#I was playing around with old glitter websites | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ollieofthebeholder · 1 year ago

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 52: June 1996

If this is what most primary schools are like, Gerard thinks, he’s astonishingly grateful to his mother for teaching him at home. For a given degree of “teaching”, anyway.

Martin insists it isn’t, and he’s told Gerard about the school he went to in Devon before he and his mother moved to London—he actually seems to miss it—but Gerard isn’t convinced. The whole building seems tired and sagging, but it’s also extremely clinical and impersonal. Everything is cinderblock and grey tile and plain doors with mesh in the glass. Bells bristle on the walls like boils, and all in all it seems more like a prison than a place of learning. Of course, Gerard isn’t entirely certain they’re all that different anyway.

The actual meeting takes place in the gymnasium, which has a wooden floor but is otherwise made of the same depressing cinderblocks as the rest of the building, and there is an almost coyly twee sign reading Support for Parents Alone Raising Kids, the capitalized letters obvious and adorned in glitter to make the SPARK stand out. The parents in question, mostly mothers, sit on metal folding chairs in only slightly better shape than the gymnasium. The kids in question, however, are currently being shooed outside.

Gerard does not want to go outside. He caught a glimpse of the playground on the way in, thank you very much, and it looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Rust and concrete and sand and nothing particularly exciting. He’d much rather stay inside and listen to the meeting, or go hole up in the library—surely this place has a library. But Martin is tugging him outside, and, okay, he’ll play along.

Gerard’s a bit surprised, but he really likes this kid. Part of it is that he’s not immune to a bit of hero-worship and Martin tends to look at him like he’s some kind of minor god, but mostly it’s just that…well, Martin is a genuinely nice person. He’s amazingly brilliant for a seven-year-old, a fast and voracious reader—he’s read even more books than Gerard has—and he’s got, so Gerard thinks, the voice of an angel. His fondness for poetry is a bit of an irritation, but again, he’s seven, he’ll probably grow out of sentimental nonsense like that. Anyway, if Martin thinks they should go outside with the other children, Gerard will let him take the lead. After all, this is his first time being here; Mrs. Blackwood has been attending, and bringing Martin, for several weeks now.

Gerard isn’t sure why his mother agreed to come, actually, since his dad’s been gone at least five years now and she definitely doesn’t need any support in raising him, but she did and he already knows better than to question her actions.

There are about a dozen kids that spill out onto the playground and scatter to the corners. Several of the girls run over to pick up skipping ropes; most of the boys begin kicking a ball around. Others race for the climbing structure or the rickety slide. None of it appeals to Gerard.

“What do you usually do?” Gerard asks Martin, who hasn’t run to join any of the groups. He assumes Martin is waiting for him to choose what they’ll do, but surely Martin has a favorite activity.

Martin scuffs his shoe against the concrete, a bit shyly, and doesn’t look up at Gerard when he answers. “I, um, I like the swings.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Gerard lies. Like everything else on the playground, the swing set seems to be comprised of metal and rust, and he isn’t entirely sure what the point of them is either. Just to sit on them? It doesn’t sound like his idea of fun, but if Martin likes them…

There was a bit of a drizzle this morning, but it’s cleared up now; still, the pavement is damp in places and there are a few undeniable puddles where the yard sags and dips. Gerard is thankful for the new—well, new to him anyway—boots he bought at the secondhand shop last week; though worn, they still have deep treads that keep him from slipping as they head across the playground. He’s still wearing a three-piece suit, which he hates, but…baby steps. Sooner or later he’ll be able to save up enough of his pocket money to buy the clothes he wants to wear, and maybe eventually his mother will get the hint and stop dressing him like a small professor. They’re not upper class, whatever she says about her ancestors, and Gerard is pretty sure that the rich assholes who come to buy rare books from his mother can see through his outfits clearly enough. They know he’s trash. He might as well dress like it.

Martin rounds a teeter-totter that looks even more unsafe than the rest of the playground equipment and stutters to a halt, nearly making Gerard trip over him. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when he sees it, too. Someone else got to the swings first.

Someone else is a girl who’s either very young or very small for her age. Gerard finds himself envious of her outfit, not because he wants to wear that exactly—he can’t imagine anyone wanting to wear that many colors at the same time—but because she very obviously picked it out herself, because no way would her mother (he assumes it’s her mother) select something like this for her. She’s wearing a shirt with orange and white horizontal stripes, bright purple dungarees with tiny pale lilac flower buds printed all over them, and hot pink high-top sneakers with glittery laces, and her hair is pulled into two bunches on either side of her head and secured with something with bright, slightly translucent blue balls on the ends. She has a puffy gold star sticker under each eye like some kind of war paint, and she’s staring at the swing with narrowed eyes and her hands on her hips like she’s challenging it to something.

Gerard assumes they’ll be moving on to find something else to do, but to his surprise, Martin clears his throat. “Um, hi.”

The girl starts and whirls on them. Her scowl somehow deepens, and her fists come up in front of her. It would be intimidating if she wasn’t so tiny, but as it is, Gerard isn’t impressed.

“What?” she demands.

Martin gives her a smile that seems a bit shaky and indicates the swings. “Um, can—can we join you? O-on the swings?”

The girl considers this for a minute, then eyes the swings before looking back at Martin. “There are only two.”

“That’s okay, you two can have them,” Gerard says quickly before Martin can offer. “I’ll just watch or something.”

He’ll watch, all right. He’ll watch long enough for Martin to make friends with this new girl and forget he’s there, and then he can slip off inside. He’ll probably feel bad about that later, but at least he’s not abandoning Martin with no one to play with if he and Miss Thing here get on.

“Well…okay.” The girl lifts her chin almost defiantly and sticks out a hand towards them. “I’m Melanie.”

“I’m Martin, and this is Gerard,” Martin says, taking her hand and shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.”

“Uh…yeah…hi,” Gerard says. He, too, shakes her hand when she offers it.

Martin smiles, a bit more confidently this time. Melanie doesn’t exactly smile back, but at least she’s not scowling. “You can have that swing. I’m going to get on this one.”

“Okay.”

Martin goes over to the swing indicated and circles it for a moment, then leans forward to snag the chain. Gerard isn’t sure why until he notices the twin puddles directly under both swings. He realizes that generations of feet scuffing at the ground have worn a bit of a dip that allows water to collect, and Martin is worried—most likely rightly—that his mother will have kittens if he gets his shoes muddy. Once Martin has the swing in hand, he maneuvers himself so he’s facing away from it, takes a deep breath, and gives a little hop. Somehow he settles into the seat correctly without falling; it immediately swings backwards, and Martin holds on desperately and tries to kick his feet to straighten himself out and keep from swinging over onto Melanie’s side of the swings.

Melanie tries to do the same, but Gerard realizes very quickly that it won’t work. Apart from the fact that she’s shorter than Martin, the seat is somehow higher than the other side. If she leans forward without stepping into the puddle, she’s going to fall face-first into it. Gerard tries to figure out how to tell her that without making it look like he’s being a bully. Then, as Martin finally gets his trajectory more or less under control, Gerard notices that the swing has been wrapped over the top bar of the swing set.

“Well, duh,” Melanie says when he points this out. “Otherwise your feet get wet.”

“Yeah, but you can’t reach it. Hang on.” Gerard manages to plant his feet on either side of the puddle and tosses the swing a few times until he manages to get it over the top, with a rattle and a clank. Once it settles, he pulls it back and hands it to Melanie. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Melanie eyes him suspiciously for a minute, but takes the chains in either hand. She tries several times to haul herself up into the seat, but doesn’t quite manage it, and on her final try nearly gets dragged into the puddle. She manages to brake herself and backs up, then looks over at Gerard. “Can you hold it steady for me while I get on? Please?”

The please is clearly an afterthought, but Gerard doesn’t care all that much about politeness, and he’s a bit surprised to be asked anyway. He takes the chain and holds the swing as requested.

It still takes Melanie two or three tries, but she finally manages to get herself settled. Gerard holds on for just a second, until Martin swings out of the way, then lets go and steps to one side. As an afterthought, watching Martin’s still-wobbly swing, he catches his chain and manages to stop him, then straightens him out before pulling him back and letting him go as well.

“Thanks, Gerard,” Martin says happily, kicking his feet in their battered trainers forward.

“Thanks, Gerard,” Melanie echoes.

Gerard blinks. “Uh, yeah, sure, no problem.”

He watches for a few moments. They seem happy enough, and he’s about ready to try to slink off when Melanie asks, “Is this your first time coming here?”

“Not mine. Mum’s been coming for a few weeks,” Martin answers, his sentence punctuated with the tiniest of pauses every time he reaches the acme of his swing and pumps himself backwards or forwards. “It’s Gerard’s first time, though.”

“Oh.” Melanie twists her head to study Gerard with a frown. The action makes her swing start twisting slightly, and she hurriedly turns to face forward again. “But aren’t you brothers?”

“No.” Gerard tries not to sound appalled at the idea. It’s not that he doesn’t like Martin, he does, but he wouldn’t want Mrs. Blackwood as a mum any more than he would wish his mother on another child. He comes around and catches Melanie’s swing to stop it twisting before it slams into Martin and straightens it out, then gives her a little push when he lets go. “My mother is friends with his.”

“Oh,” Melanie says again. She doesn’t tuck her feet as far under herself this time when she reaches the top of her arc, and Gerard instinctively takes a step back and gives her another little push when she comes close enough. “So you don’t have a dad? Either of you?”

Martin shakes his head, but doesn’t elaborate. Gerard’s not surprised. He’s only known Martin about six weeks, and in that whole time, he’s never heard him mention his dad once. He gives Martin a push as well—it’s only fair—and tells Melanie, “Haven’t for a while. Mine died when I was about your age. I don’t remember him too well, really.”

“How old are you?” Melanie asks suspiciously.

“Ten.”

“I’m seven,” Martin interjects. “But I’ll be eight in August.”

“I’m seven, too,” Melanie says. “My birthday’s not until November, though.”

Martin kicks his feet out to push himself backwards. “‘Not yesterday I learned to know / The love of bare November days…’”

“Robert Browning?” Gerard hazards, catching Martin lightly and pushing him forward, then shifting to do the same for Melanie.

“Frost.”

“Who’s that?” Melanie asks. She tips her head back to look at Gerard, then squeaks as the chain momentarily goes slack and nearly topples her backwards. Gerard instinctively starts forward to catch her, but she manages to correct herself.

“Robert Frost? He was a poet,” Martin explains. “He wrote lots of really great poems about nature, especially winter and autumn and all that. He was American, but he lived in a pretty part. Mrs. Dooley taught me about him.”

“Oh—you go to school here too?”

“Yup. I just started this term. I was in Mrs. Tisdale’s class.”

“I was in Mrs. Brown’s. Maybe we’ll both be in the same class next year.” Melanie glances at Gerard as she reaches the end of her swing. “Whose class were you in?”

“My mother teaches me at home.” Gerard tries not to sound superior.

Melanie grunts. “Figures.”

Gerard decides to turn the tables a bit. “What about your dad? How long has he been gone?”

“He isn’t. He’s inside.” Melanie stops kicking her feet, and Gerard notices her hands tighten around the chains, even as her chin drops to her chest. “Mama just died.”

Okay, now Gerard feels like a little bit of a jerk. Martin stops kicking his feet, too, and his face, when he looks at Melanie, is creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Melanie.”

Melanie looks up as she begins to slow, and there’s an almost angry look in her eyes. “I’m not going to forget her. Not when I’m ten and not when I’m ten hundred.”

Gerard almost corrects her that “ten hundred” is a thousand, but one look at the reproachful expression on Martin’s face and he swallows that. “I, um, I thought you were younger than seven, actually. It’s been five years almost. And he worked a lot before that, so I never really got to know him all that well. I’m sure you’ll remember your mother better.”

Melanie sniffs. She clearly means it to be defiant, but it sounds more like she’s about to cry. “She’s worth remembering.”

Martin gives her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us about her?”

Gerard grabs Melanie’s swing again and pulls her clear of the puddle. “Why don’t we go inside first?”

