451 notes · View notes

qianinterprises · 4 years ago

Text

Fated To You

Pairing | Kitsune!Yuta x Human, gn!Reader

Warning(s) | depictions of violence, minor character death, supernatural character, blood, mentions of stabbing, mentions of murder

Synopsis | You didn't know what you were getting yourself into when you found the injured fox hiding away in the forest. However, after accepting the fox pup into your life as a new member of your home, you quickly realized that there was more to him than just an adorable fox with an odd number of tails.

Genre: supernatural au, fluff, angst, soulmates au

Author's Notes | I have had quite a longing to write a supernatural character, and, while my favorite supernatural creatures are werewolves (they're majestic amazing creatures, shush), I wanted to do something a little different, thus, Kitsune Yuta was born! This has also been posted on NCTA under the name Tori, so if you see it there, it's me. I really hope you enjoy this piece!

Word Count | 6.5k

Tag List: @treasuretaeil

The moon began to rise over the land, casting grotesque shadows over the forest as your feet moved carefully over roots that protruded from the mossy earth. Your hands held strong to the green flashlight clasped tightly in your fingers, lighting the way through the darkened trees as the sun continued to fade.

It had never been your intention to stay out this late. Fresh air. That’s all you had needed. Air to clear your head and calm you down from the near panic attack you’d thrust yourself into as you thought about all the papers and assignments you’d have to complete within the next few weeks.

It was a lot; juggling a full-time job and part-time university. You’d known it was going to be when you’d decided to finally finish your degree. What you hadn’t anticipated was everything piling up at the end, making you truly stretch yourself to get everything done correctly and on time without losing your job and crumbling under the impending weight of unemployment.

Luckily for you, behind your rented out house, was a forest. You weren’t exactly sure how far it stretched, nor had you ever explored it before, but you had a certain affinity for nature. When you began to lose yourself, you slammed your book shut and got up with a huff, grabbing your unused backpack out of the closet and setting out into the woods, hoping immersing yourself in nature would calm you down.

It had. Walking about, listening to the birds sing and the trees grow had soothed your mind and allowed you to relax for the first time in several weeks. You’d gotten so relaxed that, as you sat against a sturdy oak for water and a snack, you found yourself drifting off.

It was only recently that you had awoken. Your eyes blinked open as the sounds changed and the peaceful chirping birds were replaced with the soft, yet creepy, hoots of owls and the howls of wolves.

You’d never meant to be out there that long, but as you pulled yourself off the ground, you were thankful you were smart enough to have a packed back full of extra water, a few snacks, a rope just in case, a compass, a hunting knife, and a flashlight along with batteries.

As the sun descended, you pulled the flashlight from your backpack and here you were, wandering the woods at dusk, navigating your way back to your house in a forest you’d never been in before.

Perhaps it was the start of a disaster. Or perhaps it was keeping you away from your books for just a little longer.

Whatever the reason, you tried not to panic as you made your way through the woods in a direction you assumed was home but honestly, you were too sure.

You scanned your beaming light over varying trees, looking for the mark you’d left on a particularly girthy oak, a mark that would signal your correct direction and your soon entrance into the backyard of your home.

As your light hit along the trees, searching high and low, it caught the glow of a pair of glassy eyes not three feet from where you stood. With a shriek, you jumped back, stumbling over a tree root and falling back onto your bum, letting out a whine at the pain.

You shined your light back on the spot you’d saw the eyes and found them again, wide, yellow eyes staring back at you in, what you could only assume was fear. Fear that pulled at your heartstrings, because this wasn’t any regular fear of humans. This was absolute terror.

Slowly, you pulled yourself up onto your knees, dusting the dirt off of the bottom of your jeans as you carefully inched forward, careful not to spook the animal which you assumed to be a mistreated cat or an abused dog.

The animal didn’t move, seeming to be frozen in place as you moved closer. It was only when you managed to shift the bush it was hiding in that you realized what it actually was.

A fox. A small, dull orange fox that still resembled a pup. It had greying pointed ears and a dirt covered orange coat. As your eyes trailed over the body of the fox, they landed on the tail, or shall you say, tails! By your count, nine, although you knew that couldn’t be right! It’s tail was likely matted in nine big places! You pushed the question of tails out of your mind and roved over its body, finding surprisingly small paws and a muzzle covered in a crusty red which you quickly realized was blood. That fact alone should have sent you running, but as your eyes scanned it’s body, you quickly realized the source. An opened gash on the foxes side, just above it’s hip, steadily weeped a bright red liquid that would claim the fox’s life if kept untreated.

Your heart broke for the poor animal and you knew you couldn’t simply leave it to die. Carefully, you offered your hand for the fox to sniff and, as soon as he did, he seemed to trust you a little more.

You’d taken several animal science classes while pursuing your degree, and you knew the technical way animals seemed to trust a human just by sniffing them, but you always found yourself fascinated by the way an animal could get to know someone simply by sniffing their palm.

“I can’t leave you out here. You’ll die from your wounds if I do. Would it be alright if you come home with me?” you asked softly.

Part of you felt silly for speaking to a fox that couldn’t understand you, but as the fox nodded to your question, you felt relieved-

Wait… nodded?!

You stared wide eyed as the fox, who apparently could understand you, slowly crept from under the bush, small whimpers leaving it’s throat as it moved its hind legs. It no doubt hurt, especially with the placement of the wound.

“I doubt any animal hospital would be open right now,” you muttered, more to yourself than anything, but the fox froze in place, fear once again in its eyes.

“You don’t want to go to the animal hospital, do you?” you asked.

The fox shook his head-- you were really going to have to get used to that.

Sighing to yourself, you reached a hand out to gently stroke the orange fur, something the fox stiffened at before all together relaxing in your touch.

That was all it took for you to know you couldn’t let anything happen to this gentle fox.

“Can I pick you up?” you asked. “It may help get you back home with minimal bleeding.”

The fox seemed to pause, as if pondering and you were beginning to odd just how strange this fox truly was. Not like any other wild animal you’d ever happened upon, which, in turn, led you to believe that this was not just another wild animal.

The fox moved closer to you and touched its nose lightly to your hand. You took this as the ‘go-ahead’ and, very gently, you lifted to fox pup up into your arms.

It whimpered slightly, but as you pressed it’s wounded side purposely against your torso to still the bleeding, it relaxed in your arms.

You didn’t know how you were going to get him home. You weren’t even a hundred percent sure where home was, but as you shined your flashlight carefully clenched between your teeth, your eyes landed on the jagged ‘X’ you’d etched into the pine.

With a breath of hope, you moved toward the mark and within a few paces, you were standing in the yard of your house.

Carrying the fox through the yard was made easier by the darkness. You flicked off your flashlight, relying on memory so as not to draw your neighbor’s attention to yourself or the orange mass in your arms. When you finally made it to the front door, you opened the latch and let yourself into your messy living room covered in stay books and disposable coffee cups you hadn’t yet gotten rid of.

You latched the door behind you carefully and carried the fox going scarily limp in your arms through the house and into the bathroom.

“Don’t go to sleep, please,” you begged the droopy-eyed fox as you placed it in the bathtub.

It seemed to struggle to stand and you knew you had to work fast. Helping it lay down surrounded by the porcelain walls, you moved to the sing, ripping open the medicine cabinets and began rifling through everything you had, which wasn’t too much. You may have been training to be a veterinarian, but that didn’t mean you were already practicing.

Luckily, after shuffling around, you managed to find basic rubbing alcohol and peroxide along with several large bandages, gauze, and, the best find yet, suture thread with a needle.

Pulling on a pair of gloves you usually used to dye your hair, you turned back to the tub with your utensils only to find the fox had drifted off to sleep, pants leaving its mouth. It didn’t have much time left and you’d be damned if you let it die in your house.

Grabbing a towel and a pair of scissors, you knelt by the tub. With the scissors, you hastily cut away the fur surrounding the wound, getting yourself a better image of the wound itself while also making it easier to clean.

Once the wound was exposed, you didn’t know whether you were relieved or panicked, staring at the long gash clearly having been made from a sharp knife. This was no animal fight as you’d first thought. This was intentional and likely had been done by a human. No wonder it had been so scared, yet it begged the question, why had it trusted you?

You pressed a towel to the still weeping wound, pressing down hard to still the bleeding. Once it was mostly halted, you poured peroxide on the wound, flushing out any dirt and grime before washing it with rubbing alcohol that surely would have hurt like hell had the animal been conscious.

With the wound cleaned, you sterilized the suture kit with the rubbing alcohol and threaded your needle. You’d done suture’s before, but only on test dummies. Having a real patient had your stomach twisting in knots, but you didn’t have time to worry about it.

Bringing the needle to the skin, you began to stitch up the now cleaned wound, careful not to injure the fox further. The stitches weren’t pretty by the time you’d finished. A professional could have done a much better job, but at least the wound was closed. You placed a bandage over the wound before wrapping the gauze carefully around the fox’s waist, keeping it loose enough it didn’t constrict him, but tight enough to keep pressure on the wound.

Time was still sensitive. You very well may not have gotten to it before it lost too much blood and you had no way of administering a transfusion. It was solely up to the fox now whether it lived or died.

As it slept in the tub, you ran your fingers through it’s fur, too scared to leave it alone. As you stroked around the foxes neck, your fingers gazed over metal beads buried deep in the fur. Curiosity got the better of you and carefully, you pulled at the beads until you unveiled a dark metal necklace that resembled a collar only slightly.

Inquisitively, you trailed your fingers along the beaded necklace of a collar until you gripped the base, the end that hung down at the fox’s chest. It was then that you saw it.

Resting at the base of the necklace was a dog tag with only one marking. A marking that spelled out a name.

Yuta.

As you ran the tag over in your hands, careful to not disturb the fox, you found no address or number to call. There was nothing to give you any information about who this pup belonged to. However, you supposed, whoever it was wasn’t a very good owner if the knife wound were anything to go by.

Letting the necklace drop from your hold, you ran your hands over the fox’s head.

“Yuta,” you mumbled to yourself.

The name had a nice ring. A name that seemed to roll off your tongue as though your tongue was meant to speak it. And perhaps that holds true as the moment the last syllable left your throat, the fox was stirring, shifting as it-he slowly regained consciousness until his yellow eyes met yours.

Something seemed to stir inside you at that moment and you found yourself reaching out to touch the animal again, a touch the fox shifted into, nuzzling against your hand as if he wholly trusted you. You didn’t really know why the fox would trust you, but your heart beamed with joy. A joy that you knew meant you wouldn’t be letting this fox run back out into the wild unless it’s something he truly wanted, but you could already tell, the fox was going nowhere.

That statement seemed to hold true as the next few days passed and Yuta was finally able to walk around a bit more. He tired easily and had a bit of a limp, but he’d managed to walk from one room to another easy enough before giving you a look that begged you to pick him up. Even now, as you sat on the living room couch, laptop perched on your thighs, surrounded by mountains of resource material books, Yuta made his way from napping in the bedroom to where you sat.

You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in your work that you were slightly unaware of your surroundings, but as he pressed his cold nose against your exposed ankle, you took in a sharp breath, eyes glancing down at the mischievous fox who had learned just how to get his way.

“What do you want?” you asked.

It had become normal for you to ask him questions you’d ask a human. The fox seemed more and more human every day, which made him likely the most intelligent animal you’d ever encountered. He truly was one of a kind.

‘Pick me up.’

A masculine voice suddenly permeated your made, making you yelp out at the suddenness of it all, head shaking as you dropped your computer onto the ground, hand coming up to hit lightly against your head.

That was a voice you’d never heard before and most definitely was not your consciousness.

‘Calm down human, it’s only me.’

The voice spoke again, eliciting yet another yelp from your lips as you looked around. There was no one in your house save for yourself and Yuta. No windows or doors were left open and, unless someone was hiding in your closet and speaking, there was no one around. The voice itself was too vivid, too clear to be heard through your ears anyways which ultimately lead you to the conclusion that the voice was in your head, although that didn’t make anything better.

“I’ve finally gone crazy!” you murmured to yourself, eyes wide with worry and fear. “I’m hearing voices! It’s only a matter of time before they lock me up!”

‘(y/n), calm down! It’s only me! Yuta!’

“What?!” you screeched.

You didn’t bother looking down at the fox on the floor. There was absolutely no possible way the voice in your mind was the voice of an injured fox named Yuta who’d come to live with you a few days ago! There was no possible way! You were just-

‘Would you stop saying you're crazy before you really upset me!’

“Leave me alone!” you squealed.

You jumped up off the couch when suddenly, a rush of tranquility washed over you, ebbing the panic away as the masculine voice was once again in your mind, this time, in a much gentler tone.

‘Calm down before you hurt yourself. Look down at me on the floor. Look into my eyes and you’ll understand.’

You don’t know whether it was the sudden sense of calm that had you keeping cool, curiosity, or sheer trust that had you lowering your gaze to the floor where they met Yuta’s yellow ones. As soon as your eyes locked on his, a rush of comforting heat surged through your body, spreading from your eyes down to your toes while washing over your brain. Your knees buckled and your body crashed against the couch as thoughts and memories surged through you, eventually knocking you unconscious, head lulling against the couch cushions.

Two Hundred Years Earlier

When you opened your eyes, your living room was nowhere in sight. Instead, you were standing in a deep, open space painted a galaxy shade of purple. Beside you was a handsome man with long, dark hair that touched his shoulders. He had a lean face and boxy jaw leading to a square chin that only added to his handsomeness. His shoulders were broad but he wasn’t all that muscular, rather, he was lean. A grey shirt wrapped around his frame, long black shorts flowed to a stop below his knees.

“Who are you?” your voice cracked.

“I am Yuta,” said the man, the voice the same one you’d heard in your mind earlier.

“W-what- How-...?” you couldn’t seem to conjugate the words properly.

“I wasn’t going to tell you until later. But I am Yuta, and the fox version of myself… well that’s technically my natural form. While injured, I take that form,” he explained.

You still couldn’t quite wrap your head around it. This Yuta was your Yuta… Your Yuta had a human form… Your Yuta… the fox you’d been sharing your bed with… had a human form…

“Easy now, I’m not sure what happens if you pass out when you're not awake!” the man said, hands grabbing your shoulders to still your wobbling form.

“But how-- I…”

“I’m going to show you,” he spoke softly.

With that, he snapped his fingers and the purple room evaporated from sight. You let out a small screech as it was replaced with air rushing around your face as your bodies hurtled straight from the sky into a forest you’d never seen before. A forest that certainly wasn’t in your backyard.

You touched ground without so much of a wince, your feet settling gently on the plush, mossy earth.

“You’ll get used to that,” Yuta promised as he clasped an arm around your waist to hold your quivering body steady.

“W-where are we…”

“Japan. 200 years in the past.”

“WHAT?! But-”

You trailed off as your eyes caught sight of a beautiful fox with nine tails flowing proudly from her backside strode up in front of your prying eyes, a young fox pup not too far behind, accompanied by his father who kept nudging at the pups hindquarters playfully, earning small little yips from the pup.

“They’re so adorable! Who are they?!”

Yuta didn’t answer for a long moment and when you looked at his face, you caught the fading wisps of a painful memory.

“The pup is me…” he spoke. “And my parents.”

You were about to open your mouth to ask about them when there was a rustle in the trees and a group of six men appeared, each one looking meaner than the next.

Yuta’s father turned away from the pup, who was drawn closer by his mother, as his father approached the men.

“Do you wish to honor our son?” you could hear the father ask although you knew he wasn’t physically speaking.

“Freak!! Unnatural piece of nature!!” screamed one of the men, drawing his sword.

“Hey! Show some respect!” you wailed, fist clenched as you glared at the man who seemed to not even notice you.

Yuta’s arm tugged on your waist, pulling you against his side.

“This is a memory… My memory… There’s nothing we can do or say that will change the past…” he whispered.

“You don’t want to do that!” Yuta’s father exclaimed. “We are kitsunes! We are luck and fortune!”

“Freak!!” the man squealed, swinging his sword at Yuta’s father, who turned to flee from the men, ready to protect his family with his power when another man slashed a sword at the fox’s backside, slashing through all nine tails.

You let out a squeak, hands coming to cover your mouth as a pained cry left the fox’s mouth moments before his body hit the ground and life left his body. You could see the spirit of the fox lifting, rising into the trees, where it would rest as a ghost, keeping watch on it’s family.

The men howled with glee and charged over the fox’s body, trampling it as they made their way for the mother and her pup.

The blaze of a campfire suddenly sparked from the place Yuta’s mother was planning on cooking dinner. A ball of fire lunged at the men, who dodged, and the fire only made them angrier.

The female, just as strong as her husband, held the men at bay with a wall of fire, managing to severely burn four of the six men before the kindling in the fire had died and all was left was embers. She could bend fire, but not without a fire.

“Looks like you’re all out of ideas,” one man, the man who’d killed his father chuckled.

The pup whimpered and burrowed itself in his mothers side, not quite old enough to possess all the powers of his parents.

Frantically, the female fox turned to the pup and, without hesitating, bit down onto its scruff. The pup cried out at the sudden jostle, but his mother did nothing but squeeze tighter. With her pup held close, she leaped over the fallen men and darted into the forest, putting as much distance between herself and the men as she could.

The air around you and Yuta rustled past your faces and suddenly, without moving your feet, your bodies were standing beside a fox and her pup who were now both panting, far from the men that would come searching for them.

“Yuta, listen to me child. The humans are turning on us, but you mustn’t let that stop you from being yourself, from being a true and great kitsune!” the fox’s voice permeated your mind. “The humans will hurt you, try to kill you as it has been prophesied, but you mustn’t let their ways sway you from your duties.”

“Mom!” the fox cried.

He could tell, even at such a tender age, what his mother was about to do.

“You will find your soulmate, who will be human, and you must make the human understand who and what you are. They must understand where you come from. And, if they accept you, bonds between man and fox will be restored once more!”

Her voice was urgent as the sounds of the men tracking them grew louder. Your heart hammered in your chest. You knew what was going to happen, but your heart wept at the fate of the family torn apart. Yuta’s arm around your waist fastened to you tighter, although you weren’t sure if he was holding you or himself together.

You don’t know what spurred you to move, but you turned toward him slightly, enough to unpin your arm from your side, and wrapped both of your arms around his middle, hugging him tightly as together, you watched his mother kiss her pups head softly before dashing off toward the men.

There were yells along with a high pitched whimper before her spirit rose into the air to join her mates, leaving the young pup all alone.

You buried your face in Yuta’s shoulder, squeezing him tighter as a few tears slipped from your eyes, dropping onto his shirt. You’d only witnessed a memory. Yuta had been there. You couldn’t imagine the pain he felt the day both of his parents were killed by greedy, uneducated humans.

Present Day

You stood there, embracing Yuta for what seemed like hours before the air was shifting around you again and, by this time, you knew what that meant.

When the air stopped and you opened your eyes, pulling your face from Yuta’s neck, you were standing against the wall of a small little shop that resembled what you would have imagined to be an apothecary’s shop. White-wicked candles burned around the tiny, clutter-filled room, casting a smoky glow around the shop, surrounding the shelved knick-knacks and bottles of liquid medicine. Inside the shop, sitting behind a desk stacked with papers, was a middle-aged man with snow white hair and tan, wrinkled skin, so many wrinkles it looked as though he were shedding. The bags under his eyes were drooping low on his face, making his entire face seem to sag.

“Who is he?” you asked.

“His name’s Mr. Huang.”

Yuta seemed to know that that didn’t answer your question, but you didn’t have time to inquire further before the door to the shop was opening and Yuta, your Yuta, walked in, dressed the exact same as he was now.

This must have been recent…

“Good afternoon, Mr. Huang,” Yuta greeted, giving him a respectful bow.

“What do you want, boy?”

Mr. Huang’s voice was mean and cruel, riddled with an angry snarl as his now beady snake eyes looked up to pierce Yuta’s brown ones.

“Is Mrs. Huang nearby? I had a few more questions about the prophecy regarding my soulmate,” Yuta said, seemingly unfazed by the man's harsh tone.

The question only seemed to make Mr. Huang angrier as stood up with, slamming his hands down on the desk.

“Mrs. Huang died this morning,” he snarled.

Yuta’s face dropped, skin growing pale as the man stalked toward him.

“You promised us she wouldn’t die!” the man hissed, slowly approaching Yuta.

Yuta backed up slowly, his eyes racing around the room, looking for something he could use for leverage when his eyes landed on an envelope with his name scrawled onto it.

Discreetly, he picked up the envelope and slid it into his back pocket.

“Mr. Huang, I did everything that I could do. I promised you’d I’d do my best to heal her! But she had lung cancer! I gave her as much life as I could!” Yuta said.

“That’s not good enough!” Mr. Huang yelled.

He reached into his back pocket and produced a long knife with a jagged edge. You gasped loudly as the man lunged at Yuta. Yuta, carefully dodged the first and the second jab, but by the third, his back was pressed against a wall. Mr. Huang stabbed the knife into Yuta’s side, right above his hip. Yuta cried out on pain, clutching his side.

“Let’s see how you fare against pure silver!” Mr. Huang snarled.

Silver wouldn’t kill him, but it would slow his healing way down. His body could be unable to atone for the wound. That coupled with his young form without having a soulmate to help him heal faster would prohibit him from healing much faster than a normal human.

With the blade still lodged in his side, Yuta shoved past the man and bolted for the door, running straight into the forest, careful not to be seen by any other human.

You followed this Yuta’s movements, your Yuta holding close to you as together, you watched this Yuta drop to his knees and pull the blade from his side, crying out at the pain before dropping it.

The boy cried out as he clutched his side in pain, slowing the bleeding as much as he could before leaning himself against a tree, the same tree near the bush where you’d found him.

His body began to shake with the weight of blood loss and you wanted to run to him, but your Yuta held you back.

