#Lady Reporter (The Blonde Fury) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

atsukashii · 5 years ago

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❝back again❞ // k. bakugou

SYNOPSIS: ➛ When pro hero ground zero destroys your shop trying to take down a villain, you don’t hesitate to curse him out. What you don’t expect though, is for him to come back again the next day.

» CHARACTER PAIRING: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

» WORD COUNT: 5K cause I have no self control

» GENRE: pro-hero!katsuki, aged up characters

» WARNINGS: swearing of course, fluff, fluff, and oop surprise more fluff,

» PROMPT: lilac - “if you don’t kiss me right this second i swear”

« masterlist || ao3 »

Anonymous: can i get uuuuhh ‘lilas’ with pretty boy katsuki 🥺💕💕

a/n: hell yes you can! I went a bit overboard with this request but I hope you love it! Also i’m running off the non-canon idea that Katsuki’s hero name is Ground Zero here.

Pro Hero Ground-Zero is an asshole. He’s an attractive one, but an asshole nonetheless. The explosive blonde was the hero on patrol this morning, when a villain decided to attack some old lady in the middle of the street. Ground Zero fought the villain and left behind a crater in his wake. One you are currently staring at, steam almost coming out of your ears. Because that crater consisted of half of your flower shop.

Are you fucking kidding me? You hear the news reporters behind you, talking to their cameramen about what went down on this normally quiet street.

“This morning, Pro Hero Ground Zero successfully defeated a villain known to police as ‘FrostBite’. The villain has been responsible for many civilian attacks recently, he’s been linked to a heist just three days ago, which saw the criminals get away with over fourteen thousand…” You tune out the reporter's voice as you step back into your shop, through the gaping hole that was once your front exterior wall. Great, this is so fucking what I needed right now, you think.

This whole shit fest is the icing on an already bad cupcake. It started when a woman had come into the store just last week, complaining about your goods. Which caused such a ruckus that an inspector was called, only for him to find some bullshit excuse that had stopped you from selling coffee’s in your hybrid cafe/flower shop momentarily. Add on top of that the fact that you are currently in your final semester of university and you’re about to sit your final exams in literally three days. The word stressed does not even come close to describing your inner turmoil right now.

“-and here he is now! Ground Zero! Can you give us any information about what happened today?” The reporter asks.

“A villain got what he fucking deserved, the end.” A deep voice says from behind you, and you just know it’s him. Clenching your fists, you resist the urge to turn around and scream at the man. What about what you deserved? You look around your store once more and stifle a whimper at all the damage; crumbling walls, plants scattered across the floor, pots shattered and your precious neon sign. Broken. You kneel down and pick up the now dull yellow neon light and feel your eyes begin to sting. This shop had been your dream since you were a little girl, and now it was torn apart by a villain.

“I do my job, and I do it well. Write that in your fucking paper.” The hero reiterates again. Pure fury floods your brain until you are seeing red. Spinning around, your eyes focus onto the battered hero and the flawless reporter, and suddenly, all you want to do is scream. Your mouth begins moving before your brain can follow and say it's a bad idea.

“You do your job well?!” You hiss at them. Everyone’s attention moves from the asshole hero to you, your apron covered in dirt and rubble from when your front wall crumbled right in front of you, because a villain was physically thrown through it.

“You destroyed my store!” Ground Zero’s face flushes red in anger as he stares at you with his scarlet eyes. If you weren’t so mad, you could maybe appreciate how handsome he is, but currently you can see too much damage - expensive damage - to even think like that.

“That villain was a threat to society, he got what he deserved. You should be thanking me, you damn extra!”

“Thanking you? You left a DAMN HOLE IN MY FUCKING STORE!” You scream at Ground Zero. “And what about what I deserve? I don’t deserve to have to pay for all of these fucking damages that you caused!” The anger seeps out of you as you look at the small crowd around your store, gawking at you. You can’t imagine that this is a normal response for heroes to get from civilians. What a mess…

“Y/n!” A voice interrupts the crowd and you look to the right where someone is pushing through the mass of people slowly, to get into the store. The second your best friend & work colleague see’s the damage, she lets out a sad sigh and looks your way.

“Oh sweety…” you hold up your hand, making them stop from walking in.

“There’s broken glass everywhere. Let me clean up first,” You whisper, suddenly ashamed of your outburst. Ground Zero had been doing a civil duty, and you’d just jumped on his case about the damage he caused? Good one y/n, real smooth. Turning your back on the hero and the crowd, you weave around smashed pots and dead plants, reaching behind the counter for the broom you keep there and begin to sweep up the mess. You can hear the group begin to disperse, but can’t get rid of the feeling that someone is watching you. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes lock onto the vermilion gaze of the upcoming hero, known for his brash attitude towards reporters. Your breath catches in your throat as his intense stare seems to look into you more deeply than anyone ever has. Like he’s analysing your very being and everything about you. You shift away from him, grabbing the plastic rubbish bags you leave next to the till for the frequent mishaps that happen in your store, and you get to cleaning.

What a mess.

❀ ❀ ❀

For the past two nights since your shop was damaged, you’ve been crashing with your best friend who deemed it unsafe for you to stay at your apartment located above the partially destroyed store. You didn’t have the energy to argue against them at the time, so now as you walk down the main street towards your shop, you’re thinking about how strange it is that you need to travel to get to work. At least it's a sunny day, so surely this has to mean something good... You hope.

But as you round the corner convenience store on your block, you stop in your tracks. In front of your pathetically boarded up store, stands a tall man in black jeans and a matching jumper, the hood pulled up over his head. Because that’s not suspicious at all. Unfortunately, he’s leaning up against your front door, so you’re going to have to at least ask him to move.

“Uh, excuse me?” His head whips towards you, and your gaze immediately locks onto the ash blonde hair that peeks out from under the hood, and the matching eyebrows partially hidden by his dark sunglasses. It’s him, Ground Zero. Here. At my store. You don’t have the drive like you did the other day to be mad, so instead you keep walking towards your store with a raised eyebrow aimed at the pro hero.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling somewhere Ground Zero?” You ask the man as you approach. He shifts away from the door, but doesn’t move far, allowing you to use your keys to unlock it. Not that locking the door would do anything to deter intruders considering there’s a fucking hole where the almost floor to ceiling windows once stood.

“It’s my day off.” Now that you’re not overcome with rage towards the man, you can appreciate the deep tone to his voice. One so alluring it sends chills down your spine. Do not go there, seriously y/n. No, it doesn't matter that you’re not mad, he’s still an ass.

“Good for you.” You mutter, before stepping through the doorway. You had cleaned up a lot of the debris from the room over the past two days, but the council wouldn’t let you begin working on the wall until today, as they had to deem it still structurally sound before you went around doing things. Hopefully, if all went well, you would have the shop open again in less than two weeks.

You notice that the further you walk into Daisy Chains, the hero follows. You place your bag on the till and round to face him, leaning your weight against the wooden counter.

“Are you here to mug me or something?” What use did a pro hero have to you? What use did he have coming here either?

“I’m a fucking hero dumbass, its literally my job to detain people who do that.” He growls, his vermilion gaze forming a scowl that really shouldn’t be attractive on him, but somehow is.

“Well how am I supposed to know? First, you damage my shop, then show up in all black, glaring at me and following me into an empty store?” You challenge, meeting his intense glare straight on. If he thinks he’s intimidating you like this, well he’s right. But, you’re not going to let him know that.

“I’m here to help.” His voice echoes throughout the dead quiet store. For a moment, all you can do is blink at the somewhat stranger. He lets out a growl at you that has you steeling your spine.

“You kick up such a fuss about your fucking store, then what? Don’t want help when it's handed to you?” Ground Zero barks at you, bringing you out of your stupor.

“I’m just surprised is all.” Your honesty makes him pause. “But if you’re serious, I’ll take the offer. It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of hands.” You’re not an idiot, you know you’ve got a lot of work to do in order to get the shop back up and running, and considering you’re not the only employee here and it's your livelihood, you need it up and running as soon as possible.

“The contractor says it's going to take about two weeks.” You comment.

“Then we’ll do it in one. I’ve only got a few days off, so we need to get this done soon.” Ground Zero replies with a blank expression, before getting up off his spot of leaning against the wall. You can’t help but admire his determination, especially to fix something he may have helped cause. A lot of hero’s you know wouldn’t even have bothered to come back for this, it was just another ‘ casualty of the job’. But for some reason Ground Zero did, and you weren’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth.

“If i’m going to have a stranger help me out for the next couple of days, don’t I have the right to know their name?” You ask, walking forward towards him. He straightens up at your approaching figure - as if going on the defensive, and you notice as you come to a stop that he’s quite a bit taller than you. His nose would touch your forehead if he bent forward, no wonder he wasn’t intimidated by me when you yelled at him the other day.

“Y/n Y/l/n, proud owner of Daisy Chains.” Sticking out your hand, Ground Zero looks between your eyes and your hand for a moment before reaching forward and gripping it.

“Katsuki Bakugou, also known as Ground Zero.” He introduces, shaking your hand. You can’t help but notice how calloused it is compared to your own. Well he literally works with his hands due to that explosive quirk of his.

“Katsuki Bakugou…” You breathe, testing the words out on your tongue. You glare half-heartedly at Katsuki, “I still don’t like you.” You finish, pulling your hand away from the blonde. He huffs at you and scowls.

“The feelings fucking mutual. Let’s get this shit done.” Katsuki orders, pushing up the sleeves of his hooded jumper and walks over to the boarded up wall, grabbing a hammer as he moves. He’s definitely determined, that's for sure. One however, can also describe Katsuki as elegant. You observe the way that he moves; every motion fluid with a sort of grace you wouldn’t have pinned with someone like him. He yanks of his hood as he begins to pull the nails out of the wooden beams. Strong too. Unfortunately, his sweater hides his defined biceps that you know are there due to seeing him the other day in his hero costume and you - nope, stop right there. Shaking your head to clear your wandering thoughts, you reach over to the tool kit your best friend brought over for you to borrow and follow Katsuki’s lead and begin ripping down the wood.

With two sets of hands, things get done much faster than you had originally thought it would. You had ripped out the hastily put up wood, and began to demolish the rest of the damaged structure like the contractors had marked out for you. Due to being too poor to afford builders, you had planned to do the whole thing yourself, so as much as you hated to admit it, Katsuki’s presence was actually a major help. Not like you’d tell him that anyways. By the time it was five thirty that evening, you had already begun to put up the interior wall structure. Katsuki somehow knew what the hell he was doing, and barely had to look at the tips the contractor wrote down for you. When you had questioned him, he’d just barked at you to mind your own dang business, and proceeded to pout like a child for the next hour. Some of your neighbours had brought some temporary fencing to put across the front of the store to try and stop people from getting in during the day - and you had thanked them profusely as they waved it off. Because you were only twenty one, the owners of the shops either side of you had taken you under their wings so to speak. The old lady who ran the bakery next door often ‘made too much’ bread and gave some to you, and you in response 'accidentally ordered too many of her favourite roses’ so they’d go to waste if she didn’t take them. And when they’d seen Katsuki, he’d just huffed and managed to find something to do on the opposite side of the store. He’s a strange one that Ground Zero.

As the sky kept darkening, you look from the star speckled darkness slowly settling outside to your watch and decide to call it a day. Reaching over your head, you groan as your muscles pull tightly and ache from all the labour.

“I think we should call it a day Katsuki.” You yawn, looking over to the blonde who has already started to pack up the tools. He glances at you when he’s done, and dusts his hands on his black jeans.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at eight. Don’t be fucking late or I’ll break in the door to get in.” Katsuki promises, before pushing out said door.

“I won’t pay for that damage!” You call after him, watching as his shoulders tense in annoyance at your words. Holding in your laugh, you observe as he pulls his hood over his head and stalks down the street, slipping into the shadows like he’s made of them. You let out a sigh and lean back against the counter, suddenly feeling much more optimistic about your store and its progress now that Katsuki’s helping.

He definitely is a strange one.

For the next three days, your progress clicks like clockwork. Arriving at eight am and leaving at seven when it gets too dark and you’re both too tired to do much more, the store is slowly coming back together. Last night, you’d even ordered take out and actually had a civilised meal together. Sitting on the floor of Daisy Chains, you’d both eaten gyūdon, conversing in innocent small talk whilst you gaped at the hot sauce that Katsuki kept adding to his food. He had smirked at your expression, which then resulted in a two hour Q&A with pro hero Ground Zero. Where you learnt that he absolutely loves spicy food, likes mountain climbing of all things, and can actually cook - which you only learnt because he called the food bland and was offended when you sassed saying that he couldn’t do any better. Apparently, he can. It was a weird experience, getting to know Katsuki as someone other than Ground Zero, Pro Hero destined to be number one - his words of course. It was actually… Nice, talking to him. Your heart jumped around inside your chest like an overexcited child in those moments, just getting to know him and seeing his lips tick up ever so slightly for the first time at a joke you cracked. And you need your heart to stop. You have no reason to feel like this, if anything you should be mad. No, you think. He’s using his days off, things he’s mentioned that he rarely gets, to help you fix something that - yes, he caused damage to, but could have just left alone.

You let out a sigh at your confused thoughts and dip the paintbrush back into the bucket on the floor. Your feelings towards the confident blonde are perplexing at best. Yet, as you look around the nearly completed store, and the painting you have left to do, you couldn’t help but want him there. Sure, you argue - a lot, but you also really enjoy his company. And no, it wasn’t because around midday every day, he’d shed his jumper and you’d be graced with toned muscles bulging out of his tank singlet.

Except he had mentioned to you last night that he wasn't coming in today because he was back on patrol. It’s fine really, you have managed to get a lot done today anyways, as a lot of the heavy lifting had already been finished earlier this week. You had given the new wall a coat of primer after the window installation guys had come in and done their job on the brand spanking new windows that made your bank account cry. Having them back in and the wall officially closed in, you were also finally able to move back into your apartment upstairs and off your friends couch, which was a massive relief.

Dipping your brush back into the paint, you look at the rest of the wall that has to be done. You had decided earlier that you may as well give the rest of the store a bit of a face lift whilst you were at it. Half of it was completed when you had to take a break before you gassed yourself with the paint fumes. Deciding to leave the back door open and turn on the fan, that usually is only made use of in the summertime to attempt to decontaminate the air, but the store still reeked of paint fumes. So you settled on keeping the front door open using a cinder block. It was working, gradually.

Slowly, the sun set behind the skyscrapers and you are still painting. Letting out a yawn, you carefully paint around the edge of the window frame, trying not to either touch the tape you had previously put down or let any drip onto the paint cloth on the floor. You are so focused on the task that you don’t notice someone has walked into the store until they speak.

“You shouldn’t leave the front door open like that dumbass, some creeper is going to take that as an opportunity to come in.” You let out a terrified scream and the paintbrush flies out of your hand and onto the floor. Placing a hand to your chest to slow your thundering heart, you look to Katsuki who's standing in the middle of the store, arms crossed on his chest, his usual glare ever so intensely settled on you, and still dressed in his hero costume. Good gracious.

“I thought you had patrol?” you ask, not moving an inch. It feels like forever since you’ve seen him in his hero costume, and somehow it looks even better then it did the first time you saw him in it. But your opinion may be biased seeing as you’ve unfortunately found yourself thinking of the hero constantly recently. He’s grown on you, like an annoyingly attractive fungus you can’t seem to get rid of.

“Just finished up. Thought I would come over here and see how slowly you’ve been going.” He smirks. You almost choke on your saliva as you look at his ticked up lips. Is he… Teasing me right now?

“Slow? I’ll have you know that i’m moving much faster today than I have with your help Mr Pro Hero.” You sass, picking up the brush and moving to continue on the wall.

“Obviously, that's why you're still going at this time.” You know he’s only trying to rile you up, but you can’t stop yourself from shooting him a playful glare over your shoulder at him But as you move, you find him no longer standing there. Katsuki’s fishing behind your front counter for something, and you’re about to ask what he’s looking for before he walks towards you, a paintbrush in hand. You blink at him as he stands next to you, dips the new brush in the paint and begins to pick up where you left off.

Your brain can’t seem to comprehend that he’s here, when he said he was super busy, in his hero costume, helping you paint. You’re unsure as to how long you’ve been standing there staring at him for, until Katsuki looks at you with a frown.

“You better not start fucking slacking now dumbass. I didn’t come here to do it all for you.” He says with a small smile and god what the hell is going on right now? Your cheeks suddenly feel hot and you don’t need to touch them or look in a mirror to know that you’re blushing. Hurriedly, you scramble for your thrown paintbrush, reaching down to the pastel blue liquid that almost looks white and begin to paint.

The radio plays softly in the background, the only source of noise in the store, and you find yourself bopping your head with the music as you work. Suddenly, when your favourite song comes on, you make a mad scramble to the machine and turn it up loudly, ignoring Katsuki’s protests. Dancing as you walk back to the wall, he’s glaring at you but there's no anger in it. Somehow over the past few days, you’ve managed to finally crack the code that is Katsuki Bakugou, and understand the many meanings of his scowls, glares and unfriendly remarks. And now, as you’re singing along to the song and shuffling towards him with a dorkish grin, he’s one hundred percent amused at your antics. Katsuki doesn’t dance along, or even bop his head, but you can see him mouthing the words ever so slightly, and that's enough. As the last chorus hits, you scream the words out loud, which earns a loud bark of laughter from Katsuki. Mid verse, the climax of your performance, you stop to watch it happen. You know you’ve said things he’s found funny before, because his mouth shifts upwards ever so slightly, followed by him calling you an idiot and turning away. But seeing him laugh, a proper laugh that starts in the belly and spreads happiness through every pore of your body and into those around you, it was so attractive to you. The soft smile he sent you after too was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. For a man normally so harsh and with sharp as fuck features, the gentle look he gave you made your stomach somersault.

The song was forgotten as you forced yourself to keep on painting until you finally finished. Looking at the clock behind the counter, you smother a yawn as you read the time. 11:16pm.

Finally, it was all coming together. With only the radio making noise, you and Katsuki tidy up your tools once more and you walk him to the door. He raises an eyebrow as you lean up against the glass door.

“I moved back upstairs today, so no more couch surfing for me.” You answer his silent question.

“That’s good, I was sick of having to walk you all the way back to your friends place.” Katsuki replies, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He was smart enough to bring a change of clothes with him tonight to change into once he’d dropped blue paint onto his costume and realised that it wasn’t the wisest idea to wear it. So now, he was back in his casual black getup, in the sweater that a part of you so wanted to steal.

“Hey, no one ever asked you to do that, thank you very much.” Scoffing at your words, Katsuki shifts his weight from one leg to another.

“You’d have never made it there without me.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night Mr Pro Hero.” Standing in silence, you suddenly can’t bring yourself to look at him and instead look back inside the store. “Hopefully I’ll have this place open again in a few days,” You say out of nowhere, simply feeling the need to break the silence.

“That’s good. I might have to come around and actually buy something.” Snapping your head back towards him, you flush from head to toe. Is he flirting with me? You asked yourself...surely not… Why would someone like him flirt with someone like me? But you can’t help but hope that he is.

“If you come around here for any other reason other than to buy something, I swear to god Katsuki.”

“Any other reason?” He challenges, taking a step closer. Your back is pressing into the glass door behind you as your eyes lock onto his scarlet ones. “What if I have a perfectly valid reason?”

“Does it include breaking things?” You breathe, his face so close now that you can feel his exhale fan across your mouth. Oh my god.

“Not breaking, just stealing something.” He’s whispering, as if speaking too loudly would scare you away like a timid animal. Your heart is about to burst from your chest with anticipation. He’s going to kiss me, he's sooo going to kiss me. And you so want him to.

“You’re going to steal some plants Katsu? That's a bit lame. I thought you were some big shot.” His eyes flicker to life with something you can’t quite place. Teasingly, he looks down at your lips and you swear to god.

“Hey,” he drawls, “don’t go judging me now y/n.” his hand comes up to your face and brushes a strand of your hair away from your eyes. “Do you give everyone else shit like this after they’ve done you a favour, sweetheart?”

“Katsuki.” You all but groan, letting logic fly out the door and gripping the front of his sweater. “If you don’t kiss me right this second, I swear-” He doesn’t even let you finish the sentence before he’s cradling your jaw in his hands and crashing your lips together. The two of you collide with such force it knocks the air right from your lungs. Katsuki completely dominates the kiss, which has shocks running down your spine and into the tips of your toes every second it continues. He possesses your very being and you can’t do anything but hold onto him and return it with everything you have in you. Reluctantly, Katsuki pulls away from you, but continues to hold your face captive within his grasp.

“I-uh…” your brain is no longer functioning and sits with the same potential of goo inside your skull. Smirking at your response, pride swirls inside Katsuki’s eyes.

“Got nothing to say now dumbass?” He jokes, releasing a cheek to brush hair out of your eyes again. You’re pretty sure there's paint in it.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” You manage to ask, deciding that you never want to do anything other than kiss him every day for the rest of your life. This time, Katsuki doesn’t laugh at you, or even smirk. His smug grin morphs into something so soft and rare that you doubt many have ever seen this look on him, and even fewer ever will.

“Only if you agree to go out with me.” Katsuki states. Of course he wouldn’t ask like a regular person. He’s Katsuki fucking Bakugou, pro hero and future number one if he gets his way. He doesn’t have time to beat around the bush.

“It’s almost midnight Katsu.” You point out, which makes him laugh.