“We’re supposed to be outside,” Martin protests.

“I’m big enough to be responsible,” Gerard boasts. “We can go sit in the library.”

Melanie slips out of the swing and hops to one side. “If Mrs. Dooley is there, she’ll let us.”

“Well…” Martin wavers.

Gerard tugs Martin away from the puddle under his swing. “C’mon, Martin, don’t you trust me?”

It’s maybe a little bit unfair, but it works. Martin’s eyes widen briefly, and he slips out of the swing instantly. “Of course I trust you!”

“Come on then.” Gerard takes Martin’s hand and reaches for Melanie’s, too; she eyes him suspiciously, but accepts it.

The teenager who’s supposed to be watching them doesn’t notice them slipping inside, which is just fine with Gerard. They tiptoe down the hallway—the doors to the gymnasium are open and they don’t want to get caught—and to the only other set of double doors, with a brass plaque on the left one reading LIBRARY. There’s a light on inside, and when they pull it open, they’re met with a plump, matronly woman who greets them with a smile and open arms. She seems pleased to meet Gerard, and she readily directs them to a tiny cluster of chairs.

“There’s no one else here,” she says, her Scottish accent thick and heavy, “so you can be as loud as you like. I’ll let your parents know they can find you here after the meeting, but meantime, you three just settle down and enjoy yourselves, you hear?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dooley,” Martin and Melanie say in unison with matching smiles. Mrs. Dooley laughs and bustles away.

Gerard looks at the two kids he’s inexplicably saddled himself with and wonders, for a fleeting moment, how he let things get this far. He wanted to be alone.

By the time his mother comes to collect all three of them, with the explanation that Mrs. Blackwood and Mr. King are in deep conversation and will meet them out front, he wonders why he ever thought that would be the better option.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #tma #gerard keay #martin blackwood #melanie king #mention of death of a parent #implied/referenced classism

2 notes · View notes

elissespieces · 1 year ago

Text

Okay.

Not to sound old, but-

I have been doing Sailormoon fanart for A Long Time™️ (and to save my sanity here- I’m speaking in internet years)

I’m a Chibimoon fan, and it has never been a popular hill to die on. People hate her, and I don’t care. I get Rini yelled in my face, and I. Do. Not. Care.

But back when I did- I had a 100% wholesome chibimoon dedicated webpage that I html coded myself (in friggen notes) and uploaded to a free FORTUNECITY site. There I displayed a wide variety of chibimoon fanart, mostly mine, but also gathered from other artists I had been desperately hoarding. All of it had been dug for over time (Netscaaaape), then the artists sought out to ask for permission to post, collected into a gallery where I made clickable thumbnails, and finally uploaded it through an ftp-

Dude- There was work involved y’all. This was pre-Pinterest, pre-Instagram, pre anything that posted photos for.

And the webpage was terrible, I can admit that, it’s fine. There was flashy fake glitter stuff, I had a guestbook and counter. Bad art made into page links, irrelevant song and poetry quotes. (But I did not have a midi play!) Most of what I was drawing back then was a weird mishmash of tracing the anime and learning anatomy, so it ain’t great, but everyone starts somewhere.

Still-

There was a lot of it. A LOT. And there still is! I’ve never stopped making it. I still draw sailor moon art all the damn time. It’s my therapy when I’m art blocked, it’s my doodles. I still upload stuff to random places (depending on what lets me) to this day.

I’ve been doing this for 20 years.

My art names have changed, but not drastically, and while thankfully improving, the art style itself isn’t all that different. I’ve been told I’m easy to spot. So yknow what I don’t get??

It’s nowhere. The art isn’t floating around online, I can’t find any of it.

I should be so embarrassed by it. It should be an absolute pain, running facefirst into that awful shit- and with so much regret. I taught myself enough html to do the absolutely ridiculous coordinates of an image map (omg the numbers) but- but it’s not anywhere!

When I haven’t looked at my old crap in awhile, sure, I’m relieved at this fact. Cause yikes (and I still have it stored, it’s good to know how dare I’ve come).

But after days of cruising through 3 hours of really, really awful sailor moon art (yes I do this), I’m kinda, mildly insulted because I should be one of those. I should be standing accounted amongst those who are shamed!

I recognize so many of the old artists that I once knew, and most of them have been plagiarized to death on overseas websites because they aren’t really around anymore. If anyone else was around at that time and into Sailor Moon, I had a very pink and very goofy ‘Child of the Crystal World’ website. It was all I knew about my Pink fucking Princess on about thirty separate page clicks.

So- best guess is- either someone is following behind me and cleaning up my online fingerprint- or (most likely) Im feeling ignored and entitled from years worth of effort and it’s gurgling back up like a clogged, invalidating garbage disposal of paint and crayons.

3 notes · View notes

indigowallbreaker · 2 years ago

Note

Dorothea and Leonie heart break 25, 80, 88, 99 of the heart break list, 11, 66 kiss list with ghost/spirit dorothea? (these are and/or, i felt like sending 6 asks in a row w/ the same pairing would be too much.)

Judging by my askbox, you’re quite keen on this idea, anon. Hope I don’t dissapoint!

99: “Don’t make me fall in love again.”

(Currently accepting rare ships! Click here for the info post!)

The Mittelfrank Opera House retained little of its splendor from its heyday 1,000 years ago. Leonie walked carefully down the main aisle, mindful of the rotten floorboards and moss covered handrail. The whole building was in gloom. Her flashlight caught the occasional shine-- but more often than not, it was just an animal bone or puddle.

Leonie opened her phone to check her notes. According to all the websites and first hand accounts she could find, the ghost that haunted this place usually showed up just after midnight in this very room. Yet all Leonie could see was a deserted-- and somewhat depressing-- old theater.

Just as she reached the second row of seats, however, Leonie’s flashlight began to flicker. She shook it a few times and even knocked it against her hand. “Come on, that’s so cliché,” she muttered as it fizzled out entirely. Even her phone had decided to stop working. Leonie jabbed at the black screen in annoyance.

Suddenly, a circle of light appeared on the stage as if someone had turned on a spotlight. Nobody walked across the stage, but before Leonie’s eyes, a figure appeared in the circle.

None of the accounts had mentioned what the ghost looked like. Leonie hadn’t been able to find any description of the ghost outside of the word “beautiful”. And now she understood why.

The ghost was beautiful.

Waves of rich brown hair rippled around the ghost as if she were under water. Her dress was like crimson smoke, curling with her movements and making her look like a flickering flame or warbling rose. Leonie was so entranced that it took a moment for her to notice the music.

And once she noticed, she became enraptured by that as well.

The ghost was singing-- and her voice seemed to pull an orchestra from the depths of the opera house’s memory, for instruments began to play alongside her words. Hand clasped before her, jewelry glittering in the spotlight, the ghost sang what seemed to be the end of a solo:

... Where the beauty never runs out

and the voices never change.

Don’t make me fall in love again

for I wish to remain the same.

Leonie didn’t move throughout the whole song. It sounded so familiar, yet she couldn’t recall when she had heard it before. Dazed, Leonie began to lift her phone-- forgetting it wasn’t working-- with the intent to look up the lyrics.

The ghost’s pale green eyes abruptly fixed on Leonie’s. Her whole face softened as if in recognition. Pushing down fear, Leonie gave a small wave. “Hey,” she greeted.

The ghost laughed. “The voices never change,” she said melodically.

“That was a nice song.” Leonie wondered absently why no one mentioned the singing before.

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll sing it for you again.” The ghost winked-- Leonie blushed-- and disappeared.

The spotlight vanished soon after, and just like that, Leonie’s flashlight lit up and her phone began buzzing. The screen told Leonie that it was a quarter after midnight. There were several texts from her fellow paranormal enthusiasts, as well as one from Jeralt asking where she was.

Shaken, a song she couldn’t remember stuck in her head, Leonie quickly made her way out of the Mittelfrank Opera House.

#fire emblem three houses #dorothea arnault #leonie pinelli #leothea #sounds nicer than the other way around #rare pair run #anon keep an eye out for your second request since it'll be linked to this

9 notes · View notes

freshmaple · 2 years ago

Text

Give Call Fresh Maple for Upholstery Cleaning in Milton

Upholstery Cleaning in Milton

The lifespan of furniture can improve by cleaning the leather and fabric cushions. The majority of homeowners get their upholstery cleaned together. Yet, common rooms are in dire need of cleaning in public and commercial buildings. But nothing is impossible! You may have observed that lounges often have a musty odor. It happens every day as kids play, pets shed, and adults collapse into chairs, tired from work. There may be a spill or a scattering of pieces. For you and your visitors, clean furniture makes a peaceful haven, yet upholstery fabric can be hard to keep clean. Thanks to services for upholstery cleaning in Milton that are present to keep you relaxed.

Service for Expert Couch Cleaning

When was the last day your sofa was professionally inspected and cleaned? Never, not ever, or I don't remember. Whatever the case, it's likely time to act if you have a strong feeling that your furniture requires Upholstery Cleaning in Milton. Although cleaning your sofa using a vacuum is very important, it could be more efficient. More is needed to completely remove any filth and grime that have accumulated in the comfortable cushion and upholstery. Over time, the sofa loses its visual appeal as a result of the material absorbing dirt. Sometimes the sofa's color fades so quickly that you almost forget how it appeared when you first bought it. There are a variety of things that can cause a sofa to get quite unclean. Like wine or coffee stains, pet pee spots, vomit incidents, and more. Don't take risks, as you and your loved ones are precious.

When Do You Want Cleaning Services?

Are you looking for local experts who can clean furniture pieces? We have your back! With its superior upholstery cleaning products, Fresh Maple excels at boosting the appearance of your home or place of business. Because we use strong tools that make the job much easier. Yes! We can successfully remove all kinds of difficult stains. Your furniture may be easily deep cleaned, making it appear nice new. There are several cleaning companies, but what makes us stand out? Well! It is how we cater to your demands on a personal level. We have a lot of expertise working with different clientele who have different budgets, cleaning demands, and furniture types. Well! What's more? For this, you have to call us. Get our hotline number from our website.

Powerful Upholstery Cleaning Method

Everyone understands how awful it is to have stains on their favorite couch, recliner, or mattress. With a range of stain removers on hand, our professionals will choose the best one when they arrive. Even though old stains and spots are quite difficult to remove, our upholstery cleaners will guarantee to give you excellent results. We are using hot-water extraction for upholstery cleaning in Burlington. How does it truly operate? The machine absorbs a strong solution and collects it. After that also removes the stored grime, bacteria, and odors along with around 95% of the moisture. Your upholstery will be sanitized, immaculate, and glittering after using this cleaning method, and the drying time will be shortened. Depending on their design, various upholstered furniture kinds require various drying times.

Cleaning Your Upholstery Stands to Reason

It has become clear that getting one done is highly worthwhile. Yes! Consider how a deep clean from a Fresh Maple can improve your health and help you save money. You can make your furniture look fantastic and aid in the safety and security of your home for a reasonable price. So why not call us for upholstery cleaning in Milton and let us work our magic if you want to give upholstery some life? Visit us online to learn more about what makes us so successful with our clients. Instead, you can call us at our toll-free number, and we'll be glad to speak with you about your specific needs. We'll do all in our power to assist you. We will help you with additional tips for keeping your house tidy.

Reference

#Carpet cleaning in Mississauga #Tile and Grout cleaning Okaville #Carpet cleaning in Oakville #tile and grout cleaning mississauga #carpet cleaning in oakville #carpet cleaning in mississauga #up holstery & arearug cleaning oakville #tile and grout cleaning oakville #tile and grout cleaning in burlington #up holstery & arearug cleaning #upholstery & area rug cleaning #carpet cleaning in burlington #upholstery cleaning in Milton

0 notes

charlie-rulerofhell · 3 years ago

Text

An interview with Måneskin: “It's not about out bodies, it's about our music”

Heyo, I'm back with another translation. This time the article is from the German Rolling Stone website who met with Måneskin after their TikTok performance at the Schwuz, Berlin, and posted the interview yesterday. Again there were some interesting questions asked (and the pictures they added to the article are quite nice, though severely lacking some Ethan content, but check it out!).