“It gets better,” he whispered in your ear.

You didn’t like it. You hated watching the man die, but there was nothing you could do. This may be happening in front of you, but it had already happened in the past.

With shaky fingers, Yuta used his free hand to dig the now wrinkled envelope out of his pocket, specks of blood dotting the starch white.

He opened the envelope with that one hand and pulled out the letter inside. Somehow, you managed to see the letter from here.

Yuta,

If you can find it in your heart to forgive my husband for what he has done, please do. I know that he can have a temper, and he isn’t the best when it comes to dealing with his emotions, but he means well, usually anyways. I have no doubt that he has tried (if not succeeded) to commit bodily harm after my passing. He will likely be unable to handle himself after my death.

The truth is, I’ve always known there was nothing you could do about my condition. Guess that comes with the territory of being an old witch. You know when you’re going to die. But don’t worry, sweetheart, today is not your time. You still have that soulmate of yours to meet.

Your mother was right about the prophecy. I do apologize that I could not speak of it with you. The fact is, my husband is one of those humans that will be swayed when you meet your soulmate, and as such, I couldn’t have you or him finding too much information out. The future is tricky like that.

I just thought you should know, dear boy, that your soulmate will appear to you soon. I cannot say when. Yes, I know, but again, the future can be a tricky thing. When they do show up, they won’t hesitate to show you compassion and kindness. You will also find yourself drawn to their gentle soul. And they will be drawn to you, although they will not be able to explain. Go easy on them, hun. They are human after all. Humans are not as good at understanding things like this as you and I are. Be gentle. Ease them into it.

While all of this is nice, I do also have to give you a warning. When your soulmate is revealed to you, you will know almost immediately. However, it may take them a bit, especially if you aren’t as a human. Be patient. However, if all else fails, show them this letter. I will write your soulmate's name at the bottom. The future will allow that.

My second warning is to tell them your past. The burden is not yours to bear alone. Prophecy says that when you meet your human soulmate, humans will stop trying to kill you and those like you. Conspiracy says this is because they will understand who you are and what you are set on this earth to do. Unfortunately, this is not the case.

The gods have seen what terrible things humans can do, and it has swayed their opinions (for the better in my opinion). Rather than revealing your purpose to the humans, only a varying few will know the truth, your soulmate being one of them. The memories of Kitsune’s and other supernatural creatures will be erased from the minds of most humans, so you must be careful with this new chance in life. You must hide your identity as a Kitsune from everyone except family.

Now Yuta, I want you to know that these last two years have meant the world to me. I love you my dear boy and I will always be watching over you along with your parents.

Find your soulmate, and love them as hard and as deeply as you can.

Love,

Mrs. Huang

Ps: your soulmate's name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Treat them well.

Your eyes widened at the last note of the letter before Yuta folded it up and put it back in his pocket.

“(Y-Y/N)... but… that’s my name…” you muttered.

The man beside you didn’t utter a word as the Yuta you were watching suddenly began to quiver even harder than he already was and, within a few seconds, in his place was the same fox pup you’d rescued a few days ago.

“Wait… so… the pup… you really are the pup!” you exclaimed.

Yuta turned to stare at you, eyebrow raised.

“Tell me you didn’t just get that.”

You didn’t say anything back, instead trained your eyes back on the pup who was crawling under the bush to hide. Time suddenly began to speed up and within a few moments, you saw yourself kneeling in front of the bush in the dark, peering at the fox.

“So I… I was meant to find you… We’re connected…”

Yuta nodded.

“You’re my soulmate, and I am yours.”

You didn’t say anything. Your voice felt like it was locked in your throat as a rush of air once again brushed past your face, taking you somewhere new, although you weren’t sure what else was left to see.

“The future is a tricky thing,” Yuta’s voice whispered as the world became a blur of shapes and colors as you were taken to someplace new to see more sights that would expand your outlook on life itself.

Undetermined time in the future

The wind stopped brushing past your cheek and you stood in front of a small, cozy house with a broad backyard and a large forest filled with thick trees, perfect for running. You saw yourself, or rather, an older version of yourself, sitting on a pink and purple throw blanket in the middle of the backyard. Beside you sat a brown picnic basket waiting to be opened and a vacant seat on the other side of the blanket. The older you smiled softly as the clouds in the sky parted and a beam of sunlight shone down, warming your body naturally.

Older you looked far too happy to be on that picnic alone, so your eyes scanned the valley for someone you hoped was there.

“I haven’t seen this yet either,” Yuta whispered.

He brought his arm back around your waist, keeping you fixed to his side, not that you were complaining. Somehow, it felt you belonged at his side.

As your eyes scanned the yard, you almost missed the two bodies emerging from the forest. One was the body of a tall man, a body you immediately recognized to be Yuta’s. The other was a much smaller body, the body of a young girl whom you couldn’t see all that clearly.

Yuta’s breath hitched and you turned to look at him.

“Do you know her?”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the two as they approached the picnic blanket where the older you waited, waving your hand to the two with a bright grin on your face.

Yuta’s reaction to the girl had you pausing to take a closer look at him, waiting for him to tell you who this young girl was. When he seemingly noticed you staring, he turned to look at you.

“I honestly don’t know her. But she has been prophesied many times,” he spoke, voice shaking with emotion.

“She wasn’t in the prophecy I heard,” you conjured.

Yuta shook his head, a smile breaking out across his face.

“There’s not just one prophecy,” he answered. “There are many, about many different things that allow us a glimpse into our fate, but somehow, they never play out the way you think they will.”

“Can you tell me the other prophecies?”

Yuta turned his attention back to the scene and urged you to do the same, but you caught him nodding to your question as the little girl jumped into your lap, laughing and giggling as you began to tickle her.

“I will tell you all of them,” he promised.

The scene before you was nothing like what you’d seen earlier. There was no blood or death or attempted murder. No sacrifices or ominous warnings. There was nothing but peace and love, and if that was your fate, you were happy with it.

The older Yuta sat down beside you on the picnic blanket and, as the young girl became distracted chasing a butterfly, he dipped a finger under your chin and lifted your face to his.

“I love you, my Flower,” he spoke softly.

“I love you too, my Fox.”

He pressed a soft kiss against your lips, a kiss so soft you felt as though you were prying just by watching, and, although it didn’t last long and your own lips hadn’t felt the gentle touch, you knew there was no kiss quite as sweet as the ones from Yuta.

The backyard disintegrated into an array of pickles before your eyes fluttered open and you were staring at the ceiling of the same rental house you’d spent the last three years.

“Was it all a dream?”

“Yes and no,” a familiar voice spoke next to you.

This time, you didn’t jump at the sound of the voice, although you weren’t sure if it was because it was familiar, or if it was because it wasn’t in your head this time.

Turning your head, you caught the sight of Yuta, standing just as he had been in your dream, wearing clothes that were coated in blood, likely the same ones he’d been wearing when he was stabbed.

“How are you not a fox anymore?” you asked.

He smiled as he knelt down on the couch where you were still sprawled out.

“Your human mind couldn't accept the truth earlier. That’s why you freaked out when I began speaking into your mind, which is something I can only do in fox form,” he added. “When I calmed you down by accessing your nervous system, I realized you were going to have to see the truth, so I knocked you out and took you on the journey with me. You had to live through that one way or another,” he explained.

You didn’t understand, not really anyways, not the full story, at least. What you did understand was 1) Yuta was a kitsune, 2) he had a very dark past, and 3) you were his soulmate and, although you hadn’t known him for very long, you were 100% ok with that.

“Now, do you think you can stay calm long enough for me to do something I was dying to do the entire time?” he asked.

“What?”

“This.”

Without further exchange of words, Yuta’s plump lips were on yours and, for the first time through the whole ordeal, you could feel it. And you knew it wouldn’t take much until you were addicted. Because he was Nakamoto Yuta. Kitsune. And your soulmate.

187 notes · View notes

infernal-fire · 4 years ago

Text

Long Forgotten

I am choosing to not use warnings. Do not read if you are uncomfortable with themes of infidelity, angst, swearing and sexual innuendos.

Summary: Your Steve isn’t yours anymore and you’re beginning to understand why.

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairings: Steve x reader and a surprise appearance ;)

Disclaimer: this is set right after Endgame

A/N: this story was inspired by @nsfwsebbie’s fic please don’t take him (even though you can). it was so damn amazing. i thought of how the situation would go under different circumstances, and added a more strong willed reader into the mix :)

i tried to proofread but im sort of posting in a rush so all mistakes are my own!

(This GIF does not belong to me)

Your head was nestled in the crook of Steve’s neck and his arms were cradling your tired form. Dried tears left your face feeling dry and your up do from the funeral was now tousled. Steve let out a heavy sigh and held you a little tighter.

You could fall asleep if it weren’t for the looming stress of returning the stones so you decided to bide your time by focusing on the super soldier’s unnaturally slow heartbeat.

“We should go, sweetheart. They’re waiting for me.” his voice broke the placid silence that had enveloped the room.

You silently got off the bed and Steve’s hand nudged yours, stopping you from reaching the door.

He slowly pulled you towards him and you met him halfway, face-to-face.

“I know things aren’t great right now. But we’ll get through this,” he spoke lowly as his large hands cupped your face. They felt rough against your supple skin, but his touch was as tender as ever.

You stared into his eyes for a moment before speaking. "I’ll come with you,” you offered.

“No,” he affirmed. His tone was firm yet a touch of softness was reserved in there somewhere, just for you.

“I love you Y/N. I’ll love you no matter what,” he said as he pulled your head into his chest and engulfed your body into his.

You reached the new, mini version of the previously destroyed time travel contraption Tony made. Sam, Bucky and Professor Hulk were engaging in light conversation that clearly, none of them were interested in. You look up at Steve, who was as tense as ever, clutching your hand like a vice. He let go and glanced back at you before joining Sam.

You knew deep down that Steve would never be the same anymore. Hell, after the Battle of Wakanda, Steve almost ended the relationship because the Avengers lost.

But the Avengers won this time, and things should feel different. So why did it feel like he was leaving forever?

You recalled the very short conversation you had with him about Tony’s snap.

“I should have snapped,” he sobbed.

“You’ve always been selfless your whole life. This was Tony’s time to be selfless, and you don’t get to take that away from him.” You hugged him and cried with him.

There was nothing else to be said.

How much you wished no one had to die.

He stood on the platform and nodded at Bruce before locking eyes with you.

Apologetic. He looked apologetic.

At the time, you thought he just looked sad. You assumed it was residual sadness from the funeral but looking back, you realized he looked apologetic for what he was about to do.

Rebuilding your relationship wasn’t easy. Tony and Nat’s death and the trauma of the battle were overshadowing both of your feelings. You salvaged what you could and life returned to a “normal” that never existed.

Being an Avenger means your living costs are covered by Tony, basically compensating for the missions. Only there weren’t any missions anymore. You were grateful but it meant that you had a lot of time on your hands.

You took up a job as a waitress and Steve continued running sessions at the VA with Sam. It was humbling to be serving people at a diner after fighting alongside some of Earth’s mightiest heroes. But you needed it. And slowly but steadily, happiness crept its way into the tower.

You didn’t see Steve around anymore though. You weren’t sure if you were even together anymore, aside from the forehead kisses and lingering glances.

You and Bucky set the table while you heard Sam and Steve banter over who gets to choose the movie today. Bucky chuckled and called them to eat.

There was relentless teasing, jokes being tossed around and big smiles everywhere.

“The nurse had poked him 2 times at this point and there was no blood coming out of him.” Sam laughed.

“So she asks me if we can do the other arm.” Bucky snorted through breaths of amusement.

“This guy pulls up his sleeve and the girl faints.” Sam howled as everyone doubled over in laughter.

You wiped a tear from your eye and you look over at Steve who was laughing as well. It had been a long time since you’ve seen him so happy.

Sure, he’d been distant. He hadn’t touched you since he came back. It had been 2 months though, and you wondered if you should try again tonight. You put a hand over Steve’s and he snapped his head to you. He gave you a small smile before slipping his hand out from under yours and picking up a napkin.

He needed the napkin, you told yourself.

You went up to change into something that he might find more appealing. You were torn between the red lace set or the black corset. You settled for the classic red lace and tied on a robe before heading downstairs to tease him a little.

“You’re going to tell her before you go right?” You heard Sam’s voice and broke your stride to the kitchen.

“She won’t be happy.” You swore it was Steve’s voice but it was a little too quiet to be sure. You silently padded toward the kitchen, standing right outside the entrance to hear better.

“Of course she won’t be happy. You went back to be with a girl from 70 years ago and spent 4 months with her. You sort of cheated on her Steve.” Bucky’s voice quipped at Steve.

You couldn’t be hearing right. Steve went back and got together with Peggy?

“It’s not sort of cheating, he almost got married to her,” Sam remarked in rebuttal.

He almost got married to her.

There was so much information to process. Your shoulder sagged with the weight of the news and you cupped your mouth before anyone could hear your sob.

“But I came back.” Steve countered.

“Do you love her?” Bucky lowered his voice and inquired.

“I don’t know anymore.”

Your chest heaved and eyes burned. You wanted to gasp for air but you knew if you breathed, you would let out the anguish building in your stomach.

Your back hit the wall and you slid down, not caring if he hears anymore.

In moments, Steve, Bucky and Sam appear beside you with startled faces.

You didn’t look at them as you got up and paced to your room. You thought you heard Steve’s voice calling after you but your thoughts pounded and clawed at the insides of your head. You couldn’t be sure and you weren’t going to turn back now.

He didn’t run after you. You had predicted that he didn’t want to deal with your hysterical crying which surely could be heard past your room walls. When you considered it, this new Steve was actually quite predictable; you knew he wouldn’t bother bringing it up to you until you brought it up yourself. Because he was a coward like that, you decided. All of his actions spoke for themself and the one true motive behind his cheating is cowardice. You don’t know if you would have been okay with him going back to Peggy, but if he talked about it, things not have ended the way they did.

After 2 days of not leaving your room, you knew that there was a better way to handle this. It wasn’t you who should be embarrassed; instead of sulking, you marched to his room with newfound determination.

You threw open his door that he didn’t even bother locking. Steve was mid-speech with someone on the phone, seemingly a conversation that wasn’t going his way. He seemed tense, his muscles protruding from the tight white t-shirt pulled over him.

Your jaw ticked as you shifted your weight onto one foot and rested on the doorframe, waiting for him to end the call.

“I’m sorry to cut this short. We have a lot to talk about but it’ll have to happen in-person.” he concluded the phone call and sat on the bed with his head in his arms.

“Seems like you planned it all.” you commented, trying to sound like you didn’t care. In reality, the wound was still very fresh. Even though a part of you had known that the relationship was over for some time now, you were only coming to terms with it now.

“I wanted to tell you before I left, but you were just so upset and I couldn’t …” he trailed off.

“All of a sudden you care about me? And now this is somehow my fault that you were too chicken to tell me,” you retorted, unimpressed with his answer.

“I have always cared about you and always will.” He got up and walked towards you. He cupped your face but you pushed his hand off, glaring up at him.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I admit I could’ve handled everything lot better but Y/N. When you told me Tony’s snap was his moment of selflessness, I realized that all I’ve ever done is be selfless. And I don’t regret any of it. But it was time I chose to do something for myself. Then I remembered Peggy and the life I left behind and I just knew this world would be okay without me so I chose to be selfish. I chose to be selfish, Y/n, and I don’t regret that either.”

You were crying now, and Steve reached to wipe it off, but you smacked his hand.

“You used to choose me. You woke up everyday and chose us. The day you decided you didn’t want this anymore, you decided you would just go ‘fuck all’ and cheat on me? You couldn’t have ended it like a normal person?” you questioned through your tears. Your vision was foggy but you kept wiping your eyes, trying not let him see your tears.

He sighed and let a few moments stretch on before he answered.

“We both know that this relationship was over a long time ago Y/N.”

You noted his use of your name and not the usual pet name ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’. It saddened you even more to think that he doesn’t associate those words with you anymore.

“You’re a fucking bastard Rogers. You are the biggest coward I have ever met in my life. You may be the Captain America, but you are the biggest wimp in real life.” You could tell he was fuming because of your comment but you continued your spiel.

“I tried everything to make this work. The moment that the thought of cheating crossed your mind, you should have broken my heart. Because all you did now was rip it out and stomp on it before spitting on the what’s left-”

“I can’t believe you’re standing here accusing me of not trying to make this work. You know what Y/N? I fucking left Peggy because I thought about you and thought I could make this work. And then I came back and remembered all the reasons why this wouldn’t work and now I regret it. I wish I could go back to Peggy.”

“Go fuck yourself Rogers,” you muttered and turned to leave. “Actually, go fuck Peggy’s skeleton Steve. I curse you with every cell in my body. I hope you never get to see her again. I know you’re trying to go back,” you added before wiping you final tear, once and for all. There was no way you were going to shed another tear on this asshole.

Except, it wasn’t that simple. You did cry over it more, but if there’s anything you did right, it was making sure he never saw your tears.

You also found that post-break up glow up’s were a real thing. The lack of missions means you didn’t need to see Steve unless you chose to be in the same space as him. So you chose to make new friends and bring new light into your life. There was no dread clouding your judgment because for once, there was no impending threat on the future of Earth.

You cut your hair, you changed up your wardrobe and got as fit as you’ve ever been. Your friends made frequent stops at the Tower which eventually turned into dragging you into their bar hopping.

On the other hand, Steve was doing everything he could to go back to Peggy, just like you had predicted. You manifested his downfall. Hank Pym refused to let his work fall into the hands of the Avengers and Steve was having a very hard time convincing him otherwise. The final nail in the coffin was when Hank decided that Pym Particles should not be produced anymore. As long as the world didn’t understand the entirety of the quantum realm, no one should have access to something that could mess with it. No arguments could ensue because there was nothing anyone could say to change Hank’s mind.

As much as Bucky and Sam wanted him to go back, they knew he deserved it for everything you were put through. When Steve found that his friends weren’t on the same page as him, he spiraled deeper into regret and depression. There wasn’t much to be done in terms of world-saving, which is what he was made for. The person he thought was the love of his life is gone now. When the dust settled, he realized that you were the only thing that kept him going for so long. But now he lost you too, and there was nothing he could do get you back.

While you were out living your new life, Steve was trying to find a life for himself. He would see you around the compound and wanted nothing more than to feel the warmth of your love. What he would do to feel that again, he couldn’t explain to anyone.

Your escapades were at an all-time high. You knew that single life is the life. Just when you finally concluded that all men were trash, Ransom came crashing into your life. Although he only reinforced this belief, this man wasn’t just any trash. He was your trash.

He was the mutual of your friends and you seemed to never be able to escape him. Moreover, your friends decided that you wouldn’t escape him.

The teasing and playful banter between you two turned into something more serious about a year after your break-up. Ransom was everything Steve wasn’t.

Steve was a gentleman. Chivalrous. Gentle.

Then you reminded yourself that he had proven to you that he wasn’t any of things anymore. Ransom was the exact opposite, but he wore it on his sleeve. After all the lies and cowardice, Ransom’s blunt and bold attitude was exactly what you needed.

There were moments you found yourself comparing the nature of the two relationships. With Steve, a lot of it was gentle and soft with some roughness around the edges. Life alongside Ransom was nothing short of callous, but that’s why soft, vulnerable moments felt even more extraordinary and special.

If you made a judgement based off first impressions, someone like Ransom seems to be more likely to cheat than someone like Steve Rogers. Upon deeper analyzation though, Ransom doesn’t have any skeletons in his closet. He doesn’t claim things easily, but when he does, he would go to any length to make sure what’s his, will stay his. Soon after you realized this, you began abandoning thoughts of comparing the two relationships.

There was a party at the Tower for Sam’s birthday. It was the first time in a long time that you were going to be around Steve for longer than 10 minutes. Doubt began seeping through your determination; how well would you fare under the pressure of pretending to be okay around him?

“Do we have to match, sugar?” Ransom whined from your bathroom.

“Why would you even go to an event as a couple if you aren’t matching?” you hollered back.

You heard Ransom grumble as the bathroom door swung open. The emerald green dress shirt with small gold polka dots complemented his eyes so perfectly. Ransom was about to complain again before seeing the look of awe on your face. He decided right then that he could suck it up for the night.

You were wearing an emerald green cocktail dress with sheer black net covering your shoulders, your sleeves reaching your elbows. The material was different, but the print was the exact same as Ransom’s. He couldn’t help but wonder why you put so much effort into such little things. He made a mental note to do something like this for you another time before wrapping his arms around your frame, burying his face into your face.

“Ran! My hair!” you squealed as you tried to push him off.

“Usually it’s me that takes this long to get ready. You trying to impress the Captain?” Ransom winked and sat on your bed.

“Oh fuck off.” you rolled your eyes and added the big bow to your half up hair-do.

“You look so innocent baby. How angelic would you look with my cum dripping out of your mouth?” he smirked as you dropped your mouth, looking at him through the mirror.

“My god Ran, this is not the time.” You shook your head and pulled him with you, finally making your way to the party downstairs.

You were breaking out into cold sweat for some reason. Part of you really wanted to show Steve how happy you were now, but you felt that it meant you weren’t truly over him. Were you making a mistake?

Right before you opened the door the common room where the party was ongoing, Ransom stopped you and looked right into your eyes.

“You know, as much as I’d like to make your ex jealous, if you don’t want this, I could think of a lot of other ways to spend the night,” he winked and you blushed. This is exactly why you liked him so much. There was no pressure to be anything but yourself around him. Even if you told him you wanted to go back to your room, there would be no judgement on his behalf. He wouldn’t ever bring it up as a joke either, because he just knew what he could and couldn’t joke about.

“Let’s do this, bubbles” you giggled. He groaned at the nickname and pulled you into his side with one arm, opening the door with the other.