“I didn’t mean right now dumbass.”

“Oh.” You feel yourself blush bright bright red, mortified you try to pull your head out of his hands purely out of embarrassment. But Katsuki quickly moves his hands from your face until he’s pulled you tightly against him, your chest flush against his torso, your head craned up to look at him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” he utter’s before leaning in and kissing you again, this time softly and chastely, so different from the desperate kiss earlier. Suddenly, you’re so glad he exploded into your lift and ruined your shop that day. “You’re getting dinner with me tomorrow night.” He mumbles against your lips.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask, your fingers weaving through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You feel him smile a feral grin against your lips and try to hold in a smile of your own.

“No.”

“Good, wouldn’t want it any other way Katsu.”

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou x reader #mha x reader #katsuki x reader #flower prompt #requests #bnha x reader #bakugou one shot #katsuki bakugou imagine

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

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III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie.

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering.

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild.

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone.

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost.

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.”

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.”

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me?

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath.

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor.

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm.

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away.

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room.

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth.

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do.

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #pacific rim #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction

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wordynerdygurl · 4 years ago

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Skin Deep ~ Part 4

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! As @that-one-person reminded me, we were overdue the next chapter of Skin Deep! I hope this has been worth the wait. As always, if you’d like to be added to my tag list, let me know! Also, requests are open and I love when you re-blog and like my work! Thanks for all your kindness!!

This is the 4th Part of our Story with links below to the previous chapters! ENJOY!

Skin Deep Part 1

Skin Deep Part 2 Skin Deep Part 3

Pairing; Loki x Reader, Steve x Reader, Bucky, Natasha, Nick Fury, Thor and Valkyrie round out of cast! Summary: Picking up where Part 3 ended: You’re on the run with Loki, who wants answers. Steve comes clean to an old friend, Natasha and Fury make a plan. Warnings: References to violence, smut, intergalactic travel, and some kissing!

From his vantage point at Steve’s grill Bucky noticed the almost frantic vibration coming off his oldest friend from all the way across the lawn. And Steve wasn't carrying any champagne. In fact, he was whispering furiously to Natasha, shaking his head.

Looking to the skies, Bucky smelled the electricity in the air. It made the hairs on his human arm rise, antenna to trouble, tuning into the wrecked wavelength his friend was putting out. It was about you, of that Bucky was certain, and with your own strange behavior tonight, he knew trouble was en route. He had let you sneak away, sensing your breaking point, knowing your need for a minute alone. It was the reason you were such great drinking buddies. You let Bucky be himself and he returned the favor. Besides, something in Steve was different these days, something Bucky didn't exactly like. His friend, Captain America, hero to the weak, was pushy. Aggressive. Angry.

And when Steve looked at you, there was a gleam, a spark of possessiveness that gave Bucky pause. Sure, you were amazing. Funny, smart, undeniably sexy in a way all your own. Bucky understood wanting you, he even got the need to have you, hold you, lock you down with a ring. If only Steve could see how unhappy you were. Each time Bucky saw you, the strain had pulled more of your joy away. Sure, you baked pies, smiling the whole way, chirping platitudes and teasing Steve. That happiness, though, it never reached your eyes. Telling Steve that an engagement ring was too much, too soon, Bucky had tried in his very stoic way to prove that you weren't ready. Never fully able to give his buddy his blessing, Bucky had opted instead to provide you a shoulder to lean on. And lean you did. Slugging back vodka shots at all these parties, in the quiet and seldom used spaces of kitchens and dining rooms, you had talked easily with Bucky. No topic was too wild or off limits, with the exception of Steve. Anytime the name of your new love came up, the subject would change. You'd deflect and Bucky let you. Maybe he should have pushed harder, he thought as Steve stomped his way. Maybe Bucky should have forced you to talk about whatever issues you and Steve faced, tried his hand at advice, or offered excuses for his best friend’s erratic behavior. If Bucky had done that, then perhaps the stifling stench of trouble wouldn't be pooling around the party, pulsing through all the high energy people gathered together. “Buck… come here, would ya?” Sure, Steve sounded like himself. Jovial, a little concerned in that serious way he had, but not mad. For some reason, it reminded Bucky of the way Steve’s father would talk, just before he’d beat the ever loving hell out of Sarah… or Steve. It soured the stomach of battle tested Sergeant Barnes. War was coming. “Sure thing, punk.” Cocking his head, Steve couldn’t quite look his friend in the face, opting instead to focus on the open back door of his farm house. Would you come strutting out of it, unaware and un-phased? Steve prayed for that, even if his gut told him otherwise, “Bucky, you said my girl was in the ladies’ room?” Tucking his hands in his pockets, nodding solemnly, “Yea, Stevie. Yea. She had to piss. It happens.” Waiting for the battle was exhausting and Bucky just didn’t have the patience to stew in the slow burn of Steve’s anger. Clapping a broad hand along the neck of the Winter Soldier, Steve pulled his friend close. To anyone looking, the embrace would seem brotherly, kind. What they couldn’t see was the tight grip used to keep Bucky contained, or hear Steve’s heated harsh whisper, “Where the fuck is she, Buck? I know you know. So tell me.” Reacting instinctively, pulling against the restraining hook of Steve’s palm, “I don’t know what you’re talking about… she went to the bathroom, I came out here.” “Well she’s gone now and so is Loki-” Stepping back out of Steve’s reach, “Wait. Loki was here? I thought you said he left. Opened the Bi-Frost or whatever. Disappeared.” Almost growling, Steve ran desperate hands through his blonde hair, ignoring Bucky and turning to Natasha, “We need to let Fury know. Set a perimeter. Loki won’t be able to get off the planet, not without help anyway.” “Fury’s involved? Steve, what is going on?” Jabbing a finger into the chest of his best friend, Steve spun, spitting, “You let Loki kidnap my fiance, that’s what’s going on! And now I have to find her and rescue her before that greasy alien asshole does something else to the woman I love!” Rearing back, Bucky inhaled, lifting his shoulders. If you have to fight a friend, fight fair, he thought. Already Bucky could read violence in Steve’s muscle movement. The graceful way Steve bounced on his toes to build momentum into his fierce throw was minute but effective. Dropping his right arm, just a touch before stepping into his swing, Steve's eyes screamed murder and they were locked onto James Buchanan Barnes. A swish of air brushed at Buck's dark hair as the blow missed. Bucky easily blocked the punch, grabbing his pal at the wrist and twisting until his chest was pressed into Steve’s back. It was as fluid as the ballet you had forced them to attend a few months back, quick and clean movements, executed flawlessly. Bucky felt Steve spin in his grasp, planting his feet, preparing to toss the Winter Soldier on his ass. His counter maneuver was a leg sweep, one Bucky was ready to use, when Steve went limp in his grip. Natasha had sucker punched her mission partner in order to get his attention, “Steve. You gotta relax. Bucky didn’t know and you’re drawing attention. Too many eyes around here, ya know?” Natasha waved to Tony, a gesture that said, no worries, everything is ok over here. It was enough to satisfy the playboy, who turned back to his cocktail and conversation with Rhodes. “I'm fine. It's fine. I’m just…” unable to find the right word, spiraling, Steve sagged towards the ground. Catching him at the waist Bucky steadied his woozy friend as Natasha brushed off help from the other guests. Returning to the pair of soldiers out of time, The Black Widow, barely containing her disgust, “Bucky, get him inside. Steve, I'm sending everyone home, then I’m going to make a call.” True to her word, Natasha whispered something to Tony and Pepper, Bucky clocking their reaction of concern for both you and Steve. It was very clear to the Sergeant that The Avengers were not in on this mission. None of them were permitted to hang around the farm house with Nat going so far as to walk out with Clint and Rhodes. Bustling Steve into the kitchen, Bucky kicked a chair free from the table, dropping his buddy on his ass. Still a little amped up from the almost altercation outside, Bucky decided to put a bit of distance between him and his childhood friend, resting his hip against the counter, "What the hell was that, Steve?" "Stay out of it, Bucky." "It's too late for that, punk. Either you start talking or we take this back outside." Side eyeing the super soldier with a metal arm, Steve tugged at the corner of a pretty place mat sullenly, "Fuck you." "Language!" "You think I give a shit about bad words? Now? No… things are too far gone." Waving his hand, begging for more, "Care to elaborate, Cap?" Steve had a second to consider his options. He could let Bucky in, tell him what was going on, hear his opinions on the situation at hand. Or… not. "You don't need to be involved. Once Nat gets back, it's best if you go." Thunking into the opposite seat, Bucky leveled his grey gaze on his pal, "And if I say no?" "Look, it's an off the record thing. Tony, the rest of them? They know nothing. I don’t need you sticking your nose in-" That was all it took for the dam of Bucky’s own outrage to burst. With a wood rattling slap to the custom built dining table, open palm connecting enough to make Steve jump, "Damn it, Rogers! My nose is in this already. Hell, you were ready to half kill me over this… over her, not fifteen minutes ago!" Sighing, hard and heavy, Captain America pressed back in the wooden chair. He saw the questions in Bucky's look, the need to unravel this mystery, the desire to find a way out for his friends. And Steve realized that to accept his buddy's help, Bucky would need the full story. The truth hurts and Buck's words stung Steve. Bucky was right and in the end, he reasoned, they might need him to help bring down Loki. After a second of consideration, a rough hand sliding through his blonde locks, "Fine. FUCK! Fine. What do you know?" Crossing his arms over his chest, stern voiced but curious, Bucky started, "Just you and Nat reporting to Fury? Small team." "Small mission. At least, at first." Trying not to give anything away, making Bucky work for it felt good, almost like a return to his life before Loki, before you. Tapping his metallic finger on the table, Bucky resumed his questions, "So, how does Loki figure into this?" Leaning forward, Steve lowered his voice, “Weapons tech. Power. More than when he attacked New York. He’s been off world gaining followers, an army, and a throne.” “So the plan was to keep Loki away, right?” Nodding, Steve’s inflection solemn, “By any means necessary.” Rocking his head back, as if slapped, Bucky’s eyes widened. Just the implication of those words, by any means necessary, used by Nick Fury meant that this mission was crossing a line from mundane into murderous. "And she was your way in." It started to take shape, the whole sorted plan, Natasha’s involvement and Steve’s role in it all. Bucky felt that prickly sensation again. Bowing his golden head, Steve shook it yes, "Only… I wasn't brought in… I… volunteered." "Ok, but why?" Inching closer to the truth, waiting out the Captain, Bucky nodded for him to continue. When Steve wasn't forthcoming, Bucky nudged his foot with a sharp kick, eager to accelerate the story. For a second that frantic, frenzied energy flashed through the room again, pulling on Bucky's sixth sense, "Because I wanted what Loki had… who Loki had. I wanted her, so bad Bucky. So bad." “Steve… come on, man. There are other girls out there-” Cutting his friend off with a shout, “Why should that asshole have her? He doesn’t deserve her. Before he left, she was always so sweet, so cute… then he… abandoned her! Left her! Man, that was… just so hard to see.” “Yea… I know. I mean, I remember when she and Loki were together. And I know his leaving was hard on her.” “Hard on her? She… she stopped eating, stopped sleeping. God, I could hear her crying all night. Know how hard it was to keep away? To know that Loki had forgotten her?” Steve kept talking, about you, about loving you, and the lengths he went to in an effort to court you. He followed up with all the ways you denied him, over and over, until Natasha intervened. That all of it played into Fury’s plan was a convenient cross-point, coincidence, until things had gone wrong this afternoon. Bucky let him tell his story, knowing full well it was merely a version, a fairy tale wrapped around the rotten apple of truth. In Steve’s world he was the hero, wronged by fate, Fury and Loki Odinson. His path had been paved with good intentions and pure hearted motives. It was everyone else who misunderstood, miscalculated and mistook his actions. Could Steve be blamed for that? Of course, this edition of Steve’s tale didn't include beating up a cuffed prisoner. It also omitted the fact that Steve had been pursuing you while actively lying about Loki's whereabouts. Glossing over the details allowed Steve to paint a picture highlighting the best of him, but Bucky had known the little punk a long time. During a long pause that found Steve with his head in his hands, Bucky took a deep breath and asked, “And how did you and Fury know what Loki was up to?” “He was sending mission reports weekly. Loki had been tasked with helping promote peace across the Nine Realms. That he gained so much was the tipping point. Fury felt like a return to Earth would be 2012 all over again, only this time… total annihilation.” Something was still nagging at Bucky, “Had Loki made any threats?” A guilty look passed over the face of Captain America and his normally solid voice wavered, “Not that I was told about.” “So, Fury...?” “Fury needed… no, that’s not right. He wanted to keep close tabs on Loki, monitor his return, his mood, his movements, if he ever came back.” “And since she was his lover, she was a potential point of contact… the entry point?” “A possible one.” “If you were dating her and Nat was posing as her friend, then you’d know if Loki reached out, spilling the details on his plans, and be able to head him off at the pass.” “Exactly!” Oddly proud, Steve was almost happy that he no longer carried the burden by himself. Sure, Natasha knew, had even engineered some of it, but having a friend on his side made Steve feel better. “But Loki didn’t do that? He surprised you today?” Blowing out a frustrated snort, “Natasha went to meet him at the base. Apparently, the high and mighty Prince expected to be greeted by Fury and his forgotten lover.” “That didn’t sit well with the God of Mischief?” “Nope. Somehow he froze Nat. Confined her, I don’t know… Anyway, he came here and…” Trailing off, Steve could still picture his lady’s body, your body bent under his own, your eyes pressed shut in ecstasy. How you ground against what looked like his own sculpted skin, moaning through an orgasm that appeared amazing, and left you with shaky legs. Going silent, Bucky didn’t push, not this time, but he did feel the moment Steve surrendered fully. His shoulders let go with a deep inhale, his voice sounding like that scrawny kid from Brooklyn after a bad scrape, "She loves him, man. And I fucked up. Loki’s got my girl and I don't have any way to find her or fight him." Tears? Sighs? This wasn't Steve. No, Captain America was an unstoppable, unflappable hero. Spinning out was Bucky's move, not Steve’s. Putting his fleshy hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to console the broken man in front of him, "Come on, kid. There's always a way to win. It's what you and I have been doing for over a century." “Not this time, man.” "Why not? Did you come clean? That’s why she left, isn’t it? You told her what was going on and she went after Loki." Shame filled Steve’s heart, his cheeks burning, "I… I didn’t get the chance. She left here, but not alone." "She'll be back." Words, pathetic platitudes, were all Bucky could offer. He had seen you tonight, skittish and jumpy. He saw Steve’s reaction to your disappearance, angry and hurt. Bucky thought that a snowball in hell stood a better chance than you're returning. "Not happening. I lost it on her, Buck. Smashed up mom's dresser, yelled… It was like being outside myself, watching myself do and say these terrible things. And it wasn't her fault. Not really. I mean, yea, she fucked him but he was me, so-" "Whoa. Stop. Say that again?" Steeling himself to relieve this afternoon’s nightmare again, Steve swallowed hard, "Loki, you know how he can… shape shift? Well, he came here as me and I walked in on myself screwing my girl!" Bucky's eyebrows lifted, his full lips curling into a cockeyed grin, "Wait. You're telling me that you came home and saw yourself banging your future fiancé?" Pausing, catching Bucky barely holding back a smirk, "Yea… why?" And for some reason, after all the incredible things Steve had shared tonight, it was the idea of Steve catching himself balls deep in your naughty bits that made Bucky laugh. Once he started, Bucky couldn't control the mad giggles from overtaking him, much to Steve’s astonishment. But then Steve laughed, too, "I guess it is pretty funny, when you think about it." "I mean, your face must have been priceless!" Clutching his stomach as the laughter grew stronger, Bucky had tears running down his cheeks at the image Steve described. Sure, it was a horrible thing, but who could say that they watched themselves having sex like that without being in porno? It took them both a minute to calm down, with Steve settling enough to counter, "Shit, Buck! I was pissed! I probably looked crazy." "That I do believe. What did you say to her? Them?" Now his face flushed scarlet, burning with embarrassment. The lie was just easier to get out, "Um… I don't really remember. I know I surprised Loki and well, my girl fainted from being used by him. The shock of it not being me, ya know?" Bucky didn't buy it, but he let his friend sell the story anyway, "Must have been scary for her. And that's when you secured Loki in the locked shed? And set Nat as your watchdog?" "Yup." Unable to meet his friend’s stormy stare, knowing that it would undo him completely, Steve focused on the edge of the table, running his fingers back and forth along the rough wood. If this were an interrogation and Bucky were sitting across from a suspect and not his best friend, he’d have no problem beating the guilty man into submission. But Steve was his strongest connection to this world, this time, and it was hard to walk away from family, even if they didn’t deserve the benefit of your doubt. To that end, one thing still bothered Bucky, "Why not cancel the party, man?" "Because I still want to marry her." Pulling the small black box from his front pocket, Steve toyed with the thing, his vision of a future with you still so close to realized. Whistling at the size of the sparkly rock enshrined in white gold, "Fancy. What do you think your chances are? Think she'll say yes?" "My chances went down to zero the second Loki dropped down to Earth. As for her answer… Dunno. I… I hope so, but now…", Steve faded off, knowing there was little hope for your romantic reunion if he didn’t have a clear idea of where you were at the moment. "Now Loki’s back." "Right." “And they’re gone, together.” “Right.” “And Fury’s on his way.” Striding in on impossibly high heels, Natasha folded her arms over her chest, eyeing the two gossiping men in front of her. It was going to be a long night. --- Somehow you had made it to the treeline undetected, using the orchard as a shield, ducking behind trunks as you and Loki scrambled toward the edge of the property. You couldn't help looking over your shoulder, checking for pursuit, worrying that Steve or Natasha were going to find the pair of you. There was no possible way they would let you get away, not after today, not with Loki. It was a bit treacherous, though. There was only natural light to guide you through twisted branches and raised roots, so your progress was slower than you wanted, but Loki was with you. Even beaten and bruised, he radiated calm, a soothing balm for your frayed nerves. Something about that made this whole situation seem better, manageable. You were no longer alone, Loki was here, holding your hand, not directing you but consulting. "Pet… the roadway is up ahead. Stay here, tucked out of sight." Pulling your long lost lover close, a small kiss passed between you, a passionate promise to sit still. Stepping tentatively out onto the gravel filled shoulder, Loki surveyed the highway quickly. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear, Loki waved at you, motioning you forward. Striding confidently at your side, Loki stopped in the dead center of the yellow lines, his grounding arm around your waist. A car, low, black, expensive, came racing round the bend, barreling towards you. Tucking your chin to Loki's chest, you gripped him tight, readying for the car's impact. A roar of wind swirled around you, grabbing at your skirt, whipping around your legs. For a second you thought you'd been struck. Breathless, your lungs emptied. There was nothing solid under you, just the feeling of Loki and a current of warm air. Next, you felt the impact of hard earth under your feet, vibrating through your shins, then Loki's grip loosening a touch, "Ok, darling?" Peeking from under his arm you saw lights everywhere. A bar was to your left, filled with noisy drinkers, barely discernible from the traffic around you. Honking horns made you jump, "Where the hell are we?" "Cleveland. I can't yet take us off world. I'm still a bit weak, I'm afraid… but at least we have a bit of a head start on Rogers and Fury." People pushed past you on their way to dinner, chirping happily, not seeing you in their tunnel vision. Being anonymous was a nice change, welcome even, as your personal life had been lost to Steve's intergalactic presence. On the busy streets of Ohio no one took notice of the two well dressed people standing on the damp sidewalk. "Um, you changed?", no longer sporting his battle gear, Loki was dapper in a black suit with an ebony tie. Leaning closer you straightened it, not because it was crooked, but because you needed to feel it… him. The whole look was just shy of too much, but that was the space Loki filled best and honestly, looking at him made your heart swell. Loki was back, and yours. After more than two years, having him close again felt natural, easy. In so many ways, the opposite of your life with Steve. As if somehow sensing your tug into nostalgia, Loki knuckled your chin up, "Just keeping up with you, love." His nose brushed against your own, so weirdly intimate and innocent for a man who had slapped your ass red only hours ago. Resting his forehead to yours, you inhaled that magical combination of burning sparklers, broken in leather with just a hint of honeyed citrus, "God, I forgot how great you smell." "Hmm… dove, there is nothing on Asgard that smells or tastes as wonderful as you. Believe me. I looked." "Careful Loki… people will say we're in love." At your cheekiness, Loki claimed your lips, his hands sliding over the soft fabric of your dress. Clinging to him, unwilling to let go now that he had returned, you puffed out a pouty sigh as Loki withdrew. “Norns. You know how badly I want you again? I can barely think straight for wanting you.” Oblivious to everything around you, lost in the sweeping pools of Loki’s desire filled expression, you toyed with his collar, “We have a lot of catching up to do, for sure.” “I’d love to get reacquainted-” here he paused to lick over his full lower lip, hunger for you dripping from every word, “-but we are on the run from the Earth’s mightiest heroes.” Snickering, you rolled your eyes at the thought of the Avengers, hours away eating charcuterie in Steve’s backyard. Stepping back, you sighed, “You’re right. So, have you got a plan?” Hanging in the air, your sentence had just left your mouth, your tongue still savoring the syllables when a sizzling crack snapped next to your ear. Swinging you away, forcing you to the sidewalk, Loki spun in a blaze of green. Crouched over you, snarling, “Fury! Always a pleasure to see you.” Stepping from the blazing golden circle supplied by Dr. Strange, Fury crossed onto the Cleveland sidewalk from your now empty garden party, weapon trained on Loki’s broad chest. “Wish I could say the same, Loki. You know it’s time to end this. Let’s take our… deliberations back to the office. Talk about this man to man.” A barking laugh left your lover, “Man to man? I am a GOD! And you… you are pathetic. Your attempts to keep me off Earth, imprisoned, away from my woman have all failed.” “Where are you going to go? You can’t get off the planet without help. My help. And it’s yours, Loki, if-” “If I come quietly? Tail between my legs, submissive and compliant?” As the words left his mouth, you watched, focused on the way Loki was shifting closer to you. The long fingers of his right hand were visible, reaching back for you, a silent signal of his escape plan. Fed up and furious, Nick Fury’s voice was flat with frustration, “Loki. Enough. Let’s do this somewhere people aren’t.” “Oh, I don’t know, this seems as good a place as any!” Circling Loki, edging nearer, Fury tried reasoning, “Endangering civilians isn’t going to make things easier. You know that.” “You know, I’d love to talk about how you betrayed me. How you stonewalled my lady… how you put Captain America in my place, as if he could ever be worthy of her. But, I’m a little busy at the moment.” Snapping his fingers, you jumped to your feet, grabbing for Loki’s outstretched hand. The second your palm connected that feeling of floating overcame you once more. This time you were ready for the roar of traveling through space by Loki’s magic, the push of meeting the ground, the curl of Loki’s body against yours. Blinking, you opened your eyes on new scenery, the chill of a beautiful sea soaked morning breaking around you. Straightening the coat of his pristine suit, Loki smiled at you as his fingers wove between your own, “New Asgard. My brother’s realm, now ruled by Valkyrie, by his abdication. We need to find him. He has a lot to answer for.” --- "Just what in the hell happened? I thought I was very clear about avoiding this exact problem." Pacing, hands firmly on his leather belted waist, Nick Fury growled at the bent head of Steve Rogers. "Now Loki’s on the run, dragging your… Well, what is she exactly Captain? Girlfriend? Fiancé? Mark? along for the ride." At those harsh words, Steve started, ready to focus his own anguish somewhere, anywhere. Fury was as good a target as any, as far as Steve was concerned. Pushing off the paving stones, he was stalled from rising by Natasha's firm hand and quiet words, "We have an idea-" "I don't want ideas. Not from you two. What I want are answers, Romanoff, and I want them now." Sitting on the emptied bench of the picnic table, still covered with your pretty tablecloth and jars of peonies, Natasha sighed, "I didn't have time to alert Steve. Loki made it here first and… reconnected-" "Is that what we're calling it?" Snapping, Nick glared from his good eye, his last name never more appropriate. Exhaling deeply, Natasha Romanoff squared her shoulders, "Sir, Loki… manipulated the circumstances." "Just what in the hell does that mean?" All three available eyes locked onto Steve, “What it means, Fury-” lifting his golden head with a jaw clenched tight, “- what it means, is that the son of a bitch showed up here and had his way with my woman. “After Loki… took advantage of her, I had him. He was contained, here, in my shed. It was modified with the restraints Tony provided with Thor’s direction.” “And still, he got away?” Disbelief clouded every syllable from Fury. That his two top agents had failed and so badly, had the normally stoic director steaming. Standing now, Steve was almost chest to chest with the man who’d been pulling the strings of this entire operation. Natasha, watching closely, knowing that she would only be able to subdue one of them if it came to it, gently palmed the dagger concealed in her waist band. Steve thrust forward, brushing past Fury before facing him once more, “Yea, Nick. He did. He got away.” “Do you know how?” Fury’s fingers were curled around his pocket taser, just in case Captain America needed a jolt, reminding him of who was calling the shots here. It wouldn’t do much except give Nick a head start, but with the Captain looking so rough and so raw, the SHIELD director would take any advantage available. “We believe that… he was set free.” Natasha didn’t want to say the words. You had let Loki go, that much she knew to be true, and she supposed that it made some sort of sense. Steve had been right all along. You and Loki did have some cosmic connection that even time and distance couldn’t eliminate. Intervening for the sake of Fury’s mission and Steve’s pining heart, Natasha had no qualms about why she’d guided you into a relationship, in fact, she still believed that he was a better man for you than Loki. But no. No matter what Rogers did, you had never let go with him like you had with the younger son of Odin. Not that you complained. You had taken all of Natasha’s words of praise, her seemingly well intentioned advice, her flat out advocating for Steve in stride. Sure, your friendship suffered for it. Natasha, never having been one for close ties to anyone, had enjoyed the talking and gossiping. It was nice to have a girl around the tower. One who understood period cramps and cravings. A person who would put on high heels and makeup for a night of dancing then suggest hoodies and shorts for watching Pride and Prejudice. That was over now. When she had been, well, frankly, overpowered by Loki and his new paralyzing weaponry, Natasha knew the plan for a peaceful capture of the prince was over. Having seen the aftermath of your reunion with the space god, having seen Steve’s seething anger, the Black Widow felt her own ire spike. Didn’t you know how hard she had worked? How tireless her efforts had been to keep you and Loki apart? Just how invested she was in joining you and Steve together? It was like you wanted to throw all of that away, squandering those bonding moments where you had become something more than a mission, those times when you were Natasha’s only real friend. Couldn’t you just go along with the plan, unknowing, quietly? She knew you couldn’t, wouldn’t. It wasn’t in your nature. So, channeling that frustration into the cold facade that so many had seen just before they met their end, Natasha had to compartmentalize the “you” she cared about away from the “you” she was responsible for trailing. Both had pissed her off. Now, hearing the gruff grumble of Director Fury bearing down on her, Natasha could only accept the berating tone of his hard words. He wasn’t wrong. She and Steve had fucked up royally, the whole mission was blown, and while Bucky had certainly aided in your escape, he was blameless collateral damage. The consequences fell to you and the Captain. Killing you was going to be hard for them both, but if it had to be done, so be it. Shrugging, Natasha started again, “Nick, we have a tracker on her. We know that she and Loki made it to Cleveland, but he can’t get away from Earth without some aid.” “Well, that’s good to know, if only it was some new intelligence. You’re tracking her? Great! Where is she now? Don't know huh? Well, she and Loki tele-ported from a city sidewalk, in front of me and hundreds of civilians, with no word on their next destination. “And make no mistake. Loki will find a way off of this planet and when that happens, there’ll be nothing else we can do.” “So what? Let him go! He’s won, Nick. It’s over.” Throwing himself down onto the bench, Steve’s dejected voice breaking, he slumped over his feet. “That’s not an option Cap. Loki is more powerful now than he’s ever been. You both read the reports. He wasn’t just hanging around on Asgard. No, Loki was negotiating peace between his native realm of Jotunheim and his adoptive home. He was gifted with tools and technology that no human could hope to wield. Earth ending stuff, Captain.” “Whatever plans you had of making peace are over now. There’s no way Loki gives us any help… and why would he after all this?” “Rogers, I’ll do whatever I must to keep this planet and the creatures on it safe. Loki is a threat to that, just by existing. With his new powers, high placed connections and intergalactic royal title, he had the potential to be unstoppable.” Seething breath puffed out the chests of the two men standing toe to toe. Machismo made Natasha want to vomit. Men. “Look, I’ll go after them. Steve, stay here, in case she reaches out. I’ll take the quinjet and trace their path.” Standing now herself, Natasha turned to the depressed super soldier, patting his arm, “Bucky’s still here. I’ll let you know when I’ve found anything.” “No. Nat, I can’t let you go alone. It’s my fault, too.” “You’re no good to me like this, Rogers.” “But, She’s-” Cutting him off, Natasha stepped closer to Nick, “I know, but you’re too involved. If tough choices need to be made, can you?” Gulping hard, passing a rough hand over his face, Steve frowned, “I can do my duty, if that’s what you’re asking.” “Steve.” Her tone said it all the words she wouldn't vocalize. I don’t trust you, not now, not like this. I don’t believe you will have my back at the cost of the woman you claim to love. I don’t think you can do the job. Fury didn't allow her the chance to elaborate, jumping in with his definitive voice, “Natasha’s right, Rogers. You’re staying right where you are, on the bench. Romanoff and I are going to resolve this issue without any further problems.” Half hearted, strength sapped, Steve raised his eyes to the leather clad figures before him, “Please. Please, Nick… Nat. Don’t hurt her.” “I promise, Steve. I won’t.” And in the second, all three knew she was lying.