Again, I hope that no one has already gone through the effort and translated it or is currently working on a translation. Also this is an official invitation, if you stumble across any articles or video interviews in German that you would like to have translated just message me and I'll get to it! (or if you just wanna chat about Måneskin, my inbox is always open :))

Have a great day everyone!

Full article under the cut.

-----------------------------

An interview with Måneskin: “It's not about out bodies, it's about our music”

Jose-Luis Amsler

July 6, 2021

Måneskin are just what this generation has been missing. Passionate, corny, and full-on honest. In an interview with Rolling Stones, the ESC winners explain to us why they would never work in a normal job and why the hype for their appearance is sometimes going too far.

Damiano, Victoria, Thomas and Ethan are entering the nearly deserted dance hall, before they wait on stage in a red-blue spotlight. They are wearing glittering fish net tops, black tape across their nipples, leather pants, heels and make up. The camera men who are filming in portrait format (9:16) suitable for TikTok are whirling up the haze of the fog machine.

Måneskin are [in] Berlin to give a TikTok concert. A TikTok livestream of this scale has not been done often – tension is in the air. The four Italians don't know at this point that due to the stream the few people present are not allowed to clap or cheer. In complete silence and with slight uncertainty the four are crossing Neukölln's club Schwuz. A few puzzled glances are exchanged. Finally, Måneskin are striking the first chord.

Then the rich sound of Ethan's bass drum is tearing through the silence. It's almost as if someone has flicked a switch somewhere. There it is, the rock star presence that is hovering over everything they do, with an ounce of arrogance (in the best sense of the word). Singer Damiano is dancing lasciviously on his heels, and during an especially ecstatic solo guitarist Thomas is throwing himself down on the floor in a way it can only be done by a passionate 20-year-old musician who had never had to worry about the looming doom of an artificial knee joint [for 'passionate' the interview is using the term 'besessen' which means 'possessed', and although I think it's rather supposed to describe the way Thomas is 'possessed / obsessed' with the music, thus passionate for the music, you never know if they didn't mean to say that the way he dances looks 'possessed' … I mean, they might be on to something here ;)]. Around half an hour and about 120 decibel later, Damiano says their goodbyes with an almost shy-sounding “Okay, bye.” After the performance, we do our interview in the Schwuz.

Rolling Stone: It was a little bit weird, right, when you went on stage today?

Damiano: Yeah, that was really strange (laughs). They only told us after the performance that the audience was instructed to stay silent for the stream.

Vic: But at least they weren't silent because we were shit (all laughing). We are slowly getting used to playing without a live audience. I mean we are doing this now for more than a year.

RS: What do you think about these new kinds of concerts such as the TikTok livestream today?

Damiano: Well, at the moment it is the only option to perform anyway, so it's alright. But of course you cannot compare this to a proper concert.

Thomas: But it's pretty cool that so many people can experience our concert live.

Vic: Also we're gonna start touring again soon. Right now we are arranging some festival and gigs. In December we will be touring Italy and afterwards we are planning to go on tour through Europe. But we don't have anything fixed yet, there is just a lot going on at the moment.

“A lot going on”. Quite an understatement considering the recent journey Måneskin has made through the past weeks after their ESC win. Their singles “Beggin'” and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” went through the roof (also thanks to Social Media) and are currently dominating the international charts – lately they were also number one in Germany. There is barely a radio station that isn't playing the band on heavy rotation [would love to know what stations they listen to, have never heard Måneskin played in German radio tbh :( ], and everyone opening Instagram or TikTok these days is flooded by Måneskin content. Every second a new fanpage with the name of 'maneskin_obsession' or 'damianos_slut' is springing up like a (virtual) mushroom. It sounds like a cliche, but Damiano, Vic, Thomas and Ethan became international stars over night.

“Of course it's nice to get compliments. But sometimes they definitely cross a line.” – Damiano David

RS: How has your life as a band changed since your win at the ESC in Rotterdam?

Vic: I think we don't even notice a lot of what's happening. Right after the ESC we went to a studio in the countryside where we made music the whole day long. So at first we didn't realise that so many things were happening all around us – and that we had so many new fans. We're just now beginning to learn what's going on. We were at Sony yesterday, there were so many fans waiting for us. That was crazy.

RS: A large part of the attention you are getting now is about your outer appearance, your style, your attractiveness. Is that getting a little too much sometimes?

Damiano: Of course it's nice to get compliments (laughs). But sometimes they definitely cross a line. Especially when we just talk about our music or about a social or political topic that we care about. In those moments it's just completely inappropriate to reduce us to our appearance. Sure – when I'm posting a half-naked picture of myself on Instagram I know that I will get these kind of comments. And then it's totally fine, I mean in the end I'm posting the picture to show myself. But sometimes it's not the right place for it.

RS: And also you should be allowed to wear what you want without being sexualised, right?

Vic: Yes, absolutely. We are wearing these outfits because we feel good in them, not to put the focus on our bodies. And in general it shouldn't always only be about how you dress. We are musicians – so first and foremost it should be about our music. But I think it will still be a long way until we will reach that point.

“That the boys are wearing make up does not tell you what gender they are attracted to. Those things should never be equated with each other.” – Victoria De Angelis

RS: But still you are sending a message with your style against stereotypical gender roles. I guess it's also not only coincidence that we are in the Schwuz today, which is normally a party location and safe space for the LGBTQ community.

Vic: Yes, that is all part of the positive message that we try to send. We want to give our audience the feeling that they are free. Free to wear whatever they want to wear, be how they want to be and love whom they want to love. It's unbelievable that there is still so much intolerance in our times. That has always been really important to us so we try to talk about these topics. We also believe that the narrow-mindedness of society is an educational problem. When you grow up with people all around you telling you how you should be, you will never feel completely free. The more people are talking about it, the sooner things will change.

RS: Some artists who are advocating for these topics are accused of 'queerbaiting', that they are only pretending to be a certain way to gain more support from the queer community. Have you also been faced with those allegations?

Vic: Yes, a few times. But of course we never pretended to be anything. Some people accuse of us queerbaiting because we look and act the way we do. But that's flawed thinking. We don't believe that clothes are connected to a person's sexuality. That the boys are wearing make up does not tell you what gender they are attracted to. Those two things should never be equated with each other.

RS: This courage for free self expression that you are conveying is mainly lived by our (young) generation through Instagram and the like. What is your relationship to social media?

Damiano: For me it was almost scary at first. The more we grew, the more people were trying to twist all of my words. But over time you start to understand that with more fame you also get more criticism. The happier you look the more hate you will get. It's not only like that for celebrities. If you are brave enough to show the things that make you happy there will always be people that support you, but they are also those that envy you. Of course, this should never lead anyone to not express themselves openly but that's easier said than done.

Vic: We are also trying not to spend too much time on social media. In the end we just try to be honest with our fans and to avoid negativity.

[caption under the picture of Damiano: 'Is already being compared to icons such as David Bowie']

It's actually surprising how little power a win at the ESC holds in most cases. Almost 200 million people are watching this shining spectacle every year – and still, a few months afterwards it is hard to remember who those people were that got covered in confetti during the award ceremony. It's the well-known curse of a casting show that rests on the winning bands. When just next year a new sensation will come to marvel at, how much impact does a win have then? There are exceptions of course, like Lena who is until this day, 10 years after her win in Oslo, a part of the more famous music scene of German pop music. With their charisma, their unusual sound at least for our modern standards, and their contemporary message Måneskin could become such an exception, too.

It's likely also helpful that the band already had a standing in the Italian music scene prior to their ESC participation. Their first album 'Il ballo della vita' already achieved platinum in 2018, three years prior to Sanremo and the ESC. And then there is also the long way that led the four schoolmates to this point that helped them gain the necessary persistence. Because contrary to what some people might want to believe Måneskin are not a phenomenon that has just been deliberately bred to be this way by the entertainment industry for Eurovision.

“I have worked [in a 'normal' job] for a whole month in my entire life – it didn't really end well.” – Damiano David

RS: You were all raised in Rome, the capital of the catholic church. What was it like to start as a young progressive band in such a conservative environment?

Damiano: In the beginning, when we started as buskers, no one gave a damn about us anyways (all laughing). But of course … Once we got a bit bigger there were a few people who had a problem with us. For example when we went to Sanremo, there were quite many people who thought that the way we looked and acted we shouldn't be allowed to represent Italy. They didn't even want to listen to our music first.

Vic: Especially when it comes to appearance and sexuality, Italy is a little more backward than other countries. The church probably also has an influence there. They are often quite conservative of course, so many people grew up with such a [conservative] mindset.

RS: You once said that the song 'In Nome Del Padre' is an answer to exactly those people. What does the song mean to you?

Damiano: Back in the beginning [of our career] we had to deal with a lot of problems. They didn't want to let us play in clubs because we would take too much space as a band or because they didn't like our (fashion) style or because they didn't want to pay us. Italy isn't a good place for bands. Our musical style was also criticised a lot. Many people were telling us: Don't do that [rock music], you won't get popular with that in Italy, you will never achieve anything with it. Of course those comments were hurtful but they were also a good reason for us to continue with what we did. And we turned our sadness into anger. With that song we wanted to tell those people from back then: Fuck off and look at us, we did it!

RS: Did you ever consider working in a nine-to-five job and live a 'normal' life?

Damiano: Nah, not really. For one month in my life I worked [in a 'normal' job] – it didn't end well (all laughing).

Vic: We all made music since we were kids. It's a huge part of us, that we couldn't just ignore. And the most important thing is that you do something that makes you happy. At least that's what we believe. So we started from a young age to put all our time and energy into music.

Thomas: Yeah, exactly. Ever since we were in school together we always made music. That has always been our main focus and it is until today. We play and play and play because it is the only thing that …

Ethan: … we live for.

Damiano: Music has also something very therapeutic for us. Even when we are in a bad mood or fight with each other – yeah, that happens, too – then all of that is gone the moment we enter the stage. Maybe that's the beautiful thing about music – that it allows you to forget everything else. You're just standing on stage, having fun with your friends.

From most bands you wouldn't buy such a corny love letter to music. Mostly it just sounds like an empty phrase, a well-practiced quotable line. But when there is something that defines Måneskin and that becomes more and more evident during our conversation it's their uncompromising honesty. The four of them are definitely not lacking a sense of humour but they take their music very seriously. Which should not be taken for granted in a generation that has mainly produced sarcastic cloud rappers and has made cynical twitter comedy a national sport. And maybe Måneskin are exactly what this generation was lacking all along.

Still, the four musicians, all in the age of 20 to 22, are also prone to the constant need for self-expression, that has become an intrinsic part of today's life. This does not only reflect in the outfits of the band (always 'on fleek') and their Instagram profiles, but also in their lyrics. Their latest record 'Teatra D'Ira – Vol. 1' shows a clear theme: The album is an ode to individuality, accentuated by fast and hard sounds.

Sometimes this message fitting for a Disney movie [really? guess I have been watching the wrong Disney movies my whole life …] is wrapped in a contrasting loud and forceful packaging, but never so much that it becomes inauthentic or self-caricaturing [note: I'm honestly not entirely sure what they wanted to say with this sentence since it uses a lot of rhetorical devices that could be interpreted in different ways, but I'd say this sounds the most plausible]. And in the end, the thing that makes Måneskin so interesting is their unification of the spirit of this time – between TikTok hedonism and an omnipresent political statement – with the music of past generations.

“When you are twenty, you start to think about what the future will hold.” – Damiano David

RS: Your musical style is often described as classical 70s rock, but in fact there are many different influences in your music. Sometimes you groove almost into funk, sometimes it's more rapping than singing. How did this mixture come to be?

Thomas: It's just that we all have our own individual influences and then we meet somewhere in the middle. And we always try to stay open for experiments.

Ethan: Yes, we are very experimental in our song writing process.

Vic: We also don't want to limit ourselves to what is regarded as typical rock music. If rap fits better at some point then we just add that in. It just happens naturally without us thinking too much about it.

RS: So why was it still rock music in the end?