One of Ransom’s many talents was making an entrance and this event was no exception. As you walked through the entrance, Ransom kept his head high and pulled you along with him. His confidence began rubbing off you and within a few steps, you stopped slouching. Straightening you back and tossing your hair behind your back, you bathed in the glory of the looks you and Ransom were getting. He took you straight to the bar, smiled at you and ordered drinks.

“You know, your ex was fuming in the corner,” he remarked as he sipped on his drink.

“No!” you laughed incredulously, unable to imagine Steve begin angry over Ransom’s presence.

“It’s true, look for yourself,” he calmly retorted. His eyes flicked to a corner of the room and you followed his gaze there. Steve looked away upon seeing you look at him but it was clear that he was flustered. Bucky stood beside him, entertaining a gaggle of girls, but Steve’s attention was clearly elsewhere.

“He’s actually pretty hot in person, it’s making me jealous” Ransom nonchalantly mentioned.

You threw your head back and laughed. Your doubts of whether this was a good idea were dissipating very quickly.

Ransom chuckled and then looked at you intently. You looked back at him, the high of the laugh wearing off because of his intense stare.

“I think I’m in love with you.” you blurted.

“You know, I’m glad you said it because I did not want to say it first.” he snickered and you playfully punched him.

“Ow! I’m just kidding, don’t go all Avengers-mode on me!” he fussed.

You pulled him into a tight hug. He peeled your head away from his chest to cup your face and give you a light kiss before whispering ‘I love you too.’ You started to tear up, thinking of all the pain you had to go through to get this moment of tranquility with your favourite person in the whole, wide world.

He cooed and kissed your forehead.

“I always got you.” he assured and pulled your head back into his chest. You smiled and broke away from the hug, sitting back on the bar stool.

“I think you transferred your lipstick because you have a dark red lip mark on your forehead.”

You groaned and frantically wiped your forehead.

“Hey,” he caught your wrist. “Why don’t we go back up and fix that?” His eyes glinted in the dim lights and you giggled like a schoolgirl as he pushed through the crowd.

In that moment, and every moment after it, Steve was long forgotten.

Fill out the form in my bio or shoot me a message if you want to join my tag list!

I believe the page dividers are by @firefly-graphics (I forget which ones were my own and which ones were downloaded, but regardless, they have amazing work that I definitely rec writers to check out!)

Tag list: @partiesandblurrypolaroids @hitmewithyourbest-shot @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @bval-1

Other tags: @mculibrary @saiyanprincessswanie

#steve x reader #steve x you #steve x y/n #endgame #endgame!steve #steve rogers #captain america #fic #fic rec #mcu #marvel

206 notes · View notes

gofancyninjaworld · 3 years ago

Text

OPM Webcomic Chapter 141 Review

Intro

Normally I like to take a couple of days and a few rereads to see how I feel about a chapter before reviewing it, but with ONE’s unpredictable schedule, I’d best do this now. It’s longish.

The first thing to say is that this chapter really messed me up.

The cavalry has a stone in its shoe

The first thing that fucked me up was realising what the sound effect in the first two panels of the chapter was: the sound of the doctor’s increasingly agonised breathing. What a horrible thing to have to hear, made worse by the three Machine Gods showing up and reporting that their latest kill would have a 0% chance of survival after 5 minutes.

If you thought then that this chapter would be about a by-the-skin-of-the-teeth save, you’re sadly mistaken. Genos was awesome. He spared no power (nor powers for that matter) in fighting the three dragon-level machines simultaneously, aiming to kill them as quickly as he could and get that time.

ONE’s grasp on choreography has improved immensely and he’s used it fantastically here. He’s always been versatile, but this time, Genos was plasticity itself, wielding heat, freezing, magnetism, anti-gravity, electricity and much more. In turn, they didn’t commit the mistake of trying to attack one at a time, analysing his moves as they went and attacking in unpredictable formation.

it might not be psychic power, but being able to move and warp anything magnetic is a damn useful substitute

Machine Gods may vary in form, but they do share a basic interest, which is in understanding heroes, and a basic personality, which is a snarky wit that’s quick to mock. Machine God Tech lobs a back-handed compliment to Genos, saying that if he’d mastered these variable abilities, he’d have been able to aim for the top of the hero world. For their confidence, Tech and Ray end up dead in pretty short order, smashed to pieces, leaving an outraged Machine God Body howling about how it simply couldn’t be that a mere ex-human cyborg could outdo them, these magnificent AIs. He takes up the components of the other two to strengthen himself further, but he’s dead soon, smashed to bits by an appropriately named Final Smash.

Genos hurries to the doctor, but there’s no let up. Seven more high-powered robots appear. Thankfully so does Saitama, still in his underwear. He takes on the five approaching from the front, leaving the last two to Genos. Saitama casually walking through the assault, not even bothering to shape a punch has to be one of the scene-stealers of the chapter and one of the very few light moments in it.

And then it’s over. Saitama picks the doctor up to try ferrying him to hospital, but the doctor refuses, preferring to tell Genos where to find a secret, final upgrade, to use it to run away from Them (looks like the doctor knows exactly who killed him) and to beg forgiveness.

what a way for a beautiful relationship to end

Genos doesn’t say anything. Nor does he hurry after Saitama, but after the latter has left, he bows deeply in gratitude and says that there’s nothing to forgive, for the old man did nothing wrong in his eyes.

The action recommences at dawn. For the avoidance of all hope, we see that Saitama has buried the doctor in the forest with a chunck of the lab wall as a headstone and the shovel still stuck in the earth by the grave. Genos comes out of the repair pod with a new body and the two of them take their leave. Genos intends to take out Metal Knight immediately, before whatever the plan for a ‘general offensive’ is executed. Saitama agrees to accompany him. But as they walk along, there’s a light over the nearest city. It seems ‘The Plan’ Machine God Tech talked about has begun.

Indeed, on the ground, there’s carnage as a formation of robots marches through, burning every building they pass and shooting down anything that moves. Various heroes look on in numb horror as the army advances.

That’s where this monster of a chapter ends.

never ones to half-ass things

Meta

Unsurprising Surprise

The Organization strikes at last. Our longest-running villains finally show their hand. They’ve measured, they’ve planned, they’ve done their homework, made that list and checked it twice. Fitting in with Metal Knight’s warning about a shadowy power waiting its time (in the manga, not the webcomic), they’ve struck right when the heroes are at their weakest. We don’t know the extent of it. Is City W the only place being scrubbed off the map, or is this part of a much more widespread trend?

Well, now we really do know that when Genos spoke of not only acting for himself when he introduced himself to Saitama, he was just telling the truth. He might be looking for vengeance, but his scope was always much bigger than just himself. It’s a shame things have had to deteriorate to this extent for us to see it.

If not now, when?

So this is it! This is as good as it gets for him then. If he is to survive, Genos will have to take a page from Drive Knight’s example and quickly master everything his new body has to offer. We’ve (well I’ve) complained before that he’s merely competent at using what the doctor gives him, throwing parts and bodies away without giving himself a chance to truly get the best out of them. No choice now. And it looks like there’s a world to save -- no time to luxuriate in practice. Or grief.

Forgive me

A few years ago when I was still new to Reddit, one of my first posts was to ask if Dr Kuseno was a good man. Against his manifest good deeds in supporting Genos as he did, it didn’t sit well with me that he’d performed a Reverse Pinocchio on an ordinary boy, turning him into a living weapon. Not hard to imagine that it wasn’t received too well by the sub, lol. In time, as we got to see more of Kuseno, my position on him softened, but what the hell, doctor? never went completely away.

With Kuseno’s dying words being apology, we see that he knew he’d done wrong by Genos. He knew that roping him into his quest for justice came as much from his own selfishness and rage as it did from a desire to set the world to rights. I’ve repeatedly said that the cyborg body Genos has has nothing to do with health. It was all about gaining the power to fight and forgoing a chance to have a life in the process.

And so Kuseno died, in agony, weeping and begging for a forgiveness that he never heard come. He was buried like a dog in what had been his backyard. By a stranger.

Fuck.

That’s cold.

Now I’m not faulting Genos for not forgiving the old man to his hearing. But there’s a hardness to him that he’ll want watching lest it grow more.

this is why the Machine Gods always fail despite their detailed calculations. They just do not understand the depth of the human heart, nor its importance.

But I’ll add one more thing. Dr Kuseno did not just raise a warrior. In the end, he raised a damn fine hero too. In the end, I really hope that some great good might yet come out of this.

Saitama and compassion

I’m glad that Saitama is here. I’m even more glad that he’s not been acting to try stealing the show, instead supporting Genos when the latter needs it. It’s not ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ But it is compassionate.

What’s next?

Why fighting of course. Lots of it. I hope that somehow, the fog of war ends up nevertheless clarifying the relationship between the Neo Heroes, The Organization, Metal Knight and possibly Drive Knight. I’m ready for this arc to build to its crisis and resolve one way or the other.

Bits and pieces

Number 23 on the list? If Kuseno weren’t keeping such a low profile, I’d be insulted on his behalf.

I surmised last chapter that Kuseno must have an extensive basement as the superstructure of his place looked positively humble. West basement? With multiple hangars? That’s not a basement, that’s an underground castle. I hope Genos has locked up after himself. If he succeeds in putting sword to his enemies, he’ll want what’s in there.

Finally, with the way living and dying works in this world, I wonder if the old man might yet have survived if he’d not decided it was too late for him. I guess we’ll never know. At least I hope not. I hope he’s beyond the clutches of those who’d raise him to an undeath for their own purposes.

#OPM #meta #review #Genos #dr kuseno #Saitama #machine gods #The Organization #Metal Knight #long #what a brutal chapter #both in action and in emotion #so much ugliness #all I wanted Genos to be able to do was to finally protect someone that was important to him but even now it wasn't to be #and yet I do hope that there's some redemptive good that might be wrought out of this

66 notes · View notes

otp-holic · 3 years ago

Text

The one place (where something happened) (A03)

“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.” Alice Munro. (or the one where they receive a letter from a familiar name and we go into 4Ks of fluff around a lost afternoon in France)

4K. Lamely explicit at one point. Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Trigger for FLUFF as the main plot. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3)

This was supposed to be a manip with 200 words of bantering and it's now 4Ks of fluff with a few pictures. I've decided to leave them inside the cut because I feel they work better with its context there. I'm sorry for the hassle, but I really hope you give this a chance... unless you have cavities, only like fics with amazing plots or are allergic to shameless fluff.

Please do not repost the pictures, I know this is futile, but… I try :)

DAGUERROTYPE, France 1944 Private Collection.

Steve is cooling down from his very early run, enjoying the feeling of the pink sunrise looming over the awakening Brooklyn streets as he walks the last couple of blocks on the way home, when his phone beeps.

“Check your actual mailbox, we dropped something for you there. I think you should appreciate us making it old-fashioned just for you, grandpas!”

Steve smiles at Sam’s text and as soon as he arrives at their building he snaps a picture of the very common and flat envelope with “Barnes&Rogers” scribbled on top of a Stark Logo, to send along his response.

“Nice try, but this is inaccurate. A letter would have never made its way to us without an address or stamp. We’ll send you a proper thank you card to show you how it’s done.”

He can’t help but chuckle at his own joke rereading the text while he opens the door, and when he looks up from his phone and into the kitchen, he is received by a sleepy Bucky looking at the coffee machine like he looks at Steve during their most soft and embarrassingly cheesy moments.

“You love that thing more than you love me, confess it.”

“In the mornings? Yes. I don’t even like you in the mornings most of the time,” he answers matter of factly. “Want some?”

Steve playfully wiggles an eyebrow.

“No way. Your sweaty self is tempting, but coffee smells better. I might join you in the shower later.” Bucky offers him one of the two cups he has poured and he notices the envelope Steve is holding. “What is that?”

“We’ve got mail!” He hands it to Bucky. “I have no idea what's on it, but Sam texted me to say they had something delivered to our mailbox and there it was. Open it.”

Bucky leaves the cup on the counter, face sparked with a curiosity that makes him look twenty-one (and Steve weak on the knees), and goes for it.

The content is a bit underwhelming at first glance: Another envelope, white, no Stark logo, but topped with a bright green post-it with a note on Pepper’s script.

“This got to me via PR. We analyzed it and checked with the source (no peeking, I swear) and it seems legit. With that return address, it’s likely to arouse your interest. Love, P.”

Bucky tears off the post-it and the letter is revealed to be addressed to Steve Rogers at the Stark Tower, but it is when they turn it around when everything goes still for a second.

The return address is some street in Marseille, but what has Steve’s mouth dry and Bucky’s hand trembling just a bit is the combination of the place and the name written on top: Emmanuelle Jaques Dernier.

“Boom?”, Bucky says, trying to cut through their heavy hearts and taking Steve’s hand. It’s a terrible terrible joke, but Dernier would have loved it and he grins.

“That’s a terrible terrible joke,” Steve verbalizes, “but I think at least we’ve reached the same conclusion.”

“Elementary, my dear Steve,” Bucky answers as he opens the second envelope, only to reveal a folded letter and yet another envelope. “It’s a fucking vault of paper!”

Steve takes the letter from him, unfolds it, and quickly scans it (normal office paper, printed, hand-signed) before he starts reading it out loud to Bucky’s undivided attention.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Emmanuelle Dernier and I am the great-grandson of Jaques Dernier of the Howling Commandos.

First, let me tell you that we all in our family grew up with amazing stories and praise for you, Sergeant Barnes, and the rest of the team. I never got to meet my great-grandfather or any of them (you), but I’ve always felt like I did.

In fact, that’s the ultimate reason behind this letter: I ached to honor him and I’ve been putting in order all his remaining letters, pictures, and memories so they don’t get lost forever, and there are many things I’m discovering through this journey. So many pictures and tiny details… and amongst them, you and the rest of the Commandos appear at the most random and memorable moments. Nothing that’s going to make it into history books, more like the stories my grandpa used to share with us over and over again, those important tidbits that make him more human.

Anyway, I was going through the pictures he kept when I came across some war photos that didn’t seem to match the 40s timeframe. Typical daguerreotypes from the 20s in a very bad state, probably taken with a camera from the era in 1944 and developed on a later date by somebody who clearly didn’t master the technique.

They were in a very bad state and hidden inside an envelope that said “Terribly drunk soldiers in France making idiots of ourselves in unique and creative ways. Fun evening, horrible hangover. About 20 miles west of the Maginot Line. Autumn ‘44”. I’m attaching a photocopy of that, I hope you can understand my decision to keep the original.

After restoring the daguerreotypes with some experts, all I got were five very bad pictures with silhouettes of people apparently having fun…. but there was one that got a lot better in the cleaning process that feels important somehow. I’m sending the original, as well as the restored version I got.

I, of course, don’t have the whole context, but I hope it brings back a good memory. My great-grandpa might be in the picture, but I don’t think this one belongs to my family or to a museum.

Thank you for your service, I really hope this letter finds its way to you.

E.Dernier.”

“I can’t believe… Steve, most days I’m convinced that day and that place are a figment of my imagination,” Bucky smiles, remembering. “When I think of a moment of pure joy during the war, I think about that afternoon in France, and it always feels unreal. A bubble of air and laughter while we were so surrounded by death.”

Steve nods, reminiscing about that warm and humid September morning when they arrived at yet another abandoned and destroyed little village, this one about twenty miles west of the Maginot Line. They had orders to lie low and wait for twenty-four hours before they started the maneuver to wipe another Hydra base off the map, and that little town was perfect for that.

Among bomb debris and fallen walls, they found one small building miraculously standing next to the remains of the church, so they decided to set camp under a roof for a change since the weather was being a little flickery with the rain, and they had the rare luxury of time.

The inside of the tiny house was as unusual as the outside: nothing was destroyed beyond being dusty and worn by time, and everything they found (furniture, kitchenware, and even fabrics) belonged more to Steve and Bucky’s early childhoods than to 1944, a living museum frozen in time.

Only it was not a museum, but the parish house left untouched and non-raided: old-fashioned clothes, outdated church books, yellowing clergy collars, and, of course, the wine cellar. Oh, that wine cellar… the havoc it unleashed.

“I remember the absolute excitement when Falsworth found all those bottles of old unscathed mass wine from the parish,” Steve brings his memory to words, looking at Bucky, “I’m still a little convinced that we are going to hell for drinking them.”

“Not for that, probably, but it was a wonder nobody died on the spot of wine poisoning, it tasted like sweet vinegar, ugh.”

“But it did his part, right? Took our minds off things; got us drunk, bold and silly.” Steve answers.

“Apparently not all of us,” Bucky says very seriously, looking at Steve.

“Technicalities… I got drunk by proxy. Seeing you all so happy made me giddy and tipsy, too.”

“I came and went… I remember being a little surprised at the clarity of my thoughts at some moments there when some of the guys were basically drooling on the floor. Now I understand, of course.”

Steve squeezes his hand, not much to be said there.

They were already way too drunk by the early afternoon, drinking to the sound of a sudden rainstorm pouring outside. All of them scattered across the small dusty living room and its adjoining kitchen while they went through all the bottles of wine they had been able to find. Cheering for the foregone priest every time somebody raised a glass, and laughing as if there were no ruins or war on the other side; just silly men (boys, really) laughing their hearts out.

“Earth to Steve… I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see what the hell that envelope is hiding. Especially now that we know about its time stamp.”

“I’m sorry, me too! Gabe drunkenly handling that old camera and those glass plaques the way he did? I’m honestly impressed that he was able to take any pictures at all,” he muses. “Shit, is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“I’m gonna save us the bantering because I’m nervous, too,” Bucky answers in all sincerity. “Truth is, Steve, I remember everything about that day.”

It’s a new admission, a newly opened door for them because for some reason, they have never talked about that peaceful surreal afternoon, and Steve nods in recognition as he silently goes for the envelope one-handed, not wanting to let go of Bucky’s hand because his surface is way cooler than his wrenching insides. Maybe the picture is an overexposed french wall but maybe…

The photo he extracts from the envelope is clearly the original and damaged one Emmanuelle specified in his letter. Anybody else looking at it would see nothing beyond Dernier’s blurry profile, but since Steve and Bucky were there when this was taken, they know exactly what moment Steve is holding in his hand.

“Buck,…” is all Steve can say, struck by the blurry keepsake.

Later in the afternoon when they had already consumed most of the wine and there was not a single coherent thought left in the room, one of the guys took the parish books and besottedly announced that there was a wedding set for today… thirty years ago. Alcohol fueled a goofy idea that escalated at the speed of light, with Morita saying they were going to a wedding because they deserved a celebration, Dernier confessing that he had once considered becoming a priest, and Dum-dum bringing out all the old fashioned clothes from the wardrobe and deciding they were getting nice and clean for the festivities.

“That’s clearly Dernier in the picture killing it in his priest role, right?” Bucky says, half smiling and interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You know, I went all-in with that fake wedding party. I was laughing to tears when I saw you put on that ridiculously long and ill-fitting jacket from the 10s, feeling weightless and silly for the first time since sailing off, and God knows we all deserved that. And it was all safe and light-hearted until fucking Morita decided you had to be the groom, and...”

“Were you jealous because I won the dashing groom competition?”

Steve’s attempt at a joke is weak, but there’s truth behind it: Morita chose Steve as the groom (“Cap, you are the most dashing and the least drunk”) to a chorus of excited voices cheering for him. Somebody else, most likely Dum-Dum, chose the rest of the roles (Sarge, best man duty; Jones, camera; Morita, keep the wine flowing; the rest of you, misbehave!) and in the blink of an eye, they were all going outside laughing under a light rain, and about to celebrate Steve’s fictional wedding to nobody.

“How could I be jealous?” Bucky cuts in. “Do you remember all you said to me that afternoon? During World War II and in front of a battalion of men?”

“I was drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Bucky disentangles his hand from Steve’s to use both of them to hold Steve’s face and kiss him with violence. “Tell me. Do you remember what you said?”

As if he could ever forget. He can recall every step he took from the house to the makeshift wedding spot amidst the trees where his best man (looking dapper even in that ludicrous jacket) was laughing along Dernier. He can still smell the petrichor, can still sense the blush coloring his cheeks while hoping nobody noticed and can still hear the beating of his heart when Bucky handed him a battered umbrella (“You don’t deserve to get rained on your wedding day, punk”) and a fucking ring made out his shoelaces (“You’ll have to buy something a little more permanent.”). And then…

“Dernier started the ceremony and he wanted to know if I had somebody in mind and I said ‘of course’.” He replays, his voice barely a whisper. “I said I’d had my eyes on a brown-haired Brooklynite since before I could remember. I said that I was pretty sure those blue eyes were set on mine too and that hopefully those eyes would be set enough to want to marry me even if I had never dared to ask.”

He’s been holding Bucky’s gaze the whole time, and he’s far from over yet, but he needs to fucking breathe before he goes on. Neither of them has moved a muscle for the past minute.

“Then he asked me to repeat the wedding vows after him and…”

“And you said Buck, right?”, Bucky interrupts, voice winded. “You fucking whispered I take you, Buck, as my lawful wedded husband till the end of the line. I heard, Steve. Even if the rest of the world didn’t, I did. But you never said anything, so I always deemed it impossible, a product of the corniest nook of my mind trying to outweigh all those bad things, because not even you could be as bold, reckless, and mushy as to do that,…it’s my fucking fault, I should have known better!”

“Not completely reckless, pal. I was scared shitless as I said those words, but what else could I do? You were right by my side about to put a ring on my finger as my “best man”, everyone, including you, supposedly drunk past recollection, and everybody else too far away to hear my whispers. It was such an easy choice in the end because truth should always win over fear. And those vows were. The truth.”