--- Finding Thor’s shanty was easier than you expected. A friendly fisherman was only too happy to point you in the right direction. What you saw upon arrival was not entirely what you had expected when visiting Loki’s brother. It was a beat up looking cottage, surrounded by empty cases of cheap Midgardian beer, crumpled take out containers, and a collection of well fed seagulls situated near the edge of the village, “Ugh. What a pig.” “Loki! It’s… charming?” Your admonishing whisper turned the statement into a question at the sight of Loki’s disgusted face. For a second you just stood at Loki’s side, staring at the weather beaten front door, your hand clasped in his strong one. “It’s disgusting.” Agreeing with a small nod, “Um, yes. Yes, it is. But, this is your brother’s house and you said we needed to talk to him. Step one is ringing his bell.” “No. I won’t do it.” You had forgotten about this side of Loki. Fastidious, precise and obstinate, Loki could cop an attitude that had the ability to drive someone crazy. Someone like you. Over the last two years it had been easy to forget all the little things that made Loki prickly. It was even easier to forgive him. Since he’d left, you had looked at your life together through rose glasses, through a gentle fog of missing him, and those elements of your relationship that were less than perfect had been abandoned. Now, standing outside the hovel that Thor called a home, as a fresh day dawned over New Asgard, you were reminded of all those imperfect things that came with loving Loki. A wave of need, love, and longing for him rolled over you. All of those imperfections made you perfect for each other. Rising up on your toes you pressed a small kiss to Loki’s pout, taking the tall God by surprise, “What was that for?” Shyly grinning, you bit into your bottom lip, “I missed you… missed kissing you.” “Then perhaps you should come over here again?” That was all the invitation you needed. Stepping into Loki’s space, your chest resting against his own, you savored the nearness of him, as himself. He wasn’t playing at being Steve. Loki was here, he was with you, and if you weren’t mistaken his hands were drifting down your backside. The rush of it, well, it was familiar and new at the same time. How Loki seemed to inhale your breath, inhale you, as his mouth opened to accept your lips. His gentle exhale, a moan, as his tongue licked over your own. It was overwhelming. It was wonderful. Stepping back, you started to pull away, only for Loki to wrap his arms around your waist, “Not so fast, darling.” Losing yourself, you focused solely on the firmness of his body, the weight of his hands on your hips, the intensity of Loki’s desire. Intoxicating, heady, you leaned into those feelings. Kissing Loki back, you tangled his hair in your hand, earning another one of those sultry sounds that made your legs weak. How had you lived without the passion and pleasure he provided for so long? A smashing crash broke the quiet morning causing you to jump in Loki’s embrace, “What the hell was that?” Immediately on the defense, Loki pushed you behind him, crouching into a protective stance. From over his broad shoulder you watched, worried about the new danger coming your way, unsure how to help your reactive lover. Another rattle had Loki palming his dagger, anticipating an attack. That’s when a raccoon, bigger than your childhood terrier, scuttled from under an overturned trash can carrying what looked like a half eaten slice of pizza in its mouth. “Appalling! Mother would be modified!” Loki cursed as he offered you his hand, kicking away an empty glass bottle, "Why is he living like a dirty animal, surrounded by trash? One would think they were back on Sakaar!" “I don’t know what’s going on with Thor, but we came here for a reason. Let’s get it over with, ok?” Loki shook his head, refusing to step any closer, “He’ll have to come out here. I won’t go inside this… dilapidated shit box.” Sighing, “Fine. Fine, I’ll do it.” Stepping around a pile of broken electronics, you carefully picked your way to the front door, gracefully knocking on the splintering wood. After an answerless few seconds, you tried again, rapping lightly with your knuckles before turning to flash Loki a small smile. That’s when you noticed the striking woman striding towards you and your returned lover. “My, my… is that pretty Prince Loki I see?” Even her voice was sexy, you thought, as the sarcastic words dripped from her full lips. The swaggering stranger radiated cool, calm, sensual energy. Otherworldly energy that made you feel mortal and boring. You couldn’t help tugging your skirt straight and fluffing your hair as she got closer. “Ah… Valkyrie! How are you?” Hugging her tightly when she opened her arms, Loki found that he was genuinely happy to see the fierce, battle tested warrior. Smirking at your man, she countered, “That’s King Valkyrie to you. Your brother crowned me, or have you forgotten?” “On the contrary. It seems like he finally realized what I’ve known all our lives.” “Which is what, exactly?” “He’s not fit to be the ruler of Asgard, obviously.” Drawing right up to Loki, hands on her hips, Valkyrie leveled her dark eyes at his, “What would you know about ruling, Mischief?” “Enough to know that you’re good at it. Enough to know that I no longer want to be the King of Asgard.” “Is that so? And what’s changed your mind?” At those skeptical words, Loki wound an arm around your waist, tugging you close, “I’ve got more… important concerns these days.” Looking you over with her shrewd, searching gaze, but speaking to Loki, “And she likes you? Are you sure?” Laughing, the sound deep and rich, “As much as you like fighting and drinking.” “I hardly drink anymore. As King I have mead only on important occasions, I have to keep my wits about me the rest of the time.” Sharing a laugh, the two shared another small hug before Valkyrie turned to you directly, “Alright. Who’s this then?” Loki started to respond but you cut him off, extending a hard towards the newly crowned King of Asgard, “Uh, I can answer for myself, thank you, Loki. Valkyrie is it? Nice to meet you. And, yes, I love Loki.” Making a face that was part disgust, part pride, Valkyrie smirked, “Love? Oh no. Hasn’t anyone told you yet? Loving the Odinson boys is hard on a girl.” Pulling Loki in for a small kiss, taking him by surprise, “I’ll take my chances.” Shrugging nonchalantly, “Suit yourself.” Focusing on Loki once more, Valkyrie shifted on her feet, “Listen, if you’re looking for Thor, he’s not here.” “Oh? And where exactly is the lovable oaf?” Hitching a thumb over her shoulder, pointing up the hill, “At the palace… the new palace, that is. You can come and, please, don’t forget your girlfriend.” Falling in line behind the King, Loki couldn’t help but add, “You know Val, I think I liked you better when you were drunk.” Snorting in response, “And I know I liked you better when I was drunk, weird right?” Bringing up the rear, your own sarcastic comment dying on your throat when the Palace of New Asgard came into view. Banners of gold shimmered in the light of the rising sun, flapping in the breeze of the young morning, beckoning you closer. You hugged Loki’s arm tighter, excited and exhilarated by the sight before you. “Home is a people, not a place. Those were some of my father’s last words to Thor and I… and while I can never take you to the place where I grew up, this… this is the home of my people.” “Loki… it’s beautiful!” Valkyrie, stopping so you could both catch up, “It’s getting there. Thor’s been a huge help. Come on, let's show you around the palace and let your brother know you’re here.” ---To Be Continued!

My minxes: @sammy-jo1977 @vodka-and-some-sass @just-random-obsessions @brokenthelovely @lots-of-loki @thefallenbibliophilequote @iamverity @iluvsumbucky @unadulteratedwizardlove @wolfsmom1 @procrastinatinglikeabitch @mizfit2 @shxdowofdarkness @nonsensicalobsessions @ahintofkiwistrawberry @alexakeyloveloki @jessiejunebug @rorybutnotgilmore @crystalizedcaramel @lokislittlecorner @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81 @caffiend-queen @thenatalie @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @jenjen8675309 @that-one-person

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki multipart #MCU fanfiction #mcu x reader #mcu x you #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #bucky barnes #valkyrie #thor

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kenzieam · 4 years ago

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Us This Way - Oneshot

Rating: M

Warnings: Angst, heartache, some language ****TRIGGER WARNINGS****

Word Count: 4417

Tags: @jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt @badassbaker @pinknerdpanda @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink

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Okay, so this frickin’ song gets me every time.

Kudos to the beautiful Lady Gaga for this hauntingly beautiful gem.

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Lev swallowed past the lump in her throat, skimmed the note in her hand one last time. She’d wrote and rewrote the words so often in her head she knew them by heart, but it didn’t make reading them any easier.

James,

By the time you sober up and read this, I’ll be gone.

I can’t do this anymore, the drinking, the fights, the lies.

You aren’t the same man I fell in love with, and I can’t say anymore that I’m the same girl you knew either.

When we started this journey, you told me things would never change; that it would be just the two of us, against the world, travelling and sharing your music and voice and I, naively I guess, believed it.

But everything is different. You’re drunk all the time, drinking to excess and its only going to be a matter of time before your followers see it too, there’s already gossip on the fan sites about your behaviour.

And I’m not leaving because of that, I could deal with the alcohol if it weren’t for the craziness that comes with it.

These women aren’t here for you, they’re here for the idea of you, the Rockstar, and I can’t watch you take them into your hotel rooms anymore, I can’t hear you through the walls with them.

I deserve better and, to be honest, so do you but I can’t help you anymore.

God knows I’ve tried.

I hope one day you find peace and closure from whatever haunts you so badly and discover your voice again.

I love you; I always have.

I always will,

Levi

A tear burned hot down her cheek, but she wiped it away absently, clearing her throat. She’d already wasted so many tears, she couldn’t spare any more.

Laying the note silently on the bedside table, Lev took one last lingering glance at the man, her former lover and friend, current rockstar touring and conquering the world, now passed out face down in the hotel bed, back scratched and red from his latest groupie foursome she’d chased out just minutes ago, two or three empty liquor bottles visible among the tangled sheets, then turned and left the room.

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

A throbbing headache dragged him from oblivion later and, for a time, James just lay there, eyes half-open, trying to piece together the last hours.

He remembered two, or was it three? Groupies: giggling girls with fake tits and trout pouts, wearing little more than ace bandages and laughing at his every word like he was the most charming asshole on Earth and everything that fell out of his mouth was pure gold.

Lev had never put up with his shit. She’d always set him straight with a few well-chosen words, a sharp glare with her hypnotizing violet eyes.

Come to think of it, where was Lev? Usually she was prodding him awake by now, pushing coffee into his face, talking about getting up, getting showered and getting on the damn bus.

Bottles clinked as he moved, struggled in the tangled sheet to push himself upright. His back stung and faint memories surfaced, one of the harpies scratching him, moaning theatrically as he fucked her, wishing it were Levi beneath him still instead of this random stranger.

God, he hoped he’d worn a condom, not that it stopped theses psychos; Christ, every week there was a new accusation, a new girl stepping forward claiming he’d impregnated her.

Thank fuck for his lawyer, Sam Wilson; the man was a gem, with the retainer bills to prove it.

“Lev?” He croaked, wincing as fresh pain shot through his skull.

No answer.

“Lev!” He chanced a shout, growling and grabbing his throbbing temples. “Fuck, where are you?”

He turned his head, squinting before freezing as his glare landed on the letter.

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

“So, you just left, huh?” Steve asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, and staring at it contemplatively.

“Yeah, same as you.” There was a hint of venom in Lev’s voice and the blond man smirked.

“Yeah, same as me. Got tired of the shit.”

“Everyday.”

Steve sighed, staring out at nothing, thoughts a thousand miles away. “Remember when we first started out?”

“You, me and James in that old van? Driving from bar to bar and playing for peanuts?”

“You’d go up on stage when he reached for you, join him for a few songs?”

Lev sighed sadly. “Long time ago, man. We were just fucking kids.”

“Yep, but you two? Timeless. I remember when I first saw you. First day of grade three in Ms. Hawthorn’s class; James elbowed me and said, ‘that’s the girl I’m going to marry’.”

“He did not!” Lev fought a smile, she’d heard this story so many times, her reaction varying from honest disbelief to warm-hearted nostalgia depending on how fresh her latest pain was.

“He did.” Steve replied, smiling fondly. “Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Yeah, well… something else has caught his eye now.”

“You can’t save him, Lev. He has to want to save himself.”

“I know… it just hurts.”

“I know.” Steve murmured quietly. “I know.”

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

‘Rockstar James Barnes’ newest run-in with the paparazzi, next on TMZ’

Lev groaned and turned off the TV, throwing the remote onto the scarred coffee table.

Obviously, he was perfectly capable of carrying on with his shenanigans without her, not that her pleas for him to stop had ever fallen on anything but deaf ears.

She glanced at her cell phone, then cursed and purposefully looked away. Every day for years she’d seen his name come up on her display, multiple times a day, through the night and she’d come to expect it.

The calls after she’d left had come heavy and hot, barely a pause in between except for increasingly abusive texts and voicemail messages. When they had changed to broken, mournful, pleading messages she’d thrown her cell away, smashed it for good measure.

It was just habit to look for his name now, a useless throwback.

She had left a month ago and James’ spiral of self-destruction was becoming a nightly news story.

She didn’t envy Pepper, his long-suffering publicist, nor Nick, the rep from Fury Records; word was both were close to dropping him soon, if he didn’t get his act together.

Cursing herself afresh, Lev reached for the remote and flicked the set back on. She was a fucked up as him sometimes, intent on making it hurt.