Vic: Because it's the style that we feel most represented by. But actually we just play the music that we enjoy playing. That's really important to us so that we can show something real on stage. We don't want to pretend to be something that we aren't or mock those people that really enjoy our music. You should always be proud of what you're doing and never fake anything just to sell more records.

RS: Is there something like an Italian rock music scene?

Vic: There are quite a lot of bands – but the most of them are much older than us or they are more going in the direction Indie rock. There isn't really a young rock scene, which we think is a pity. But ever since we got more famous people are telling us that they started listening to rock music because of us or that they bought their first guitar and such. That's incredibly nice!

RS: So you're saying that you also want to show this style of music to a younger generation. And you capture this contrast quite well in the song 'Vent'anni', which is a typical rock ballad but lyrically portrays the thoughts of today's youth. Where did the motivation come from to write that song?

Damiano: With the song I wanted to show that I'm just a normal guy, a really typical 20-year-old. I experience the same things that other people in my age are experiencing, I'm just doing another job than them. Also I wanted to describe this age as a whole because I think it's a really special age. At 20 you start to think about what the future will hold. I think it's one of the most important stages of your life. Since we (the four of us) are all in the same age, I then started to mix our experiences together. In the end the song shows what it means to us to be 20. There is a lot of good things – you are quite carefree and are looking at life enthusiastically. But on the other hand you're too young to do certain things and too old to do others. Some people are treating you like a full-grown adult, but …

Vic: … not entirely.

Damiano: Exactly. It can get pretty frustrating at times. We wanted to show our audience: Hey, we're also just 20 years old, and we're going through the same things as you. We understand you.

RS: Except that you are the ones who are becoming a world-wide phenomenon right now. How do you want to maintain this honesty?

Damiano: I think that we could just reach this point because we have always been authentic – for better or for worse. Also we are just trying to have fun with what we're doing together. That's something special that we don't want to lose. In the end we're just four friends who started to live their dream. It's actually pretty simple. Of course – we go on stage, we get a lot of attention, we give interviews – but when we come back home we're just four friends.

#måneskin #maneskin #måneskin interview #my stuff #esc #again if you ever want anything to be translated just hit me up i'm free most of the time #ig my blog is slowly turning into a måneskin fanpage for translations and shitposting #but tbh i'm not complaining #have a great day everyone and happy waiting for sooooon

225 notes · View notes

caffeineforbucky · 3 years ago

Text

As Time Goes By...(Chapter One)

Post-blip (five or six months later)

A/N: This is my first time writing on this website or anything public really, I usually just write for me, please just bear with me if it looks or sounds janky. Also, thanks for taking the time to read. I deeply & wholeheartedly appreciate you. Enjoy!

Summary: I suck at them but, I'll give it a shot. You- the reader, are surprised by 'old' friends when they show up out of the blue, asking for your help on a mission. (This is just the sum for chap. 1)

Word count: 2,760

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! reader

Warnings: Angst, swearing, ex-boyfriend jealousy...

The day was coming to an end, a small heatwave conjuring up a sweat as you wiped down your last table for the night. You blew out a breath, brushing back a sheen of perspiration with your forearm, watching the last customer walk out of the restaurant as the bell chimed above their head.

You never understood why people chose to sit inside when there were tables out on the sidewalk. It was hotter in here than out there, especially since the air conditioner had gone out just a few days prior and the fans above the tables were only circling the air inside. It was an actual oven, but they contended.

Your hightops heaved across the tile, dragging yourself with the sufficiency of a person who was only working because they had to. You kicked up the doorstop, pulling the door towards you with a small amount of goodwill and vigor to finish locking up, flipping the paper sign over from open to closed. It wasn't as if you hated your job. You thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere of it all. It was the only person working the night shift job you hated with every fiber of your being. You weren't completely alone in the restaurant, having a few cooks and the owner to keep you company, especially on busy nights like the one you just had.

"I'm clocking out, Mrs. Turner!" You call out, reaching behind your back to untie the knot of your apron, pulling it up and off your neck once the ties came undone. Trudging back to the table, you picked up the disinfectant wipe and toss it in the bin, making your way to your boss's office before hanging up your apron on the hook. "Mrs. Turner...?" You murmur softly, poking your head in through the doorway, only to see her counting the profits for the day. "I'm heading home," You chime, pointing behind your shoulder with your thumb as she glances up at you.

"Alright, Honey," She beams, a bright smile pulling at her lips as her eyes meet yours. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Working for the Turners wasn't supposed to be a permanent job, in fact, it wasn't even your original plan, as opposed to the small favors you would complete now and then for the people that were willing to pay a pretty penny for your...services.

But you figured having a stable job was smarter and safer than the alternative. And the help wanted sign was very persuasive, due to the pretty colors and splashes of glitter. It looked like it was made by a child, which you later found out, was decorated by Mrs. Turner's seven-year-old. "Always." You accede, tapping the doorframe as your goodbye before parading into the breakroom to gather your things from the lockers.

You take your backpack off the hook and swing the strap over your shoulder before time punching your card and going straight through the back door. The sounds of the city hit your ears as the heavy door slammed behind you. Traffic honks and tires treading against the grain while you walk further into the busy streets of San Francisco.

As you were about to turn the corner, you were met with the sight of your friend's van, followed by a trumpet rendition of La Cucaracha. You grinned widely, gripping your strap tighter as you jog up the 1972 Ford Ecoline, aka Big Bertha. At least that's what you called it. "Luis!" You rejoice, resting your palms on the ledge. "What are you doing here?"

"Scotty sent me out for a few things," Luis answers, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his head turned to you. "I was just about to go when I saw you. Thought you might need a ride." He shrugs, a cute smile playing on his lips.

You nod, reciprocating the smile at his answer. "Yeah, if it's not too much trouble..." You drag, your voice hesitant, as if he didn't offer at all.

"Nah, get in." He gestures, beckoning you with a wave of his hand. "Your place is on the way," Luis loosens his seatbelt, reaching over to the passenger side to pull up the lock, opening the door for you.

You climb in, plopping down on the tufted leather seats as you pulled the door towards you, closing it shut. "Thanks, Lu," You breathe, dropping your backpack below your feet, then you fasten your seatbelt. "How is Scott, anyway?" You ask as Luis changes gears and presses the gas, the van rolls onto the street.

"Ehh...he's...he's alright, know what I'm sayin'?" He answers, glancing at you before focusing back on the road. "I mean, he missed like five years of his daughter's life. He's just trying to spend as much time with her to make up for years they both lost."

You nibble at the inside of your cheek, nodding softly in agreement as the city lights passed you by. There wasn't much you could say to that, having lost so many people yourself. People you considered family just...gone.

"Yo!" Luis pipes up, snapping you out of your train of thought. "Didja see the news today?!" He shakes his head, whistling at the thought. "I can't believe they would just give some random dude the shield like that, ya know?"

You drew in your bottom lip in contempt, nodding once again at Luis. You had seen the news, and they couldn't have picked a better time to broadcast. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Turner asking you in, you would've hunted Sam Wilson down and kicked his ass yourself.

The van rolled to a stop, brakes squealing as Luis pulled up beside your apartment. You sighed heavily, glancing at the small apartment you shared with your Ex-boyfriend. By the looks of the living room light illuminating behind the curtains, he was home, and you absolutely dreaded when he was. It wasn't as if you wanted to live with him, but you had no other alternative. Ever since dropping your side job, money was tighter, and he was kind enough to let you stay, just until you found a place. "Thanks again for the ride, Lu." You mumble, unclicking your seatbelt as you took hold of your backpack. "You didn't have to."

"Don't even mention it, Y/N," Luis reassures, watching you as you pull at the door handle, opening it to get out. "I know how hard it is to get back into the norm."

You shut the passenger door, shooting him a sympathetic smile. "I'll see you around?"

With a smile, Luis waves goodbye and drives off into the night, the exhaust pipe blowing smoke as he rode off. You shook your head, cracking a smile at the honk of his horn. You turned towards the front entrance of the apartment, your stomach twisting as your smile dropped completely. You swallowed thickly, rolling the tension from your shoulders to prepare yourself before jogging up the small flight of stairs.

You fished your keys from the front pocket of your backpack, taking a breath before shoving the key into the lock, twisting as you pushed the door open with your shoulder. "Joshua?!" You voiced, calling out your ex's name to make sure it was him. You dropped your belongings beside the door, pushing your sneakers off before kicking the door shut with your foot.

"Yeah, in here!" He responds quickly, a slight tremor to his tone.

You frown softly, tossing your keys into the bowl on the console table before sauntering to where his voice was emanating from. "Josh, are you...?" Your voice came to a halt, your footsteps stopping altogether as you walked into the living room.

"Hey!" Joshua exclaims once your figure comes into view. "You wanna explain who they are?" He presses, his face crossed with fear as he gestures to the two men sitting calmly on your living room couch.

You remained quiet, your body tense, eyes wide as your focus shifted between the men on the couch and your ex.

"Well...?" Joshua demands, crossing his arms over his chest, shifting in his stance at the unsettling glare one of the men was sending his way. "I was in the middle of hosting game night-as you can see, when they showed up," Josh drops his arms, hands splaying out to gesture to the coffee table consisting of five different dips, two bulk-sized bags of tortilla chips, and a twenty-four pack of Blue Moon beer. "The guys were just about to come over."

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes to refrain from any and all insults towards your ex. That explained why he was home. "Um..." You utter, pinching the bridge of your nose, "Fucking hell," You curse under your breath, eyes fluttering open to look at Joshua. "Josh," You begin, clearing your throat as you start with the man on the left. "They are Sam Wilson and..." You hesitate, eyes settling on the man to the right, his sight alone bringing back the memories that you swore you didn't want to remember. "James Barnes," You finish, ripping your eyes away from his baby blues to look at your ex. "Aka-"

"The Falcon and The Winter Soldier..." Joshua finishes for you, his eyes flashing with amazement, head whipping towards the guys. "Shit!" He curses, smiling widely like a kid in a candy store. "Can I get you guys anything? A plate? Beer?"

"Actually," You grunt, interrupting before Sam or Bucky could answer. "Can you give us a minute, Joshua?" Insisting while your foot tapped impatiently against the hardwood floor.

"Should I be worried?" He inquires, eyes filled with confusion as he looked between the three of you, trying to piece together the situation at hand. The main reason you and Joshua couldn't work it out was that you kept a lot of secrets, mostly from him. He didn't like the fact that you wouldn't let him in. Sure, you lied to him, the biggest lie being that you were an Avenger, but that was just to keep him safe. There were other reasons why you decided to split up as well. Joshua knew...he knew deep down you were just with him to pass the time. He could see it when he looked into your eyes. There was someone else in the reflection and it wasn't him. If he was honest with himself, he could admit that it did hurt him. That he wanted a chance to make it work with you, but with the way you were staring at James, he finally recognized that reflection.

He should've noticed it early on-like that day he had somehow convinced you to take a trip to D.C for a tour of the Captain America museum. You were hell-bent on not going, trying to make up some elaborate excuse or an alibi of sorts, but alas, you still went. And for some odd reason, you couldn't stop coming back to the Bucky Barnes portion.

"No," You reply, keeping it short to dismiss him.

Joshua's mouth set in a hard line, a foreign feeling forming in the pit of his stomach-jealousy. He never had to worry about it before, especially when his friends used to come over, back when you were still together. Except for that one time, but how could he blame them? You were the kind of person that listened, laughed at the jokes being made, could lend a hand when needed, and your looks were just a bonus in his book. "Uhm, yeah," He coughed, frowning softly while nodding his head at you. "I have to go pick up the pizza, anyway," Josh brushes past you, fetching his keys from the bowl while slipping on his Vans that sat up against the wall ledge that separated the front door from the living room. "Are you going to be okay?" He mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to look at you.

You shoot Josh a smile, nodding reassuringly, his footsteps approaching closer before stopping in front of you, the palm of his hand landing gently on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Let me know if you need anything, m'kay?" Josh's voice is soft, the concern in his eyes making you feel guilty. You knew he cared about you, and there wasn't a time where you'd catch him staring at you for far too long, but you were well past that. "I'm just a text away," He notes, waving his cell in his hand.