“You have always been too honest for your own good, Rogers,” Bucky is breathless and exasperated and goes for his mouth again, bringing in all he (they) couldn’t in 1944. “You destroyed me, Steve. My knees were as weak as a teenager’s in front of his first crush. I wanted to kiss you so badly when I heard you say all that there in the open… and I couldn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I know. And for what it's worth, I really thought you didn’t remember.”

It is too much. Is it normal to feel this much? Steve would blame it on the serum enhancements, but he was already overwhelmed at 16, so that’s clearly not the answer.

He craves, no, he needs touching, grounding, closer. Bucky. There’s too much space between them even if they are back to kissing like they would have that day in 44, and at any other time if their own lives wouldn’t have stolen those moments from them.

“It happened.” Bucky whimpers, biting on Steve’s lip who abandons his own stool to straddle him, both of them gasping in sync at the feeling of their cocks, hard against each other’s through their soft pants.

Bucky soon ups the stakes by carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair pulling his head backwards to help himself into that spot on his neck.

“Same two moles as when you were tiny, as when we were at that war... Your cute vampire bite. Favorite spot.” He licks on them with the tip of his tongue. Steve growls on cue and Bucky giggles. “Favorite chain reaction.”

“Buck, you cheater, you know what that does to me!” Steve cries out followed by Bucky’s evil chuckle.”Bed, couch, countertop,…I don’t care, but naked. Now. Stained pants due to heavy petting are too much of a trip down memory lane for me. Let me keep a bit of my dignity.”

Steve stands up liberating Bucky from his grip but aching at the loss of contact.

They are naked and making out in the middle of the kitchen in no time; Bucky steadily pushing him against the refrigerator while fiercely grinding against his crotch.

“Hey, ‘teve,” Bucky pants. “The way this is going, it’s my dignity now that's at risk. I don’t think I can make it further than the floor before I come.”

Steve groans into his mouth just at the thought and they start sliding to the floor the best they can until he’s a human blanket moving over Bucky. With no lube at hand, and no time, that’s their best option.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, his hands not leaving Bucky’s sweaty hair. Bucky’s hands on his ass, forcing their groins closer with one while he (almost absently) plays around his hole with the other, driving Steve crazy in the process. Dicks left to do their own thing through pressure and friction. Everything is working. And fast.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky exclaims “Can you promise me all this stuff with the letter was real and not a long-con plan to assure your fragile masculinity that I love you more than I love that espresso machine?”

That. That silly unfunny excuse of a joke that screams Bucky all over is what pushes Steve all the way over the edge. He fucking laughs as he comes making absolutely embarrassing sounds, pressing their foreheads and noses together until it hurts, and shaking from head to toe without stoping his pressure on the stupid and smug man under him. His lover. His partner. His unofficial husband. His best friend.

His Buck.

“There’s still too much blood in your brain if you can play that dirty,” Steve states, placing one hand between them grabbing Bucky’s hard cock. “Let’s see if I can do anything about it.”

“Your hand, usually so helpful, but I was already following you after that sound you make when you come and laugh at the same time, shit, it always goes straight to my dick, I’m,…” he keeps talking with difficulty between breaths and moans until he leaves his speech unfinished coming all over Steve’s fist.

They kiss on the lips breathing into each other before Steve rolls over. They are sticky and panting in silence, spread on their kitchen’s floor, Steve’s shoulders crushed between Bucky’s and the dishwasher. Domestic bliss at its most literal.

One lavish fuck and two showers later they reemerge into the kitchen in search of something to eat: Bucky is in charge of the food today, while Steve cleans the mess they left a couple of hours ago.

He’s decluttering the counter when their damaged picture laying there puts a smile on his face but also reminds him of the restored version presumably still waiting inside the disregarded letter, so he grabs the envelope to retrieve its contents: one photocopy (from Dernier’s original writing), and the promised photo.

And it is restored. Everything is clear where it was blurry before: Dernier (so deep into his priest impersonation that he’s not even looking at them), the trees, the battered umbrella, the ridiculous jackets… and them.

“You had the nerve to call me reckless and mushy, Buck?” Steve laughs as he stares at the picture where a very young Bucky is about to put a ring on his finger with the least subtle lovestruck expression he’s ever seen (“and it’s for you”, his brain proudly reminds him) “Wow, you might as well be kissing me there, anything would be more subtle than this!”

“Don’t shame me, you punk, especially not when you were the one responsible for breaking my brain back then!” Bucky answers coming from behind and stealing the picture from his hands to scrutinize it. Goofy grin and raging blush quickly taking over his face. “But you’re one to talk, Cap. You are gazing at that shoelace’s ring as if I were handing you a diamond tiara!”

Steve laughs softly at that and moves his right hand to his pocket, feeling the weight of the little compass he had retrieved earlier from one of his drawers. He used to carry it with him everywhere for comfort, but he has a better option now.

“Didn't you know that shoelaces are forever?” He asks, taking the compass out of his pocket and holding it in both hands as he opens it, nudging Bucky with his elbow to get his attention.

Bucky is confused for an instant while he looks at his young face staring at them from inside the little box. Of course he knew that (he made fun of Steve for days and days) but Steve detects the change in his expression when he notices the other thing.

“Wow, you gigantic sap,” Bucky says, taking the compass out of his hands to double-check he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You saved my shoelace.”

He had. While they were all celebrating his wedding under the rain dancing to no music, he quietly slipped the little string off his finger and tied it to the most secure place he had back then.

“It’s not a shoelace, you jerk, it’s a symbol. A declaration.” He laughs, stealing the compass back to safely pocket it again.

“You are delusional,” Bucky snorts, kissing the top of his head. But he’s widely smiling and lost in thought as he goes back to their sandwiches.

Steve stays on the spot enjoying the peace in their silent companionship, his focus on the latest news showing up on his phone, the text he’s writing to Sam and the comforting sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen.

“You might have married me, but I never actually married you.” Bucky blurts out of the blue a bit later, sitting by his side as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and some grilled greens on it. “Do you want mayo with that?”

“Uh?” Steve forgets all about the news and the text and looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Mayo, do you want some?” Bucky repeats nonchalantly.

“No mayo, thank you; but I was actually more interested in the other part, you know, that thing about marriage?”

Bucky looks him in the eye: earnest, blushing and with the same look of smug adoration he had on the picture.

“Oh, that part.” He jokes. “You apparently married me in 1944, but I never married you back. And I would like to.”

“Marry me?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly nods.

“I’m sorry for throwing the idea at you like this, books tell me I'm supposed to have candles, music, and a ring, but you showed me that restored picture and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about proof,” Bucky speaks uncharacteristically slow and very softly, voice trembling here and there while he claps his hand with Steve’s finger by finger for reassurance and as a distraction. “A single photo had the power to transform a moment that existed just as a made-up happy place inside my mind into something tangible and real. Something that would be tangible and real for anybody getting a hold on it and looking at our stupid faces.”

“So stealthy,” Steve says, and they both laugh together.

“Proof, Steve. I was slicing tomatoes and thinking how there’s so much evidence, thousands of files! out there proving that all the stuff that fuels my nightmares were real, but nothing solid about this. Us.” Bucky stops for a moment collecting his thoughts, still smiling even with the heavy subject he just dropped into the mix. “Sorry, I believe I put more time into these sandwiches than into thinking this all the way through so I’m…”

“Take your time, we’ve gone from mayo to marriage to nightmares in five minutes so don’t worry, you have me hooked here.”

Steve makes Bucky laugh again as he intended, and he feels their calloused laced fingers immediately squeezing closer.

“It’s stupid because it doesn’t change anything for us but,.. I don’t fucking know, Steve, I think that picture has messed up with my mind! I instantly found comfort in the idea of people finding facts beyond the nightmares now or in the future. An easy to understand, universal and oversimplified proof of how much I loved you and how much I was loved in return.” Bucky takes a breath and stares at him sporting a million-watt smile. “Marrying you,… I would really love that. And for real this time.”

“Ok, Buck.” Steve instantly replies, eagerness winning over thoughtful and heartfelt declarations. He tightens the grip on their joined hands to drive them to his lips and seals the easiest answer he’s ever had to give.

And it's done!Sorry for the cavities, for going on with the fic when it should have ended and for ending it where it might have had to keep going. It was painful and fun. I'm free!

51 notes · View notes

golden-olea · 4 years ago

Text

NSFW Cirillach Fic

Major kudos to @the-immortal-marshal and @xuelingxu for this fic idea! (is it possible for me to post a fic without some type of s/o to @the-immortal-marshal? honestly probably not at this point)

Plot: Avallac’h accidentally concocts an extremely strong aphrodisiac just as Ciri makes her way to his study. Sexy things ensue.

Warnings: NSFW

*also as a side note, I’ve aged Ciri up in this fic bc:

1. Obvious reasons

2. My thirst keeps me from engaging in any kind of critical thought (thinking? Case in point)

Avallac’h sat clutching his hair in his hands, taking long breaths in as he tried to understand what had happened. The recessed edges of the container in front of him glimmered in the candlelight as its contents sparked and puffed happily, sending trails of smoke stretching up into the air, filling the study in a light glowing haze.

What went wrong? The Sage thought, his lids crashing together as he tried to focus his mind. The ingredients, the measurements, the temperature, the timing – yes, he made sure he checked it all twice before creating it but still –

He breathed in deeply, digging his fingers into his temples as the tension built in his body, the sound of hushed garbled notes caressed his ears as he battled his body for order.

Focus he thought, but his mind was beginning to soften, his thoughts disintegrating as smoothly and emphatically as the smoke from the bottle, leaving to dance in the twinkling fog.

The tonic should have been simple, as rudimentary as a sleeping potion. A basic aphrodisiac, with a small twist to enhance the senses and amplify the effects of the drugged powders and oils applied to the girl.

The girl. The music grew louder.

“Avallac’h?”. A note broke through his muddled thoughts, gentle and tender, full of concern.

He looked up to see a figure standing against the warm glow of the hallway, the slender fingertips of an outstretched arm laying delicately on the wooden doorframe. How long had she been there?

“Ah… Zireael, yes.” he managed to say, looking up to address her.

His thoughts caught in his head as his eyes took in the shadow in his doorway. Her lithe body was draped in a slate blue satin, glistening golden threads ran up and around her hips in the shape of small buds, reaching up to her chest and blooming around the deep wrapped collar of the dress. He could see the ivory skin of her chest redden as it moved cautiously up and down, her small breaths inviting the candlelight to dance tantalizingly over her body.

“Avallac’h?” Ciri repeated “are you alright?”.

Her words were airier than before, the end of the sentence trailing off lightly, as if called to sleep.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He said, jerking his eyes off of her body and onto the potion which continued to fizzle ecstatically on the desk.

“Listen… carefully, I-” The Sage stopped mid-sentence, wrenching himself up from his desk. “You will need return some other time.”

He grabbed a cork and shoved it into the bottle. Every word, every motion, was painful; the pressure and desire growing in his body as his instincts roared wildly within.

Get her out he thought, turning to face her, his eyes, still pinned on the ground, landing on a pair of petite elven slippers. He stepped back quickly, his feet hitting the wooden bed frame behind him.

“Zireael, you must leave. Please.” He said, his voice faltering slightly as his body fought desperately to keep the words to himself.

The girl did not respond. He watched as the dainty slippers made their way towards him on cautious feet, the steps slow and deliberate, pulled by the same instinct coursing through him.

“Avallac’h…” the words came out draped in a hypnotic melody, her voice faltering in confusion, the smoke invading her young human mind and igniting her body in ways he could not even begin to fathom.

He held his breath as he passed her, dodging her hand as she reached out towards him, his body screaming at him as he made it to the door and placed his hand on the handle. His fingers wrapped tightly around the metal, the filigree digging hotly into his hand as he pulled the door further open.

He kept his breaths shallow, waiting for the girl to comply, to leave him, to listen. But the figure stood still, waiting, the drought paralyzing her in expectant desire. He fixed his gaze on her, intent to expel her with the last bits of clarity he could muster, but her eyes stole his words from him, burrowing into him with an intensity he had not seen in centuries. Memories, vision, of a petal-soft elfess rushed through him as the figure stood alone, beautiful and delicate, draped in fine elven fabric, ready to be taken.

Shamefully, he conceded. He took in a deep breath as he gave into the howling within, turning to face her as he heard the door clank shut behind him.

He moved towards her with wayward determination, captivated by the glassy green eyes staring back at him. His eyes took in her slender frame as his fingers cautiously reached towards her, daring the spirit in front of him to dissipate into the fog that surrounded them. But the vision held, her skin smooth and supple beneath him, the smell of newly bloomed buds intoxicating his senses.

He stared at her, hungrily taking in the look of lust, curiosity, and apprehension in the eyes that stared longingly back at him. He had seen this look only once, it had become a memory he visited for years after. A young, curious, and nimble body had waited expectantly in his hands once before, yearning to be touched, taught, caressed, by him, only him.

The memory had begun to fade, oh it had been years, but here she was again, in his hands, craving desperately for his touch, his desires, his teachings.

He stroked her cheek gently, her eyelids quivering deliciously under the movement. His gaze fell on her lips, dewy and slightly parted, his breathing deepened as his thumb slithered down, pressing into her budding lips. Her eyes closed as she took him in instinctually, hungrily consuming any piece of him he had to offer her, the fire in his body burned brighter as he watched her savour the taste of his skin.

He let her tongue caress him briefly before pulling his hand back, angling her face up sharply towards his, and bringing his lips to meet hers. She flung herself towards him eagerly as he kissed her, letting out small moans of appreciation as she rose up on her tiptoes, grabbing his hair in her hands and pulling his face down towards her, her body aching for his closeness and his touch. His hunger matched hers, his fingers feverishly undoing the ties of the dress before plunging his hands underneath the fabric.

He felt himself grow painfully hard as his hands ran over her body, hearing her moans intensify as he explored her curves. His hands wrapped around her tiny frame eagerly, feeling her breath rise and fall more rapidly as he ran his fingers up her thigh, stopping at the flimsy fabric lying between her legs. His body craved release, for him to rip off the fabric, to throw her on the bed and take her rapidly and voraciously, but his thoughts pulled him back.

No, he could still have release and still leave her intact. Nobody would need to know, not Auberon, not his assistants, not anyone. He could enjoy her, and then free her without consequence, his actions as phantasmal as the being in front of him.

He began rubbing her lightly through the fabric, her wetness quickly seeping through, the gossamer threads moving naturally with his touch. Her kisses becoming more ravenous as she shuddered around his fingers, her moans filling his mouth as he picked up pace, feeling her small hips twitch and thrust onto him, until she finally pulled her head back, her face contorting in ecstasy as she jerked wildly in his hand.

He breathed a small sigh of relief as her body relaxed in his, her eyelids lifting slowly to meet his gaze. But they were not as tempered as he expected them to be. Still filled with ardent desire, her small hands ran back through his hair, pulling him in for another kiss.

Her body wanted more, the drought having taken full control of her already erratic desires. He pulled his face back from her, stretching up to his full height, removing himself from her reach.

“Come.” He said, taking her hand as he led her to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress before pulling her towards him, her hands in his, enjoying the expectant look in her eyes as she stood exposed in front of him.

“Undress me.” He said gently, stroking her tiny hands in his. Her fingers made their way shakily down his shirt, her breath bated in desire, undoing his buttons eagerly and determinedly. She pushed the fabric open with curious hands, gasping faintly at the mass of tattoos underneath.

His lips pulled up in a slight smile, her reaction hitting him like an intimate echo making its way back to him after years of silence, the look of shock and lust on her face amplifying the memories of his precocious beloved. He pulled her in for another kiss, unable to resist the torrent of emotions cascading through him, her breasts skimming lightly over his chest as he peeled the rest of the dress off of her quivering body.

His hands guided hers as they kissed, bringing them down to the ties in his pants. Her fingers eagerly undid the ties before releasing his cock, now throbbing and aching with desire. She moved to climb on top of him, ready to press into him, to feel him inside of her, but he pushed her back gently.

“Get on your knees.”

She looked at him wide-eyed but did as he commanded. He watched as her body slowly descended to the floor, a look of indignation shadowing her face.

He ignored her silent protest, leaning over to push her hips up higher before placing her hands on his thighs. His eyes looked down towards her rose-blushed lips still glistening with the kisses she had eagerly gifted him. He paused before reaching out to grab her chin and guiding her to the tip of his hard cock.

“In your mouth, slowly.”

He watched as she tenderly wrapped her lips around him, his body tensing at the warmth of her mouth as she took more of him in. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, gently grabbing her hair and guiding her in soft repetitive motions over him, listening to her struggle as he pushed her head down harder with each movement.

“Yes… perfect, luned” he said softly, closing his eyes as he took in her touch, his grip tightening as her embrace became wetter around him, her moans growing louder and more laboured with each push of his hand.

He looked down at her hips high in the air, wanting nothing more than to grab her and place her onto him, to feel her twitch around him in pleasure, the movements of her mouth and the thoughts filling his head overwhelming him, trying desperately to restrain himself as his hips started thrusting lightly into her. Her movements continued dutifully, her moans growing louder as she enjoyed the feeling of her mouth being filled by his cock.

He took mercy on her, leaning over and shifting the fabric to the side, feeling how wet she had become underneath him. Her muffled cries from his touch caused him to buck violently into her against his better judgment. Ciri pulled her head back, gagging slightly, looking up at him with hurt watery eyes.

“I’m sorry, Luned” he said, pulling her off her knees and into him for a kiss, “I’m sorry, here.”

He placed her on the bed, laying down on his knees in front of her. He shushed her soothingly, pulling her hips towards him gently before gliding her underwear off and spreading her quivering legs open with his hands. He began placing small wet kisses along her thigh, slowly working his way up as he listened to her breath become shakier in anticipation under him. He paused, kissing her gently on her clit before running his tongue between her lips.

The reaction was instantaneous. Her hips jutted into him as she shouted in surprise, her hands grasping at his hair and pulling him closer into her as his mouth pressed against her, taking as much of her in as he could. Her thighs pressed into his head as her hips shifted erratically under him, overwhelmed by his touch and craving more. He continued, pushing her legs open further as she shut them with each wave of pleasure.

“Hold still” he said firmly, but she could not listen, her body betrayed her, confused as to what it should do under his wet caresses.

The feeling of her supple skin in his mouth was maddening, his body now screaming like a wild animal, violently commanding him to be inside of her. He dug his fingers into her thighs, pulling her closer as her body writhed against him, dewy and overworked from his touch, her small fingers digging into his hair, craving him just as much as he did her. Her movements fed into his lust, every small twitch of her body taking away what little restraint he had left in him.

“Please… Ava…” the girl managed to plead faintly between moans. He pulled back, grabbing her wrists and pulling her hands from his hair as she puffed in confusion on the bed in front of him. He looked her over, taking in the small figure before him, helpless and lost in her lust on the bed. He smiled before climbing on the bed, leaning over to kiss her, the tip of his cock brushing softly against her clit as her lips met his. She whimpered as she began bucking her hips over his cock, desperate for any touch she could get.

“Hold still”, he said again as he continued, tasting her sweet kisses as he felt her writhe more frantically under him, her breaths growing more shallow on his lips as her movements became more aggressive. He sighed, pulling back. Her eyes locked onto his as he stared her down, her weak and willing body crying out for him like it had so many times before. Tomorrow she would be gone, gone, her touch out of his reach forever. Feeling his heart tear in rabid desire and frenzied desperation, he put his hands on her hips, savouring the little gasp she let out as he pressed his tip between her lips, holding her still as he pushed into her.

He watched as her back arched in pleasure, her legs shaking under him as he entered her, holding her down as he slowly began thrusting into her. His large hands held her still, watching her face contort as he moved in and out, enjoying the display of pure gratification and ecstasy as she lost herself amidst the haze of smoke and indulgence that filled the room.

He closed his eyes as her soft moans became louder, still sweet in their emphatic declaration of lust and love. He joined her in the haze, buckling over her, thrusting faster still as he buried his face in her neck, letting her soft moans run into his ears as he breathed in deeply, the smell of orchards and the sound of her pleas taking him away, back, back.

“Me Elaine-” the honey-sweet elfess filled his mind, wide-eyed and wet-lipped, calling his name so sweetly, her moans, her gentle curious fingers, her surrender. He pulled his head back to look into her eyes, leaning down to press his lips into hers, her whimpers holding him tightly to her as their bodies trembled in release.

He collapsed on top of her, feeling her chest rise and fall with his as they lay, eyes closed. Her breathing slowed against his skin, her small pants tickling his ear ever more gently as the last calls of desire trickled out of her body.

He pulled back, staring at the girl in front of him, still dazed and sleepy, lost to the world around her. The warm haze of memory caressed his thoughts as he wrapped her small body within his, feeling her breath fall to nothing as it gave in to sleep. He closed his eyes, taking in the smell of her meadow-laced hair, the softness of her body, her hushed breaths, joining her in sleep as his love dissipated carelessly and wistfully into the night air.

#cirillach #avallac'h #crevan espane aep caomhan macha #aen elle #the witcher #tw3 #I honestly can't think of a title for this one #why are titles so hard to come up with it's literally the hardest part why

67 notes · View notes

16woodsequ · 4 years ago

Note

Hi I'm back for our weekly ask (I have decided it's our new tradition)

Just wondering do you have any headcannons which are about Steve but not from Steve. Like something Clint or wanda have noticed about him. Or something vision or Tony think about him etc. Any character any cannon, as long as about Steve.

Hope that makes sense, is a nightmare trying to phrase what I'm asking lol

Oooh, I like this tradition! (Also, I’m pretty sure this was the ask that prompted my dream the other day, since it was so interesting I went to bed thinking about it.)

Alright, interesting thing with this question, is Steve is a hard person to get to know. He puts up a front most of the time, so for any of these headcanons, I think they would only happen if the Avengers lived around Steve for a while, so either an AU where they live together, or during the time when Steve is searching for Bucky with Sam, or when Team Cap is on the run together.