James’ face appeared on the screen and Lev was shocked at how haggard he now looked, pale and drawn. His hair was lanky, in his face, clothes wrinkled. As the paparazzi swarmed him, leaving the latest club, he glanced up at the cameras and Lev was struck dumb by the utter misery on his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, either from sleep problems (something he’d had more than his share of in the time Lev had known him) or he’d taken up hard drugs.

The pap screamed questions at him, jostling each other and him as he struggled through the mob, the slightly shell-shocked bottle-blonde woman on his arm being all but dragged behind. What security James hadn’t chased off was all but overwhelmed by the reporters and fans, light flashes strobing the scene.

“Just leave me the FUCK alone!” James roared, pushing hard at one spectacled paparazzi, knocking him to the ground and only inflaming the mob more.

Lev felt a surge of fear, mixed in with a healthy dose of rage at the sight. Someone could easily get hurt tonight, lines could be crossed that would never be forgotten. James was juggling with the remains of his career right now and he had the shakes.

“Are the rumors true?” One pap screeched.

“Where’s Lev?” Another yelled and Lev winced. They were still asking him, four weeks into her departure.

“Is the picture of you snorting a white substance outside The Down Low real?”

Shit.

James didn’t answer beyond a wild-eyed sneer then he was scrambling into a large black SUV, the confused milling of his few remaining security guards telling Lev they hadn’t expected him to drive; then the SUV was screeching away, paparazzi and security scattering like flies, their shouted questions turning into screams of shock and fear and Lev clapped her hands to her mouth, biting back her own scream.

He had totally gone crazy; without Lev there to anchor him, he was dangerously adrift.

The clip ended and the TMZ crew started rehashing it, some expressing sympathy for James and others outright condemning him for losing his shit so badly.

“Does anyone know where she went?” Harvey asked, sipping on his trademark straw.

“Who, Levi Riel?” One the lackeys frowned in confusion.

“Who else?” Harvey laughed. “I mean, James Barnes was a wild man before but now he’s completely off the rails. Something’s happened there but his camp won’t comment. Any luck on contacting Lev herself?”

They’d tried, endlessly, until Lev had smashed her phone and gotten a new number; so far, that hadn’t been leaked but the pap was sneaky and resourceful, Lev had been in the spotlight long enough as James’ gal Friday to know how it worked and she didn’t expect to remain incommunicado forever. Besides, she was already fielding calls from other musicians, hearing she was free and desperate for her services. So far, she’d said no, it was still too raw for her to go back into the industry, but her savings wouldn’t last forever.

Would she be alright? Running into James at an award show somewhere, contracted to another singer, seeing him with some other woman (not that that was in any way new), or perhaps worse, doing just fine now without her? How long would he last like this? There were plenty of examples out there of musicians who’d self-destructed, died by suicide or misadventure, and if James had been spotted snorting white powder already, he was well on his way to joining the club.

Her phone rang and Lev almost dropped her glass, despite staring at the damned thing almost compulsively looking for James’ name, the sound still made her heart race.

“Hey, Steve.”

“You saw that?” His voice was resigned. “TMZ?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Every miserable second.”

“You going to tell me to go back to him?” A part of Lev wanted Steve to say no, but a larger part wanted to hear yes.

“No. I was going to tell you to make sure you stay the hell away. This isn’t your mess anymore, hon.”

“But… my leaving-”

“Didn’t do anything, he was already circling the drain, you were right to get yourself out when you did.”

Lev blinked back tears, wiped them angrily away. “When did it all go so wrong, Steve?”

He exhaled sadly. “Who knows? After Clint overdosed?”

“After my miscarriage?” Lev whispered, the memory of James holding her, crying with her on that hotel bathroom floor, blood smeared on her inner thighs rushed back into her mind’s eye.

They… he’d wanted a child so badly, back in the good years, when they’d lay sated and exhausted in bed together, murmuring softly before sleep claimed them both.

“I want a baby,” he’d whisper, eyes searching hers. “You’d be such a good mama.”

“Not right now,” she’d always answer, although the thought of growing round with his seed sparked heat low in her belly. “It’s not the right time, you’ve had five consecutive number one hits, you’re on top of the world.”

“We are.” He’d reply, reaching up and stroking his calloused thumb over her bottom lip.

“Maybe.” Steve replied softly. “It’s still not your fault, Lev.”

She couldn’t hear anymore; the memories were rushing back too hard and too fast. “Goodbye, Steve.”

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

A part of her expected the call, and she reached for the phone, half-awake, when it rang sometime after two a few nights later.

“Miss Riel?” A clipped, professional voice. “This is Dr. Keening from the UCLA Medical Center, I'm calling about your husband, James.”

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

Lev wouldn’t let herself examine the reasons why she dropped everything and booked the next flight to Los Angeles, maybe it was seeing him so distraught on TV, maybe it was thinking about their past; the way he’d held her so tightly, so lovingly, even as he cried so hard with her that night, the realization so fresh that their child, almost too early to even be called a baby yet, had left them already.

She gave the Uber driver directions then leaned back in the seat, staring out the window without really seeing and, all too soon, the car was pulling to a stop in front of the hospital.

The sterile smell inside made her stomach roil and she almost turned around and left, then squared her shoulders and pressed the elevator button for the right floor.

A nurse directed her to the correct room then had the grace to leave her alone. Lev milled around the hallway for a beat, chewing on her lip and struggling to find a reason, any reason, why she should walk through that door.

This…. He wasn’t her problem anymore, she’d left.

But they could both use some closure.

He was asleep when she entered the room but before she could turn around and leave his eyelids fluttered. He’d always been able to sense when she was near, and that connection apparently hadn’t faded in their separation. The instant his gaze landed on her the cloudiness vanished and a desperate, clinging hope took its place.

“Lev?” His voice cracked with exhaustion, his hand shaking as he reached for her and Lev was surprised by how hard it was to not step forwards and take it, smooth back the dark hair plastered on his sweaty forehead. He’d lost weight, dark rings under his eyes, the muscles that always flexed so deliciously as he moved fading away.

She squeezed her fist around the handle of her bag and waited, not moving forwards.

His fingers twitched, confusion joining the hope. “Levi?” His voice was plaintive.

“What are you doing, James?” She clipped.

“What?” His brow furrowed, his breathing beginning to speed up. Finally, he dropped his hand, pulling it back into his lap, fingers clenching.

“Acting like this? Getting caught by the gossip rags snorting coke? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He’d obviously not expected to be chastised and wasn’t that the heart of the issue; he’d always gotten his way before, the coddled rockstar, no one calling him out with any degree of seriousness, no one but Lev anyway and she’d always caved before laying out any real boundaries, never done something so extreme as leave before.

Was that why she’d come back then, because she felt responsible for this?

The furrow in his brow deepened, the simple hope in his face vanishing. Now came the temper, the short bursts of fury meant to force his will, likening him to a spoiled child, an attitude that Lev regretted not shutting down years ago when it first started raising it’s ugly head.

He stared at her, eyes dark and wounded, “you left,” he hissed.

“I couldn’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” A compulsive snap, he knew exactly what she was talking about, but he’d never owned up to it, never, not once.

“Watch you with all those girls, see you take them into your room, hear you fuck them through the walls, chase their skanky asses out the next morning so I could get you out of your drunken stupor and looking like a human being only to have you treat me like a piece of shit by doing it all over again the next night!” Lev hissed, enraged to feel the prick of tears in her eyes.

For a moment she was surprised to see betrayal flash through his eyes. “They don’t mean anything. They’re just groupies-”

“So that makes it alright? And telling people I’m your wife? What the fuck, James?!”

“Well, you should be!” He snarled. His arm snapped out, sweeping across the rolling table hovering over his bed, loud crashes sounding as everything on it hit the floor. “I fucking asked you enough times!”

He had. So many times, and every time she’d said ‘no’. What had held her back?

“Grow up.” Lev snapped, her face heating. How many times had they argued like this? How many times had they danced this twisted dance?

Too many fucking times.

“Fuck you.”

“No, James. Fuck you. I’m done. I don’t know why I came here anyway… I’m, I’m done. Have a nice life, what’s left of it anyway.” She turned to leave before the fury she was feeling was overwhelmed by the hurt and disappointment; what had she expected? Why did she always do this? Hadn’t she learned yet that he would never grow up and be the man she saw deep inside him? When would she stop hurting herself trying to draw that out?

She needed to stop trying.

“Hey. What are you doing?” James demanded but Lev ignored him, marching back out the door she’d just entered moments ago. “Hey!”

Lev stopped and took a deep breath, collecting her words. Without turning she swiveled her head enough to look at him.

“I’m done, James. I can’t watch you self-destruct anymore. I tried for years to be there for you, because I love you… but I can’t do this anymore, I need to live my own life.” Without waiting for an answer, she swiveled back, let her feet carry her away even as she felt her heart break anew in her chest.

If this was the right thing, why did it hurt so bad, why did she feel like she was abandoning him just when he needed her the most?

“Levi!” His voice broke on the scream, reverberating around her in the hallway but she didn’t turn back.

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

Ten Months Later

Lev sorted through her mail, separating the junk from the real then paused, lifting a large, cream coloured envelope from the pile.

Who sent letters anymore?

Splitting the seal, Lev pulled out folded sheets of thick paper, the same colour of the envelope, definitely expensive. As it opened, another smaller piece of paper fell out and Lev reached for it, brows drawn in confusion.

JAMES BARNES – STRIPPED BARE

A SPECIAL EXCLUSIVE, ACCOUSTIC ONLY ENGAGEMENT

She stopped reading, dropping the ticket to the table, and focussed on the letter instead.

Levka.

It’s been a while since we spoke, but I wanted to send you this anyway.

I understand why you left, and I applaud you for having the strength to do it. It seems to be the kick he finally needed.

James took a break from music, as you may or may not have realized but has recently decided to return, albeit in a much different capacity from before.

He has done away with the show, or ‘bullshit’ as he so eloquently puts it. No more pyrotechnics, no more lightshows and theatrics; he said he wants to return to the way he started, just him and his guitar, the band behind him.

Enclosed is a ticket to his first show and a plane ticket, first class, to reach it. The seat is in the back, where James won't be able to see you, if that is your wish.

I leave it up to you whether you attend but understand that James has not asked me to do this, and I have not told him I have.

Regards, Pepper

Lev stared at the letter for a full minute, marveling despite herself at the publicist’s flowing handwriting, her graceful hand.

She had stayed with James after all, even when Lev had left.

The second sheet was a printed plane ticket, leaving the next morning. Lev, if she took it, would land in mid-afternoon, giving her a few hours to gird herself before going to the show.

She recognized the venue listed; James had played it in his earlier years, just as he was starting to become famous and it was smaller, intimate, suited to an unplugged show. The seat shown was in the back, just as Pepper said; Lev could attend the show and leave again without James ever seeing her.

But did she want to?

What would it feel like to see him again, to hear him sing again the way he used to, his voice clear and full? When he’d reach his hand out to her, pull her onstage and sing with her, gaze at her so lovingly as they shared a microphone, voices melding and complimenting each other so beautifully?

Could she handle seeing him again?

She hardly knew.

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

Taking a deep breath, Lev opened the door and stepped inside. Other ticket holders milled around, no one paying her any mind. She prayed no one would recognize her, going so far as to dye her auburn hair a lustrous blue-black, switch out her contacts for the thick wayfarer frames she usually only wore in quiet moments spent relaxing or working from home.

The show was going to start in only a few minutes, but Lev resisted the urge to find her seat just yet, drifting until she gathered the will to enter the main area.

Finding her seat, Lev stared at the stage, hardly noticing as others shuffled to find their own places. Although small, the venue appeared to be sold out. Scott sat at the drums; Thor held an acoustic bass and James sat on a stool at the front, head bent over his favourite redwood acoustic guitar, the one he’d always said reminded him of Lev’s hair.

One jean-clad leg bent, worn biker boot on the footrest, he looked better than Lev remembered. Some of his physique had come back, thigh straining the jean’s stitching, biceps visible through the t-shirt he wore as he plucked the strings slowly, listening for the sound.

He looked good. He looked healthy again, his hair lustrous under the light, cheeks dark with just the right amount of stubble, fingers strong and sure, the boot flat on the stage floor tapping slowly to the beat in his head.

Lev felt a riot of emotions swell in her chest. This was the James she’d fallen in love with, the man she’d spent their early years with, before the vampire of fame began to bleed him dry.

He lifted his head, flashed a gorgeous smile at the audience and the show began.

It was beautiful, James’ voice strong and clear; the audience sat spellbound, hypnotized and Lev knew he’d made the right decision; to go back to his roots, let his talent speak for itself. He would enjoy a long career like this, unplugged and real.

Time passed like the blink of an eye and suddenly, too suddenly, James was standing, setting his guitar in its rest and stepping to the side of the stage. The spotlight followed, leaving Thor and Scott in the dark and illuminating a gleaming grand piano. The audience cheered in building excitement as he sat, adjusted the microphone.

He had not played piano is one of his shows for years, Lev wasn’t even sure he knew how to anymore.

The din died down, waiting and James looked out over them as he began to speak, a small, sad smile pulling at his lips.

“A while ago my life fell apart,” he stated simply. “I got tangled up in fame and being a rockstar and pushed away everyone that cared. Even Lev, the most important person in the world to me.”

Lev felt her cheeks warm, edginess creeping into her limbs. Was he about to blast her? Was she about to get her proverbial ass handed to her? Did he know she was here?

“She left,” he continued. “And I crashed. The only woman I’ve ever loved, and I hurt her everyday until she couldn’t take my bullshit anymore.” He swiped at a tear and Lev bit her lip.

“I hit rock bottom and Lev came to see me one more time. But instead of being grateful, of begging her for another chance, I acted like a total asshole and pushed her away again. And that was finally it, Lev leaving me like that was the push I needed to get my life together. I haven’t seen Lev since, I don’t deserve to…. but I owe everything to her.”

Lev heard sniffles around her.

“A while ago I heard this song for the first time. It made me cry like a baby and I listened to it for hours, until I couldn’t cry anymore. It brought about this idea I had about ‘stripping bare’ and starting over again…. This song is for you, Lev. I love you, baby.”

He focussed on the keys and a haunting melody began. Lev recognized it immediately, for it too had provoked her own tears the first time she’d heard it.

That Arizona sky burnin’ in your eyes.

You look at me and, babe, I wanna catch on fire.

It’s buried in my soul, like California gold.

You found the light in me that I couldn’t find.

His voice was heart-breaking, emotion pouring through as he sang, the piano a poignant, moving accompaniment, his fingers sure on the keys.

So when I’m all choked up,

But I can’t find the words.

His voice broke, but he pushed through.

Every time we say goodbye baby, it hurts.

When the sun goes down

And the band won’t play,

I’ll always remember us this way.

The band joined in quietly and Lev was lost in the sound, swaying slightly to his beautiful voice as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Too soon, the song ended, James’ head bowing as he breathed the last words, the last notes fading and the audience sat still, stunned silent for a beat before exploding.

Lev exhaled raggedly, wiping at her tears. As she watched, James tipped his head back, tears shining on his face and swallowed hard, seeming to gather himself before returning to the show.

The crowd continued to scream and cheer as James nodded once in acknowledgement, the smile on his lips tempered by the pain in his eyes.

He was open and vulnerable, stripped bare and he’d never been more beautiful in Lev’s eyes.

God, she still loved him, but was that enough?

Was she the key to his success, or the poison?

Should she go to him, step through the crowd and join him onstage, forgive him and start their next chapter together?

Or leave, let them both live their lives and follow the song, simply ‘remember us this way’?

She decided.

#bucky barnes #au bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #au bucky angst #bucky and lev #bucky and levi #au bucky fanfic #au bucky barnes fanfiction #au bucky drama

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whathappenedtomyweekend · 4 years ago

Text

It’s Just A Spark Ch. 9 - Night Shifts

Gobber couldn't believe his eyes. What had originally started as a casual glance out the window had spiralled and now consisted of him staring down at the sight on the street in front of the fire department in parts fascination and parts complete and utter disbelief.

There he was, his colleague who might as well be his own son, the boy with the gapped front teeth and the scraped knees, the young man who was so busy reading that he forgot to eat sometimes, and the man who had told him, only a few months ago, that if his fate was to become an old cat lady it would be fine with him - beaming at the young woman facing him. She had blonde hair, tied up to a ponytail and was dressed, similarily to him, in sports clothes. They were still talking as they came to a halt in front of the building, both smiling at each other.

And of course, Gobber knew that this was Astrid Hofferson.

He watched Hiccup - Hiccup - grin down at her and gently press his lips to her cheeck (Gobber almost had a heart attack), then shortly hug her and turn around to walk up to the building, still grinning from ear to ear.

Well. Gobber remembered the first time the young woman had set her stove on fire. He remembered the exact expression Hiccup had had on his face and the way his eyes were flickering to the side when he'd mumbled something about his ears only being "this red, Gobber, because we were just near a fire, it was hot in there" after they had already been outside again for at least five minutes.

Gobber tried to act normal as the door opened and closed with a click.

"Morning!"

"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up to work!"

Hiccup placed his phone and headphones onto his desk, ducking away from Gobber's prosthetic arm.

"Sorry, I got held up."

"Yeah, I could see you getting held up alright - in the arms of a certain young blonde, I believe?"

He watched Hiccup's cheek flush and laughed, giving him an enthusiastic pat on the back.

"Was about time, boy! You were one arm and three cats away from becoming me."

Hiccup snorted, "Yeah, right. Don't think having a girlfried will deter me from adapting that lifestyle."

There were not many things you could get past Gobber without noticing. And words, no matter how fast- or low-spoken were definitely not on that list.

"Girlfriend now, eh?"

"I, uh - I mean - oh, man."

Hiccup looked at him, a bewildered expression on his face as if he'd only realised this for himself just now, his hands already flying up to his hair.

"Ooh my God, Gobber, she's my girlfriend. She's my girlfriend," he repeated as if this alone had been something he had never thought to actually be possible.

"Oh, boy," the older man chuckled upon seeing Hiccup's disbelief change to surprise to complete and utter joy.

"Astrid. Hofferson. Is. My girlfriend."

"Yeah, how'd you do that? I'm surprised you're able to hold up a conversation with that vocabulary you've got yourself, boy."

Hiccup had not really thought about this earlier when Astrid had accompanied him back to work instead of his apartment, but now, standing in front of his locker next to the bathroom, his only options for the monthly meeting with the mayor and comissioners a crumpled-up old shirt with Toothless' handiwork at the hem and gym shorts, he regretted not having stopped by at his apartment prior to this.

The young man uttered a curse on his breath but knew he didn't really have time to explore any further options.

So he quickly grabbed the shirt, returned to the bathroom and pulled it over his head, stepped out of his towel and put the remaining clothes on.

He couldn't wait until this day was over. The morning run had energised him, but a nine-hour response-shift ahead and a two-hour meeting were already pretty high on the list of things that would use up that energy.

Thinking about said run - or rather, its aftermath- , however, sent his heart spiralling and made him grin at his reflection in the department's bathroom mirror.

She'd said yes. To being his girlfriend, essentially. Or had she? Had she misunderstood him and had only agreed to an extended status of "just dating"?

Oh, God. Suddenly Hiccup didn't feel all that confident anymore.

"Okay," He leaned on the edges on the sink and stared at his ruffled, still wet-haired reflection. "Stop it. Get it together. Just ask her tomorrow, just to clarify."

Yes. Just to make sure they were on the same page.

His thoughts went - in an effort to take his mind off the question of their 'status' - over the preparations left to be made for their date. He'd have to sweep the flat over before 15:30, and clean the bathroom thoroughly. Also maybe dust off the shelves. Get something to wear - oh, no. He remembered his last confrontationnwith his wardrobe situatuon.

This was their fifth date.

He was out of shirts.

Shit.

"Hey, Gobber, you ready to-" Hiccup broke off when he saw Snotlout at his desk, waving at him.

"Yo."

Hiccup stepped in further, furrowung his brows in confusion.

"Where's Gobber?"

"Went to get lunch."

"What? The meeting's in five minutes, and we're already running late! When did he leave? Did he say anything about when-"

"Woah, take it easy, cuz," his cousin interrupted him lightly and spun his chair around. "Gobber's been late to these meetings since they exist."

Hiccup exhaled and chuckled, sitting down next to the dark-haired man.

"Okay, true. How's your morning been?"

"It was okay. Pretty chill. I took Hooky out for our morning walk - did you know Fish is out of town?"

Hiccup's head perked up. "He is?"

"Yeah, the café's all closed up."

"Huh. No, he didn't mention," Hiccup leaned on his desk and squinted his eyes at his cousin. "He usually always lets us know."

"Maybe something urgent came up and he's not ready to talk about it yet?" Snotlout wondered aloud and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "I hope he comes back soon, I could kill for a plate of his waffles."

Hiccup smirked. "He'd kiss you again if you told him that in person."

He knew his cousin would never admit it if he asked, but it was quite obvious, even to Hiccup. Snotlout himself blushed, grumbling,

"It happened once, okay? And it obviously didn't mean anything to him, since he never brought it up again. SO," he pushed himself back and reached for his water bottle, fiddling with the lid with some degree of suppressed fury. "I'm not going to either."

"Alright, sorry."

His cousin sighed, his mood lightening up again. "It's okay. Just don't … tell him."

"You have my word."

"Speaking of which, you finished up those reports from last night?"