"Josh, I'll be fine," You sigh, stepping away from his touch, the sound of his hand hitting his jeans as it dropped from your shoulder. "I always am."

"Right," Josh nods, looking over at the men on the couch before gazing back at you. "I'll see you in a bit, bug." And with that, he turns, opens the front door, and steps out, shutting the wooden door behind him.

You close your eyes, the pet name Josh had coined for you making you sigh. He agreed to stop calling you that all together and it only made you feel that more guilty for ending things. "So..." You pipe up, opening your eyes as you turned to look at the guys. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Bug?"

Bucky is the first to speak, his jaw clenched at the mere sound of the word. Indignant at the way Josh had touched you, even if it was just your shoulder. "I didn't know he knew you like that," Bucky flashes you a taut smile, nodding softly as he shared a look with Sam, but the falcon only shook his head. "How long have you been..." Bucky couldn't even finish the question, his glove-clad hands tightening at the thought of you being with somebody else...someone that wasn't him. Though, it was his own fault. If he hadn't done what he'd done-you'd have never found another.

"Wow," You scoff, padding closer to where they sat. "You don't miss a beat, do you? Just..." You sink into the sofa adjacent to the one they occupied. "-Right into the big stuff."

"I didn't bring you here to question her about her love life," Sam voices, his scolding eyes on the man beside him. "And she sure as hell isn't obligated to answer you, Bucky."

You smile gratefully at Sam before glancing down at your leg that had begun to bounce in anticipation. "What are you guys doing here? And how'd you find me?" You ask, tilting your head in curiosity as you look up at the guys. "When I resigned from the Avengers initiative, they ensured me that I wasn't able to be traced, not by your or any other remaining member. I was supposed to be scot-free," You declare, hitting your thigh with your fist.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Sam chuckles, shaking his head at the naivety. "We both know that's a bunch of bullshit. The government is always going to have its eyes on us. Especially free agents like you and us."

You draw in your bottom lip, biting down, eyes flickering between Sam and Bucky. You knew it was too good to be true, and part of you sensed the bullshit when the government explained it to you. You just didn't want to believe it.

"You were an ex-assassin. How could they not keep tabs on your whereabouts?" Sam recounts, emphasizing that it was in the past. At least, that's what they thought. "And I had some help from Redwing as well." He shrugs nonchalantly.

You choke out a laugh, shaking your head at the smug demeanor emitting from Sam. "Redwing," You whisper, smiling thinly. "Of course, nothing could ever be hidden from your personal P.I, huh?"

"I hate that thing," Bucky grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. in annoyance. "Invasion of privacy, I'm telling you."

"You love redwing," Sam jokes, playfully jabbing Bucky's arm with his elbow, "It's okay Bucky, you can admit it."

"Can we get back to the issue here?" You interject, "Not one of you has explained the reason you're here. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's great to see you...one more than the other," You whisper that last part but, completely aware that Bucky could hear it. "But, you both showing up out of the blue...? That's almost a bad omen."

"I didn't ask him here, by the way," Sam acknowledges, raising his hands in defense, "I just want to get that out of the way. Bucky came because he wanted to. I'm here," Sam gestures to himself, "-For one reason and one reason only..."

"And what's that?" You ask, leaning forward in your seated position.

"I need your help, Y/N."

#james buchanan bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #angst #jealousy #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnesxreader #marvel #post blip #bucky/reader #samuel wilson #sam wilson #ex boyfriend #bucky x female reader #james barnes x reader

264 notes · View notes

crazy-sevens · 4 years ago

Text

Writing Snippet #22

Well that was fast

Part one here

***

The villain sat at the restaurant, waiting. They knew the hero well enough by now to know that she usually lost track of time. It was okay. Now the villain had time to figure out how the whole night was going to go.

The restaurant was expensive. Expensive enough to put the hero on edge. They both would talk for a while, the villain learning as much as they could about the hero, and then he would make the big reveal. He felt the detonator at his side. Just a little insurance that the hero wouldn’t cause any trouble.

The villain smiled. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face. Of course the surprise all hinged on making sure she didn’t recognize him first. He would have to be careful.

It was a decent plan. Which of course meant that it wasn’t going to go like he thought it was. He knew that as soon as the hero walked in.

She looked . . . stunning. Her red dress perfectly accented her figure and highlighted her eyes. And her face. He wouldn’t have thought she would’ve looked that . . .

He didn’t really know how to finish that thought.

And despite what he had previously thought, she looked perfectly comfortable in this setting. She was confident. Of course the villain knew that. She was confident to the point of almost being cocky. But he had assumed that was an act for him.

Obviously not.

The villain realized that his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut. He couldn’t get distracted. Not now. He had to make sure she didn’t find out yet. He steeled himself as she walked over to his table.

***

The hero had known it was the villain the second she had seen his picture on the website a week previously. She could hardly believe it. The villain was on a dating website. All of these fights and mind games and one accident had given away his secret identity just like that. Of course it could be a fake name, but she had a face now. She could finally put him away for good. She could’ve just found him and stormed his house, but the plan that had formed in her mind was just too good to pass up. It seemed that some of the villain’s dramatic flair was wearing off on her.

The hero would show the villain the picture pretending to have no idea they were the same person. It was pretty funny watching the villain stare in disbelief. Knowing the villain, he wouldn’t pass up this opportunity either. He would let the hero believe it was someone else, all the while manipulating her to go on a date with him.

Of course the villain could know that she knew it was him, but he always underestimated her. And she could read the villain like a book. He didn’t know that she knew. He believed that he had the upper hand.

She was waiting outside the restaurant watching him. Getting everything in place. He had already escaped from when she had thrown him in jail a couple days ago. And when she had thrown him in jail a couple weeks ago. The police weren't reliable. She had her colleagues from her hero work to help her. She considered letting them just storm the place and taking him, but she wanted to go in herself. She would be giving up her secret identity, but it didn’t matter much. He wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.

She would have to be careful. She didn’t know what kind of plan he had set up yet. But she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she told him that she knew.

She walked in.

***

Her eyes wondered for a bit until they fell on the villain. She broke into a wide grin and walked over. She stuck out her hand. “You must be James.”

“You must be Cassy.” Instead of shaking her hand like she probably expected, he pressed it to his lips with a soft kiss. “You look beautiful.”

She raised an eyebrow, a blush coloring her cheeks. “A little old fashioned aren’t we?”

The villain shrugged, smiling. He could tell, despite her comment, that she enjoyed it. He had never seen her like that before. It was nice.

And it proved that his plan was working. She had no idea.

***

She knew exactly what he was doing. But she was at loathe to admit that the gesture had caught her off guard. She had blushed for real.

Damn him.

Always the charmer. She was a sucker for things like that.

“You look nice too,” she said.

Despite knowing immediately it was him from the picture, she still couldn’t quite believe she was looking at the same person. He had an innocent charm about him. His eyes and crooked smile were mischievous and almost boyish. He was . . . handsome.

She wondered if he actually thought she was beautiful.

Focus.

This was all fake. That smile was fake, those entrancing eyes were fake, and that complement was fake. All a part of his mind games.

She watched as he pulled her chair out for her. She laughed, glancing around. “You know this place might be a little too fancy for me.”

“You blend right in.” She took her seat and he took his. He smiled. “Gad I wasn’t catfished.”

“Same here.”

Yup, they had both gotten what they were expecting. Even if it was all teeming with deceit.

“So,” he started. “What do you like to do for fun?”

The hero shrugged, keeping her voice light. “I like to paint, but I have a . . . demanding job.”

And whose fault is that I wonder?

***

The villain resisted the urge to laugh at the irony of that statement, shoving down a pang of guilt he felt in his stomach. “Why is your job so demanding?”

The hero shrugged again. “It’s a complicated job. Everybody seems to need me to help them.”

Her answer was very vague. But he didn’t expect anything less, knowing how dangerous for her it would be if anyone found out who she was.

More irony.

She smiled, continuing on. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“I can play the guitar.” He paused, waiting for her reaction.

She raised a brow, her eyes glittering with her trademark teasing humor. “Is that supposed to impress me.”

“I’ve heard that it impresses girls.”

She laughed. “Well it’s going to take a little bit more to impress me.”

He matched her raised eyebrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Can you juggle?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, but your reaction was pretty funny.”

They were interrupted by the waiter asking for their orders. The villain usually ate light so he didn’t order much, the hero, however, was quite the opposite.

As soon as the waiter left, the villain raised his brows at her. “You sure do eat a lot.”

***

The hero held back a laugh. It must have been a while since the villain went out with someone. “You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

The villain blushed. The hero felt a little surge of victory. Now they were even.

In actuality, the hero didn’t eat that much, but she might as well take a little advantage of her position. Call it payment for the villain always trying to kill her.

Their food came and the villain finished fairly quickly. Then after watching the hero eat all her food with wide, almost impressed, eyes, the villain sat in silence, his gaze thoughtful.

She was surprised she had let it go for this long. What was she waiting for? She felt her phone buzz at her side. It was probably her co-workers asking for the signal to move in.

What was he waiting for?

He probably had this whole speech planned, telling her it had been him all along. Was he just waiting to learn more about her? And why was every time she looked at him so disarming?

“So, besides guitar, what else do you do?” she asked.

“My job takes up most of my time too.” He gave his classic crooked smile. “We have a lot in common.”

The hero gave an uneasy chuckle. “One thing in common.”

The villain raised an incredulous eyebrow, but didn’t say anything more about it. His eyes fell on her arms.

“Where did you get those?”

Her eyes followed his gaze. Her scars.

***

The villain had hidden his. He had to. If the hero had seen that his cover would have been blown. But the hero displayed hers like a badge of honor. She didn’t hide.

But he knew this!

Why was he surprised when she was displaying traits he already knew? Maybe it was because when she was the hero those traits always annoyed him. They were always used against him. But now . . . Now it was different. Now he was starting to like appreciate those traits.

The comment had just sort of slipped out. He knew that it was impolite, but he was curious what kind of story she would make up about them.

“I’m a world renowned knife juggler.”

***

Well, it was better than the truth.

The truth that they both already knew. But if she was going to play the part she would have to lie about where she got them.

And it was the first thing she thought of.

He stared at her for a moment, then he just laughed. She fought back a smile. “What, you don’t believe me?”

His laugh died down. “I’m going to need a little proof.”

“How?”

“Why don’t you show me on our next date?”

***

He couldn’t spill the secret now. He had barely learned anything about her. No, he had to go on a couple more dates.

For leverage purposes.

He watched her eyes, searching for an answer. She hesitated for a moment, but then she broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, why not? Maybe you can play me a song too.”

***

It was probably a trick. Most likely a trick. But while he was tricking her, she would be tricking him.

Trick inception.

She needed more information. She couldn’t give up her best card now. Just a couple more dates.

Then he was going down.

Part three here

#part two #they are both so similar its hilarious #they have no clue #villain x hero #hero x villain #villain and hero #hero and villain #this was a fast one #couldn't resist #not a prompt #creative writing #writing snippet

200 notes · View notes

qwertyfingers · 4 years ago

Note

fic prompt: cas and jack talk about stimming

this got kinda long and is really more Dean and Jack talking, but it felt right, so! I hope you enjoy :)

“Do you ever get this feeling like there’s ants in your veins?”

Dean looks up at the sound of Jack’s muffled voice. He’s got an orange pen cap in his mouth, chewed all to hell, but the marker body’s nowhere in sight. He’s concentrating hard. That crease between his brows is all Cas.

Dean’s been attempting to work for an hour now, but mostly he’s been watching Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas was concocting his latest craft project for him and Jack; some scrapbooking thing he’d read about on a homeschooling website. Dean was nervous about the presence of so much glue at his map table, but Cas had at least been nice enough to forgo the glitter this time.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, and his face morphs into a perfect mirror of Jack’s frown; like father like son like father.

“You know, how sometimes you’re sitting still and you suddenly get itchy all over and feel like you need to run really fast or jump out of an airplane or something,” he says, matter-of-fact. Dean snorts.