That being said, here are a few ideas:

Tony and press conferences

Now, starting off, I think Steve is very practiced at handling press conferences. He would have experience doing it as Captain America during the war. So I think he can generally get through the tediousness of it just as well as Tony can (who would also have a lot of practice with this sort of thing). That being said, I think he would have his limits.

Since Tony is practiced in portraying an image to the press, I think he might grow to recognise Steve doing the same thing, and I think he might learn to pick up the clues for when Steve is done up to here with reports and insensitive questions. I think the signs would be subtle—a narrowing of the eyes here, a pointed remark there, a clenching of the fists here...

And Tony knows it is about time to wrap up the press conference and pull Steve away to somewhere quiet.

Avengers and a super soldier

In general, I think the people around Steve forget just how enhanced he is. Even among the Howling Commandos, I think it would be easy to remember some basic things about Steve’s enhancements; he is strong, he can fight really well, he has good stamina... that sort of thing.

But I think is would be easy to think of Steve as, just a really athletic, strong guy, so I can totally see the Avengers and the Commandos both just being a little shook every once an a while when Steve does something the reminds them just how enhanced he is.

Steve: *scales a 6 story building with out breaking a sweat*

Clint: Um.

Steve: *sitting dead still, eyes wide as he listens in on an enemy encampment a mile away*

Gabe, next to him: Uh.

Wanda

I hadn’t thought a lot about Steve and Wanda, but once I did, I realised that the two of them have a lot in common. Wanda lost Pietro, and Steve lost Bucky. Both Wanda and Steve volunteered for body altering science experiments, and both of them are young. Both of them have lived through war-like conditions, and, after aou, Wanda is all alone in a new country, much like Steve was when he first woke up.

So anyways, I think Steve and Wanda could potentially grow very close. Especially if Wanda accidentally sees something like his nightmares. I think the Avengers and her would have an understanding that she wouldn’t see into their minds purposely, but if it were to happen accidentally, or if Steve’s emotions were to be particularly “loud”, I can see Wanda having an easier time seeing past the Captain Rogers part of Steve than other people would.

Steve and friends

I would like to think that anyone who spends enough time around Steve would eventually be able to pick up on his subtle red flags. I don’t think Steve would ever be very obvious with his problems—unless he were in the middle of a breakdown—but I can see Sam or Natasha being able to tell bad nights from good night by the set of Steve’s shoulders, or how long he spends zoned out over his coffee.

I can see Sam and Nat having a completely silent method of communication for ‘scale of 1-10, how is he?’ and ‘what is the plan?’, sort of thing. (And of course, Steve would do the same sort of thing for either of them, but this is mainly about what others notice about Steve right now.)

Bucky

This is for Commandos-era Bucky, but I was reading a post about subtle signs someone you know is having a chronic pain flare up, and I began thinking about that with Steve and Bucky.

What if, after the serum, Bucky notices that Steve moves differently than he did before? And at first, he thinks it is just new confidence, or a Captain America sort of thing, but after a while he realises it is something different. Steve is moving without pain.

He is so used to picking up on the subtle signs of Steve bracing himself to stand, or moving carefully, or being short of breath for reasons other than asthma. But, by the time Steve finds Bucky, he has been in his new body long enough that he is starting to shed those habits.

I imagine Bucky probably wouldn’t have grasped Steve’s chronic pain quite so well as the moment he realised just how prevalent is was—because he recognises now when it isn’t there.

I hope that is what you had in mind! Let me know what you think!

Headcanon masterpost

#asks #steve rogers #avengers #headcanons #headcanon #marvel #mcu #long post #bucky barnes

77 notes · View notes

honeypiehotchner · 4 years ago

Text

i knew you (Bucky Barnes soulmate AU) -- part one

I know, I know. I just finished a story and I started another one and now I’m posting a different one...I’m insane. But I’ve had this idea for a while, just never wrote it down until last night! Enjoy xx.

Also! It’s Bucky x Reader, but it might read as Steve x Reader. I promise it’s platonic!Steve x Reader, though. Steve has no intentions of stealing Bucky’s girl. He knows Bucky would haunt his ass if he did (this is set in The Winter Soldier movie, so Steve still thinks Buck is dead).

Warnings: just some general sadness and angst, mentions of depression, it’s angst city honestly it made me cry

You watch as the old footage replays of Bucky’s wide grin. The only kind of smile that his best friend, Steve Rogers, could draw out of him with one single look or gesture. The only kind of expression that knocks the wind out of your lungs and sends chills down your spine.

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable both on schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”

You hastily wipe a tear away. It’s been months since you put the pieces together. Months since your parents told you that they had known for years. Months since they told you they didn’t want to tell you because they didn’t want to see you hurt.

Months since you’ve realized the man you keep seeing in your dreams is Bucky Barnes.

At first, you thought you were crazy. People dream of faces they’ve never seen all the time, right?

Soulmates are said to be rare, but not nonexistent. You’ve always thought they were real, just that the world was so cynical to really talk about them. The idea that there is one person out there whose soul is connected to yours is exactly the kind of thing that would send this generation walking the other direction with their middle fingers raised and eyes rolling in disbelief.

Then you started remembering your dreams. You started to see his face more clearly. Granted, you had no idea it was Bucky that you were seeing.

You came to the Smithsonian almost half a year ago now with your best friend. She realized you both had never been before, and she basically said fuck it one day and took you with her. Her exact words were, “How have we gone to college here for a year and a half and we’ve never been to the damn Smithsonian?”

You weren’t expecting to meet your soulmate that day.

Of course, you use the word “meet” very loosely. Your soulmate isn’t alive, which explains the emptiness you feel on a daily. It’s been said that soulmates can feel what the other is feeling. Often times it’s muted, but recognizable.

You got to see his face, to finally realize that it’s Bucky. The Bucky Barnes.

It sounds ridiculous — and God, you love your best friend for not calling you pathetic that day — but when you walked up to the very exhibit you’re standing at right now and saw Bucky’s smile...you knew. Instantly, you knew. And it moved you to tears.

It was like your soul had finally found her counterpart, here, grinning like a madman next to his best friend, all the way back in the 1940s.

Your parents knew simply because of things you would say, offhandedly, without even realizing it.

Your interest in WWII caught their attention, but it surprisingly didn’t last long -- only from about the time that you turned thirteen to a few months before your fourteenth birthday. You would’ve found Bucky a lot sooner had your interest in the war itself lasted much longer, but it didn’t. You wonder now if you subconsciously knew it was Bucky, but steered yourself away from it in an attempt to save yourself the heartache at such a young age.

Your taste in music has been the constant that they didn’t quite understand at first. You listen to modern tunes, sure, but you’re a sucker for the music of the 40s. Even clothes. You sometimes found yourself leaning toward the styles of the 40s in subtle ways, not realizing it.

The true confirmation of their suspicions came, though, when your mom said she heard you say Bucky’s name. The first time was on a road trip. You had fallen asleep in the car. You were sixteen at the time. You were dreaming and you have no recollection of ever saying his name. You weren’t even aware that you said his name while you were dreaming until she confessed that day.

You haven’t told anyone about it. Your best friend doesn’t even know. She still believes you got too excited about seeing Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, that’s all. She doesn’t know the real reason, the real aching pain that you feel every day.

The only thing that eases the ache is this. Hogging this exhibit. Watching the footage over and over again. Watching Bucky’s smile and being unable to hold back your own, despite your tears.

You know the staff must think you’re delusional. Somehow you haven’t cared enough to entertain the thought. But you have seen the security guard give you strange looks when you walk in almost every other day.

It used to not be this bad. You came every day for a few weeks, but then you were able to calm down to once a week, sometimes twice a month, if you were too busy with school to think about Bucky much.

But lately, something has changed. You don’t know what it is. You still feel the emptiness, but something is different. It’s...troubled. That’s all your mind can come up with.

It makes no sense, though. How can Bucky be troubled? He’s dead. You believe in ghosts and all -- you’ve never been given a reason not to -- but you’ve heard more stories than you can count from people whose soulmate has died. They all say the same thing. They felt it when it happened. Because it was like a switch was flipped. They were feeling everything one moment, and the next, it was all gone. Empty.

Empty. How you’ve felt since the day you were born. You’ve been to therapists and they all told you the same thing. It’s just your thinking. Change your thinking processes. You’ve never slipped or spiraled far enough for it to be classified as a depressive disorder or anything else, just...empty.

When you found out about having a soulmate, and even more so when you found out it was Bucky, you still felt empty, but not as much. It was like everything suddenly made perfect sense. The emptiness had a purpose, a reason for existing.

When you see him smile, everything makes perfect sense. You feel like you have a reason to exist.

“Excuse me, miss?”

You slowly drag your eyes away from Bucky, preparing yourself to deal with a disgruntled museum-goer or staff member complaining about how long you’ve been standing here. But that’s not who you see.

He’s wearing a hat, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

Quickly, you glance at the video before looking back to the person beside you. That’s him. Steve Rogers.

“Hi,” you say hesitantly, quietly. He’s obviously hiding, which he is right to do. If anyone got wind of Steve Rogers walking around here, there would be mass chaos.

“Hey,” he replies just as quiet. “Um...Wanna get a coffee?”

You have no idea why he’s asking, but you nod anyway. Who would say no to coffee with Captain America?

Outside the Smithsonian and down the block, you bring Steve to your favorite spot to get coffee. Your best friend turned you onto it when you first got here for college, and you’ve gone here weekly ever since.

After grabbing your coffees, you pick a table far enough away from everyone else on the patio to talk without anyone listening in.

“So, uh…” Steve exhales, shifting in his seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug, holding onto your cup with both hands. “Why did you ask me to get coffee?”

“You looked familiar,” Steve says, slowly. “What’s your full name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Y/N L/N. Why?”

“Y/N…” Steve mutters under his breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Huh?”

“Bucky used to talk to me about you,” Steve continues, and you swear your heart stops. “He had me draw pictures of you. He couldn’t draw for crap, but he kept describing you to me from his dreams. I’ve drawn so many I’d recognize your face anywhere.”

“He dreamt about me?” You whisper. “Really?”

“All the time,” Steve nods, smiling sadly. “So you’re his soulmate?”

“I guess,” you say. “My mom says I used to say his name in my sleep all the time. I dreamt of his face, too, but I never knew it was him. Until my friend took me to the exhibit a few months ago.” You pause. “It sounds stupid. But seeing him there makes me feel...better.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says suddenly. “It can’t be easy being born in a completely different generation.”

You smile softly. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I can’t imagine how hard it is to still be here after all this time. And without your best friend, too.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t been easy,” Steve admits. “But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” you begin, pausing to think about if you’re going to regret this. “Would you tell me about him? Just anything. It doesn’t have to be anything profound, just...anything you want to talk about. But if it’s too hard, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in front of your face, already preparing yourself for Steve to politely turn you down.

But he doesn’t.

“Bucky, he…” Steve pauses, shaking his head. “He was a lot wealthier than me back in the 40s. I had no business acting the way I did, picking fights with people three times my size, but I still did it. And Bucky was always there to pick me up off the ground and give me a ride back home.”

“Yeah?” You chuckle. “You used to be super skinny, right?”

“I was really sick, actually. Bucky had every reason to treat me like anyone else, but he never did. We grew up together -- though I used to joke that he grew up. I stayed the same size. But he never made fun of me for it.”

You can’t help but grin. “That video in the museum -- his smile. I see it in my dreams all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah that was Bucky’s signature grin. He could give any woman that smile and they were his.”

“I can see why,” you admit quietly, averting your eyes when Steve raises his eyebrows. You change subjects, not wanting to talk about how attractive you find Steve’s dead best friend -- despite him being your soulmate. “What was his favorite thing to eat for breakfast?”

Steve takes the bait, and for the next four hours, the two of you sit on the patio, talking about Bucky Barnes.

His favorite color? Your eyes. Which you think is a little ridiculous, but Steve swears it’s the truth.

His favorite thing to do? Go dancing. Hands down.

His favorite thing to talk about? You. Again, you give Steve a stern look, and again, he swears it’s true. But when he wasn’t talking about you, Steve says Bucky talked a lot about the future. He was an optimist. Steve has no idea how, but Bucky always saw the brightest side.

Bucky was kind. Kinder than a lot of men his age, at the time. He had that blinding smile and instead of hiding it and going for the mysterious, brooding attitude, he chose to smile as much as he could, to anyone who looked like they needed it.

Realizing that the sun is beginning to go down, Steve decides to get you home.

“It’s alright, I can walk,” you tell him, feeling high on everything Bucky. “It’s just up here. I go to college here.”

“At least let me walk you to the campus,” Steve offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Bucky would kill me if I let his girl walk home alone. Especially when it’s getting dark.”

“Fine,” you cave. Hearing Steve refer to you as “Bucky’s girl” sends chills down your spine -- the good kind of chills. The kind that makes you wish it was the 1940s. The kind that makes you wish Bucky was here, holding your hand, walking you home.

Once you reach campus (you decide to let Steve walk you all the way to your dorm building), you ask Steve the question you’ve been wondering about ever since you first saw Bucky in the museum.

“Hey Steve?”

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Steve turns his head toward you. “Yeah?”

“If this was the 40s...do you-- Do you think I’m the kind of girl Bucky would want?”

Steve’s steps falter. You slow your pace to match his until you’re both stopped, looking at one another.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Yes,” Steve says simply. “Yeah. I do. I know for a fact he would’ve torn down every building until he found you. Because he tried.”

Your breath hitches. Deep down, you had convinced yourself that you weren’t the kind of girl Bucky would want. Not that it’s your fault because you were born this side of the millennium. But to hear Steve tell you otherwise makes you freeze.

“What?”

“Bucky didn’t have me sketch you because he wanted me to practice my drawing. He did it because he wanted to see a picture of you. Something he could keep in his wallet and look at every night. He was a ladies man, yeah, but every single one...he wanted them to be you. But they never were.” Steve shakes his head. “It really tore him up, that he never found you. He still held out hope, though. Until the very last second.”

Tears have sprung to your eyes before you even realize it.

“Before he fell, he--” Steve pauses. “He told me to promise that I’d find you. I guess I kept my promise after all.”

He looks up to see the tears in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. Without a single word, Steve pulls you into his chest, and without hesitation, you let yourself cry.

He’s not Bucky. And you’ll never find your Bucky, but he’s close enough. Steve promised Bucky that he’d find you, and he kept that promise. Now he’s going to do everything in his power to keep you safe.

Because he knows for a fact Bucky would’ve wanted that, too.

#i knew you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #platonic!steve x reader #captain america: the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes soulmate au #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #angst city y'all #it will not have real fluff for a while #we are stuck in traffic in angst city lmao #oops

424 notes · View notes

kyoupann · 4 years ago

Note

Please do more of the writing head canons. It’s really interesting to see other people’s ideas on the topic, so if you can be bothered, I would highly appreciate more, thanks bye <3

Y’all don’t know how happy I am to talk about these headcanons, they are my babies and I love them so much :’) thanks for asking g <3

Handwriting Headcanons

Same dynamic as before, try to guess whose handwriting it is before reading and tell me how many you got right! <3

You can find the first post here (no need to check it tho)

Quick disclaimer: halfway through making my initial notes, I remembered I had one (1) single lesson of graphology in my applied linguistics class, but that was a year ago and some information might be off. I just thought it was neat to include.

Another quick disclaimer: I don’t know much about Hylian, but I like to think it has a similar stroke system to Japanese, so the pressure and accuracy of your strokes play a major role in your handwriting (among other things, ofc.) so there are some parts where I focus more on that

(First Row, from left to right)

Sky

Our first boy is mother hen! Believe it or not, he has the prettiest handwriting out of all of them! Sky: probably has nice, even elegant handwriting because Sun forced him to practice when they were little. In the end, that paid off because his handwriting is the prettiest one. There’s no pressure, but he is confident in what he writes that his lines aren’t thin. Mistakes? what is that? this boy has impeccable grammar and spelling. No mechanic errors to be found in his letters! I’d like to think that many of Hyrule’s classic/staple poems were originally written by the firt king aka sky child. Like, imagine, after a retiring from being a Person of Power (as the first ruler), Sky finds comfort in the arts: revisits his old woodcarvings and starts writing poetry about the world he still doesn’t fully understand. wowie. tldr: sky writes poetry and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

This is what one of his letters would look like:

Next one is the one and only, our Hero of Time

2. Time

I’ll die on the “Time didn’t know how to read and write” hill. His handwriting is simple, not pretty but not messy. It has some grammar and spelling mistakes here and there. Can become unreadable if writing in a hurry, he sorts of forgets spaces between words are a thing/letters have different sizes and lowercase letters end up the same size as capital letters. I’m not saying he sometimes forgets to write articles: he just doesn’t want to. Honestly, he just has this dad-neat handwriting. He is a gentle dad and writes like a dad, if he puts too much pressure onto the paper, his handwriting become too sharp/angle-ish and ends up looking ugly. And as much as he would like to not care about it, in the end he does (:

Malon taught him how to write and it was quite the experience. At first he didn’t want to because he was ‘too old’ to learn and it was torture at first, but now look at him devouring his cowboy novels.

A chunk of his handwriting:

*sniff* such a dad quote.

3. my mansss, your 4x1 deal at Target: Four

Look, my boy is patient! He could do some nice and fancy lettering if he wanted to. He was taught that handwriting and spelling said a whole lot about him as a person, you know, like a first impression kinda thing; so he always proof reads more than twice before sending a letter. Super rare grammar mistakes.

The faster he writes, the more slant his writing becomes. Under stress/ when not sure how to write things down, run-on sentences are everywhere and his handwriting is inconsistent in general (I don’t headcanon each part of him having completely different handwriting because handwriting becomes muscle memory over time. It’s just slightly different variations of the same, like idk Vio’s handwriting is neater than Green’s and Red writes hearts instead of any dot/circle and no, I do not take constructive criticism on that, jk i do.) Adding on to each of the colours’ handwriting, I’d think Red and Green write with words slanted to the right( inclined), Vio is a mix of the opposite, so reclined and straight, and my mans blue a true neutral writes straight (kinda like Time’s).

The logic behind this is that inclined writing supposedly means honesty and need for giving (and getting) affection; reclined means, as you can probably imagine, defensiveness and repression of true feelings, but also shows great concentration; straight handwriting means self-control, observation and reflection as well as distrust and indifference. But as complete being (tm), Four just writes as in the image example which is not too straight and not too inclined, and I believe that’s a good middle for him

HOWEVER, if I’m feeling in the mood for crack, I totally accept this boy to have the ugliest, chicken scratches-looking handwriting! :’D It’s just funny to think that someone like him, who has to be precise and careful in his work, can't write neatly to save his life.

One of his letters would look like this:

Also I just LOVE how his hero titles look in this font ksksks

and that’s

(Middle row, from left to right)

4.- Mister Bunny Boy - Legend

His uncle taught him how to write. I’d call his handwriting pretty and neat at a first glance, but he presses too hard on the paper, most of the time staining the back or the following page. Sometimes will retrace some words if he doesn’t like how it looks (which only makes it messier). According to my notes, a thick or strong handwriting represents determination/commitment.

As I also headcanon him to know many languages, mechanical errors are more present than grammar ones; that is, weird capitalisation of words. Punctuation is somewhere in between; uses too many commas when he should just cut the sentence. he mixes punctuation from two languages or more in writing when too distracted (or too focused, because, well, pressure.); when he writes for himself, he has almost no problem following said language’s punctuation rules. Also, this is just polyglot culture, and I’m projecting a bit, but when he forgets a word in the language he’s writing, he just replaces it with its equivalent in another language because we don’t care about fluency, but rather functionality. in this household (more on that in my language hc, ksksks).

An example of his writing:

so powerful

4.- Mr. Wolfman, howl me a song - Twilight

I don’t have much for him because 1) I don’t think he writes a lot and 2) he is a hands-on/visual learner, I’ll die by that. He only learnt how to write because Ulli insisted it was important and he was not about to disrespect his momma; he IS That Guy, but doesn’t really write enough to have neat handwriting.

Many people seem to overlook the fact that his house is filled with books and write him as completely illiterate (which if not explored properly, ends up feeling a bit disrespectful and full of prejudice, but go off I guess; and that’s on my core Headcanons for Twi); however, he sticks to simple sentences. Knowing how to read and understanding a text is different from knowing how to write them. Like, when we would see a semicolon and understand its position in the text, but didn’t understand the nature of it. Is this clear? idk i’m sorry. So yeah, boy reads a lot, writes very little.

As for his Actual Handwriting, as opposed to Legend, his handwriting is thiccc but not because he presses into the paper; he is just that messy, he has no sense of ink-flow-control, he does what he can with what he has. To the untrained eye, his handwriting illegible letters like v, n, u are very similar; when he makes notes for himself he does it in the form of doodles or small ‘icons’. But! He reads a lot, so he rarely makes spelling mistakes (: he is your go-to guy when you don’t know how to write a word.

An example of his writing:

He keeps a journal, sue me.

3. My first born- Warrior

Okay, first off... I accept this is completely biased. I saw the idea and said “That’s True”. If you haven’t, please read Effective Communication; or The Lack of Thereof by htruona, a fic where the boys reflect on the language barriers between them. It’s incredibly funny and probably what made me start making these silly notes. So, if you’ve read that fic, you know where I’m going.