Hiccup chuckled. "Yup. I'm back on track." His cousin smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Despite being 'busy'?"

"Shut up."

He laughed. "Come on, nobody ever tells me anything anymore."

"Good," Hiccup shot back indignantly but grinned. "I'm not really keen on all of Berk knowing about it."

"So what's 'it'?"

"Honestly? You think I'm that unattentive?"

"When you're drawing, yeah."

Something about the smirk that was plastered on his cousin's lips seemed fishy to Hiccup. He did not like this grin.

"Scott," he drawled. "What did you do?"

His cousin's grin widened. "Oh, I did nothing. I just *sat* there. Listen, all I'm sayin' is, that maybe you should pay more attention to who else is in the room in the evening."

Hiccup blushed immediately as he remembered being in the common room in the evening, reading until he had absentmindedly started sketching - a pair of eyes, grey on paper but blue in memory, lips, just slightly parted, outlines of a face - "Oh, God," he spluttered. "I - it wasn't - I mean."

Snotlout laughed and nudged his cousin's shoulder. "Hey, I'm not judging."

He offered Hiccup an amicable smile and grinned when his cousin slumped his shoulders and returned the smile.

Who'd have thought? Seven years ago he'd have never even dreamed of sharing the same job with Hiccup and spending most of their shifts together, let alone having normal, amiable conversations and sharing jokes.

Gobber's voice from outside interrupted the dark-haired man's thoughts.

"Come on, Hiccup, we're gonna be late!" Gobber suddenly shouted from the hall, making Snotlout laugh and offer Hiccup a fistbump.

"Alright, I'm coming, just - stay where you are!" Hiccup shouted back rolled his eyes at his cousin, who only grinned and shrugged.

"Alright, I think we're done here, everyone. Dismissed," Stoick Haddock concluded and closed his folder, nodding at the men seated around him.

Hiccup sighed inwardly. The monthly check-in was something that had to be done, he knew that, but these meetings could be both lengthy and boring.

He'd tried to excuse his attire and had only got a few amused looks and some raised eyebrows; 'Could've been worse,' Hiccup thought and got up. At the sight of his father gathering up his files he remembered his post-meeting-agenda and quickly tapped his father's shoulder, lowly asking, "Dad, can I … talk to you for a sec?"

"Of course," Stoick nodded at the other men and led his son off to the side. "Excuse us."

His eyes met Hiccup's expression. The young man leaned in and murmured, "Hey, Dad, listen, um. I need you to do me a favour, please."

His father raised his eyebrows but Hiccup didn't fail to notice the faint smile playing on his lips. He sighed and inhaled deeply, shortly raking a hand through his hair.

"Oh man, I can't believe I'm actually saying this - Dad, I need a shirt."

"You need a … a what?"

His father looked at him, speechless. Hiccup nodded sharply and elaborated, "Yes, a shirt. Any colour, I just need - listen, Dad, Astrid is coming over tomorrow and I've run out of shirts, and I can't just wear the same over and over again, so - please. I just need a shirt or two, button up or down, you decide, I'm desperate."

To his suprise and utter mortification, his father let out a whoop of laughter, starting him and the other men in the room.

"She's really got you bedazzled, aye, son?"

"I - what?"

"I thought I'd never see the day you'd ask me to help you with your shopping!" his father bellowed, still laughing. "Oh, this is great, son, I've been waiting for this my whole life-"

"Dad, don't you think you're … overreacting, a bit-"

"-and I will not waste this opportunity. Consider your wardrobe situation saved."

With this he strode past him, muttering something about "my boy's finally getting his life together" and "wrapped around his finger, completely head over heels", leaving an abashed Hiccup and chuckling collegues behind.

"Well, you did it," Gobber laughed and patted his back, making Hiccup stumble forward involuntarily. "he will not rest until he's got you a month's worth of clothing."

Hiccup groaned. "What have I done, Gobber?"

"Made him the most excited I've seen him in years, you did," Gobber smiled, his expression gentle now. "Come on, let's get back to the department, lover-boy."

"Please don't call me that."

"Romeo?"

"Tragic death and stupid as fuck."

"That a yes?"

"No."

It hit Hiccup like a bolt of lightning. He'd forgotten to fill up Toothless' bowl when he'd left the house this afternoon.

"Shit. Shitshitshitshit," he spat through gritted teeth as he frantically searched for options. He couldn't leave the department now, he was the only one in.

Okay. What else? Call someone. It was at times like these Hiccup wished his entire support system wasn't built on people working in the administrative departments.

And Fishlegs was out of the city.

Then it dawned on him. The only person he could hope to be home.

His hands had already picked up his phone and clicked on the number.

"Hiccup?"

He exhaled. "Oh, thank God. Astrid, do you - do you have time? Are you at home?"

Her answer was hard to make out over the background-voices and music.

"I'm on my shift, why?"

His heart sunk.

"Okay, nevermind then-"

"Hiccup? Hello - hang on, I'll go outside, just give me one sec."

The noise faded.

Her voice got clearer as she grumbled, "You'd think people'd wait for a Friday 'til they hit the bar."

He chuckled. "I'd honestly love to be somewhere else right now, so I can't blame them."

Astrid snorted and finally there was nothing blocking out her voice anymore. "Trust me, you don't wanna be here. Anyways, what's up? Something wrong? You never call this late."

"Oh - yeah, I actually … Astrid, can you do me a favour?"

She didn't even hesitate and her answer let a wave of warmth and affection wash over him.

"What do you need and where should I be?"

"At my apartment. Or rather, first here and then my apartment."

Astrid furrowed her brow, for a second asking herself if this was some kind of disguise for something else but quickly discarded that thought as Hiccup continued quickly, "I forgot to feed Toothless when I left today and I locked everything, so he can't go out to hunt. Could you pick up my keys and feed him, please?"

She hummed. "Yeah, of course."

Hiccup sighed and smiled. "Thanks, I really owe you one."

Astrid laughed breezily and was apparently making her way back inside. From what he could hear, Pink's 'Raise your glass' was playing and people were screaming.

"No problem," he heard her say over them. "I'll think of something."

He chuckled and leaned on his desk.

"You have until tomorrow."

"Oh, so now there's a deadline for favours?"

"Only for that one."

She laughed again. "Well, maybe it's a project that can't be done overnight."

"Am I still talking to Astrid or Ms Hofferson who just pulled the ultimate teacher-joke on me?"

"Both. Hang on a second."

The sound was muffled since she seemed to be pressing the microphone against herself to block out the sound, but he still heard her distinct voice shout, "Heath, can you tell Al I'm taking my break? Be back in 45."

Another voice answered, loud but friendly, "Sure, don't worry. Gotcha, Stellar!"

Stellar?

The sound was back in its full intensity and so was her voice.

"Alright, I'm heading out. Be there in ten."

"Okay. See you."

Astrid smiled up at the sky. "You know, this isn't even a favour I'm doing you. You're doing me one."

Although she had called it multiple times, Astrid had never been inside the fire department of Berk before.

It looked a bit intimidating in the dark, and she only saw one big window with lights on inside. She squinted her eyes up and into the darkness and registered movement.

A slim figure approached the window, waving at her, chasing a smile across her lips as she waved back. Hiccup's sillhouette disappeared.

Astrid herself made her way into the building and up the staircase to the second floor, where she was greeted by a dark hallway.

A door was pried open, a small ray of light emitting from the crack.

"Astrid?" His face was stuck out of the open door.

"Hiccup? Why's it so dark in here?"

"We're saving up energy."

He was leaning out of the door, supporting his weight by the frame.

Astrid smirked and came to a halt in front of him. He didn't move, just stayed with his eyes fixed on her.

The young woman felt a weird sensation rushing through her stomach as she remembered her dream from a couple of nights ago, which had started just like this, opening a door and -

"You wanna come in for a sec?" he asked and interrupted her thoughts.

Astrid nodded, smiling. "Let's make the workplace situation even."

He laughed and led her inside. The building itself wasn't that big, but the headquarters seemed pretty spacious. There were only three desks inside with multiple screens, and by the wall stood an unsafe-looking plank bed.

"Welcome to my job where we get Sicca Syndrome and a bad back trying to sleep on these," he joked and ran a hand through his hair.

Astrid sat down on the plank bed, wincing as it squeaked and bent violently, making him laugh as he sat down next to her.

Without giving herself much time to hesitate, Astrid leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Do we have enough time for me to ask you what your day looks like?"

He chuckled and gently wrapped his arm around her, trying not to let on that he was shaking slightly, thankful she still had her eyes closed so she wasn't able to see his blush.

"Maybe. We could save that conversation up for tomorrow, though."

She opened her eyes and moved to get up, but Hiccup tightened his grip around her shoulders and grinned lopsidedly.

"That wasn't me trying to tell you to immediately get up. It's …" he hesitated, his blush deepening. "It's, um, really nice sitting like this. With you."

Astrid chuckled lightly and leaned back into him, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

"You're really trying to outdo yourself today, huh?"

Her voice was muffled against his skin, her breath sending sparks down it.

"Is it working?"

Astrid grinned against him. "Yeah."

The young man laughed and tried to calm his heart yet again. To think that only sitting with her head on his shoulder, her lips making direct contact with his skin when she spoke was enough to turn him into a flustered mess. And they hadn't even KISSED yet.

"I'm beginning to regret this."

He froze, his heart dropping immediately. Regret what? This? Her decision from earlier? Being alone with him? Out of a sudden? Somehow?

Of course, his logical side knew better than that and patiently waited for Astrid to continue - his worry got the better of him.

"Why?"

"Because now going back to my shift is going to be really fucking hard."

'Oh. Oh, thank God.' He exhaled and relaxed again.

"Why?" he repeated, feeling stupid.

Astrid closed her eyes again. "Because I'd much rather be here and spend the night with you than going back."

Aaaand there it was. His pulse was sky-rocketing. And she was so close she might actually hear. His blush had deepened even more.

Astrid continued after a pause, "Or you know, I could just crash at your apartment and cuddle with Toothless."

He rasped out a laugh. "If you let me in tomorrow."

Astrid opened her eyes and pursed her lips to hide her smile.

"We'll see."

Hiccup really wanted to kiss her. He wanted to so bad it almost hurt.

Yet, there was something holding him back - the question from earlier. But he didn't want to bring this up now. Especially not since-

"Speaking of Toothless, I should probably get going now."

"Oh, y-yeah! Uh," he uncurled his arm from around her and jumped up, stumbling towards his desk. "Let me just … find the key … uh. Should've probably done that earlier."

"Let me help. I've got a knack for finding things."

She joined him at the desk and grinned when he shot her a short, amused glance.

"You do?"

"Oh, yeah. I found you, so that's one."

Hiccup chuckled and watched her pull out his keys from underneath the printed draft of the day's report and hold it up in front of him, grinning smugly.

"And you say I'm trying to outdo myself?" he muttered, making her laugh.

"Well, now we're even."

He shrugged and grinned. "True. You remember the direction?"

Astrid nodded, leaning against the desk.

"Good. Ah, and uh, mind the door, it always gets stuck, so it's a bit hard to open. Just, uh, throw your entire body weight againt it. At least that's what I do."

She nodded again and smiled up at him. "Jot that down. Anything else? Where's the food?"

"Second left cupboard by the window on the floor. You know, the one with the scratches?"

She snorted as she remembered which one Hiccup was talking about - and it seemed like he was either very forgetful or had a cat that loved to eat.

"Alright, got it."

"Thanks again, Astrid."

Somehow they had ended up facing each other, his hands on her arms.

Hiccup's gaze fell down on his hands and his first instinct was to let go, but Astrid smiled and put her own hands on his arms, squeezing lightly.

"You're welcome. But - by the way, where's everyone else?"

"Oh, Gobber's already home and Scott went for a quick nap down in the living area. He complained that my typing was too loud for him to sleep."

She snorted. "Well, at least you've got the place to yourself, right?"

His hands subconscuiously had wandered to her waist.

"I'd rather not. But I'm a bit picky about the company."

"That so?"

He hummed, his eyes dropping to her lips ever so shortly. He looked like he was almost going to lean down and kiss her - but there was something in his eyes Astrid knew well by now.

Hesitation. Something was holding him back.

Astrid smiled and pulled back slightly.

She'd give him time.

Until then … she stood on her tip toes and kissed his cheek.

"I'm gonna get going now. Don't wanna keep Toothless waiting."

She grinned up at him and was relieved when he returned it.

"Yeah."

She turned to leave but was held back by his voice softly calling out her name.

"Oh, and … Astrid?"

She hummed, turning around, already halways out the door.

With a few steps he had closed the distance between them. His eyes were warm as he gently wrapped his fingers around her left wrist, tugged her closer and pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead.

Astrid's eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

"Stay safe tonight," he whispered, his lips barely grazing her skin before he pulled back.

Astrid opened her eyes again and was met with his open expression and small smile.

She returned it tenfolds and whispered back, "You too."

Then she turned around and took the stairs downstairs.

Fires and people had a lot in common, but most people could be either reasoned with or at least punched (which was her own interpretation). Then again, her boyfriend was not the type to underestimate a thing like a fire.

Astrid stopped, her hand on the doorhandle. Boyfriend. She'd thought 'boyfriend'.

The air was a tinge colder when she stepped outside, but still had the distinct warmth of a summer night.

Well, he was, wasn't he? It was what he'd asked her this morning, wasn't it?

Astrid smiled to herself and maybe the sky, Hiccup's keys clinking in her pocket.

This was a very girlfriend-thing to do, after all.

#IJAS #it's just a spark #fanfic #httyd #hiccstrid #httyd 2 #modern AU #mine

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fio-renze · 4 years ago

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She couldn’t sleep.

Was that any wonder, though? The Scourge had returned — if it was the Scourge. They didn’t seem controlled, more mindless than anything, different than the last time. That tracked with the intelligence report she’d gotten when the heads of the current noble houses had been summoned to the Court of the Sun. Windrunner had shattered the world as they knew it, it seemed.

Not that that was surprising. She hadn’t been quite right since she’d been turned, anyone could see that. Those that disagreed had been delusional or desperate for hope that Sylvanas would be what they needed.

It had been odd hearing that the Sunreaver command had not wanted her to join them — not disappointing, not really. Fiorenze knew her appointment there had been purely political; strings had been pulled, because Rommath wanted someone to keep an eye on Aethas after the Bell fiasco. Who could blame him, really? Not that any of that mattered anymore. Apparently she was difficult, and didn’t listen to orders — too dangerous to have in the field.

Meanwhile the Magistry had called on Pyraelia to choose where she would fight. She’d always been the better Sunmote, had she not? Never stepped out of bounds, always did what she was told. The goody-goody. They’d embraced before she’d left — off to Icecrown to support the Crusade. As much as Fiorenze had tried to persuade her, she’d held fast to her supposed duty to the world and its people.

It bothered her to think she may never see her sister again.

But her birthday had come and gone — extremely unlike she had planned. Her fury had been made manifest through her magic, the fire slung from her hands nearly white hot as it impacted zealots and ghouls in the Crossroads. The Sunreavers didn’t have her loyalty, but her friends did.

The men and women who made up Stellan’s mercenary camp had still tried to make the best of the day once they heard. They drank, Lady Ravenmourn made her a woven crown of reedy amber grass, Madame Emberdawn had suggested a game of two truths and a lie. Frankly, it was more people than she had expected to spend the end of the day with, and that had been nice in and of itself in a small way.

Her fingers carded through Xylaes’ blonde hair as he slept, his breathing slow and even. This was an unusual reversal of their typical situation. He was a different person out here, having a genuine purpose was something he wore as well as his armor. There had been an exhausted, frenetic pace to the crush of their lips and the fumbling of their fingers at the leather straps to get him out of it all — she’d wanted to enjoy him. When was the next time they’d be able to?

What if everything changed tomorrow?

He was an exceptional fighter, one of the best she’d seen, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t vulnerable. She was, herself, a glass cannon. All her previous plans had been fragmented, the past week had shattered them further. Was it worth holding on to the shards? Wasn’t it better to take what was, here in the now?

Perhaps. Tomorrow certainly wasn’t promised.

(( @xylaes // @inistellan // @laceandhalos // @themadamelioness ))

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boardsdonthitback · 4 months ago

Text

Chin Siu-Ho, Billy Chow - Lady Reporter a.k.a Blonde Fury (1989)

#chin siu ho #billy chow #blonde fury #lady reporter #mang hoi #hong kong cinema #hong kong action #action cinema #action choreography

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miracul0us-multishipper · 6 years ago

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Welcome to the Back (Part 11)

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Lila knew the situation was getting out of hand, even before she heard Ladybug reveal that they weren’t friends. At this point, she had already escaped the school and hidden outside, where she was in no danger to be seen by Sentiquill.

“Stupid Ladybug!”, she muttered as she walked home, not bothering to check up on the others or return to school. Even after she saw the Miraculous Cure flash through the sky, her pace didn’t slow. She needed time to think of a fitting lie, and the fallout of today’s akuma would be enough to deal with tomorrow. Ugh, she hated Paris! You could never know what happened next, never plan ahead!

She groaned.

To be fair, the akuma attack was actually kind of convenient this time. It gave her a chance to check up on her looks at home, prepare for the meeting this afternoon. There was no second chance for the first impression, after all!

So when she entered the TV1 tower and flashed the employee ID she’d stolen from Mireille, she looked as professional as she could get.

René Bordeaux’s office was easy to find. His name was written on the door in bright, red letters and the voice that yelled into a phone on the other side was iconic. With a confident smile, she knocked on the door. The voice fell silent, then yelled into the phone once more before hanging up. Angry footsteps advanced and the door was flung open.

“What is it?!”, a middle-aged man shouted. Lila scanned him quickly. Carefully styled, blond-dyed hair. There was a hint of grey in his roots, something he obviously meant to hide. Scared of aging probably.

His suit looked brand new, but was a little too short on the ankles, she noticed and drew her conclusions: He valued luxury and tried to intimidate with pricy clothes, but didn’t actually know a lot about fashion and likely bought whatever looked the most expensive. He had sideburns, for God’s sake. 60’s nostalgia? Probably wanted to go back to “the good old days” his dad had talked about wistfully when he was young. She wondered if he was right-wing. A Control freak, judging by the meticulously organized room behind him, and he was single given the lacking photos of a girlfriend on his desk. Or photos of anything other than himself in general. There was a wedding ring on his finger, even though Lila’s research had brought up his disastrous divorce of Evelyn Leanne, and that he hadn’t married since. His lack of reminders of Leanne in the office - reference to the photos - made her doubt he harbored any romantic sentiment for her. He was only bitter about being shunned, and about losing a perfect trophy family. Likely hadn’t accepted the divorce.

All these deductions only took her seconds to complete, René Bordeaux was an open book.

Her smile widened. So much potential!

“Oh, my apologies.”, she said sweetly. “I was looking for René Bordeaux, but if he’s not here yet-“

“I’m René Bordeaux! Why do you think would I be in this office, otherwise?!”

She gasped in false shock.

“You? But you look so young!”

The man blinked, thrown off his rhythm. His anger deflated and his raised hand dropped to his side.

“I... I guess!”

He caught himself and crossed his arms.

“Well, you have a point. But I hear that a lot, young Lady, so what do you want?”

Perfect.

“I am Lila Rossi.”, she introduced herself. “I called you yesterday, about the Journalism Junior contest you produce. A great idea, by the way.”

“Ah, yes, of course. What was that about again?”

Time to get bolder.

“May I come inside?”, she crooned. “This shouldn’t be discussed so out in the open. Wouldn’t want the public to hear of it.”

Now she had his attention. Bordeaux had made his money as a populist and paparazzi, a reporter known for his scandalous articles. He’d lost his job after the lawsuits last year, but his new position as chief editor of TV1 didn’t mean he had lost his lurid hunger for sensations - especially if he was the first one to know.

He huffed, but stepped back to let her in. The view out of the window front was fantastic, but she wasn’t here to marvel at the city. So she came straight to the point.

“I am a great fan of you work!”, she lied. “Especially your article after the Leanne-Agreste Show Disaster. Your concern about your son’s well being was very inspiring for me. I wish I had a father like that.”

She was glad she didn’t have a father like that, but Bordeaux didn’t need to know that. His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”, he grumbled, but his chest visibly swoll with pride. “What does this have to do with the contest?”

Her shoulders dropped in concern.

“Monsieur Bordeaux, I don’t know how to tell you this, but... See, Felix is in my class, and I am very concerned about him. I wanted to do my report on him, but what I found during my research worries me.”

He’s a control freak, she remembered, and he has no real sentiment towards his family. He only cares about reputations.

“He’s surrounding himself with all the wrong people, and when I - as the class representative - wanted to warn his mother, she brushed me off as if she didn’t care at all.”

Bordeaux tried to hide his interest, but there was a spark of hunger in his eyes. He was sensing a chance.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. See, our class is very... diverse.”

If he leaned to right side of politics, the word would repulse him.

“There’s people like Felix, Adrien Agreste, the mayor’s daughter or me in our class, who are well educated and come from the right families. But there are also... less fortunate people. Like Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng for example, who has great influence over your son.”

He flinched at the foreign last name, just as expected. His face had turned sour.

“What are you saying?”

“I say, Felix needs you.”, she catered to his ego. “He has no father figure, no role model. His mother lets him do whatever he wants, not caring about his future or who might take advantage of him. He has an unhealthy amount of freedoms, and just this morning, he fell victim to Hawkmoth!”