“I can’t say I do know what you mean,” Cas says, frown deepening some. “Why don’t you tell us more about it.” He turns his frown toward Dean and makes a questioning gesture. Dean just shrugs.

“I don’t know if I can explain it better,” Jack answers, looking up from his book for the first time. “Sometimes I just feel sort of… agitated, and I have to do something physical or I can’t calm down. I was wondering if there was a word for that.”

Cas tilts his head quizzically. He’s squinting in that way he always has — face turned toward Jack’s, but eyes focused in a way that makes it look like he’s trying to examine all the particles of air between them.

“‘s called “stimming”, apparently,” Dean interjects, taking pity on Cas.

“Oh. I don’t think I’ve never heard that word before,” Cas replies, glancing over at him again, “what does it mean?”

Dean shifts in his seat awkwardly, legs bouncing up and down jerkily. “I don’t know the exact definition but the word comes from, um, ‘stimulating’ I think? It’s used for stuff that makes you feel good or calms you down when you do it, like uh, movement or whatever.”

“I didn’t know you knew much about this .” Cas says, and there’s a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth, fond.

Jack looks up, interested, and in distraction starts colouring the back of his own hand.

“Yeah, well, I’ve lived it for long enough,” Dean flushes lightly as he speaks, and his voice comes out in a rushed mumble, “also Sam kinda forced me to read a book about it last year. ‘cause he’s a doof.”

He’d been annoyed about it at the time, but, well Sam hadn’t exactly been wrong — he had learned a lot. But mostly it had been like putting names to old faces. Learning the scientific reason for why Sam hates the texture of acrylic sweaters enough that he’d tried to set fire them in his teens doesn’t really help Dean, and Dean had never needed a reason to justify Sam’s decision not to wear ‘em.

He still made fun of him for it, mind. The image of Sam hunched over behind an empty planter outside a shitty motel trying to start a fire with a broken bic lighter and two sticks was one that Dean would retain and until the end of his days. He might tell it as part of Sam’s best man speech, now that he thinks of it.

“So is it – is it stimming when I want to spin around in circles for a long time?” Jack’s stopped colouring, capping his marker, and his now unoccupied hands are twisting about in the air at high speed. “Or when I go and run through the field?”

Dean nods in response.

“And when you hold your arm out of the car to feel the wind? Is that the same thing?”

“Pretty much, Jacko,” Dean says, and leans over to ruffle Jack’s hair. “This is too,” he says, pointing to Jack’s rambling hands.

“Huh. That’s cool,” Jack says. He sounds sincere, but then he’s eyes go distant and he squints at the table. “I’m going to go and play minecraft now, thank you Dad. And Dean. And Dad.” He says, waving, then takes off at speed. He stops in the doorway to throw out “I want pasta for dinner, if that’s okay!” and then he’s gone.

Dean laughs and takes a swig of his drink as he focuses back in on the work he was pretending to do earlier. “Good kid,” he mumbles to himself. Dean always found conversations like this more than a little stressful, but he’d managed to get through this one without screwing anything up, at least.

After a moment, he senses eyes on himself, and turns to see Cas still offering him that fond look of his.

“Thank you, for that.” Cas reaches out a hand and places it on Dean’s bouncing thigh, and it goes still.

“Ah, it ain’t no thing, Cas.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” he says, and raises a defiant eyebrow at Dean. Dean just shrugs and starts his reading back up.

His leg doesn’t start twitching again until Cas takes his hand away..

#spn fic #dad dean tag #jack kline

193 notes · View notes

thestraggletag · 3 years ago

Text

Roll for Initiative, a Rumbelle D&D Fic

Summary: Tales of the Enchanted Forest was the hottest online D&D game, in part for its charismatic players, in part for the twisted turns of the DM's mind and in part because of the outrageous chemistry between its greatest OTP, the party's beautiful bard and the Dark One, an anti-hero side-character who is there to provide information and uncomfortable levels of UST. Mr Gold thinks it's a harmless flirtation that could never become anything else, just like his silly little crush on the town librarian, Belle French.

He's wrong.

Rating: Explicit.

Author’s Note: Surprise, @argoslight, it is I, your Gifter! Sorry to make you wait till near the end but I just had way more banter to write in me than I thought. I hope you enjoy your gift. I’m so sorry to not be able to add more D&D elements but since I don’t play I don’t have a lot of idea of what could be done. Also I apologise for any mistakes! And thanks so much to @little-inkstone for her help and D&D knowledge.

The castle was quiet when she entered, her steps echoing against the stone. It was gloomy inside, curtains obscured and decor sparse and sombre, the castle living up to its name. But there were flowers on the table, moon lilies, her favourite flower. They bloomed only in the Eastern Mountains past the Old Wall, but she had long since suspected he grew some on one of his enchanted hothouses, with the excuse of using them for potions.

“Where’s the rest of your pretty little troop of do-gooders, dearie?”

The voice came out of nowhere, echoing around the empty halls of the castle. Thankfully she did not need directions, knowing exactly when to turn and where to go. Soon she found herself in a vast room, with a table on the centre and curios filled with oddities and the like. Some others were displayed on pedestals, including a rather fearsome sword and a nasty-looking crown made of thorns. None of the artefacts were what she sought, but she was not there to bargain for an item, but rather for information.

“Off on their own quests, taking care of other things that need doing.”

The voice tsked, seeming not to approve.

“They let you enter the lair of the beast alone? Some heroes.”

The woman lowered the hood of her cloak and walked towards the unlit chimney. Immediately a fire blazed to life, as if the castle itself was trying to cater to her comfort. The fire provided much-needed light as well, revealing the profile of a man in the shadows. Or something that looked like a man, at least, if not for the reflective scales that covered his body and its strange eyes: gold irises around catlike pupils.

“I asked to come alone. I felt like we could talk more openly this way.”

She removed her cloak, ostensibly to drape it across a chair near the fire and let it dry. The creature, however, seemed to read more into the gesture, tsking again.

“You come here all alone, a pretty little lamb, and take off the only real bit of protection you have. Reckless, dearie, most reckless.”

The creature stood up, walking slowly towards the light, revealing more of its form as it approached her. Leather pants and a long, reptilian-looking vest and coat. It wasn’t particularly tall but power emanated from it in suffocating waves. She closed her eyes, finding his cloying presence strangely comforting. Then again, she had always been odd.

“Once again your pitiful little party of friends needs my help. How they weigh you down, Beauty.”

He stepped fully into the light then, revealing a being more creature than man, the reptilian skin and claws as off-putting as his unnatural eyes. She should’ve taken a step back, should’ve gone for her blade or the dagger tucked into her left boot, but she didn’t. As much as she knew she shouldn't, she felt at ease in his presence. Well, perhaps not quite. She certainly felt a strange sort of anxiousness in his presence, a fluttery sort of feeling that she attributed to being particularly attuned to his magic. None of the other members of her party felt that way. If anything, he repulsed them, which wasn’t something she could understand. To her he was… magnetic.

“Are you in the mood for dealing or not? I can trade for information.”

He snorted.

“With what? Your little band of misfits is dirt poor. That idiotic paladin of yours ruined your last mission. You really should think about ditching the man. All brawn, no brains. At least your rogue is a smart woman.”

His gaze left her briefly, running down the length of her clothing: sturdy black boots, a nicely-cut dress that stopped around the knees and a sturdy belt with a few pockets for her spells. But the clothing, as well-made as it was, was dated, old. Looked worn and was signed and stained in places, and it left a lot of her frail human skin exposed. She had not been able to afford an upgrade in a while, preferring to spend her coin in what could benefit the group.

His moue of distaste disappeared once his eyes fell on her cloak. Well, his cloak, since he had been the one to make it. It was a lovely thing in varied shades of green, shot through with golden thread, his trademark. She had bought it off him a long time ago, a simple thing to keep her warm during cold nights and dry when it rained. Miraculously, though, it also did not sustain damage, looking exactly the same as when she had first put it on.

“I’m glad at least my protection is serving you well.”

He ran a claw along the seams of the cloak, making it glitter, like to like, magic calling for its own. He looked smug, as if pleased she was wearing something he had made.

“It does more than we bargained for. I’ve been blasted with magic strong enough to burn through most fabric but it has not even frayed. How strange of you, Rumplestiltskin, to lose out on a deal.”

He shivered when she said his name, walking behind her to the safety of the shadow she cast next to the fire.

“Can’t help it if my magic is just that powerful, my dear. I’m glad you are a happy customer. Always thought that cloak was a nice bit of magic. Can’t fault you for always wearing it.”

She felt him close in on her from behind, to the point that it almost felt like they were touching.

“It smells like you. That’s why I wear it all the time.”

The noise he made behind her was inhuman, a cross between a whimper and a growl. His claws scrapped against the back of her dress, the feeling muted by her stays, but she could feel his breath against the back of her neck and that alone was-

“Hey, this is a decent stream! Keep it PG for the kids, you weirdos.”

“Damn it, Grumpy, I wanted to see how long it would take them to snap out of it!”

“Sorry, Snow, but I ate a big dinner and I aim to keep it down.”

The messages in the chatroom wheezed by, mostly disgruntled complaints about their OTP never catching a break. The other participants in the stream were mostly silent, their mics muted likely to hide the amused snickers. There was no video feed on any of the members of the party, all of them represented instead by artwork to preserve their anonymity. Once upon a time that had been a fanciful choice, and perhaps a way to stay safe when interacting with strangers on the internet. Now it was mostly to keep their private lives from being overtaken by the popularity of their stream. “Tales of the Enchanted Forest” was shaping up to be one of the hottest D&D online streaming shows, already on its third campaign and counting.

“Beauty is just trying to get us some answers, Grumpy. We can’t just go stumbling about hoping to run into some fairy wand by chance.”

“Oh, it’s that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Enough! Can we get back to the campaign already? It took me weeks to plan and it kinda hinges a bit on the Dark One helping, which needs to happen today.”

“Fine by me, dearie, if the dwarf can curtail his temper.”

The party was composed of five characters, a paladin, a cleric, a bard, a rogue and a thief, which along with the Dungeon Master made up the regular cast of every weekly stream. But given the popularity of the show, and the amount of time they had been playing, they had managed to amass a good amount of side-characters, guests invited every now and then to help the campaign move along and keep the interest of the audience. And by far the most popular of those guests was the Dark One, a wizard of unknown lineage and tremendous power that served both as an antagonist and a pseudo-ally depending on the situation.

His presence was likely the reason why the livestream’s numbers looked so robust. He had amassed quite a fanbase, due in part to the commitment the player put on the character (the voice-acting was above and beyond what anyone could’ve expected from an amateur performer, and the backstory was quite complex, revealed in bits and pieces fans had meticulously assembled together) and in part to the chemistry he had managed to develop with the group’s bard, a half-human named Beauty.

“Okay, let’s all go back to what we were doing.” The DM’s voice was authoritative, though also more than a bit pissed off. “Okay, Beauty, you were about to try and cajole the Dark One to sell you the information you needed in return for a vial of water from Lake Nostos. Though the water is valuable, it’s not guaranteed to be enough to tempt the wizard. You have to roll at least a 13 in persuasion to make the trade. Roll when you’re ready.”

...

Rumford Gold stretched within the confines of the small backroom of his shop, where he had his computer stuff set up. Initially he’d bought the computer to better conduct his online business. His laptop at home wasn’t cutting it and it was better to photograph the antiques, update the website and handle the deliveries from his place of business. He had bought a good camera, some light fixtures and, on a whim, a microphone, for instances where he might need to virtually communicate with clients. It was something that was happening more and more, especially because a lot of his clientele was European. The internet had truly turned his antiquing- more of a hobby than a profession originally- into a profitable business.

He had gotten into watching D&D while waiting late at night for a client to become available in Austria. He had played as a lad, one of the few happy moments he could remember from his childhood in Glasgow, but had given it up once he had met Milah. And after they were over he had been too involved in making something of himself to remember past childhood enjoyments. But apparently D&D had evolved with the times and he had gotten into the habit of searching for and watching online D&D campaigns in his spare time. From that to actually being a side-character in one of them took almost no time. It was frightfully easy to go back to that frame of mind of playing make-believe, only now he had a distaste for the clean-cut heroic types and more of an affinity for the morally-grey, shady characters.