My man, Warrior, can’t fucking write. I mean, he physically can, but it’s very bad. Here’s the reason for it, tho, and it’s not his fault: Technically, he knew how to write alright but he joined the military and whatever note he had to write had to be concise or in the worst case coded. He mixes capital and lowercase letters. If we consider that he joined the military at around 15, his handwriting and grammar had yet to continue developing. Just think about how after summer break, your handwriting was always slightly worse than before because you didn’t write for an entire month. Now think what 2 years can do to that. Hmm, not cool, dude. He makes quick notes, when writing he’s all gotta go fast. he is the lighting mcqueen of writing; good for emergency messages, not ideal for love letters. His punctuation also suffered a lot, he only know full stops and commas and hardly uses them. A sentence for him is either one word or fifty without a single comma, no inbetween.

His hero title and an example of his writing.

(Bottom row, or what I like to call “fuck cursive” row)

7.- Magic man - Hyrule

I’m basic and I do agree with the popular headcanon of he not knowing how to write because well, y’all know his Hyrule. He only knows how to write his name because that’s important, same with numbers. I don’t see why would he write/read except checking the roadsigns. (he can even use this as an excuse for getting lost frequently; he thought it said something different.) But I do think that because his habitual reading consists of roadsigns, his ‘punctuation’ is weird af and places full stops/points/periods at the same level of his words and his commas/question/exclamation marks below them. Yk, creative license. Sadly, I don’t have much about my magic hands man so here’s what his writing would look like if he actually wrote a paragraph:

Man, I love Hyrule.

8.- Man, I don’t understand this boy - Wild

Cursive? ain’t nobody have the time for that. He woke up and had to save the world in his underwear while not knowing how to read nor write. He learnt during his journey and was taught by multiple people from different regions, that explains his inconsistent spelling of things and names for them. So Wild knows language variations for many items and uses them interchangeably (even if they aren’t exactly the same). Another headcanon related to writing/language skills that I’ve been thinking about is that if the shrine was able to cause amnesia, I’m sure there were other areas in the brain affected which leads us to language disorders such as agraphia and aphasia. But that’s a story for another day ksksksk

An example of his writing (after relearning)

9.- The best of sons - Wind

I don’t have much for him and that makes me sad. Look, he’s a kid, doing kid things like stabbing dudes on the head. This boy was taught cursive by his grandma, but could never do it and no one needs it anyway. His handwriting is good enough for his pirate life, Tetra is the one to handle Official stuff, he just gotta sign. Spelling and grammar mistakes abound. He is still relatively young and can correct his handwriting if he desires. But same as Wild, with how many times he’s been thrown out and hit his head, I’m starting to consider some language disorder for him as well.

An example of his writing:

aaand that’s it.

Thanks, y’all for showing interest in this silly thing uwu it was fun to finally talk about this. If you ever want to discuss ideas/headcanons(especially if they are related to language and culture), I’m your person (: I’m always happy to hear new headcanons. Feel free to add anything to this post either in a reply or in a reblog, I’d love to hear from y’all <3<3

146 notes · View notes

cibeewastaken · 5 years ago

Note

Hey can you write some fluff, it can be anything as long it features harry kissing dracos hands 😄💙💙💙💙

hello! this turned out more hurt/comfort, i hope you don’t mind. Huge thanks to @pineau-noir for the beta!

1581 words, eighth year to post Hogwarts, tentative friendship, getting together, warning for brief self-harm

Read on Ao3

-----

The robes felt too small for him, even though Harry had just gotten fitted for them at Madam Malkin’s a few months ago. Grown into such a handsome man, the tailor had said to him. Harry only felt old.

The bell rang behind them, and Draco Malfoy had walked in, stopped at the sight of Harry, hesitantly looked at him, as though he didn’t know if he should turn back or not. Harry had stared back, wondering if it was a dream.

Madam Malkin had given Draco an encouraging smile and ushered him onto the other platform to wait. Harry had turned back to face the mirror, swallowing; it almost came as a shock when he didn’t see two 11-year-old boys reflecting back.

"Hello,” Harry had said, pins in his clothes, arms stretched out.

Draco had cast him a quick glance, and let out a thin, shaky breath; no reply. He was still staring straight ahead when Harry left the shop.

They had to share a common room, and there really wasn’t a way for Draco to avoid Harry, not even hiding in his room. The expression on Draco’s face was almost devastating when he saw Harry, who had already claimed one of the two beds. Harry didn’t try to talk to him again even if he desperately wanted to know why Draco was wearing a T-shirt with holes in the armpit instead of silk pajamas like Harry always thought he did. And Harry didn’t talk to Draco even when he came back to his room to find Draco howling on his bed, squished between an also crying Parkinson and a wide-eyed Zabini. Draco’s left sleeve was soaked in blood.

Harry only crouched in front of Draco and cleaned his wound up with what he remembered from the forest. Wrapped it up as Hermione would. Held onto Draco’s hands like a friend would.

Draco was the first to talk, and this time it was Harry who was crying. Harry wasn’t crying because he had a nightmare, or because he thought about Teddy, or because someone had thanked him for the war. Harry was crying because he couldn’t understand NEWT level Potions and the new professor was too starstruck to listen to Harry when he said he didn’t understand. Harry was crying because he didn’t want to ask Hermione when she was with Ron (which was always). Harry was crying because Potions was very confusing and he didn’t see himself ever figuring out since it didn’t involve killing Voldemort or sacrificing himself.

Draco took Harry’s textbook from and made notes beside each paragraph, summarizing the welter of information into concise sentences, and drew arrows in green ink to link them all together. By this point Harry had wiped his face clean of tears and snot (on his sleeve) and was watching Draco through swollen eyes. When Draco finished, he turned the book back to Harry and explained the day’s lesson to Harry, reading everything from upside down and setting everything right.

And Harry passed his Potion NEWTs with higher scores than anyone but Draco could anticipate. And Harry celebrated it by looting the kitchen of food and drinks and surprised Draco with a feast by the lake. Though it didn’t take long for words to get out that there was food, and soon they were joined by everyone and more. Someone brought a Polaroid and Harry jumped at the chance. He grabbed Draco’s hand when posing for the photo, grinning at him with heat that felt wonderful in his cheeks.

“Finally,” Harry said.

“What?” Draco said.

“We’re finally friends.”

Draco stared, unblinking. His hands tightened in Harry’s grip. And the flash went off.

They went into different fields after school. Harry went into Auror training as he’d planned. Draco didn’t know what he wanted now he was on his own. Hermione suggested tutoring in the meantime. I have no qualification, Draco said. Managing to help Harry Potter pass NEWTs Potions should be enough for anyone, Hermione replied.

It wasn’t, but Draco started out small. Teaching a few Muggleborn children that just got their Hogwarts letters some basic courses. Charms and Potions, navigating the wizarding world (which their muggle parents listened in on). Magical Theory. History—recent history.

He lost a few students after that, but Draco was adamant that it was taught.

Harry often went over to Draco’s flat late at night, because he knew Draco would be up scribbling away. Harry would sit by Draco and read his own textbooks, and when Draco inevitably put down the quill to shake his wrist out (the bones making cracking noises), Harry would take it in his hands and knead it. Would feel the bone under it shift. Would circle that wrist between his thumb and index finger, squeezing it, then down to Draco’s forearm, digging his knuckles into the sore muscles, then up once more, massage each finger meticulously.

Draco would usually fall asleep on Harry’s shoulder around the ring finger, and Harry would press a kiss to his hand.

It was a Thursday morning when the Auror Department got called to handle a Gringotts robbery. Harry seized up at the mention, mind blanking with fear because Draco always went to Gringotts on Thursday morning to deposit his weekly earnings. No one said anything when Harry tagged along, and no one stopped him when he burst in first (they probably all thought it was what he did), frantically looking through all the frightened faces. Harry didn’t see Draco.

“There were no casualties, thank Merlin,” Ester, one of the seniors Auror on site said. “One missing.”

Harry whirled around. Draco wasn’t in the crowd. “What do you mean, one missing?”

Ester looked at her notes, “One of them went after the robbers.”

According to the witnesses, the robber didn’t go for the vaults, instead they targeted the deposit line and Accio’d people’s valuables off of them. One witness said everything happened very fast, the robbers were in and out in less than a minute, and one of the customers went after them.

“Who?” Harry’s voice broke.

“Someone recognized it as the Malfoy kid.”

It was a sloppy crime. It didn’t take long for the Aurors to track them down at Knockturn. Draco was there, a purpling bruise on his face, locked in a struggle with one man. The Aurors Incarceroused the robbers and Draco fell on his bottom, hands tucked to his chest.

Harry pushed past the crowd. When Draco saw him, his face broke into a relieved smile. A smile that shuttered when Harry starting yelling.

“What the hell were you doing!” Harry snapped at him. Draco reeled back on the ground, mouth agape. “Why would you chase them?! They were gone!”

“They took my stuff!” Draco said.

“Your stuff!” Harry screamed. “What could possibly be worth more than your safety! ” Windows around them rattled. Harry’s head was fuzzy with anger he wasn’t used to anymore. Everyone stopped talking at Harry’s outburst. Draco’s face turned bright red, and he made a startled noise when Harry snatched away whatever Draco was holding. Harry looked down and everything seemed to fall away.

It was the photo of them, the words Harry wrote on it were faded (Finally friends!), but it was clear that someone had retraced it carefully, many times since.

A hand snatched the picture back. Mouth hanging open, Harry looked up at Draco.

“You went after them for that?” he asked, voice cracking at the end.

Draco stared at him, face still red with humiliation, eyes wet. “Yes,” he said. “Fine, yes!” He pushed Harry. Harry stumbled, knees weak. “I don’t need you to tell me how pathetic I am, Potter, so just fuck off and go yell at someone else.” Then he turned around, beelining toward the entrance.

“He can’t leave yet—” an Auror said, but Harry didn’t care about procedures. He ran up and caught Draco’s arm. Draco turned and shoved him, with little effect this time. Harry stood his ground.

“God, Potter,” Draco said, every syllable shook violently. Tears streamed down Draco’s face. His whole face scrunched up miserably. “What do you want now? I don’t need you to tell me how worthless this is to you.”

“I didn’t—” Harry tried. “That’s not what I meant. You could’ve been killed.”

Draco’s fingers clawed at Harry’s grip, trying to pry it off. “Shut up, shut up!”

Harry grabbed Draco’s scrambling hand and tugged, wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist and pressed his lips to Draco’s hand. Harry’s breath shuddered, “I could’ve lost you.”

Draco was trembling. The bruise on his face broke Harry’s heart.

Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s palm. “I could’ve lost you,” Harry said, voice tight with tears held back. Harry tugged Draco in further, wrapping him in a suffocating hug, burying his face in the warm crook of Draco’s neck, breathing in the comforting citrus soap for a second before turning his face into Draco and kissed him.

“I,” Draco started when Harry pulled back. “I’m sorry.” He sounded confused.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Okay.”

“We can always take more photos,” Harry said into Draco’s shoulder. “Let’s go buy a camera right now. And ten thousand rolls of film.”

“Do you expect me to be robbed ten thousand times?”

Harry snorted an ugly laugh and peeked up at Draco. Draco cocked his head, brought a hand up to cup Harry’s face. Harry turned into Draco’s palm.

Draco’s other hand found Harry’s. “Ten thousand rolls it is.”

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #hp #drarry squad #darry #my fic #Anonymous #tw self harm

322 notes · View notes

mallowstep · 4 years ago

Note

I’m thinking about writing a short OC piece about Windclan and I’d love to see your notes about its culture and the hymns you’ve written so far, everything you’ve done for Windclan appreciation month has really inspired me :)

hello anon!

alright, first things first: please send me ur piece when ur done if you're comfortable doing so! i will publish it from you, or if you don't want to be associated with it in Any Way, i will also just read it and add it to the queue with no indication why it's there. or if you don't want me to share it at all, i'd still like to read it.

as for your ask,

hymns?

i'm working on it. however, underneath the read more, i'll include a few snippets for u.

culture

alright, i'm just going to post links with some commentary as i go. feel free to ask any more questions you have.

windclan (search) | windclan (tag) | wcam tag | five clans (narrative essays)

i would link the elders den, but there's no windclan stories in there ATM.

moving on, i'm just going to go through posts in reverse chronological order.

tallstar taking a mate admittedly, this is more about cats and sexuality than windclan, but i provide the commentary that windclan...has a particular view on sexuality and fluidity. one thing i haven't explored but should is the role visiting cats have in windclan.

whoops that's a code word, my plug for solacefruit has been activated. okay, as you may be aware, based on the fact that i have a whole tag for it, i'm obsessed with solacefruit. now, i love everything they do, but i would like to point you particularly to "make a mighty sound" for a fantastic exploration of this idea.

i don't want to spoil anything, but i do think windclan, and maybe cats as a whole, but windclan has a certain view towards relationships that very much breaks them into pieces. i'm a "love is a verb" person, so the idea that you can grow to love someone romantically by going through the actions of love makes sense. not to say you will, but you can.

(to be clear i'm not out advocating for arranged marriages just saying that they can work, they're not destined to be bad, and there's a difference between forced marriage and arranged marriage.)

anyway.

this was a lot of words to say, cats do not have a human (and particularly, western/american) understanding of relationships, which makes analyzing them in those terms difficult.

early hymn talk i'll probably say more below, but it is here.

general ibtwicm notes might get you into the headspace for some of my choices in ibtwicm.

i don't have a ton to say because this pretty much all holds, but uh, yeah.

poetry and language this isn't strictly about windclan, but it does explain some of what i think about when writing hymns.

obviously, i'm writing english translations, but these general themes are what i have in mind. it's also part of why i say i don't think i'll ever release a "full hymnal" for windclan, because i don't know if my weak worldbuilding heart could take it if i only had translations.

names part two very much not about windclan, but just some thoughts on names. as i've said before, i support all names and worldbuilding equally, but if you want my thoughts on names, go buckwild.

clan culture fic rec list just stuff i think does a good job, if you want other sources of inspiration.

general clan culture notes this is really old, but it mostly holds.

i've obviously expanded a lot on windclan since i wrote it, so shrug? idk man.

alright, i'm going to move into hymn discussion below the cut, but best of luck! and i hope u have a good time. it makes my brain shut down to read that i inspired you, straight up got brain juice pouring out of my ears, but i'm really, really happy to hear that.

windclan holds a special place in my heart. (i know my oc avatar is from skyclan shhh it's because of the backstory he sees ghosts.) but i grew up in this super sporty household as a lil asthmatic klutz, and running was a sport i couldn't mess up, so of course windclan appealed to me.

they're actually third on my list of favorite clans, but they. it's a special place in my heart that they hold, especially after reading dawn of the clans and moth flight's vision, where i got an asthmatic cat and an adhd cat, both in windclan.

god i should reread dotc it's good.

alright, here's the deal on hymns: i am not going to fight to get duets to post correctly. there's a 0% chance i can in tumblr's wonky ass new editor with no markdown, not to mention how difficult it would have been in the old editor. so i'm going to talk a lil about what i've got, and post some stanzas that i think don't get explored a lot in ibtwicm.

we're discussing these in the order that they go in. a reminder that these are all sections of one epic poem. that said, i don't know where the gaps are. like, i don't know what's between these, if that makes sense.

the wind

the wind, the very first hymn. this is an ode to, well, windclan. it's a song about everything that makes them them. it's filled with poetry about the wind, about the seasons, and it's just...well, it's a bit of a genesis, in a way.

The wind — like the rain, like the river — calls the name of each star in its breath. The wind — like the earth, like the stone — anchors us to our home. The wind — like the sun, like the sky — is knowable only by name.

i wanted to share this stanza because the last line doesn't show up in ibtwicm (at least so far, i cut the reference), and it really, really, makes a difference imo.

anyway, windclan is basically tying the wind in with every other fundamental part of their life here.

they are the wind, and that's that.

the hare

okay, this one has a line that comes up a lot in ch1, but i already talked about that, so instead, i'm going to talk about this stanza

Speak of the earth and the dens, and you will be answered: By the call of the howling gales, the open earth singing in response. But speak of that which grows above, of the grass and field, And you will be answered by the softness of the buds and the roots.

okay, we get deadfoot thinking about this when he's talking to yellowfang.

i like this stanza because it really tells us what the hare is about. now, hares are not something windclan catches. hares are huge, y'all, there's no way they take one down. i take liberties with ecology, but not that many.

(i.e., a team of cats definitely could take one down, but i know too much, and would prefer letting team hunting stay a plot thing, and not fundamentally alter the environment in the way it would.)

now anyway, all of these hymns come from the time of the tunnelers. and the point of this is, even though the work of tunnelers and moor runners is disconnected, they fundamentally affect each other.

a moor runner must trust the hollows of the earth beneath them won't collapse, and a tunneler must trust that the prey they chase up will be caught.

it's all very symbiotic and is, well, in a way, a love poem. plus i really like the line "the open earth singing in response"

of the warrens

so this has one line, one you might not even know is a hymn, in ch1, but i'll share the whole stanza.

And as for the subject of fallow fields: Fallowed fields make for hungry prey, Yet hungry prey makes desperate rabbits, Who leap into our claws.

and ig my big point is, the hymns are a cultural artifact. just like many of the rules in the old testament have to do with hygiene things being codified into religion, this whole hymn is about hunting advice.

the moon on the river

okay, out of all the hymns, this is the most complete, and because ashfoot and deadfoot sing it together, and deadfoot discusses it, i only have one stanza to share.

Under the coldness, you shine back at me, And I do everything to keep the clouds from threatening you.

now, this poem is about love, grief, and being separated. it's a particular kind of grief, and windclan discourages grief, so this is one of only a few ways to really, fully express it.

and this section, in particular, is about love in times of hardship.

i don't have. a lot to say here. but the way hardship changes how you love someone can be particular and intense.

(temporarily, this happens sometime before "Spare for my chosen few / All I have is given towards the distant ground.")

the gorse in the wind

oh shit! i have so fucking much to say okay first.

the series title does not come from this hymn.

second, this is a challenging hymn okay. fuck. i have so much to say. where to start so! moors are actually relatively wet. think british countryside, not, like, a cool desert.

this is something i always knew? i read the secret garden a lot as a kid. but. i've seen stuff about moors being dry, and it's just one of those things that really...starts to eat under your skin. anyway.

okay, so. gorse is a dry plant. it does not like rain. it grows in sandy soil, etc etc, and yet. aside from everything we know about gorse and warriors, it also grows in this moor. because i say so.

okay, so. so so so. the lines quotes here are really deceptive, and i bet no one understood why, and that makes me just a little sad, but i couldn't find a good way to explain it in text, so uh, yeah, anyway. there's an exchange between ashfoot and deadfoot: "THE GORSE: You called me the heather and I grew stronger. / THE WIND: I called you the heather and brought rain for you to grow."

so...so do you see? do you see the point? it's about communication, needs, challenging each other. fadskj;l i love this. okay, so. the point is that heather is fragile, soft, pretty, and gorse is the opposite. the part of the wind is trying to be kind and complimentary, but the gorse is saying, fuck that, you are not being kind to me by undercutting my strength.

anyway, this passage is sung by the gorse:

In what good company have I set down roots, That even through snow fall I flower. You called me the heather and yet I've weathered, Far more than your sweet-named love.

so uh, yeah, this adds context. gorse! gorse is a hardy plant that continues to flower basically all season round. it's cool. it's cool. gorse is super cool. fuuuck y'all it's such a small thing and i've contained talking about it until now, but now it's too much. the floodgates are open, and i thought about this small detail too much.

okay. deep breath. gorse is a really easy plant to grow, but it's still adapted for dry environments. so the "even through snow fall I flower" part is a little tongue in cheek: gorse itself will flower in the cold, but snow is a type of precipitation, which as we've covered, is not gorse friendly.

then we have some rhyming and puns in the next line, and finally, "yet I've weathered, / Far more than your sweet-named love." like. yes. love as a form of softness is not necessarily helpful.

i mean, consider the damaging "soft trans boi" problem. same energy.

right. okay. so we've got all that? now if you remember, this is sung when deadfoot thinks ashpaw doesn't respect him, and ashpaw says she'll sing with him if she can sing the gorse, so in essence, she's telling him...not to back off, per se, but that...she is the "hard part" of the relationship. like, okay, i refuse to even bring up gender roles in human relationships, but uh, her point is very much, "i am the gorse, and you are the wind," and it's a very monumental moment.

it's anchored, i believe, in the other scenes, but this is a small thing that matters a lot to me.

like a lot.

okay, now that i've talked about like four lines for the length of this entire post, moving on.

the heather and earth

okay, this is the last hymn i have in concrete terms, and i cut a bit of it from the latest chapter, so yeah. it's also, uh, okay everything i have for it is only a line or two, but i wanted to share this closing line (sung together):

Sing a song of forgiveness, of growing together, and we will make madness, And madness from hence will everything beautiful grow.

and i just like these lines. they got cut, it was initially part of an exchange between ashfoot and deadfoot, but i can't share the part of it they talk about, because i'm reusing it for a later chapter and i'll 100% spoil shit if i try to talk about it.

but these lines? mmm they speak to me.

i don't have a ton to say about them, but i just. i like it.

if we apply the same ecology discussion from the gorse and the wind, we see heather is a plant that grows in acidic, infertile soil, and heath (which is not the same as a heather, but also kind of is) is a defining quality of heathland, which is...i'm not kidding, it's hot discourse about the difference between moorland and heathland.

i'm not getting involved, but my point is, if the gorse in the wind is a hymn about finding a working relationship, about mutual respect, etc., then the heather and earth is a hymn about working well together in a terrible situation.

god.

uh, wow! can you tell i like plants? because while parts of my ecology are dubious (see: everything regarding the rabbits in ch1), the plants part are well thought out. this shit is carefully detailed metaphor.

and that's why i won't be releasing a full hymnal. it's hard to as on top of this as i want to be. i'm not kidding, writing even four lines of a hymn usually takes me about twenty minutes, because i pull up a lot of research about how things work, how they interact with each other, etc., and then there's wordsmithing, cat worldview filter, etc.

but i hope this overview of what i've got is a good insight into my general thoughts. and i will eventually release more and more of the hymns i've got written.