Bordeaux’s hands twitched and his eyes widened.

“An akuma was after my heir?! Who was it? I need names!”

“Oh no, he was akumatized himself.”, she informed him smugly. He muttered something about bad publicity, then looked up again.

“What was the reason? His mother? He’s ridiculously devoted to her.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”, she lied. “He was alone with Dupain-Cheng when it happened.”

She sighed, then put enough urgency in her voice to make even herself cringe.

“He really needs someone who knows what’s best for him, who can look out for him and will set him limits. He needs you!”

Bordeaux scoffed and paced through his office.

“Do you think I didn’t try to save this family?! Evelyn won’t let me near them anymore, and Felix would rather live like a pauper before going against her.”

Lila smiled.

“I know.”

Her schemes were finally going somewhere.

“But I might have a solution for you.”

When Adrien came to school the next day, he felt numb. There was no Plagg at his side, no ring on his finger, no sense of freedom in his chest as he walked up to the entrance. Everything felt hollow. How could everyone be this carefree when his entire world had been uprooted yesterday? Didn’t they feel the shift in the air, the tension in the room? Chat Noir had vanished, yet nobody seemed to mind.

“Dude, there you are!”, Nino greeted him from a bench at side, surrounded by his classmates. “We were worried sick about you, yesterday! Did you see the Akuma Attack? We were all working with Ladybug, it was so cool!”

Adrien flinched, before stomping over to them.

“Really?”, he asked, trying to suppress his fury. “That sounds awesome! I was busy looking for Chat Noir, in case you wanted to know! So he could get back to protecting Ladybug.”

If Nino noticed how passive-aggressive he sounded, he only shrugged.

“Man, didn’t you hear? It was all over the news last night.”

Adrien frowned in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Yeah!”, Alix chimed in. “Chat Noir is cancelled!”

His blood ran cold. Did they... did they know he had lost his ring?!

“Look at this.”, Alya demanded and showed him her phone, playing a video on the Ladyblog. “Nino filmed this, since I was taken out.”

His eyes widened when he recognized the scenery. It was filmed from under the stairs, but Sentiquill and Ladybug were perfectly clear to see. His Lady held the Akuma in place with her yo-yo, ordering Chat to help. Alya was snorting with anger when the hero refused, leaving Rose at Sentiquill’s mercy.

“Can you believe it?!”, she seethed when the camera panned to Ladybug’s pained face, who apologized for rejecting him before asking for his help again. “He made her beg! He let Rose be drained for ink, just so he could force her into his stupid power play! And her apology?”

She scoffed.

“I can’t believe he would ask that of her! As if she owed him anything for rejecting him!”

“Don’t forget the part where he almost killed Ladybug!”, Chloé spoke up. “If I ever see his ugly ass face again, I won’t need a Miraculous to rip him apart.”

“But,” Adrien stammered, “We don’t know the whole story! Maybe he had a valid reason to-“

Chloé laughed and pinched his cheek.

“Oh, silly Adrikins. I always forget how little experience you have with people.”

Kim nodded.

“Yeah, if you get rejected, no matter how, you gotta accept it. Doesn’t mean you gotta take any shit” - he glared at Chloé, who had the decency to look ashamed - “But you sure have no right to pressure her into anything. And demanding an apology for saying no?”

He clicked his tongue.

“That guy definitely wasn’t present for Mendeleiev‘s lesson on consent.”

“He abandoned Rose.”, Juleka murmured from the background, holding her unusually quiet girlfriend’s hand. “I’ll never forgive him for that.”

Adrien gulped.

“Well, Miraculous Ladybug always undoes every harm, right?”

“Cut it, Adrien!”, Alya snarled at him all of a sudden. Everyone fell silent. The reporter blinked, then leaned back a little to regain control of herself.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”, she mumbled, staring at nothing. “What it felt like. Just because Ladybug can cure everyone doesn’t mean she can undo what happened to us.”

Nino put his arm around her and she relaxed a little. When she looked at Adrien again, she was as composed as always.

“I’ve never been more terrified than yesterday.”, she stated firmly. “And it was even worse for Rose, judging by how much ink Sentiquill got out of her. Chat could have spared her that, but he chose not to. To him, each of us was less important than getting back at Ladybug. Just for not catering to his whims.”

She shook her head.

“If Ladybug doesn’t kick his ass, Rena Rouge will.”

“Uh, I literally said it first.”, Chloé complained. “Tell Fox girl to stand in line, Queen Bee is the one that’s going to kick that mangy cat into orbit!”

As the others broke out in a fight of who would have the best chance to beat up Chat Noir - Sabrina stood eerily still in the corner, saying something about a knife and Chat’s eyes - Adrien slipped out of the yard. It felt like the entire universe was against him! Everything came crashing down around him, no one took his side anymore-

“Adrien?”, a voice behind him asked and he turned around to see Lila. “Are you alright?”

He swallowed down his feelings.

“Yeah”, he croaked. “Just worried. Ladybug told everyone about you, classes are going to be... tense.”

He sighed. He might not be Chat Noir right now, but he was still Adrien Agreste, Bustier’s sunshine boy. He had to keep the peace as far as possible.

“You need to come clean.”, he suggested. “Apologize and tell them the truth about everything, then maybe, this will blow over soon.”

And maybe Marinette would be his friend again. This whole Lila-mess had only harmed them all, it was time to set things right.

Lila nodded.

“Of course, you are so right.”

She smiled weakly.

“I know I never told you this, but you are a great friend. Thank you for protecting me as long as you could. I really wish people would listen to you more, you’re so thoughtful!”

He looked up.

“You think so?”

She nodded, patting his shoulders.

“They can’t see it, but I do.”, she assured him. “You do so much for your friends. You prevent them from harming themselves, from destroying the harmonic atmosphere. They can be grateful to call you their friend.”

He blushed a bit, flattered. And relieved. Finally someone that appreciated all his hard work!

Lila sighed and walked towards the yard.

“I’m really sorry you’ll be dragged into this mess, Adrien.”

He stiffened. Wait, what?

“What do you mean?”

She stopped to look at him, surprised.

“Well, if I tell them the truth about everything, I’ll have to tell them you knew everything from the start. You and I know it was only for their own good that you didn’t expose me, but they... You’ll be pulled into this inevitably. Things will likely be horrible for you for a while, maybe you’ll even lose some friends. Nino, Alya, Chloé... I don’t think they’ll understand you were doing the right thing.”

His mind was running wild. No! He already had them badmouthing Chat Noir in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if they hated him as Adrien too!

“Lila, wait!”, he called when she moved to walk on. “Maybe... Maybe there’s another way. To keep everyone calm. We can think of something, I’ll help you!”

She smiled.

“You would do that for me? You’re so sweet.”

Her eyes glistened eagerly.

“I think I already have an idea.”

“How are you feeling?”, Felix asked her. They stood in front of the classroom, hesitating to go inside. But Marinette had enough of fearing confrontation. Chat, Adrien, Lila, all of them were people she didn’t want to run from anymore. It was time to walk her way and hope that her friends would have her back. But she was through with waiting for problems to resolve on their own.

“Well enough.”, she replied. “And you?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t remember much of what happened, and I generally don’t care what others think of me. But...”

He sighed.

“I did hurt people. Not consciously, but it still happened because of me.”

Marinette couldn’t say anything against that, so she simply took his hand. Whether for his comfort or her own, she didn’t know.

“Come on.”, she said. “I’m sure they’ll understand, and... It’s not like Lila will be a problem anymore, at least! So let’s get this over with.”

With that, she opened the door and walked inside. Only to see Lila surrounded by their classmates.

“Marinette!”, she called. “Just in time. I was just telling everyone how Ladybug saved me again, yesterday.”

Marinette felt her eyes twitch.

“Ladybug- You- I-“, she pressed out, wanting to throttle her. How was it possible that she just sat here as if nothing happened?! Things were supposed to be different now!

Felix nudged her hand and she looked up to him. He nodded at the rest of the class with his chin, and her eyes followed his gesture. They weren’t hanging on her every word as she had feared. No, Chloé wasn’t even listening, filing her nails with an occasional roll of her eyes. Alya sat next to an angry Nino, arms crossed. Juleka’s eyes were shooting daggers at Lila.

All in all, the class looked suspicious. Not enthralled and excited, but almost annoyed. An improvement!

“Ya better hurry to give us a damn good explanation, girl!”, Alya growled. “Because I have Lb’s statement on video, and I won’t hesitate to post it online!”

Lila gave her a surprised glance.

“What are you talking about? Did I do something wrong?”

Nino glowered at her.

“That’s a damn bold question, Lie-la! Ladybug told us everything.”

His girlfriend raised her phone, playing Ladybug’s fight against Sentiquill.

“But fine!”, Marinette heard her alter ego shout. “If it makes you happy!” Then she started to rant about Lila, who looked suspiciously calm.

“Well”, she shrugged when the sequence was over, “she really went all out, didn’t she?”

“What do you mean?”

Lila chuckled.

“I mean, just look at her face! So disdainful, so authentic! A great actress, really!”

Alya faltered a bit.

“Actress?”

“Of course!”, she laughed. “Ladybug was obviously trying to placate Sentiquill, as we all know Felix doesn’t like me since our little misunderstanding. A bummer it didn’t work, but I guess she isn’t perfect either.”

She sighed and straightened herself.

“Ladybug told me to flee, since the Akuma was after me specifically. I would have stayed with you otherwise, and helped to defend you against Sentiquill. But she knew if I was nearby, he’d go after me and then Ladybug would be distracted. She cares so much about me, her worry for my wellbeing would have interfered with her ability to think straight.”

Alya frowned.

“How do we know this isn’t another lie? It’s your word against Ladybug’s, and you haven’t proven anything!”

Pondering, Lila tapped her finger against her chin.

“Hm, let’s see... Adrien! You saw us; you can be my witness, right?”

Everybody turned around and Marinette’s eyes widened. Adrien stood at the window, looking weary but determined. Surely he wouldn’t... He had covered for Lila before, true, but to lie on her behalf...

Her hopes sunk when he avoided eye contact with her.

“It’s true.”, he stated flatly. “I saw them talk after the battle. Ladybug...” He gulped. “Ladybug apologized for saying all these things, but it was only to protect her.”

“That’s not true!”, Marinette howled furiously. “What are you even saying, Adrien?!”

He looked away, pouting.

“Stop shouting at me. It’s the truth! I saw them when I was on my way... on my way-“

“-to accompany me to Jagged Stone!”, Lila finished for him, a smug look on her face. “I invited him along because he was so rattled after the akuma attack. To cheer him up! Jagged is the best when it comes to lighten the mood, right, Adrien?”

“Uh... yeah!”, the blond agreed hesitantly, obviously confused. “Totally! I, er, can confirm.”

Marinette’s eyes burned into his spineless figure, seething with rage. This had been his chance. For someone that preferred inactivity when it came to his friends, he was all too quick to stand up for a liar.

“So... it was all true?”, Alya dared to hope. “You really are Ladybug’s friend, and you know Jagged Stone?”

“Don’t forget Prince Ali, but yes. I’d never lie to you, Alya!”, Lila reassured. “Everything I said is true.”

Felix took a step forward, opening his mouth to protest, but Marinette put her hand on his chest to stop him.

“Don’t.”, she whispered, forcibly cooling down her anger to a simmering hatred. “They win this round.”

Everything Felix could say now would only further Lila’s victim role, and they had no proof right now. It would be a waste of time.

Felix clenched his teeth, but nodded. To their surprise, the others weren’t done yet.

“I don’t believe you.”, Juleka mumbled and Lila’s face fell.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, I don’t believe you!”, the goth shouted, startling everyone. Rose was clutching her hand like a lifeline as her girlfriend looked up, tears in her eyes. “When Sentiquill went after Rose, Ladybug didn’t hesitate to do the logical thing and save me first, even if that meant making herself vulnerable. I know she cares about Rose, but when push came to shove, she was still able to think tactical. God knows I didn’t like her decision, but it was what saved both of us.”

Lila narrowed her eyes.

“Juleka, you sound like you wanted her to sacrifice Rose! Do you really care so little about-“

“Shut up!”, Rose cried out. Marinette wasn’t sure she had ever seen her this upset. “That’s not what she meant, and you know it!”

“Are you two calling me a liar?”

Juleka shot her a glare.

“I’m saying that I trust Ladybug. She’s able to do her job, no matter the circumstances and who might be at stake. She cares about all of us and doesn’t play favorites. If your word’s against hers, we know where we’ll stand.”

She nudged Rose, who nodded. Together they walked towards the door, but stopped when they passed Marinette and Felix.

“I don’t blame you for anything.”, Rose murmured to him so that only they could hear it. “I know what it feels like to be controlled like that. To be forced to hurt people you care about. We’re all used to it by now, you’re not alone.”

Then they walked out.

The class only recovered slowly. Many regarded Lila with distrust, most were unsure. Even Alya, who was only too desperate to believe Lila, had her doubts.

Felix gave her an encouraging smile.

“Looks like things are in motion.”

Marinette nodded, tearing her gaze from Adrien.

“I think it’s time to move on as well.”, she confessed. “To leave old burdens behind.”

She thought of Chat Noir.

“To make a clear cut.”

Marinette was busy this afternoon.

Doing homework.

Changing her computer’s background.

Putting the finishing touch on the cravat she designed for Felix.

Feeding Tikki a macaron she’d made for Adrien.

Preparing an outline for her report.

Ripping Adrien’s pictures off her wall.

Playing video games with her parents.

Taking the chest with her gifts for Adrien to Prince Ali’s charity for sick children.

Calling Felix.

Clearing her calendar of Adrien’s appointments.

Crying a bit.

Calling Felix again.

Feeling better.

When it was evening, she finally ran out of things to do. And that meant, she had nothing to distract her from her own thoughts. That wouldn’t do.

“I’m going out for a walk!”, she told her parents as she bounced down the stairs, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Be careful!”, her mother replied and waved. “And be back before dinner!”

“Don’t you want to take something to eat with you? Or a jacket? Or-“

“Tom.”

“Oh, right. Uh, have fun!”

Marinette chuckled at her parents difference. She’d always wanted to be in a relationship like theirs: one of mutual respect, but with room for silliness and fun. To have someone that was so different from her, but shared enough of her passions and values to match. A partnership of equals, that wouldn’t waver or fade when things got difficult. Someone who inspired her to grow. Someone who wasn’t afraid to learn from her as well.

She had thought that was Adrien. Part of her might even have considered Chat Noir - the yin yang symbolic hadn’t gone unnoticed by her. But her mother had explained her for what the Taijitu truly stood: not an eternal battle of opposites, but the harmonic completion of two contrasts, the ever changing nature of the world. Chat Noir wasn’t someone who completed her, and neither was Adrien. They had only brought her misery when they should have supported her.

She sighed as she walked through the park, the half moon rising above her. Black and white.

Her mother had often used the Taiji symbol to comfort her when she’d had one of her streaks of bad luck. It’s natural to have a hard time once in a while, she’d said. But see? The darkness recedes eventually and makes room for the light. It’s a circuit, and soon things will get better for you as well. Until then? Just search for the tiny white dot. The beacon in the darkness, it’s there!

Marinette leaned her head back, watching the darkening sky.

The light in her darkness? That was Felix. The only constant support she had these days. The one whose mere presence cheered her up, gave her the strength to keep going. It was so weird, now that she thought about it. He was so... harsh. Like a bright fire that could blind and burn mercilessly, but somehow drew her in like a moth to his flame. Like the sun, that could bring people’s worst flaws to daylight, or illuminate strengths she hadn’t even known she had. He had been both demanding and eager to give, from the very beginning. Forcing her to put her self-imposed limits aside and stand up for herself, but supporting her when he knew she needed it. In return, he had opened himself to her, learned to trust and bond with others. She’d never been more proud than when he had befriended Aurore, despite their rocky start. Or when he tried to dial his bluntness down around Marc, because he knew the boy was sensitive.

He had impressed her. Everything about him was challenging and inspiring and soothing at once. She’d never liked herself more than when she was around him. And when she wasn’t, she found herself thinking about him constantly.

Even now, musing over their influence on each other brought a smile to her lips and lightened her steps until she all but floated through the park. Now that she thought about it, she liked the feeling a lot. More than a lot. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost say she lo-

“Marinette”, Tikki called her from her purse. “I sense someone. Wayzz is nearby!”

She looked up, searching the park for the familiar hawaiian shirt. Indeed, it was the guardian himself that stood in front of the fountain, hands clasped in front of him. Curious, she walked up beside him.

“Good evening, Master Fu!”, she greeted. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s the stomach?”

The elder man gave her a sullen side glance.

“I thought we had agreed to never talk of that again.”

She chuckled and followed his gaze to the fountain.

“Did we? I don’t recall!”

He didn’t smile, but his wrinkled forehead relaxed a bit. Weird. Usually, he was a lot more eager to joke around, given he had so little company to do that with.

“Is something the matter? You look upset.”

Fu sighed.

“Sharp as always. I am concerned for you, for Ladybug’s safety.”

Her face grew serious.

“That’s a concern I can understand.”, she muttered. “I nearly died yesterday. It was that close!”

Fu nodded.

“I saw.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”, she snapped, forgetting herself. “I needed help, and you could have given that to me!”

Her master lowered his head, eyes fixed on the water.

“Because I am weak.”, he admitted. “And a coward. And not the guardian you deserve.”

He looked so old when he rubbed his forehead, almost ancient.

“In my defense, if I had known the situation was this terrible, I would have taken the miracle box with me. Or at least the Turtle, Fox or Bee. Alas, I was only aware of Chat Noir’s miraculous turning dark, and thought that we would be enough to handle him. I didn’t expect the akuma.”

“Wait...”, she slowed him down. “Chat’s Miraculous was abused? Like... Like the butterfly is?”

Fu didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hand to reveal what he held inside. A black ring, complete with a familiar green paw print.

“His miraculous!”, she whispered in awe, then turned towards the guardian. “What did you do?! When did you do that?”

“Immediately after you purified Sentiquill’s akuma.”, he stated wearily. “And that was already far too late. I should have taken it after Syren, Frozer maybe. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

She felt a pang in her chest that she had lost her partner of almost a year, but it was overshadowed by an euphoric sense of relieve. She hadn’t noticed how much Chat had troubled her until she didn’t have to worry about him anymore. No more fear to hurt his feelings, no more dancing around the truth to avoid upsetting him. No more tantrums and reckless sacrifices. No more pressure to feel something she just... didn’t.

“I want you to have it.”, Fu continued and raised his hands when she wanted to protest. “Not for yourself, of course! Marinette, I have chosen solitude as the safest way to protect the miraculous, and for a while, it worked. But times changed.”

He breathed out, his posture slouching in shame.

“Times changed, and I didn’t. Chat Noir is the proof that I am no longer fit to distribute powers like his. But you? You have proven time and again that your trust in others is well deserved, that your choices are wise.”

His voice was full of warmth and trust.

“You have to be the one to choose a new partner, Ladybug.”, he announced firmly. “Someone you can trust not to disappoint you. It’s about time you get a say in this, don’t you think?”

She stared at the ring, so caught up in an electrifying kind of awe that she couldn’t really process his words. This was the Miraculous of destruction, the other half to her powers. If she took it, she would hold more power in her hands than should be humanly possible. What if something happened to her? What if she lost it, what if Hawkmoth got his hands on it? As long as it had no wielder, it would remain in this state and show its true colors. Everyone would be able to recognize it!

“A-are you sure you want me to have this?”, she asked with a trembling voice. Master Fu smiled.

“I have made a lot of reckless decisions. This is not one of them.”

He held the ring out to her.

“I trust you, Marinette. And I know Ladybug will chose better than I did.”

Hesitantly, carefully as if it might burn her, she took the Miraculous from his hands. It was warm in her hands, as if it were alive.

“I won’t disappoint you.”, she promised Fu, her eyes blazing with determination. She wouldn’t take this lightly, wouldn’t fail him. This time, her Chat Noir would be a hero.

- - -

Phew, done. I don't know much about Daoism, and only just started to research the philosophy behind yin and yang (or the Taijitu), but I really wanted Marinette to be more in touch with her heritage. Mama Cheng spilled her wisdom, and little Marinette sucked it up like a sponge.

#miramu writes #welcome to the back #wttb #felinette fanfic #felinette #miraculous ladybug #mlb #ml felix

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damianwaynerocks · 5 years ago

Text

Damian’s Journal - Why I’m Not Allowed to Work With Mystery Incorporated Anymore Even Though I Was Completely Justified in my Actions

Bruce, on the advice of Dinah Lance, is forcing Damian to start a journal. This series is just that, his journal entries.

This entry is about Damian Wayne meeting the Scooby-Doo gang

Word Count: 1592

A/N: Yo, this is a crack fic. Enjoy.

Masterlist

Dear Journal (Not a diary)

So, hello, I guess. My name is Damian Wayne. Grayson, my older brother, suggested I start writing a journal. Of course, I strongly objected to this, however after talking to Dinah Lance, Father agreed that it would help with my 'trauma.'

I'm not allowed to go back and edit this so if there are spelling errors, my apologies.

So I suppose my first entry will be about the mayhem that happened with Mystery Incorporated.

We'd heard reports of reports of a group of people sneaking around Wayne Enterprises so of course we had to check it out. Father didn't want me to go because 'you have homework damian' but Wayne Enterprises is MY birthright so?? Of course I had to go??