So he had auditioned for the role of evil-wizard when there had been an opening for a side-character in his favourite D&D stream, The Enchanted Forest. And though the DM had written what he considered to be a very flat, uninteresting character, he had been able to give it his own spin. He knew the DM hated him for it, hated when he deviated from what was expected of him, but people loved him. It was half the fun, pissing the DM off.

The other half, he had to admit, was Beauty. The one with the brains in the group, clearly, a half-human, half-fairy bard with an uncanny ability to think ahead, and arm herself with knowledge. Most of the other members of her party were more apt to try and decapitate something than negotiate with it, or even befriend it. Beauty prided herself on more of a gentle approach, which sometimes got her treated as the “fragile” one. He thought it just made her all the more interesting.

Their flirting had just kinda happened. He was half into it before he realised it had begun at all and by the time he had grown conscious- and self-conscious- of it fans were lapping it up and loving it. Even the DM, as loath as he was to admit it, found the banter engaging, even as if stole the spotlight from his story and where he wanted it to go. So every now and then he got invited into a stream, sometimes to interact with the whole party and sometimes, like the session he had just finished, to speak only to Beauty. And what was supposed to be a brief conversation before the party moved to greener pastures became a whole session, with the chatroom full of engagement and the view count off the charts.

But the DM had had a short tolerance span tonight, and had nipped things in the bud much sooner than usual. He felt… unfulfilled. Unsatisfied. Itchy, almost, in a way. So he was more than happy when he received an email from Beauty, who seemed to share his dislike of how the session had played out. They had started doing that more often, sharing emails after a session, even when he did not participate in it. It was harmless, he thought. Just an innocent online flirtation that could never realistically turn into anything. Not that his more in-person romantic overtures could ever pan out. He was in his third year of being completely smitten by the local town librarian, and in his second year of being able to put two words together in front of her without the help from Scotch, something he was perhaps a bit too proud of. And though he had decided very early on that the whole thing was utterly hopeless he had not been able to steer his thoughts or affections away. Realistically he was perhaps more in love with the idea of Belle French than the reality itself, given how little he had personally interacted with the woman. But he knew just enough to fill in the blanks and create a beautiful picture of how he imagined her to be: bookish- an easy assumption given how many times he had caught her in public places absorbed in a book-, kind, generous and delightfully able to hold a grudge and enact revenge when the time came. A bit reckless, and sometimes quick to form opinions, but also quick to revise them. A tactile person, with a great sense of fashion and a carelessness about what was expected of her.

He saw her in his head as clear as day, but little of that image was based on any personal knowledge of her. So, perhaps, he had found in Beauty a fictional substitute, someone he could talk to, and flirt with, without consequences, adopting the persona of someone more confident, more at ease with that sort of thing. The Dark One was comfortable in his skin in a way that he could only pretend to be sometimes. All the money and power he had accumulated over the years had helped him evolve from the spineless, cowardly lad he had once been, but when it came to certain situations, especially those that necessitated a level of vulnerability, he was still hopeless.

Perhaps, he wondered, it was better to think about his online liaison with Beauty as the real thing. They wrote to each other often, in and out of character, and over the course of their correspondence he had confided in her more than he had in any other person alive. Small things at first, every day peeves and details. Nothing that could identify them, certainly, but surprisingly intimate nevertheless. And over time it had grown to stuttering confessions and barings of the soul on both sides. She had told him of her teenage years in a mental asylum, the product of an overwrought widowed father trying to do right by his grieving daughter. He had had a few choice words to say about that, uncharitable thoughts about her father prompting his own willing sharing of the sad story of his childhood, neglectful father and all. It had felt nice, to confide in someone, someone he trusted.

He glanced at her email, where she lamented how their scene had not been as long or as satisfying as she had wanted, and saw she was proposing to meet later in a private stream to finish it the way they had both wanted. She had proposed something similar once or twice before and he had politely declined but now he wondered why not take her up on her offer. What was stopping him? His imaginary idea of Belle French, who in reality had never given him more than a polite smile in passing? Too young, too good, too beautiful to ever see him as anything other than an old cripple? Whatever he had built with Beauty felt infinitely more real, and attainable. A relationship without ever meeting in person seemed ideal in many aspects and, perhaps, if and when it came to meeting in the real world, his physical shortcomings would not be relevant, nor would it his rather uncharitable reputation.

He sent her a quick reply to arrange a meeting, feeling like a bit of roleplaying was, in the end, quite harmless. And if it were to lead to something a bit more meaningful, well, perhaps it was about time.

…

“Water from Lake Nostos. A key ingredient in most powerful potions and even some spells. I’m sure it could prove useful to you.”

The bard showed him the glowing crystal vial hanging from a long chain around her neck, with the glowing milky-white water from the cursed lake in it. He made a move to get closer to inspect it but the woman took a step back, tucking the vial back inside her bodice. The wizard’s eyes lingered there, hiz gaze growing intense. The bard felt her skin flush in response, something that felt a bit like fear but wasn’t running down her spine.

“And I’m sure a new wardrobe could prove useful to you, dearie. You’re practically wearing rags.” Rumplestiltskin made a show of running his eyes up and down her form with just enough disgust in his face to make it seem as if he was only noticing the rather sad state of her dress.

“It’s my best gown, I’d thank you not to insult it.”

He made a moue of disapproval, shaking his head for good measure.

“You’re far from your days as a princess. I hope seeing the world is worth putting up with your band of idiots that waste most of the gold they earn with your wit in pointless goose chases that you know will lead nowhere.”

Beauty didn’t respond. There was nothing she could say to contradict what he thought of her party, none of which was charitable to say the least. And she also knew that he was aware that all of it was worth the freedom she had won when she had left her life in her father’s castle behind. She did miss one or two things, perhaps. Her mother’s vast library being one and, perhaps, some of the fashions. Not so much the silhouettes- she had never liked how the sea of petticoats she was always forced to wear restricted her movement- but the fabrics and colours, certainly. And the shoes.

“I’m here to make a deal, Dark One. Are you doing business today or not?”

Lesser creatures would’ve rather bitten off their tongues that throw cheek at the Dark One, but Beauty did not even bat an eye, lips curling in a defiant little smile that had the wizard smirking, something like admiration blooming in his chest. It’s what he loved most about his little bard, her spine of steel. And perhaps her blue eyes, but that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t do business with raggedy urchins, dearie. If you want to sit down and negotiate you’ll need a bath.” He made a face, as if he could smell her across the room. “And a change of dress, while I put your current outfit to wash… Or set it on fire, I haven’t decided yet.”

She could tell that he was pulling his punches, that he was playing at being repulsed by her state of dress and hygiene just bad enough that she would see he did not really mean it, not in any real way. She would’ve been able to tell either way, but it was nice that he thought it important to spare her feelings. And she couldn’t deny that a bath sounded heavenly after so many weeks on the road, sleeping out in the open and washing in freezing-cold creeks whenever possible.

“Well, if you insist…”

He took her to a well-lit and spacious bathing chamber, with the biggest copper tub she had ever seen, already filled with warm, soapy water that smelled of vanilla. She wasted no time after the door closed behind him, stripping quickly, careless of her worn and mended garments, and slipping into the tub. It was heaven on her tired muscles, and her dirty skin, and though she would’ve stayed there for hours she knew that every minute spent bathing was a minute less with the Dark One. Their time was limited. If she didn’t return to camp in the morning her party would venture into the castle, likely thinking the most dreadful scenarios. She could picture Charming attempting to kick the front gate open and getting hurt for his troubles. She could not let them worry for her, or risk the rapport she had developed with the Dark One by coming in unannounced.

She got out of the tub with only a bit of reluctance and found a towel that she was convinced was enchanted to dry her faster than possible. She found clothing laid out in the adjoining dressing room, the undergarments soft and made of pale cream fabric and the dress of a lovely velvety, forest-green fabric, with a belt embroidered in small pearls that matched the detail about the neckline. She put it on gladly, twisting every which way to lace it up at her back. Living a less princessy life had made her acquire a number of small skills, including the ability to dress up mostly by herself even in gowns that did not lace up at the front, like most of her travelling clothes.

She did not spot her mauve travelling dress or her boots, but she was sure that Rumplestiltskin had whisked them away and would subtly mend them with magic, though she was sure he would deny it if she were to point it out. The green dress was accompanied by matching slippers, butter-soft and silent as they touched the stone floor. She made sure to dry her hair out, noticing how it shone red-gold in the flattering light of the candles, and took her time brushing it and styling it out of her face, so it fell flatteringly down her back. Her neck and most of her upper torso was bare but for the chain keeping the vial of water tucked safely against her breasts, the wide neckline of the dress dipping low enough to leave her collarbones bare, but she didn’t mind it. She was inside the Dark Castle, with the Dark One. She was safe there. On the road she always had to think about not attracting unwanted male attention. Here she rather felt like the opposite.

It was a silly infatuation, and many would argue any interest or desire on her part was due to the wizard’s power, which some would say was an aphrodisiac potent enough to make some look past the Dark One’s rather unfortunate exterior. No one would ever believe her if she confessed she rather… liked his appearance. The green-gold skin, the wild hair, the talons, but also the exquisitely-tailored pants and vests, the frothy cravats, the slim coats. A beast and a gentleman. A rather enticing combination, she had found.

She went downstairs into the trophy room once more, where two massive chairs were pulled up next to the roaring fireplace, the main source of light. The Dark One was sitting in one of them, a snifter gingerly held by a clawed hand, containing some sort of brown-gold liquid. He glanced at her the moment she entered the room, unwilling or unable to hide his appreciation for what he saw. He had removed his coat, leaving only his high-collared vest and one of his open shirts to cover his upper body, no forty cravat in sight. He seemed less guarded, more adventurous than he usually was when it came to matters of intimacy.

“You clean up well, dearie. Wish I could say the same for your dress. A wash will only do so much for it, but I refrained from throwing it into the fireplace. You’re welcome.”

“Good, as it’s not your property to destroy.” Beauty sat down, with a poise that betrayed her royal upbringing, and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. “So, Dark One, are you prepared to deal with me now?”

She had dealt with him dozens of times before, she had no idea why it all sounded so much like innuendo now. She couldn’t say she minded it.

“Of course, my dear. I’ve had time to think about our deal whilst you were splashing about in the tub.” His sing-songy voice broke, getting suddenly deeper for a second or two, as if he was struggling to retain his composure. “The vial is certainly a good start, but perhaps not quite enough. Now, I’m prepared to be generous given our long and fruitful history of dealmaking together, but I must also keep up certain appearances. So I thought I would also demand… an evening of your time.”

He tried to make it sound sinister, but she was past getting scared of him. At least in the traditional way. She raised an eyebrow, adopting a rather coquettish expression.

“And what would an evening of my time entail exactly?”

“Oh, well, you know. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

She made a show of thinking it over before offering her hand, which he shook without delay.

“It’s a deal.”

Several hours later she had won two games of chess, one game of checkers, and was sipping from her third coupe of sparkling wine as she listened intently to a story about a deal the Dark One had once made with a king from a distant land. He was a gifted storyteller, engaging and funny, knowing exactly when to pause or gesticulate to keep the flow of the story just right. The king in his tale was rather unfortunate, in the sense that his hubris and arrogance had led him to make a deal with the Dark One that he did not understand. Most of Rumplestiltskin’s deals seemed to be like that, Beauty thought. And when he came to collect people dared be indignant that he demanded what they promised in the first place.

“The king was furious. Never let go of the grudge. Hired several assassins to try and kill me. A waste of gold, of course.”

He let out a trilling laugh, which soon proved to be contagious. Somehow, over time, it felt like their chairs had moved closer, because if she stretched out a hand she could easily touch him. Odd.

“Serves him right, for making such an open-ended deal. What a rookie mistake.”