#ask #anon #mine #txt #windclan #wcam #essay #long #warriors #warriors worldbuilding #windclan hymn project #mateo fanboying over solacefruit again

9 notes · View notes

qqueenofhades · 4 years ago

Note

I really liked what you said about wanting to show in DVLA that the people on the crusades were basically just people. I'm quite fond of the idea that "people have always basically just been people" (see: ancient wooden toys, grafitti in pompeii), but I've never thought of it in a sense of recognising our own biases and faults in the crusaders, or imperialists. That's something really interesting to think about, so thanks :)

I mean... yeah.

The thing is, I love the funny/light-hearted/recognizable “people have always been people” anecdotes as much as you, because of the pervasive idea that the past was nothing but an unrelieved cesspit of misery, filth, misogyny, racism, homophobia, religious bigotry, and Suffering, until modernity and capitalism came along and fixed everything, yay. It’s crap, everyone who follows my blog for two seconds knows that I think it’s crap, I work very hard trying to educate people about how much crap it is, but... yeah, that’s still the baseline in popular culture, and while it has been deliberately constructed to be that way and is not necessarily the individual fault of the person who has absorbed it by cultural osmosis, it’s still frustrating. So when you can identify those moments when people in history are reacting to things in a way that we recognize as our own, or we catch these moments of levity and joy, or we’re otherwise able to recognize that the Bad Premodern World narrative is wrong and troubling, we’re able to comprehend people as people, and not just rote, thoughtless automatons who always believed whatever they were told by religious and political authority and had no volition of their own.

This ties into my whole spiel on the drawbacks of doing premodern social history (especially in the West, but also more broadly) from a corpus of textual sources written largely by educated religious men. And that’s the only thing we have. So of course life back then doesn’t always look like it’s a great time, because that’s who’s telling us about it, and they’d have the broadly same outlook and priorities as conservative establishment clergymen today. And there is never a less reliable historiographer than someone who promises at the start of the narrative to tell you things “exactly how they happened.” (Yes, we’re all side-eyeing Herodotus and Thucydides, but they were the start of the Western historiographical tradition and the topos of authority always has to be invoked somehow.) The promise of objectivity does not objectivity make, and means that they want to culture, shape, and color the version of events for posterity. And the historian’s job is to deal with that and recover the narratives and sometimes understand that things that don’t intend to be historical sources are actually more accurate and revealing than the constructed narratives that promise to tell the truth and are actually very invested in presenting their truth, which might not always concord with things more generally.

Anyway, jargon-y methodological digressions (somewhat) aside, there’s really no point in studying history, or having an honest historical perspective, if you’re going to refuse to see anything of yourself -- good AND bad parts alike -- in our ancestors. Part of the reason the world is in such a goddamn mess right now is because we’re still pathologically incapable of learning history, the rise of “fake news” has created competing information universes where the facts are the ones that fit your political agenda, and the West particularly has been repeating old and bad patterns of behavior because we -- just -- can’t -- break -- the fucking -- cycle. I’ve said before that absolutely everything happening right now reminds me forcibly of the fourteenth century, and that was even BEFORE the plague hit, which was just a little too on the nose. We don’t have to be in the situation we are. We don’t have to collectively make the same choices and go around the bend again and again and again. But because history and historical education has been SO devalued, and the system of collective memory is so flawed, we don’t really have a chance of fixing our current present until we’ve reckoned with our past. Thus, while right-wingers are the ones howling about “preserving history” when monuments of racists get torn down, historians are on the sidelines cheering, because a) those guys suck, b) we WANT people to start applying critical thinking to the glamorized white supremacist triumphalist narrative that passes for history in most Western countries (America is possibly the worst offender just by global scope, but yeah, the rest of the West, especially the UK, is SUPER not off the hook either), and c) when people finally KNOW that they have the tools to confront the unjust systems that have been forced on them, they can do something about it.

So yes. History isn’t supposed to just comfort us and make us feel confident that we’re the best and we’ve worked it out. I want people to think of crusaders as people like them, who went on crusade for a variety of motives both aside from and including personal religiosity, and despite that fact, they still did what they did, and that’s still what we’re doing right now. We are NOT that different from them (see: the entire post-9/11 response of the West which is still going on twenty goddamn years later). We don’t get the comfort of thinking we're nothing like them and would never make their same choices, because they WERE people like us, nobody ever sets out to be monsters (aside from like... a very minor handful), and everyone thinks they’re doing the right thing and making choices conditioned by their social, political, and cultural milieu. And given what’s going on with /waves hand/ all this, we’ve seen what happens when a culture and a civilization is systematically taught that history either doesn’t matter, was all inferior to us, or confirms everything they think already, and that is incredibly, incredibly damaging.

#history #medieval history #historiography #dvla asks #tobsjpalfrey #ask

53 notes · View notes

cutelittlestar · 4 years ago

Text

Lone Wolf: Chapter 1 || Peter Parker x Reader

Pairings: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary of the Series: You were given the ability to transform into a wolf, but you’re unfortunately captured and experimented on by a cynical madman. Despite being saved by the Avengers and given a place to call home, you’re still having a difficult time grasping onto the basic concepts of being human. However, everything changes when you met a boy, Peter Parker. Slowly but surely, he helps you on your path to recovery –showing you that all you needed was love and patience.

Word Count: 4.3k

*gifs are not mine*

Warnings: injury, mentions of death and pain, kidnapping, physical and mental abuse, torture, MATURE CONTENT, 18+.

A/N: Hey y’all! I hope you guys are safe and well :) Thank you to everyone who supported me in deciding to write this story, I’m so glad there are people out there willing to read my work (ngl, it still baffles me lol). Anyways, I hope you enjoy this, and lmk if you guys want more!! Although I’m already writing a series at this moment, I wouldn’t mind squeezing in another; however, this might mean that I’ll post the chapters a bit later than expected. Hope y’all understand 💕❤️

There was once a time where you freely roamed the remote wilderness, and you called it home; the soft chirping of the birds in the morning eased your mind, the calm flow of the river was music to your ears, and the beautiful green scenery was your protection. You had decided long ago to leave your pack, knowing it was for the best; you were the outcast of the group, and they constantly mistreated you for it, deciding that your life was less meaningful than theirs. The emotional, mental, and physical abuse you endured was too much to handle, so one night, when your pack was soundly sleeping, you left without a trace, never looking back. Ever since you became a lone wolf, your life became considerably better and worth living for; at first, it was difficult to realize, but then you began to learn the secrets of the woods, and it taught you that all life was precious. You deeply cherished this thought, never letting it go. The wilderness was your guardian and you were its child. However, it was all gone in a blink of an eye, and the sacred memories you once had were burned to ashes, along with your home.

Men of greed, power, and corruption immediately disrupted your sanction, and they destroyed everything in their path without remorse. You were too scared and weak to fight them off, so you decided to run away. However, despite how hastily you fled, you were quickly surrounded. There was barely any time for you to attack as the soldiers in black gear immediately used their weapons, electrocuting you as many times as they could; you howled in pain, but they mercilessly continued, ignoring your screams before ultimately subduing you. You thrashed around in the dirt, attempting to escape, but your body was slowly losing its strength, and you soon gave up; as your eyes were on the verge of closing, you faintly remembered a man walking towards you, a man who completely stood out from the rest. The man’s callous face was standing over you, and their void black eyes sent a shiver down your spine. A sinister grin stretched across his face, and that was the last thing you remembered before everything went dark.

You woke up and realized that you were laying on the cold floor; it was strange and terrifying to you, and you hoped that it was just a nightmare but you were wrong. As you tried to stand up, your body screamed in agony. You shivered in the darkness and realized that you shifted back to your human form. Panic started to grow by the second and you were terrified that the men would learn of your abilities, but it was already too late.

“You should be more careful of your surroundings, you never know who’s lurking in the dark,” an ominous voice announced, causing you to scoot back in fear. The lights were immediately turned on and you quickly covered your exposed body as a man stood in the middle of the room. You squinted your eyes, taking note of his features, and you immediately recognized him; he was the same man that stood over your body before you passed out. Despite your desire to rip his throat out, you were prohibited from doing because you were caged in a cell. You let out a menacing growl, but the man didn’t react.

“Let me go,” you ordered, but he merely chuckled, shaking his head.

“Oh Y/N,” the man scolded, and your eyes widened in shock, your body shaking. How did the man know your name? “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” The man’s callous eyes examined you, and he was content with himself, knowing that he was the one that managed to capture the infamous shapeshifter. You were so gullible, the man thought to himself; you actually believed you were safe in the woods. Your heart began to beat faster as you were horrified of the man’s calm yet intimidating demeanor; various situations ran through your head as you wondered what he was going to do to you, but you made a promise to yourself, declaring that you would remain strong.

“Let’s see if you're better than the other test subjects,” the man disclosed, walking closer towards you. He crouched down to the ground in order to look at your face, excited to see your reaction as he began to unveil his intentions. The threatening glare you tried to maintain utterly failed as you listened to his words, and your breathing got heavier. “I don’t want to kill another shifter, but if I must, I will,” the man whispered, a sinister smirk plastered on his face, pleased at your reaction. Tears threatened to fall down your face as you wondered if the man was speaking about your former pack, but you didn’t want to believe it.

“Once I get out of this cage, I’ll fucking rip your throat out,” you fumed. You ignored the pain that coursed through your body and jumped at the bars, hoping you would be able to injure him. Although your hand was centimeters away from his throat, the man didn’t flinch at your violent response. Instead, he simply stood up and took a step back. You watched as his eyes darken, but his face remained blank.

“You may think you’ll have the opportunity, but you never will; you’re going to rot in this cell for the rest of your life, Y/N. Don’t say things you’ll regret,” the man angrily declared. Your chest heavily rose and sank as his words stuck to you, but before you could say anything else, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your worst fears. What you didn’t realize at the moment was that he was right.

Ever since then, you endured horrible and excruciating pain; you were experimented on for a reason they did not explain. No matter how many times you tried to fight, whether by biting, kicking, scratching, hitting, and even killing, it only made things worse for you. After quite some time, it finally began to dawn on you that it was utterly useless to resist; you believed you were going to spend the rest of your life in this tiny cell, and there was nothing you could do. You allowed them to do damage to your body – either by letting them shove countless needles into your skin or allowing them to cut you in order to determine how long it took for you to heal. You endured draining and extensive trials, and you were forced to constantly shift back and forth – despite how many times you almost died due to your horrible conditions. You lost track of how long you’ve been kept in the cage, but as time progressed, your hope in escaping gradually disappeared. You regretted saying those words to him, but it was too late.

The damage was already done.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

You laid on the concrete floor in your wolf form, softly whimpering to yourself as you were engulfed in the darkness. The men were already gone, but you knew they would be back soon; in this moment of silence, you closed your eyes and attempted to think of your home but your mind remained blank. It was as if those precious memories were gone the minute the men arrived. You knew you could never retrieve them. You wanted to give up so badly, but you never allowed yourself to. While it seemed impossible to ever think that you could escape, you mercilessly clung onto the possibility. However, it wasn’t hope that motivated you. No, there was only one emotion that was capable of doing this: rage. Your hatred was the thing that kept you alive, and you constantly imagined all of the horrific actions you would commit if there was a chance of escaping.

The sound of footsteps disrupted your thoughts, and you immediately remained still and closed your eyes. The door was swung open, and you were able to recognize the two distinct smells that were attached to the men. The two men, Hughes and Perez, walked towards your cell, but you continued to remain frozen, hoping the men would think you were unconscious.

“Fucking hell, it smells like death,” Perez stated in disgust; the men now stood inches away from your cell, but they kept their distance, afraid you would attack them whenever you had the chance.

“Shut up,” Hughes whispered, “and step back from the cage–you have to be prepared–you never know if she’ll attack.”

Perez let out a laugh, amused at his partner’s remark. “She’s unconscious, you have nothing to be scared of. Look.” You mentally prepared yourself as you heard Perez get closer despite Hughes’ protests; he whipped out a taser baton and a blue light flickered. Within an instant, Perez angrily struck the baton down on your body, and a cynical smile formed on his lips as he enjoyed the way the electricity burned your fur and your skin. You bit your tongue down so hard that blood was drawn, and you wanted nothing more than to lunge at Perez and rip off his arm; yet, you didn’t move, thus, proving to Hughes that Perez was right.

“Tsar was right,” Perez announced, putting his baton back on his buckle, “there’s no reason for us to be afraid anymore.” You felt your heart beat faster as you finally heard the name given to the man. Tsar, such a typical title. After such a long time, you never believed you would have the power to laugh nor find happiness again, but at this moment, you wanted nothing more than to let out a chuckle; the man compared himself to monarchs and supreme rulers. What a joke. However, your desire to laugh quickly disappeared as you heard Perez continue speaking.

“Tsar already got what he needed from her. Sooner or later, we’ll be just as strong as her–perhaps even stronger. Can you imagine an army of shifters? The Avengers wouldn’t stand a chance. Now, it’s our time to shine, brother.” It felt as if your heart stopped beating in your chest, and it became more difficult for you to breathe; you were unable to grasp his words. An army of shifters? Was that why they experimented on you? Suddenly, everything made sense; they were going to use your DNA to make soldiers for war– soldiers who would have the ability to transform into a beast– and the thought utterly terrified you. While you’re not aware of who the Avengers are, you assumed they were in opposition to Tsar. However, it doesn’t suggest that the Avengers are good people–maybe they’re just competitors, striving to be at the top of the food chain.

In a blink of an eye, the two men were gone, and once again, you were left all alone. You wish you had the strength to fight off every man, but you knew it was impossible. If Perez was right, Tsar would soon have an army of shapeshifters, and they would be unstoppable. Unfortunately, there was nothing else you could do. Your time was up and it was already too late. He got what he needed from you, and soon, they would dispose of you like trash. You never expected to die like this; you always imagined yourself laying on a fresh patch of grass, next to the lilies, before you took your last dying breath. Tears ran down your face as you began to accept your fate. You would die in this small cell, never having the opportunity to see the sun again.

Yet, the relatively quiet room eased your mind, and in a mere second, you were able to conjure up a pleasing image; while it did not resemble your old home, it depicted a warming view of the ocean. As you imagined yourself standing on the shore, it felt as if the picture you created in your mind was coming to life. You could hear the waves of the ocean gently rocking, but off in the distance, you could hear another sound, a sound that did not fit the blissful scenery. Without warning, a massive explosion erupts, causing the ground to roughly shake, and you open your eyes in shock and fear. You bolted upright as you heard from distance men shouting obscenities and commands; the distant sirens began to wail, and they were coming closer to you. Your head began to hurt as the uncertainty teased your hopes, but you tried your hardest to remain composed. Gunshots and blasts came one after the other in rapid succession, and you then heard sounds of screams echo across the building, causing shivers to run down your spine. Footsteps were coming closer to where you were being held, but you didn’t know how to react; should you be relieved or should you be scared?

The door was instantly kicked down, its hinges falling as well, but the very first second that it happens, you’re confused; the light from the outside completely engulfs the room, and it turns you blind and disoriented for a slight moment. You’re able to see a figure standing in front of the door, but they did not move a single muscle. Things seem oddly calm, but you took a step back in fear, your tail cowardly hiding in between your legs. Your ears flattened down against your head, and you let out a soft whimper, petrified of what could happen next. The person was wearing an ominous suit, distinguishing itself from the men that held you captive, but as they tried to step closer, your instincts to protect yourself came out. Suddenly, your ears and your fur bristles are fully erect, and your lips curl back, your incisors displayed; despite still being in a cell, you let out a snarl, telling the person that if they came any closer, you would attack them without hesitation.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice softly spoke, slowly walking towards you. The voice was comforting, and it sounded as if the person was barely a young adult. As the person came closer, you began to take note of their red and blue suit; there was a spider at the center of their chest, and they reminded you of a hero in a children’s book, but you were still terror-stricken. While this person was different than the other men, they all had one thing in common: they all wore masks. Not being able to see the person’s face made you uneasy, and you continued to bark and snarl.

Peter understood your fear and aggression, and he respectfully stopped moving; however, he was saddened at the scene in front of him. The wolf clearly showed signs of wanting to trust him, but due to the horrible conditions it endured, any person was a threat to them. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter reassured; while it may have been idiotic for Peter to speak to an animal, he felt as if you understood every single word that came out of his mouth. You stopped growling, but your hairs stood erect on your back, suspicious of the man’s actions.

“We have a problem, guys. Meet me here soon,” Peter announced on his comms, alerting the rest of the Avengers; your ears perked up as you realized that he wasn’t alone, and you stepped back, afraid of what was about to come. The building was now completely silent, signifying that the Avengers successfully completed their mission. Peter eyed you carefully, watching as you paced back and forth in the cell, growing anxious by the minute. Within seconds, all of the Avengers were in the room.

“Wow, that really is a big problem,” Tony remarked, letting out a sigh and trying to determine what to do with the humongous animal.

“We can’t just leave it here,” Peter stated, knowing he would feel guilty if they left without you. You carefully observed the boy turn his head to look at the man in a red-and-gold armor and there was a moment of silence. It looked as if the man in the armor exactly knew what the younger boy was thinking, and he immediately shook his head. “No. There’s no way in hell we’re taking this thing back to the compound.”

“What?! Why not?” the boy argued.

“Because, no. It’s not like a regular dog, Peter. It’s a wolf!”

“Tony,” another man interjected, getting the attention of the whole group; the man was carrying a shield, and judging by the way everyone remained quiet, you knew he was the alpha. “Maybe we should listen to the kid, he’s got a point. We can’t just leave it here nor allow it to run free; it’d be better if we take it with us. We can figure things out later.” You narrowed your eyes at the men as you continued to listen to their bickering, and you did not like where the conversation was going.

“I think it’s a great idea,” a man proudly stated. “It’s about time we finally got a pet.” You turned your head to look at the man, and you let out an intimidating growl, indicating to him that you deeply despised his comment.

“Sam, stop making it mad,” a woman with red hair scolded. She rolled her eyes at Sam’s behavior and smacked him on the shoulder; you mentally thanked her, glad that at least one of them understood your reaction. You averted your attention back to the alpha, your ears pulled back and your tail pointed straight outwards, curious about what he was going to say.

“Then it’s settled. The wolf is coming with us.”

“Alright,” Tony mumbled, throwing his hands up in defeat and walking towards the exit, “but if it tries to kill you, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Despite Peter’s excitement of convincing the team to take you in, you did not share the same enthusiasm. Instead, you were enraged. You hoped that since your enemies were either dead or gone, you would finally have the chance to run away, but of course, that wasn’t going to happen anymore. You let out a huff of frustration, irritated by their plan, however, you knew it would be best if you didn’t fight back.

Peter turned his attention back to the cell, his mask eyes staring at you; he slowly walked towards you but kept enough distance, respecting your desire to have boundaries.

“Don’t worry,” he vowed, placing his hand on his chest. “you’re safe, you can rest now.”

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Once again, you laid on the concrete floor, but this time, everything was different. You weren’t kept in a cell that was small, unsanitary, or cold; instead, you were given a proper size, allowing you to roam around the spacious room. Although you were still confined to a location, you didn’t mind the bulletproof glass wall since it granted you to see beyond the confinement; there was a comforting heat engulfing you, and you weren’t surrounded by filth. You were alone for the time being, but you weren’t bothered by it; rather, you were oddly relaxed. Perhaps, it was due to the fact that there was an enormous window which gave you the privilege to see the beautiful skyline. Although you were still unsure of where you were, you were mesmerized by the sight; it would never compare to your home, but the buildings, cars, and powerful lights caught your attention. You limped towards the window and sat down, settling in the moonlight and continuing to stare at the small figures that moved.

You heard footsteps approaching, but you didn’t bother to turn around; you hoped that whoever was standing there would leave soon, but as you felt their presence linger, you slowly turned your head around. Standing right in front of the glass wall was a boy who looked around his early twenties; he had dark brown hair, fair skin, and enticing brown eyes that caught your attention. There was something about him that felt familiar, but you couldn’t place it. The boy smiled at you as he held a tray of food, but you merely narrowed your eyes and decided to ignore him.

“C’mon, I know you’re hungry,” the boy pointed out. You instantly recognized the voice from before; it was Peter, the one who was wearing the red-and-blue suit.

He bit his lip in anticipation as you didn’t move a muscle, but he was determined to get you to eat. You let out a big huff, irritated that he did not leave. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening made you alert, and you instantly stood up, turning around to face Peter. Your ears and fur were standing up, and you crouched backward, baring your teeth.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to try anything,” Peter assured, placing the tray on the floor and sliding it across the room. You immediately stopped your actions and directed your focus on the food instead of him; you carefully examined the food, not knowing whether to eat it or leave it there, but you were unable to resist the delicious smell of the meat. Peter watched in awe as you quickly ate the food in seconds and licked the tray clean. The violent and capricious behavior you were once showing was completely gone and was now replaced with a relaxed demeanor; you sat like a sphinx and your tail was placed down, signaling to Peter that you were starting to trust him. As Peter began to examine your calm posture, his eyes gazed over the large gash that was on your left thigh; there was dry blood and dirt around the wound, and it looked as if there was puss leaking out. Peter needed to treat the injury as quickly as he could, but he feared that you wouldn’t allow him to.

You nudged the tray back to Peter and licked the food that lingered around your mouth; Peter let out a slight laugh, understanding that you wanted more food.

“I’ll be right back,” Peter affirmed, stepping out of the room to retrieve more food. You waited for Peter to return, and once he did, you couldn’t help but feel happy, content that you were interacting with someone other than the vicious men. Once again, you began to hastily swallow the food, but you were so ravenous that you failed to notice how Peter tried to discreetly look at your wound. As soon as you felt Peter place his hand on your thigh, you immediately stopped eating and snapped your mouth at him. Luckily, due to Peter’s abilities, he was able to save his fingers from being chewed off, but he stepped back. You let out a menacing growl, angry that he violated your space, and Peter felt like he was back to square one.