I followed Father and Grayson carefully and because I am me, Damian Wayne, they didn't notice me behind them. I caught up to them right as they had surrounded the group of teenagers and surprisingly there was?? No fighting??

Apparently they knew each other??

"Batman!" a boy with blonde hair and an atrocious-looking ascot around his neck yelled.

Seriously who wears ascots anymore?? Pennyworth would faint if he saw that.

Father narrowed his eyes. "Fred," he grunted, "And the rest of you. What are you doing in Gotham this time?"

"Somebody's been dressing up as a vampire and scaring people away from Wayne Enterprises at night," a girl in an orange sweater replied, "So we were checking it out. You seriously didn't know about this?"

"I've had my hands full."

By having his hands full, Father meant going off-world to deal with some space threat because of course Hal Jordan couldn't handle it on his own. The imbecile.

I was away, also, on a mission with my best friend, Jon. He's alright I suppose. Annoyingly positive, but alright. He eats vegan burgers with me, at least.

Grayson had been in Bludhaven so we had entrusted Todd to watch Gotham but of course he missed something as significant as a threat to Wayne Enterprises?? I decided I would have a talk with him whenever he returned.

It was then I saw him.

My body buzzed with excitement. It was a dog.

And then it happened.

THE DOG TALKED.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT, THE DOG T A L K E D

"Reah, we were helping!" the dog barked gleefully.

I screamed in excitement and fell off the lamp post I had been holding on to.

I couldn't help it, and you couldn't have helped it either if you saw it.

Everybody looked at me.

"Robin," Batman growled, "I told you to stay behind!"

"Yeah, Robin, you had an essay to do!" Grayson agreed.

"How do you expect me to focus on an essay whenever there is a talking dog!?" I demanded as I walked to the hound.

The dog narrowed his eyes. "Rog? Where?"

"Like, hi Robin," a lanky boy who looked like he lived off marijuana and those ridiculous memes that Drake loved greeted, "This is Scooby-Doo."

"Hello Scooby-Doo it is an honor to meet you I am so excited," I babbled as I scratched him behind his ears. I usually would not act like such a child but. This is a talking dog.

"Come back with us to the Bat Cave," Father said to Ascot-Guy, who must be their team leader which is a terrible decision in my opinion because?? An ASCOT?? In 2020??

So anyways, we then went back to the Cave after blindfolding the group because there was no way we were trusting a team who entrusted their safety to an ascot-wearing buffoon to know the location of the Cave.

Father drove their vehicle, a van that looked like it was painted while lanky-guy smoked marijuana, to the Cave while Grayson rode in the Bat Mobile and I drove my Red Bird.

We got to the Cave and I instantly hopped off my motorcycle and threw open the back of the van where the dog was and enveloped him in a hug. "Let's go, Scooby-Doo, I can show you my sword collection!" I said excitedly before Father rested a hand on my shoulder.

"No time, Robin," he said, "We need a plan on how to catch this vampire."

"Oh, we have a plan," Ascot said with a wave of his hand, "Velma, Daphne and I are going to put a trip-wire down which will drop a barrel on top of him, and then we'll rush forward with chains and tie him up."

"How will you get him to fall for the trip-wire?" Grayson asked.

"Well, we'll use Shaggy and Scooby as bait, of course."

I saw red. I was shaking in fury. They were going to use?? The DOG?? As BAIT????? They were going to put the DOG IN DANGER???

Not on my watch, no sir.

"Absolutely not!" I exploded, "You are not going to put that dog in danger!! What is wrong with you, you ascot-wearing oaf!! I should call the police on you right this instant for animal cruelty!!"

Ascot blinked and took a step back. "S-Sorry Robin, it's just tradition!"

"No way!" Marijuana Man said, "I agree with the scary one! Kind of. Like, no police, but Scooby and I do not want to be bait!"

"Oh no, you can be bait," I said.

"Oh, come on guys!" Orange Girl urged, "I'll give you a Scooby Snack!"

"Scooby Snack!?" Scooby barked, "Roh boy! Rive me on of rose!"

"Like, oh boy, oh boy!" Marijuana Ma- Shaggy, agreed.

My eyes widened. "You would put your beloved friend in danger for a dog biscuit!?"

"Like, try one, kid!" Shaggy said, handing him a biscuit. I scrunched my nose at it but bit into it anyways.

When I tell you that it was the most amazing thing that has ever graced my tastebuds, I mean it.

It tasted like the feeling of working with Richard. It tasted like heaven. It tasted like the feeling of defeating a bad guy. It tasted like the feeling of saving an innocent. It was better than even Pennyworth's cooking.

Of course, I couldn't let them know that, though.

"Give me that!" I snapped, ripping the box from her hand, "I will be confiscating this."

Really, though, I just wanted it for myself and to give to Pennyworth so he could hopefully find some on Amazon.

"I will be bait instead of Scooby-Doo," I declared, "Because clearly you people care more about food than safety."

"Robin, you do know that being bait requires you to act scared, right?" Grayson asked gently. I scoffed.

"Of course it does, and I can act scared!"

I meant it, too. I would just pretend I was watching that Hereditary movie that I went and saw with Todd.

Or that time I walked in on Drake and Brown having coitus in the Bat Cave.

That is the real trauma I need to write in this journal for. Growing up with assassins? Forget it. Dying? No big deal. Seeing Drake's genitals? I will be needing years of therapy for that.

So that's how I ended up outside my inheritance building with Shaggy. I was dressed in civilians clothes with sunglasses to hide my identity.

"Like, you know only weird people wear sunglasses in the dark, right?" Shaggy said, taking a bite of a hotdog he had pulled out of nowhere.

"Incorrect," I disagreed, "My brother happens to say that only cool people wear sunglasses in the dark."

"If you say so."

We were loitering outside the building and I was bored.

"Do you smoke marijuana?" I asked bluntly. Shaggy choked on his hotdog.

"Like, no?"

I opened my mouth to argue with him before we heard a screech. I looked up and saw a poor costume of a vampire coming towards us.

Shaggy screamed and started to run and, picturing Drake's thing in my mind, I screamed and ran after him, through the double doors of the building.

We hopped over the trip-wire, and skidded to a halt in front of the stairs. The vampire was running towards us but gave a weird yelp whenever it tripped.

At that moment, a barrel fell from the ceiling and landed on the creature. Ascot-Man and Grayson jumped out of the shadows, tying the creature up in chains.

"Ah ha!" A lady with red hair- Daphne, I think -yelled victoriously. "Not so scary now, are ya?"

Velma followed her out of the shadows, Father close behind. Velma took off the vampire mask, and revealed- my English teacher??

I wasn't really shocked, though. He was a Trump supporter.

Velma rattled off obvious reasons why he was in Wayne Enterprises and apparently he just?? Wanted into the safe??

There's so many more easier ways to do that than dressing up as a vampire??

So that was that. Kind of. We tied the guy up, calling Gordon, and left and went back to the Bat Cave where we saw Scooby-Doo sleeping on top of the dinosaur.

Scoobysaurous Rex perked up as he heard us come in, and his tongue lolled as he ran down the tail of the statue and jumped into Shaggy's arms.

Father congratulated them but me?? I absolutely did not.

I once again gave them an earful about how irresponsible they were to put Scooby-Doo in danger.

"If I find out you have done that again I will personally have your liver on a platter-"

Grayson interrupted me with a nervous laugh. "He's just kidding!! He'll just send you a strongly worded email!!"

I glared at him before turning back to Ascot-Man. "And another thing!! An ascot!! In 2020!! What is wrong with you!?" I tore it off of his neck and huffed, "There, now you look slightly less idiotic."

And then Father sent me to my room.

So yeah that's what happened there. I've been keeping tabs on them and so far I have seen no sign of them putting the dog in danger.

Good riddance. Because I would have indeed sent them a strongly worded email as well as the liver thing.

- Damian

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themiraculousladyblog · 5 years ago

Text

Pillow Talk

Pairing: Adrien/Marinette

Based on this Tumblr prompt: “Person A and Person B having a pillow fight in their hotel room and receiving a noise complaint from the people in the room next to/below them.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

“You are going down!”

“Not if you go down first!”

Another thud against the wall and Stephanie Newmanst groaned, pulling the pillow off her head. “That’s it! They either shut up or I’m getting someone to take care of them!” She yelled to no one in particular before banging on the wall and telling the noisy occupants to be quiet.

She heard a faint, ‘Sorry’ and the noise stopped. Stephanie let out a sigh of relief and closed her eyes once more.

Clink!

Something glass must have hit the floor in their room and shattered. “Uh-Oh...”

Oops...”

“Oops? That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, if you didn’t move it would’ve hit it’s target!”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

“Yes, you and your body that can’t be still!”

“You are so gonna get it!”

Stephanie’s eyes widened with fury and she grabbed the phone in her room, reporting the disturbance. She told the lady at the front desk it was just unbearable.

The lady did an audible sigh and told the blonde that she’d send someone up soon. Stephanie smiled and hung up the phone. Well, whoever the people were next door to her were sure to get a rude wake up call, just like she had gotten.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Hey, Charlie, we’ve got another complaint for room 217, could you check it out?”

“Yeah, sure.” The newest employee at the hotel nodded and headed towards an elevator.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Adrien struggled to reach the last piece of broken glass that was stuck behind the dresser. “You do realize I’m gonna have to pay for this, right?”

“Serves you right for throwing the pillow at me. You know you don’t have good aim.” Marinette emerged from the closet, holding a broom.

“I don’t know, I landed you, didn’t I?” The designer let out a snort at his joke before glancing at the bed.

“You better hope we didn’t break the springs.”

“I’m sure it’s not the first time someone broke one of their beds.” Adrien gave his her his best Chat Noir smile and winked.

“Ew! Gross! Why am I dating you again?”

The twenty-year-old laughed. “Because I have low self-esteem, Daddy issues, and you feel bad for me?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget th-” Marinette was cut off by a knock at the door. She gave Adrien a questioning look and he shrugged before gesturing for her to open it. The bluenette opened the door to reveal an young man standing there. “Can we help you?”

“Bonjour, Madame. We were called in regard to noise complaints from a couple people around you and we....” He stopped and took in the sight. The bed, which had sheets and pillows thrown everywhere, the young man leaning against a wall, his shirt on but backwards and hair very messed up, and then the lady in front of him who didn’t look much better off than the boy. Her makeup, which was obviously applied a couple hours ago, was now smeared and her hair was half way out of her braid.

“Sir?”

Charlie shook his head, regaining his composure and ignoring the blush on his cheeks. “We would like you to keep your activities down, please. There are other guests here so please keep that in mind when you decide to have some fun.” He emphasized the last word and the female nodded. Once he established that justice had been done to the situation, Charlie decided to excuse himself. “If you are in need of new sheets in the morning, please let us know and housekeeping will come prepared.”

Marinette watched, confused, as the employee left flustered. “What was that all about?” She turned to her boyfriend as she closed the door.

Adrien shrugged. “Beats me. I guess some people get embarrassed about pillow fights. So, best two out of three?” He held gestured to the bed.

“I don’t know, Adrien. They already told us to stop and let the other residents sleep.”

“We can be really quiet.”

She stopped to think about it for a moment. It was a tempting offer, yet she knew the model couldn’t control himself once they got going. “I’ll make you a deal. If we go to sleep now, then when we get back home we can do it.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Adrien grinned and pulled her close to himself. “You know... We can always do other things...”

“Oh, really? What did you have in mind?”

“Well, it just so happens this hotel gives you new sheets in the morning if you ask for them.”

“Are you suggested what I think you’re suggesting.”

“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking than it’s most definitely what I’m suggesting.”

“Blanket fort and movie marathon!” They said at the same time. Laughing, the two began to build the fort out of sheets and pillows and arguing about what movie to watch.... quietly....

*~*~*~*~*

@sadrienaline @alteanroyals

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #adrinette #mlb #mlb fandom #mlb fanfic #miraculous ladybug fandom #miraculous ladybug fanfic #ml fanfiction #adrien #adrien agreste #marinette #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #drabble

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solynaceawrites · 4 years ago

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Wires [2]: Defensive Wounds

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»��————-　⚜　————-««

“Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.” — Walt Whitman

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The morgue is cool and quiet, gleaming metal polished to a shine that sends little daggers of light into Lir’s eyes. She gives herself a moment to adjust, listening to the faint tic tic tic of the freezers, fingering the bottle of aspirin in her pocket while she waits to see if the subtle pressure in her skull is going to shift from discomfort to agony. Next to the door is a desk, with a state of the art computer, a few files, a cup full of pens, and a half-drunk cup of coffee with lipstick on the rim; beyond that, there is another door, one that probably leads to a storage room, two walls of cold lockers in four rows of four, and two x-ray displays on the final wall. In the center of the room are three slabs. On one of them is the Jane Doe, covered respectfully with a sheet, her eyes closed to give her an expression of peace. At her side is Trish, her blonde hair pulled into a knot at the top of her head and her face partially obscured by a sterile mask that she tugs down on Lir’s approach.

“Thorne,” she greets cheerfully. “You here for the autopsy report?” Lir nods, and Trish beckons her closer. “You’re right on time. Just got done with our guest.”

Lir isn’t sure what to make of having a corpse called a guest. Gallows humor, she supposes. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She suffered, that’s for certain.” Trish turns on the light over the slab and pulls it down, illuminating the Jane Doe with a grisly, fluorescent white that turns her already dead pallor a sickly blue-gray. Then she pulls the sheet down, and Lir is suddenly, incredibly grateful that she hasn’t eaten yet, the bile in her throat bitter but weak. “The throat and abdominal trauma was all perimortem. She was alive, but not struggling, when our killer cut her open. Judging from the tissue damage, looks like the throat happened first, but it was ultimately shock and blood loss that killed her.”

“She was alive for the whole thing?”

“Mm-hm. Though I don’t know how aware of it she was. I don’t have the toxicology report yet—that will take a little longer to run, sorry—but pupil dilation is indicative of intoxication. Judging from the depth of the gash here,” Trish points to Jane Doe’s throat, “it was more to keep her quiet than kill her. She would have bled out from that alone eventually if no one found her first, but it doesn’t go through bone. The hesitation marks at the edges make me think he was more . . . Well, there’s no easy way to say this. Probably sawed through her.”

Lir tries to picture it, being too strung out or drunk to defend herself, being helpless while some maniac slashed her throat and cut her open like a butcher. From the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a red dress and pale hair and holds her breath, counting to ten until it fades, then asks, “You said at the scene there weren’t any defensive wounds.”

“That’s right. And there aren’t. No blood or tissue under her nails, no bruising or scrapes or cuts to show that she tried to fight back.” Trish sighs, lifting the sheet back over Jane Doe before tugging off her gloves. “Whoever this is, they’re one sick puppy.”

“Yeah.” Photographs on the wall catch her attention, and Lir walks over to study them closely. They’re all from the crime scene, some of little bits of evidence next to their markers, others of the victim, and it’s the latter she really looks at. “Does that pendant have any religious connotations?”

“You’d have to check. Why?”

“I just thought she looks kind of like an angel.”

Trish comes to stand next to her, her expression grave. “You know, I had the same idea.”

They stand in a heavy silence, the clock on the wall ticking loudly until Lir sighs. She bids farewell to Trish, who promises to have the full report to her by the end of the day, and takes the elevator back up to the bullpen. Dante will no doubt want to know what she’s learned, but she finds that she doesn’t quite want to tell him. Something about this all is nagging her, tugging the thin strands of her memory with an urgency, look, look, you’ve seen this before, even though she’s fairly certain that she never has. Was there a similar case in Fortuna? So lost in wracking her thoughts she nearly runs right into Simmons as she steps off the elevator, and she mumbles an apology and returns to her desk, where she boots up the computer, hunting for a notepad and a pen while she waits for it to finish loading.

A cup of coffee thudding next to her elbow has her peering up. Dante sits back down, a cup of his own in his hand that he raises to her before he takes a sip. His face screws up in disgust. “Fuck. No matter how long I’m here, coffee still tastes like shit. What’d Trish say?”

“That we’d have the full report soon,” Lir replies. She finds what she was looking for and logs into the terminal. “Victim was slaughtered like livestock and left to die. Too something to even try to save her own life.”

“That all?”

She’s aware of his gaze, critical and assessing on her, and it makes her skin flush unpleasantly. “Until toxicology comes back.”

With a nod, he leans back in his seat. “Alright. What are your thoughts?”

Now you want to know? she nearly asks. Rubbing her temples, she replies instead, “Our guy is bold. A nightclub on one side, a bar on the other, people coming and going at all hours? Not to mention, he had to have been familiar with the location to avoid the security camera, if he did. Speaking of, is that footage here yet?” Dante shakes his head. “Right. Okay. So, Jane Doe was probably at one of the two places. Why risk dragging her any farther than that? And he had to get her to go with him somehow. A knife or a gun would have been too obvious, even for a crowded bar.”

“Could’ve posed as a hook-up,” Dante suggests.

“Mm. If she wasn’t drunk, he might have drugged her.”

“Drugs?”

“Her pupils were blown.”

“So,” he says slowly, “we’ve got a bold, possibly attractive killer who goes to bars to pick up women. Think he knew the vic?”

Lir realizes suddenly that he’s testing her, digging to see her worth, and it makes her angry all over again. “No, too risky. He’s got balls, but he’s not an idiot. All this planning, all the care he took, he wouldn’t want to leave any trace of himself, and that means he was probably a stranger and he picked her out when he got there. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else.”

“Opportunistic. Well, shit. Means he’s gonna be a bitch to find.” He offers her a crooked grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Want to flip a coin to see who’s givin’ Morrison the news?”

“You do it. I need to look for something.”

Dante frowns then, but the expression is quickly smothered as he stands. He takes his coffee with him into Morrison’s office; once the door is closed firmly behind him, Lir releases a sigh and slumps in her chair, cradling her head in her hands. This was meant to be a new beginning for her. Get out of Fortuna, away from the good-intentioned but condescending men she worked with, leave the bitter break-up and the cramped apartment behind her to set out in the bigger city. Yet here she is, dealing with condescending men, living in an apartment that’s large enough to feel empty, with a killer that she knows she has an infinitesimally small chance of catching on her hands. Maybe I’ll get a cat, she thinks, and then discards it. She’s going to be too busy to give any pet the love it would deserve.

Lir pulls up the database and enters her credentials, watching the wheel spin as the program decides whether or not she’s allowed in. Once it opens, she navigates to the search bar, where she types evisceration, hoping the term will be narrow enough to ping any cases that might have been similar. All she gets are animal cruelty cases, youths torturing cats and dogs, and she groans. Next is religious, but that doesn’t get her anything other than some fraud. Jane Doe is too broad, while trying by location only gets her arrests for petty theft, assault, and drunk and disorderlies. Her fingers drum on her desk as she thinks; maybe, if whatever it is that she thinks she remembers was before her time in the force, it would have been before they started digitizing their records.

Which would mean figuring out the location and then digging through that city’s physical files.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. Most of what she said to Dante was speculation, and she knows that they’re going to spend at least a week trying to identify their victim and looking for anyone who might have seen her, tracking down friends and acquaintances and ex-boyfriends to see if any of them had the fury and the cruelty needed to butcher someone like that. If they’re lucky, she’ll have gotten into some sort of trouble with the law and there will be prints they can match. If they’re unlucky, it’s beating the streets, shoving her photograph in people’s faces to try and jar their memory.

“Detective?” Lir opens her eyes to find Simmons standing next to her, a USB stick in his hand. “The nightclub owner sent this over. Said it’s all the footage from the last twenty-four hours and you wanted it?”

He sounds uncertain, and she forces herself to smile. “Yeah, thanks. While I’ve got you here, can I ask a favor?” Hesitantly, he nods. “Head down to the morgue to get the victim’s prints from Trish and run ‘em, will you? It’s a long shot, but it might help us figure out who she is.”

Simmons doesn’t look like he finds the idea appealing, but he gives a weak salute and heads down the stairs. Lir watches him until he disappears into the elevator, and then she plugs the USB into her computer and opens the files to scroll through it. Twenty-four hours of hopefully unaltered footage stored in four hour chunks which, when she clicks on the first video to play it, turn out to be monochrome and grainy. She fights through the urge to yank her hair, instead getting up and going to grab a fresh cup of coffee from the canteen. After a moment of hesitation, she takes the entire pot, setting a second one to brew; this is going to be an all-nighter for sure, and the only thing that’s going to get her through it is enough caffeine to make her jittery.

Dante is back at his desk when she returns. He arches a brow at the sight of her with the pot, but that turns into a loud groan as she says, “Footage got here. All twenty-four hours worth. Want to grab a seat?”

“There’s a meeting room we can use,” he mutters. “Bigger screen. Grab it and let’s go. Is that all the coffee?”

“For now.”

His long-suffering sigh draws an unwilling smile from her. Dante leads her down a hallway to a room mostly taken up by a large oval table surrounded by plush leather chairs, and he sinks into one as she sets up the monitor on the wall and gets the USB situated. “Ready?”

“Not really.”

“Tough shit.” She chuckles and presses play.

Hours pass as they work through both the footage and the coffee, pausing only when they catch sight of a pale-haired woman before slumping back in disappointment and carrying on. Morrison stops by once to check on them, then Simmons with the news that the prints were a dead end, and finally Trish with her full report, toxicology included. None of them linger for more than a few minutes at most. Dante and Lir alternate bathroom breaks and coffee runs, neither of them willing to stop the tape until it’s done. Like ripping a bandaid off, she thinks at one point, stifling a yawn before taking a large swig of her lukewarm coffee. Get it over with in one go, no hesitation.