She didn’t recall removing her slippers but she must have, because her feet were enjoying being pressed against the soft cushion of the chair. He made a gesture for her to lean close, which was a bit of a balancing feat, but she managed. Her heart skipped a bit when he leaned close too, almost pressing his mouth against her ear.

“You have no room to talk, sweet. You struck a very vague deal yourself, committing to an evening of conversation, chess ‘and the like’. That little turn of phrase is an invitation to all manner of sins, even the darkest and most decadent of debaucheries.”

He hissed the last part, making her shiver. Not content with letting him have the upper hand she turned her head so their lips were inches apart.

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

She could tell she had shocked him into inaction. Cocky Dark One, always in control of the conversation, always one step ahead of everyone else. It was nice to see him floundering, to catch him unprepared. Finally he gulped and put a little distance between them.

“Aren’t you the bravest little poppet.”

“My mother always said ‘Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.’ I’m a firm believer of the principle.”

Slowly, almost painfully so, both his hands clutched at the armrests of her chair, effectively pinning her to it. She knew she was supposed to be scared but she felt nothing but excitement, a buzzing just beneath the skin that made her strangely needy for something. Touch, perhaps, or more. The feeling was so overwhelming she did not realise at first that the laces of her dress were coming undone, as if invisible hands were painstakingly pulling them loose. She tried to make eye contact, but he ducked his head, pressing his face against the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. She sighed, noticing how gentle he was, his touch feather-light, and discovering that she would not mind a rougher treatment. He was restraining himself, she realised, trying to be a gentleman. Sweet, but not what she wanted from him at that moment. Feeling bold Beauty carded a hand through his hair, pressing his face more firmly against her skin.

“Please, Rumple.”

Those two words seemed to have a magic of their own, producing a sudden and radical change in him. He moved too fast for her to see, wrapping her up in his arms and depositing her on the long dining table on the other side of the room. She did not know whether he used magic or simply moved inhumanly fast, but either possibility excited her, reminded her of the power of the creature looming over her, claws tugging at the unlaced bodice of her dress, dragging the velvet down to expose her undergarments. She was wearing the underbust corset he had provided over the snowy linen shift he had also left for her, so it was easy for him to simply tug the shift down a bit to expose her breasts. He leaned forward, nuzzling the space between her breasts, making a sort of satisfied purring noise as he sniffed up her clavicles and down her throat. Then, once he was happy with the level of squirming she was doing, he finally gave her what she wanted, closing his mouth, with all of its sharp teeth, around one of her rosy nipples. It was a strange feeling at first, more unfamiliar than pleasant, but when he began to suck it changed completely, little shocks of pleasure running from her nipple to between her legs. It was amazing, more than she had ever achieved with her own hands whenever she could get some privacy at night, and the feeling doubled when he grasped her untouched breast, his long claws estimulating the other nipple.

She sunk both her hands in his hair, fisting it in an effort to keep herself from squirming too much, feeling both aroused and impatient. She kept waiting for him to tire of her chest and move further down but when he was finally done sucking her nipples his head moved north, his lips blinding searching for hers till they were kissing. It wasn’t anything like any kiss she had experienced before, not even the unpleasant smack her former fiance had forced on her. Though it was just as forceful there was a wild quality to it, one she had never associated with the affectionate gesture. It was heavenly, the release of passion, far from cooling her down, setting her on fire, stoking her need for him till it felt like she would explode if he didn’t give her relief.

He must have sensed it, her desperation calling to him like a siren song, because at some point he let go of her mouth to travel south, past her aching chest, and velvet-covered belly to where the skirts of her long gown kept her modestly covered. He wasted no time dragging the heavy fabric up, letting it pool around her hips along with the white linen of her shift. She did not have any other undergarments, having not been provided with any, so she was completely exposed to his gaze, from her milky things to her round hips. She squirmed, trying to picture what he must be looking at, the trim thatch of chestnut curls at the apex of her legs, obscenely drenched by this point and making a poor show of trying to hide the pink, glistening flesh beneath.

“What a lovely cunt you have.” His voice was dark, guttural, a monster trying to speak like a man. It thrilled her. “Let me drink from it, precious.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, choosing instead to simply bury his head against her flesh, his tongue rough and wide as it lapped at her field parting them to seek out the bundle of nerves that was throwing for attention. She arched her back, feeling like it was only her firm grip on her thigh and hip what kept her anchored to the table. She fell into a rhythm of sorts, her body seeking out something she could not find but his mouth striving to compensate, to give her what she needed. It was heavenly and seemed to last an eternity, the sensations building up till everything but them faded away, all sensations muted. She felt him move to, thrusting his hips against the edge of the table, making it rattle in a way that spoke of his sheer brute force. It was heady to have someone like Rumplestiltskin, who had always strived to don the mask of a gentleman around her, be so unhinged, so animalistic. More than anything it was that complete loss of control what drove her over the edge. She cried out, feeling her inner muscles coil and her senses spiral out of control, her orgasm leaving her dizzy. It seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough. She laid there for a while after the feeling passed, feeling satisfied and wanting at the same time. A few seconds later he also keened, slumping against her still-parted legs, his hair tickling the soft skin of her inner thighs.

They lay that way for what seemed like ages, while they scrambled to try and collect themselves. The afterglow did not feel awkward or uncomfortable, and it loosened up her tongue enough to venture out that she had hoped for an even more intimate act, a joining that was even deeper than what they had done.

“A deal for such a prize would have to involve all my deepest secrets, my most valuable truths.” He paused, pressing his forehead against the silky inside of her thigh, like a penitent would. “One day, perhaps.”

...

“Do you want to meet? I think it’s time.”

The orgasm had mellowed him out, otherwise he was sure he would’ve at least panicked a little bit. But in the afterglow of what they had just shared, albeit virtually, a meeting did not seem like such a bad idea. In hushed voices they arranged the time and place, tomorrow at a café and bistro in Boston. Nice and public, for both their safety. They knew both lived near Boston, so it seemed natural to pick the city. The drive wasn’t too bad, and he hoped it wasn’t a great inconvenience to her either.

Reluctantly they said their goodbyes, both trying to prolong the moment a bit more till they were both close to nodding off. With a final, reluctant goodbye they both disconnected, leaving Gold to clean himself up and make his way home. With his rumpled suit, disheveled hair and five o’clock shadow it must have looked like the walk of shame. It certainly didn’t feel that way.

...

He woke up in a happy mood, perhaps the best in a long time. Far from feeling stupid or embarrassed about his little bit of roleplaying-turned-porn-session he felt smug, empowered by the notion that he had made a smart, desirable woman come with only his voice and imagination. He felt like he was on the brink of something, as if an exciting possibility was opening up for him.

He went about his day with a bit of a spring in his step, though most citizens of Storybrooke would be pressed to notice. It was only when he saw the book on gardening he was due to return to the library that afternoon- his two Moth orchids had developed small water-soaked spots on the leaves and he had wanted to consult some verified sources instead of relying exclusively on Google search results- that his mood dampened somewhat. As nice as last night had been- bloody fantastic rather- it did make him sad, somewhat, to give up his crush on Belle French. However unattainable it was still nice to have it, that bit of feeling that did not need to be reciprocated to be real. It had been nice to feel something for someone for a change, to look forward to each smile and each small conversation. But it wouldn’t be right, and what he had now was more valuable in any case. Perhaps, with time, he would grow out of his infatuation with the librarian and they could be friends. That would be rather lovely.

He crossed the street towards the library around three o’clock, wanting to beat the rush caused by children being let off school, a busy time for one of the only kid-friendly places in Storybrooke. There were some patrons about, and the afternoon light made the library look truly beautiful. Miss French truly worked miracles with her limited budget.

He found her easily, shelving a few books in the poetry section, and tried not to preen when she smiled widely at him.

“Mr Gold, hi! Always a pleasure. Here to return a book?”

The librarian was always sunny and welcoming, but she looked even happier that day, an excited sort of energy practically rolling off of her in waves. Thank goodness he had decided to give up on his silly little crush, otherwise he might have buckled under the power of her brightness.

“Yes. And you look particularly happy today, Miss French, if I might say so.”

The librarian smiled even more, if possible, and leaned close, as if to tell him a secret.

“I have a date tonight.”

It hurt, the slightest bit, the shock making him take a step back, but less than it would have yesterday. And perhaps, he reasoned, this would be good. This would put them both in the path of becoming friends, allowing him to leave his crush behind much faster. He forced himself to enquire politely after the lucky man, listening as she talked about someone she had been flirting with for a long time now, and it seemed like the relationship was finally ready for the next step.

“I’m really happy. And very nervous. It feels like such a risk, after all this time building something that could easily fizzle out with a first date. But I’ve always believed in doing the brave thing, and bravery will follow. It’s what my mother always said.”

She had turned back to shelve a book as she finished the last sentence, so thankfully she did not see his jaw drop and his eyes widen, his surprise so visible no one could’ve missed it. His heart lurched in his chest, sheer and sudden panic making it difficult to breathe. Fuck. Fuck. It wasn’t possible. Belle was Beauty. Belle was Beauty. He tried to contradict the notion in his head but he had known Beauty’s British accent was passable but fake, and it made sense for him not to have identified her voice when she usually spoke with her natural Australian drawl, something he associated so closely with her. Everything else he had ever found out about Beauty, in and out of the D&D setting, coincided with what he knew, or thought he knew, about the librarian, one of the reasons why he had developed a crush on her in the first place.

The initial shock was followed by a spike of elation and then a sinking feeling of dread. He needed to cancel. She would be disappointed, but more disappointed if he didn’t and she realised her crush was a man a good deal older than her that was known for being the town monster. It would be awkward and she would not be able to escape him after it, both doomed to meet each other often, given the small size of the town. He could not put her through that.

He stopped himself then, noticing the familiar dark turn of his thoughts, dipped in so much self-loathing it was almost stifling. And he wondered if he really was thinking about Belle or about himself. Being a coward, taking the easy way out. He thought about how he had woken up, the world full of promise and the future bright with the possibility of something great on the horizon. And how he had felt brave last night, to leap into something that had been so worth it. Perhaps it was time to be brave more often. Do something, however small. Put the ball in her court, somehow.

“I wish you the best of luck, then. Perhaps some other time, if you’re not too busy, you could pop into my shop. I have a few antique books I feel you would appreciate.”

It was a nice recovery, and he was happy to see her smile, apparently welcoming the proposition. Everyone knew Mr Gold’s shop was only to be entered when making deals. He didn’t really allow idle perusal of his stock and no one had the money or interest to buy his antiques. His business was conducted mostly with people from major cities on the East Coast.

“Wow, an open invitation to traipse into Mr Gold’s shop, that’s not something one sees everyday. What do you want in return? I hear only deals can grant you access to the shop.”

She made sure to make it clear she was joking, something he appreciated. Feeling emboldened by her kind gesture he adopted a slightly higher pitch and replied:

“Oh, nothing much. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

Being close enough he got to see as it dawned on her, as her brain quickly processed what he had said and where she had heard it before. And he knew, knew because of the way she looked at him, as if she did not recognise him, as if he was a brand new person to her, that she understood the implication, what he had meant to tell her without actually telling her.

“Hope to see you soon, then. Good luck with the date.”

He turned around before he could second-guess himself, feeling terrified by what he had exposed but satisfied at the same time. This way it was Belle’s choice to show up. For all she knew he had no idea that she was Beauty. She could make up an excuse and simply not meet her, and their worlds would never merge. If she did not want to pursue anything between them all she had to do is cancel the date, or not show up. He would respect her decision and never push for anything, or acknowledge their online relationship in the real world.

He sent her an email just as he was about to get into his car, letting her know that he understood that this meeting was a bit of a risk and he would understand if she backed out at the last minute. There were other things he could do in Boston, and he was not adverse to having dinner by himself. And they could still be friends, no matter what she decided. He was halfway to Boston when he heard his cell phone ping, letting him know he had a new email. As he expected, it was from Beauty:

“I’m on my way. Can’t wait to meet you! See you soon.”

He smiled.

#argoslight #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #Roll for Initiative #Thestraggletag fanfiction #Rumbelle Gift Swap

41 notes · View notes