“You have an injury,” Peter defended himself, “I need to treat it before it gets worse.” You growled again, not caring about the severity of your wound. What Peter doesn’t know was that it’ll heal shortly; however, judging by the burning pain you felt every time you moved your left leg, it seemed as if that wouldn’t be the case. On the other hand, you were stubborn, so you decided to ignore Peter’s words. You limped to the corner, attempting to get as far away from the boy, and you plopped onto the ground. Peter stood still, not knowing what to do; while there was a chance you were going to attack him, he didn’t want to leave you with an unattended injury. Peter walked towards you once again, causing you to become angrier by the second, but you also gave him credit; he was determined to treat your injury. You watched as the boy kneeled down, inches away from you, but you didn’t growl nor bear your teeth; instead, you intently observed his every move, watching as he took out the necessary medical tools. Your heavy and strong breathing intimidated Peter, but he also knew that you weren’t going to harm him.

You flinched as Peter poured rubbing alcohol onto the wound, to which he quickly apologized, but then you soon found yourself letting out a sigh of relief. You continued to watch Peter as he pierced your skin with a needle, but it was over in a blink of an eye, and now he was wrapping the wound with a clean cloth. “All better,” Peter proudly declared, returning the equipment back in the kit. You gazed at him, shocked that someone was willing to help you even though you’ve been aggressive to them.

Before Peter could react, you slowly moved towards him until your head was resting on his lap. Peter sucked in his breath as his muscles contorted, but then they smoothly eased up as he watched your chest rise and fall in a steady and tranquil motion. This was your way of thanking him, and although you did not truly know him, you felt completely safe with Peter; he had gained your trust. Peter felt a smile stretch across his face, and he gingerly placed his hand behind your ear and slowly petted you, to which you happily accepted. As Peter continued to caress your head, your eyes began to feel heavier every passing minute; slowly but then all at once, you fell asleep in his lap, but Peter didn’t mind at all. Instead, he pulled himself closer and leaned his body up against yours.

After a few hours passed, Tony and Steve decided to stop by and see how you were doing, but when they entered the room, they were shocked at the sight in front of them. Peter blissfully slept in the confinement with the beast, but that wasn’t what frightened them. Rather, what terrified them the most was that the beast was gone and was replaced with a naked woman who peacefully rested in Peter’s arms. Tony quickly connected the dots but was still unable to believe it was actually real.

“Holy shit,” Tony remarked to Steve, “she’s a shifter.”

Taglist: @juliebean247

122 notes · View notes

nosferatvpussy · 4 years ago

Text

distorted lullabies [chapter IV]

Word count: 4,113

Warnings: vulgar language

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link

Author’s note: Listen... I wrote this chapter this past week and I must say I'm not happy with it. My brain is mush due to work so that's all I could come up with. I wish I could've done better but I know if I delayed posting it I would never do it. Feedback would be greatly appreciated on this one (good or bad).

“Oh my fucking God.”

My day had started out fine. I had woken up in a surprisingly good mood considering it was Monday and then I ruined it.

With the exception of Count Dracula’s visit to my house, my weekend was pretty uneventful. Sunday was spent grocery shopping with Diana and reviewing cases to prepare myself for court sessions during the following week. Occupying myself with work was not only necessary but also served as a good distraction from the deal I had struck with the Count.

Being arrogant had its advantages in my line of work but after proposing a deal to a vampire, I was starting to think how quickly that arrogance could turn into vanity and plain stupidity. A deal from which I had yet to glimpse a way out of? Could I outsmart a centuries old vampire and wiggle out of that deal? On Saturday night I was pretty sure I could. Now… Not so much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, receiving ugly looks from people on the tube.

My hand covered my mouth so I would stop cursing and to stop it from falling open.

Reconnaissance was part of any good lawyer’s job and that was what I had decided to do as my first course of action against Count Dracula. As soon as I had found a good spot to sit in the tube, I googled him by his title. All of the pages included the interesting moniker Vlad the Impaler followed by his actual name Vlad Dracula. That in itself was enough for a chill to run down my spine but each line I read managed to make it worse.

He was born in the Middle Ages, more precisely in 1431, which put him somewhere over five hundred years old. So, I had made a deal with someone overly experienced in the matters of life, which wasn’t ideal but could be remedied. But then I was met with medieval drawings depicting him dining amongst a field of impaled people. One particular page had supposed accounts from Ottomans and Saxons describing the atrocities committed by him. Boiling people alive, nailing hats to people’s skulls so they wouldn’t take it off, setting beggars and thieves on fire to “cleanse” Wallachia were just some of his various lovely bedtime stories. Those tales had elicited my first string of curses, which yes evoked the name of God in a blasphemous way but at that point I didn’t care if I offended a higher power or not.

Not only was he abhorrently vile, he was smart. Smart enough to send people infected with the plague to infiltrate enemy camps, using them as biological warfare and weakening enemy numbers. Not many people would have thought of such a tactic in the Middle Ages. Apparently the sight of the impaled people put on display around the city Targoviste was so repulsive that the Ottoman Empire simply retreated. And albeit having half or sometimes a quarter of the army of his opponents, he still managed to win several battles because of his cunning.

That was the part that made me curse several times as some sort of mantra. A ruthless and smart ruler that had been a monster long before he became a vampire, that was who I was up against. And he had five hundred years of practice under his belt. How nice for me.

My body took control as my mind raced and I got off at Canary Wharf station, making my way to the overly modern glass plated building where I worked.

The Middle Ages were a long time ago and it was a notoriously dark and violent time. Desperate times call for desperate measures, one could say. It should serve as a logical explanation to make myself feel better but the cold sweat on the palms of my hands was an obvious sign that it wasn’t working. I resorted to my earbuds and played one of my favourite songs to try calm myself but I was barely paying any attention to it. The noise inside my head was far louder.

I willed my brain to catch up with my body once the elevator doors opened to the 17th floor. Work, now , I told myself. I could think about how to escape the Count’s grip later.

Greeting my colleagues, I made my way to my desk at the far left of the office. We occupied half of the 17th floor while the other half was made up of a café and a small finance firm. Smelling croissants and fresh coffee, I placed my purse and briefcase on my chair and was already making a b-line for the café when Renfield peeked his head out of a meeting room and waved for me to join him.

I threw my earbuds over my shoulders so the string could hang from around my neck and stuck my phone on my trousers' back pocket. Renfield promptly closed the door as soon as I stepped inside. He splayed his arms over the doorway, blocking it. Eyes with dilated pupils watched me from behind thick glasses. Frowning, I looked out through the blurred glass walls that outlined the meeting room we were standing on. If he was about to reprehend me for something I’d done then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of the whole office witnessing it.

Renfield had always been composed and taken great pride in his work and looks. For the past few days that stopped being true. Not only was he acting in a disturbing manner, he also appeared unwashed. His hair was greasy and a few strands stuck to his forehead. His suit had a stain on a lapel and he didn’t have a colourful handkerchief peeking out of his front pocket as he usually did. Overworked, I guessed, but never in all the years I knew him had I seen him this way. When I joined the firm as his intern, he let me write most of his opening and closing statements so I could learn and he would rehearse them on his office as I watched and explain why certain phrases should be changed to provide the necessary punch in court. He taught me the basics and all the clever little tricks one could use to dribble a prosecution. He was in the audience when I worked my first case alone in front of a judge. He was there when I won my first case and he took me out for a beer. And he was there when I lost for the first time and he took me out for whiskey. We still went out to celebrate whenever one of us won a case.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he rasped, barely sounding like himself. “Are the Mast-- the Count’s documents in your possession?”

The Master’s, that’s what he almost said. A little too late I remembered that Renfield was Dracula’s servant and automatically took a step back to put distance between us. The Count had arrived at London a week ago, which could explain my boss’ disheveled appearance.

“They’re at my desk.”

He nodded and licked his lips in a way that made me think of a lizard.

“And what did you think of him? Of Count Dracula?”

The lunatic gleam in Renfield’s eyes made my decision before I could think through it very much.

“He’s polite and handsome,” I said in the most neutral tone I could manage. “I’ll get the documents and bring them to you. Excuse me.”

I closed the distance between us with more confidence than I felt. Nudging Renfield’s shoulder to the side so he would make way, I tried to grab the doorknob and then he was on me. He pinned me against a glass wall before I had a chance to push him back and his hand yanked my shirt’s collar down, exposing my neck.

“Ah! Ah!” he exclaimed loudly. “I knew it!”

I tried to fight him off, terrified of the crazed look on his bulging eyes, but he slammed me back on the glass. It trembled under my weight.

“ Why … you ?” Spittle landed on my face as he spoke and I cringed. “Why would he bestow such a gift on you?!”

Understanding dawned on me and for a second I stopped trying to escape. He was infuriated because Count Dracula had bitten me and not him, like some sort of drug addict that had his vice taken away.

“Let me go,” I said, summoning a calm semblance. “Ask him about it. It’s not like I offered him a drink.”

“No, not a drink. If he wanted just a drink he would have killed you. He’ll make you his bride. But I-- I have worked so hard, so so hard. I deserve it, I do, I do,” he was whimpering now and shaking his head to the sides like a child.

“I know, I know,” I cooed but I had tears on my eyes.

His hands wrapped around my neck and squeezed. My eyes instantly bugged out of my head and the tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I struggled. My hands found his face, trying to slap him or scratch him, anything that would get him off of me. I hit the glass wall with the back of my heel repeatedly to try to get someone’s attention outside. Air couldn’t reach my lungs anymore and my windpipe would probably collapse if he pressed harder. The pressure on my head was enormous. I could barely see and my face felt like it would explode at any second.

Several figures burst in the room. Two of them tried to pry Renfield off of me and the other three screamed for him to let me go. The crushing force on my neck ceased all of a sudden and I went down like a sack of potatoes, falling on my side as I gasped for air.

“Master! Master!” Renfield howled, struggling against his captors. “I was good, I was good! MASTER!”

A hacking cough seized me as I tried to will air into my lungs but failed to do so in the speed I needed. Slowly my vision returned and I saw Henry and Mallory kneeling next to me, trying to get me to sit up. Renfield’s deafening screams filled my ears.

“What happened?!” Mallory asked as Matthew, another colleague of mine, and a security guard tried to pin Renfield to the ground as he continued shouting.

“Not h-his fault,” I croaked, covering my neck with my hand. I would have a new bruise to match my bite now.

Mallory and Henry started talking about what they should do while I found myself trapped in Renfield’s demented eyes. He wasn’t in there, not anymore.

“A psychotic episode,” I whispered to Mallory. It hurt to talk. “Call medics, not the police. It’s not his fault.” Mallory and Henry exchanged a look and nodded.

More people filed into the room to gawk at the scene. Several more people gathered around me, trying to be helpful to the point where they started to resemble vultures and not good samaritans. I allowed myself to be coddled by these people while my mind ran amok.

My chest tightened as if the sorrow I felt hurt physically as well. The man I had looked up to as an outstanding lawyer, the man I inherited the poise and the commanding voice… was gone. Reduced to the likes of a mewling baby and a deranged man.

I hardly paid attention when paramedics arrived and took Renfield away but when a paramedic wanted to check my neck, I was pulled back to reality by the bond I had to Count Dracula.

“No,” I told him, one hand securing my shirt’s collar to my neck so it was covered. “I’m fine, really.”

“Miss, please. By what your colleagues described he nearly choked you to death.” His hands hovered on the air around me as a second silent request to let him look at the bruise.

I shook my head vehemently but tears were welling in my eyes again.

I wanted desperately to tell someone just then. To explain about Renfield and the bite on my neck that marked me as his . But I couldn’t. My voice wouldn’t leave my throat because that too had become his . Even if I was able to tell someone, I knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Bitten by a vampire? Surely I would be thrown in the psychiatric ward as Renfield would.

“I can’t,” I said weakly before pushing him out of my way and running to the restroom.

London’s night lights kept me company as I worked overtime on the firm. After spending the rest of my day warding off preoccupied people, I decided that I would need to add extra hours of work. At home I would succumb to my bed’s embrace and wouldn’t get any work done.

My desk lamp was the only source of light coming from inside the office and it illuminated the papers spread haphazardly in front of me. I had attended court earlier that day only to request an adjournment to Judge Llewellyn, who scowled and immediately demanded I explain myself. Matthew, my colleague, accompanied me to speak on my behalf since my voice box wasn’t strong enough yet to project my words to a courtroom. When Matthew explained the ordeal to Llewellyn I had the satisfaction of seeing the judge’s face dismantle in embarrassment for questioning me so harshly. It didn’t matter how much satisfaction it brought me because at the end of the day my case was delayed which impacted the life of a very dedicated mother who was disputing custody of her children with her ex. Catching up on cases and preparing future statements was my way of rectifying it.

I scribbled on a post-it and stuck it to a page before putting that pile to the side. I still had three more cases to review, draw up a plea bargain and think of a way to escape Count Dracula. I was procrastinating the latter.

The elevator opened with a ding on the other side of the floor and I raised my head to see who could it be at this time of night. A silhouette stepped out, standing in the darkness for only a moment before the hall’s motion activated lights came on. At once I sunk in my chair.

“Renfield... Where are you?” Count Dracula pitched his velvet voice in a mock song as he strolled in the office.

My heartbeat shot up in response and I shrunk further, trusting the darkness to conceal me. He swiveled his head directly at me as if my fear had drawn him. The lights from the buildings outside only illuminated half of his face.

“Y/N,” he said. My name on his lips sent a shiver through my body. “Working in the dark, are we?” When no answer came from me, he clicked his tongue. “I can’t seem to get ahold of Renfield but I suppose you’ll do. My assets were supposed to have been released today. The bank said I need-” He had been strolling my way as he talked but he stopped abruptly, whiffing the air. “You’re scared. Of me?”

He resumed his pace slowly, almost dragging his steps. Just then, I truly understood the feeling of being stalked by a predator.

“Why… are you... scared?”

He quickened his pace suddenly and covered over half the distance between us in seconds. I jumped from my seat and backed up as I searched frantically for a way out. The back of my knees hit a desk and I had to reach my hands back to stop me from toppling over it. I let out a squeak as I tried to regain my footing but it was too late. Dracula towered over me, so close I could smell his cologne. My face was turned away from him so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. I had a feeling that if I did he would devour me whole.

“Tell me why,” a whisper. His breath smelled like copper. “I will not have you of all people cowering from me.”

“Renfield was committed to a psychiatric ward this morning,” I blurted.

“Your voice,” he said.

Another squeak escaped my mouth as he grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. I expected to be met with a monstrous face but it was just him. Familiar dark eyes and lush lips. His stare fell from mine to my neck and he furrowed his eyebrows. His bite was well concealed under my shirt but the ligature mark was just beneath my jaw and in plain sight.

“He attacked me,” I provided in my frail voice. “Because you bit me.”

He pulled his lips down. Anger or disapproval, I wasn’t sure.

“I see,” he muttered.

“Is that what will become of me?” I asked.

“I told you-- I would never make you a servant.”

“No. Will I become a monster like you? Will I be uncaring? Will I enslave people? Kill them, torture them?”

He squished my cheeks between his fingers with every word I spoke. Perhaps provoking him wasn't a smart choice but I wouldn't simply lower my head and accept my fate.

“Only if you wish," he replied.

“You won’t even try denying it?”

“If I did I would be a hypocrite. And you think you are without blame.”

“Me?! How am I to blame for anything?"

He loosened his grip on my face until he finally allowed his hand to rest on the side of my neck.

“Yes, you. You the lawyer that defends robbers, murderers and rapists. And you know what’s interesting? I haven’t found much guilt about it in your blood. And now you accuse me of such things with disgust in your face? That, my dear, is a hypocrite.”

I swallowed his vitriol and it burned on the way down. Suddenly I didn’t like being provoked as much as I liked doing so.

“You ruined Frank!” I blinked at using Renfield’s first name. “He went mental today! Never in his life--”

“He’s weak , always has been but you never saw it. One look. One look was what it took for him to practically kneel before me. You shouldn’t hold people like him in such high standards.”

“Doesn’t bloody matter, he’s my friend!" The threat of tears made my voice tremble and I caught hold of myself before they spilled. “I don’t suppose you understand what that means.”

The snarl on his face made me think he would kill me right there.

“I should kill Renfield for what he did,” he murmured, stare searing into me. “But you wouldn’t like that.”

“Why does it matter what I like, Impaler?”

His brows softened as comprehension crossed his face and his lips parted in a grin.

“That is why you’re afraid, isn’t it? My darling, that was my human life, you have no need to worry.”

“And you’ve been an angel since then?”

“Oh never.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I was still supporting myself with my hands on the table behind me, slightly tipping backwards so the Count didn’t crawl on top of me.

Did I see a monster when I looked at him? Quite honestly no, yet I knew I should. He had done horrible things and I only knew about the things history had kept record of. I had learnt over the years that people are complicated. I had never met one person that was fully good or bad. If I had to classify myself, I wouldn’t know. My entire job was one big gray area. I swiveled around the lines of good and bad, never fully committing to any of them because I was paid for it. That wasn’t to say I didn’t have my own moral compass outside of the law. Count Dracula however… I had yet to find out if he had any moral compass at all.

“Will Renfield get better?” I questioned.

“He might. It’s difficult to predict how my power can affect some individuals, but he will remain my servant, that much I know. And he won’t attack you again, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Let him go.”

“I will not. He's quite good at being a servant.”

Renfield’s shouting replayed on my head.

“Let him go and I’ll let you feed from me whenever you want,” I said, shocking myself with my words. “But know this, I will never be yours.”

“Another deal? Tempting.” He licked his lips and my stomach coiled. “So very tempting.”

He reached to my waist, digging his fingers in my skin and I held back a gasp.

“Take the deal,” I urged.

Excitement grew within me. I preferred to believe that that was due to the possibility of tricking the Count into another deal but the tingling scar on my neck told a different story. I closed my eyes trying to concentrate and take full control of my body but it wasn’t responsive to rational thought. If he took the deal then it meant freedom for Renfield. That’s where my mind should be, not the rush of pleasure I had felt three nights ago when Count Dracula had bitten me. But by God, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to feel it again, feel his teeth sinking into my flesh and the dreamlike daze that followed.

Dracula’s arm circled me and smashed my body to his in a single motion, causing the gasp I had been holding to escape my lips. His thumb caressed my jawline while his fingers teased the back of my neck. In the little light between us I saw his black eyes swimming in carmine red. My heartbeat quickened lower in me when his tongue snaked out once again to lick his lips. Suddenly his fingers found my scar and massaged it lightly, evoking a moan from me. I rose my hands to hold his shoulders as an attempt to balance myself.

I felt more than heard his laughter.

“Look at you," he said. As he spoke I caught a flash of long and jagged teeth before it was gone. “‘I’ll never be yours .’ Liar, liar.”

I collected myself and pushed him away when I realised he was mocking me. He didn't move at fist but when I pushed him again he stepped back of his own volition, still laughing.

“Are you taking the fucking deal or not?”

“No,” he enunciated the word slowly. “I like this game we’re playing and I don’t want it to be over just yet. As powerful as you think you are, you don’t have the power to control me with your blood. I’ve granted you enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t trying-”

“Don’t lie.”

I closed my hands in fists.

“Fine. Can you at least say you’re sorry?”

“For what?” He raised his eyebrows.

“For Renfield,” I snapped, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Do you want me to lie to make you feel better?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I wish Renfield hadn’t attacked you,” he said, sticking his hands on his pockets.

“That wasn’t the apology I was looking for.”

“I know.”

Why did I even want an apology? Was I desperate to find some semblance of regret on him? Desperate to find anything remotely good in him to justify my desire for him? I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears away, hating myself for letting him affect me like that. My whole body desired him while I knew I should hate him for what he did to Renfield, for what he was doing to me. It made me feel like his plaything.

“Can you please leave? I have work to do.”

He nodded.

“I assume you’ll take over as my lawyer to assort my affairs.”

“Not like I have an option, is it?”

“Quite. I’ll leave you to it. See you Wednesday!"

He had already turned away, walking back to the elevator when I fully registered what he said.

“What happens on Wednesday?” I rose my voice to get his attention.

"I take you on a date," he answered over his shoulder.

I marched after him and stopped when I realised what I was doing. What could I possibly do or say to threaten a creature like him? I probably bothered him as much as soft wind did.

"I'm not going on a date with you after what happened today."

He slowly turned to face me again, a big grin on his face. A victorious grin. If he was winning, then I was on the losing side - of what, though?

“Oh but you are. Your deal clearly stated that I am to convince you that immortality is worth it. You didn’t express how I should do it. Therefore that end of the deal is mine to fulfill however I wish. ”

I groaned. Had I removed my brain at some point when I made that deal? I was used to being the winner inside courtrooms, and I had stupidly condemned myself by binding a contract between Count Dracula and I. As much as I would like to withdraw it, I didn't think he would be open to the idea. He had made it clear that he would make me a vampire whether I liked it or not. I had no choice but to abide by my own rules until I came up with a way out.

“I’d rather meet you," I said at last. "Where are we going?”

He smiled widely as he walked backwards, facing me.

“I’ll text you on Wednesday. Goodnight, darling.”

“Night, Dracula.”

Taglist: @festering-queen @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @thorin-smokin-shield @hoefordarkness @dreamer2381 @girlonfireice

#dracula fanfic #dracula 2020 #dracula netflix #dracula bbc fanfic #claes bang #claes bang fanfic #c #dracula bbc #dracula x reader #vampire fanfic #bbc dracula #distorted lullabies

82 notes · View notes