It’s just passed four in the morning when Dante lurches in his seat. “Pause it, pause it!” Lir jumps, pressing quickly on the remote, and he squints. “Rewind it a bit. There, stop, stop. Press play.”

“What is—oh!” She scrambles for the file on the table, flipping it open so she can see the picture of Jane Doe clipped to the inside. Pulling it free, she holds it up, glancing between it and the screen. “It’s her.”

“Mm. Looks like . . .” He leans forward, his eyes narrowed as his lips move silently. “Two?”

Lir blinks, then turns her laugh into a rough cough. “No. It’s, uh . . . It’s 3:37.”

Dante scowls at her as he reaches into the pocket of his vest to pull out a pair of square glasses, the style just as noir as his clothing. He perches them on his nose, then nods. “Yeah. Alright. So our victim walked into the club at 3:37 am. Since her body was found at quarter to eight, means there’s a five hour window for our killer to have found her and pulled her into the alley.”

“That’s if you don’t remove however long she was in the bar and the killer leaving,” Lir points out.

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t be a wiseass, Thorne. It’s not cute.”

“I’m not here to be cute,” she replies irritably.

“Shame.” Just as she’s debating dumping her coffee on him, he asks, “There a way to print this? We’ll take it with her autopsy photo and show it to the staff at the club, see if any of ‘em remember her. Maybe she paid with a credit card, which’d give us a name.”

“You plannin’ to sleep tonight?” she asks dryly.

“Sleep when you’re dead, Thorne. Print and let’s go.”

Biting her tongue, she heads back to the computer attached to the monitor and screenshots the frozen video. Once it’s in her hands, the two of them head out back, where the employee lot is, and Dante leads her to a car that she recognizes from her childhood. Her mouth drops open as she takes in the ‘58 Corvette, the same type her father had often talked dreamily of owning when he retired, the black paint and white cut-outs glossy in the early dawn light. The top is closed against the dew, but she can still make the red leather interior, and she laughs incredulously when Dante unlocks it. “Seriously?”

“You can take a cab if you like,” he replies tightly.

Lir closes her mouth and climbs in, looking around curiously. The seats are incredibly comfortable, and it doesn’t seem like Dante has done any upgrading to it at all: the gearshift is still topped by a clean white knob, and the only source of sound is the radio, the knob of which Dante turns until classical rock filters softly through the speakers. A good car is like a good woman, her father had told her two months before his death, holding her in his lap as he pointed to the yellowed magazine, treat her right and she’ll stick with you for life. She’d put the damned ad in his casket before they buried him, and Lir closes her eyes against both the unwelcome sting of tears and the sight of him with his misshapen head on the silk pillow. Botched robbery, her mother said tearfully. Throat closed with sudden grief, just as sharp as it had been then, Lir hardly notices when they pull away from the curb.

“She’s beautiful,” she whispers.

Dante’s startled silence is the only reply she gets.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dmc oc #lirael thorne #lir #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #wires

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observedchaos · 5 years ago

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Fic: Favors the Brave (1/1) [Jaime x Brienne, Tyrion]

Posting so that I don’t chicken out of cleaning it up and posting to AO3 later

“WHAT DID YOU DO???”

Tyrion lifted his head muzzily from his desk to see Fury incarnate hovering over him.

Like every true sinner, a part of Tyrion had known that there would be a day of reckoning. What was a thrill without the threat of danger?

Though he had rather imagined his headsman resembling his father, not this...gargoyle having a bad hair day? Tyrion squinted with heroic effort but the haze of a proper hangover won.

"TYRION, WAKE UP, DAMN IT!"

Hmm, the sound of the Fury seemed familiar. Was it an ex? Gods, he hoped he wasn't so cliche. That would be humiliating. Wasn't his type more backstabber than frontstabber?

Who else, who else? He had always thought there was something off about Varys…

No, wait it was Brienne Tarth.

Tyrion patted her muscled arm in relief. Brienne was mighty but merciful. She would rescue him from the consequences of his ale-soaked misdeeds.

Whatever they may be.

Tyrion found he couldn't remember much at the moment. Only the most unshakeable pieces of identity remained: his name, the view straight up Father's flared nostrils when Tyrion delivered a perfect bon mot, and every curve of the '77 Playwench centerfold.

"WHAT DID YOU DO, TYRION?"

The question sank in that time. Sank in like an arrow right into his aching head. Words. He must find words to fend off Brienne's vicious volley.

Words, his old friends. He had dedicated his life to sowing adjectives, japes and invectives across the land. Rude of them not to bear fruit in his time of need.

Finally, a lone weed wound its way to the surface.

"Offended the gods," he croaked.

There. Those were words that resembled a sentence. Take that, foul Fury! Of course, his tongue was so dry it may have sounded more like "often the goths." In vino, visigoths, Tyrion chuckled to himself.

"There’s no time for this! What did you say to that woman??”

Brienne was implacable. It had been amusing when Jaime was the one to tease her into anger. Like watching a gladiator poke at a saintly lion. To think, his brother *liked* her this way. Jaime was a braver idiot than Tyrion had given him credit for.

"Woman?"

"The one time I need you to talk!" Brienne groaned in despair. She might have clutched her tragic hair. Tyrion was too busy trying not to puke to be sure. Brienne regrouped and fetched him a glass of water. Bliss.

"Tyrion, focus. Last night. You went inside that tent and when you came out you said that you 'fixed it.' What did you fix? What did you do to Jaime???"

"Jaime? Tent?"

"That stupid red tent at the carnival you MADE me go to last night! THINK, TYRION!!!"

How had he never noticed that her voice was more forceful than a battering ram? Merciful Mother.

"Not so loud, woman, please."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Does your head hurt? BECAUSE I WILL TAKE IT OFF YOUR NECK IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT YOU DID!"

Shock that she was capable of sarcasm jolted his brain into gear. A very rusty third gear.

“Brienne, if you are going to be dramatic, then I will have to be sensible and no one wants that.”

Brienne hauled him forward by his shirt with such force that Tyrion felt his wing tipped shoes take flight. Their disparate sizes meant her hand nearly spread collar to cock. Fear shook him sober.

"Yes, ok. I am trying to remember. I swear it." Tyrion scrambled for purchase and details that would jog his memory. "We went to a carnival? Why in the world would you and I go to a carnival?"

"You were moping! You said we had to go where we belong!" Brienne's fist clenched. Unfortunately, so did his windpipe.

Less unfortunately, gurgling her name fueled enough guilt to loosen her grip.

Tyrion had never been so glad to have his feet on the ground. Rolling his shoulders in relief, he felt his freshly oxygenated mind rev with curiosity. He *did* like a puzzle.

A carnival. That might explain the calliope music merrying around his head.

"Walk me through last night, Brienne. From the beginning. If I have the big picture, maybe I can remember the details."

She took a deep breath. Brienne slipped into the cadence of an officer delivering a shift report, something she and Jaime had surely done hundreds of times when they served together in Essos. Calm was Brienne’s specialty. Jaime often called her a robot, with mirth in his eyes. Outside of her hearing, Jaime had told him that her stoicism was the only reason he still had two fingers on his right hand. Tyrion didn’t have words for the look in Jaime’s eyes, then.

"You and I left work at the same time. Jaime was picking you up because you were sad after… Chai?"

"Shae." Tyrion's throat was dry again.

"After she dumped you. Jaime insisted that I come have a drink with you. We went to a bar you hated."

Tyrion rubbed his head. "Were there...there were hubcaps on the wall. And they dyed the ale green."

"Yes! You told Jaime it was like playing a symphony with a kazoo.” Brienne smiled fondly. “He laughed so hard he…"

Tyrion took a swig of water as his interrogator trailed off. She had a bad habit of sharing details that made her affections too apparent. It was hard to watch.

"We had an appetizer but then Jaime got a call." She blinked too quickly as she stumbled on. Another tell.

"From Cersei. She called and he came running." An all too familiar pit formed in Tyrion’s stomach.

Sympathy briefly returned to Brienne’s face. "You were upset. You ordered shots and...people were looking. Then you dragged me to the carnival. Mostly I tried to keep you from falling on your face as you told me that Jaime would always choose Cersei.”

Truth was bitter. Tyrion had run out of wine to sweeten his tongue.

“He will, you know,” he snapped. “I’ve watched him do it a dozen times. You dragged him out of the pits of hell in Essos and not even you can save him from her. She ruined him the day she met him. She’s the main attraction and we’re the sideshow!”

Brienne flinched. Her left hand smoothed the skin of her right thumb in an absent gesture of anxiety. Tyrion cleared his throat in apology.

“He feels responsible for her somehow,” he said gently. “She trusted him when he needed someone to need him. We were never good enough for our father but he was exactly what Cersei wanted. Because he did everything she wanted. Terrible deeds did not feel terrible if he did them for her. Then he saw what she was but he couldn’t take back what he had done. Jaime thinks he doesn’t deserve...anything better.”

Seeing his sorrow reflected on her face was unbearable. Deflection, then.

“And how else did I charm you last night, my lady?”

“You cursed fate for making you beautiful but unloved. Then you literally flung yourself onto several women and screamed ‘once more unto the breach!’"

"Ah, yes. Well, I suppose I do get a bit theatrical when I’m drunk."

Brienne glared at him. "You disappeared when I was helping one of your poor victims up. I found you an hour later coming out of that red tent with the burning heart. "

A burning heart. Tyrion’s pulse quickened. “Jaime. I wanted to help Jaime.”

I tell desires, not fortunes. An impossible memory. A woman’s eyes flashing red. Smoke stinging his eyes. A voice from the embers....We all must choose.

“Please, Tyrion. You said you ‘fixed it.’ I thought you were just drunk but then this morning…”

Tyrion clutched Brienne for balance. He spoke without hearing the words. “I wished for Jaime to have a second chance.”

A clang from the outer office jarred him from his stupor. He toppled over as Brienne rushed to the blinds. The slats crumpled like paper in her hand as she peered through the window of his office door.

“He’s here.” She looked scared. Tyrion had never seen Brienne look scared before.

His assistant’s voice drifted in. “M-m-m-Mr. Lannister?”

The door opened. It was reckoning day, after all.

From the floor, Tyrion saw the face of the man he had looked up to his whole life. A face that he hadn’t seen in over 20 years.

Blond hair untouched by grey. Trouble-free eyes. 10 fingers.

Jaime was 16 again and his heart burned bright gold.

#jaime x brienne #fic #game of thrones #tyrion lannister #my fic #writing wrongs #brienne of tarth #I need to learn formatting #braime #I feel like I said their names 8 million times #wishes #modern au #writing this fic made me realize that I am a tyrion (sans booze) and I will have to live w that knowledge #be gentle

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years ago

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Lady Gloucester Chapter Two: The Berries

Fandom: Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear

Pairing: Edgar Gloucester and Fem! Reader

Word Count: 7K

Summary: Your parents have arranged a match for you. You are brought to the high court of England to marry the king’s godson, shy, naive Edgar of Gloucester. Though you have caught the eye of his haf-brother, Edmund as well. As you come to know each other, you learn more of the truth of each brother and the reality of the families of the nobility of England. But disaster is soon on it’s way...

Warnings: mentions of sex, brief mention of rape (no actual attack, just a character being a butt), mean fathers, unrequited love, some fighting, arranged marriages, and so much self-indulgence you could put whip cream on it. Some friends to lovers.

Chapter One is here

“Where in god’s name is the fire, is this the way to treat your king?!” Lear vented as he waddled into the main room. All of you were poised. Dressed well and garbed for his entrance. Hours were spent waiting for the night or finding and preparing your best clothes as servants scrambled to prepare food and clean. You were ready to meet your lord and sovereign. Ready to make a good impression, to be seen as worthy for his godson. The man who walked in could have any fussy old grandfather just in grander clothes and rings with a thin crown on his white head. You thought a king would have a presence that would be more…kingly. He would greet people, gesture his hands to move them like game pieces. But he looked around, only concerned about the fire and his own comfort. He tossed his soaked cloak to a servant, jumping back from its weight. Any head who turned to him bowed lightly and he only snarled in return. “Your majesty….” Lord Gloucester began, he bowed and then walked with open arms close to the king as if to embrace him. Lear’s beard matched the whiteness of his hair, and his eyes were sharp as a hawk. His ears stuck out like a child’s and though he was of average height and slouched in his posture, he carried himself with pride as if he were seven feet tall. Edgar glanced over at you for a moment, he leaned over to whisper in your ear quickly. “Make him feel good, he likes that. Say nice things to him.”

Nodding, trying to understand something simple and yet complex at the moment, you bit down hard and watched the king. “Well-hello! Welcome! Welcome my dear lord!” he greeted; he took out his hand as Gloucestor plied to take. “I am honored by the first step you took in my humble home!” he praised to him. Edgar stood behind his father, his hands planted behind him. Every now and then he glanced at you, over in the corner to watch. “Well, thank you!” Lear relaxed and smiled more at Gloucestor’s words. Lord Gloucester gestured to Edgar and he patted the back of the young man with strength. “Your majesty…” he said dutifully. “How fares my godson?” “Well, your most royal highness” Edgar replied politely. “He’s especially happy since we…since we now have the young lady who is his wife here-remember?” Gloucester reminded him. His eyes went to you and you sucked in a breath. You felt your own parents tense up with nervousness and excitement. Even though the king was a fussy old man, he was the king. “Oh, yes! The lady…where is she?” “Y/N, Y/N, sweetling, come here…” Breathing in deep, you stepped forward, Edgar gave you his arm and catching it, you went before the king. “Your highness, I present to you, the future Lady Gloucester!” he announced. With every bit of grace, you could muster, you dipped into a clean curtsy. Keeping your eyes down, you only took note of the dark blue ends of Lear’s robes. “Isn’t she a pretty thing, your grace?” “There are hundreds of pretty girls, pretty is common. What we need are decent ones, ones with good heads on their shoulders.” “Y/N is a true gentlewoman, I assure you. I wouldn’t give my son away to any run-of-the-mill girl!” “Yes, yes, Lady Y/N….what do you have to say for yourself? Your king asks you to speak!” Edgar turned to you and nodded, he placed a hand on your arm and made it tight as if for safety. His advice resurfaced. “I was just…struck by the presence of your majesty. I am not worthy even to dine with you, but yet as good and just as you are, I feel honored to be here in this room, much less to marry your godson.” You praised, eyes still down. “Ha! Well, a nice girl! A decent girl, Gloucestor, indeed!” You saw his long hand gesture up and you looked at him in his sharp eyes, the color of a sapphire. His bejeweled hand touched your cheek, tapping it lightly. You remind me of my daughters-where are they? Where the devil did they go?” “It was raining, father, the carriage got stuck!” a low, smooth voice echoed from the door. The three young women glided in like birds with their fine silk dresses. One had red hair and a high nose in a bun, the next one blonde hair in a similar bun with a simpler dress and dark, sharp eyes like her father. The third was small with dark hair and wore a genuine smile, unlike the serious faces of the other two. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Fie that cook, where is our bread?!” the king yelled, slamming his fist on the table. Jumping at the sound, you sipped your water quietly. Feet shuffled as servants ran up to serve bread before the meat could be brought in. You were placed next to the middle sister, the blonde one. She was tearing off bits of bread methodically. What was her name again? That was right… “How are you, Princess Reagan? I heard of your marriage upcoming next week-are you excited?” you asked. She turned to examine you. “Yes, very. Do you plan on attending,” she replied. “I do,” you responded politely. As you turned to drink again, she added on more. “Then you better wear something better than that,” she insulted. Confused and shocked, you glance down at your dress. You hear Goneril, the red-haired oldest, cracking back a suppressed laugh. Looking down, you eat dinner quietly until you hear Edgar across from you. “But I think… no one should outshine the bride on her wedding day, princess”, Edgar reasoned, gesturing at you. Lear pointed his knife in his daughter's direction, oblivious to the food being finally poured onto his plate. “Reagan! Don’t be so horrid! Why are you always like this? If only you could hold your tongue, stupid girl!” Lear cursed. He dug into the chicken a servant was handing him, heaping on a generous amount. Blinking fast, you saw her lips purse as she replied quietly “y-yes, father.” The small, dark-haired princess looked around, eyes wide. She then noticed the king. “Father, have you eaten today?” “Why, I’m eating now!” “All day, you weren’t here at breakfast. Did you have breakfast?” “Why no I…I didn’t.” “Oh, father! Go ahead and enjoy the food…” “For you, darling, I will!” Nodding, you continued to eat. Though you noticed there was an empty chair. No one acknowledged it or commented on it. You turned to Gloucester on your other side, cutting his potatoes into large chunks. “My lord, where is Edmund?” you asked. “He’s in his chambers. Now is not appropriate to introduce him to the king. He has to prove himself worthy first.” He commented plainly. It made you think of the moment when he took off your glove and kissed your hand. You decided to tell no one about it. Perhaps he was just playfully flirting since that was just what he did with all women. He hardly spoke to you since. Only bobbed his head when you passed by him. You saw him chatting with a few maids and how they giggled a fury after he left. But you noticed how often he would keep to himself. Hardly speak. Even servants seemed to eye him carefully, or the male ones, anyway. Besides, there was a sadness in his speech that struck your heart once you thought it over. And being a bastard in a house where that was flaunted in his face could not have been easy. You eyed one servant passing by. “Excuse me, has Edmund dined yet?” you asked the boy. “No, he has not.” “Are there any other plates?” you questioned. “Plenty, my lady.” “Could you please bring up some food to him?” “He refuses to eat!” “Tell him it’s a gift from me. Give him some decent cuts of the food, Sirrah.” You ordered. Later, they sat sewing. Skipping past your own mother at her needle, you went to Goneril. She sewed with a straight back and her eyes right onto her work. In the corner, the fire roared away to keep off the misty chill of the night. “Your highness…” you greeted. “Lady Y/N, what brings you here?” she asked. There was not a friendliness in her voice and it made your smile frozen on your face. “I just wanted to ask…ask…how fares your lord? ” “Another cold. Again. He cannot travel and has to lay in bed.” She reported. She settled it down over her dark grey dress and glared at you in the face. “Oh, I’m sorry.” You replied, inching away. “Y/N, do you always speak of husbands and marriages?” she criticized sharply. “No-no I do not! I only wanted-” “Pfft, if you have nothing more interesting than that to say, I am not interested,” she snapped. Her hands went back to her needlework as if nothing happened. Crushed, you went over to the corner. You wondered where your own sewing went to, and without anything to do with your hands, you folded them on your lap with your head down. The dark-haired daughter turned to you. Glancing over to see they were distracted, talking about things such as the weather or any gossip, she leaned to you to speak. “I am so sorry…they should not have said that.” She said kindly. “And of course they were guests, you couldn’t have fought back.” “Thank you…thank you for your apology, your highness. You’re very kind.” “You just don’t know anyone!” “I…I don’t! Your name, your highness? I forgot…” “My name’s Cordelia! And you don’t have to call me your highness…it just feels good to meet a woman who isn’t a lady in waiting!” Feeling yourself smile back, you relaxed as you looked into her brown eyes. “But enough about me- What about you, how do you fare, Y/N? This isn’t your home! How do you feel about your betrothal?” “I’m…nervous, that’s all. So much is changing. I’m far from home, from most people I know…” you answered. “I can’t imagine how hard it can be, but...Edgar and the Earl are lovely people. You will be fine.” Cordelia assured. A page came by to rekindle the fire. You heard your mother try and make polite conversation with the other two princesses with hushed, restrained voices. “May I ask, if I may be bold, your heigh-Cordelia…I’ve been wondering something. Your father loves Gloucester so much. Why aren’t you married to Edgar by now? Or your sisters? As the king’s daughters, shouldn’t it make sense that you’d be Gloucester’s first choice?” you asked “Our parents pushed us together for a while. My sisters both laughed at the idea. They’d rather marry with a Dukedom at least rather than some earl. So, they decided to see if I would go with Edgar. They made us court for a little bit.” She recalled. “Oh.” Lurching away, you examined her face for nay envy or bitterness. There was none. “But anyway, we tried but…nothing happened. I saw him no more as a friend. I was scared to tell him and his father, but he thought the same! He just didn’t think he’d make me happy as a husband and I don’t think I’d be a good wife for him! So he brought it up easily and they consented. And so it did not happen besides… there are these other men I like more…and they're visiting! Weekly!” she squealed. I’m now finally having suitors!” “Suitors!? How romantic!” “Yes, I…I can’t believe I only get to marry but…it’s thrilling! The king of France is lovely, though the duke of Burgandy is the most handsome man I've ever seen! He even wanted to duel some other fellow for writing some verses for me-“ “Does it scare you?” “I confess I enjoy it a lot! I have all sorts of outings with them-chaperoned, of course- isn't that silly!” “It’s not, it’s exciting!” You both laugh lightly. “We don’t get to choose a lot but…we have this one choice where it matters…and I’m glad it is one of the crucial ones.” She said. The rain pattered and there was thunder in the distance. You heard feet scuttle as if the servants were giant mice. A maid as big as your pinky scurried up to the room to announce to the princesses that it was getting time to retire. The storm was going to force the king and his daughters to stay overnight. But somehow, the thought didn’t make you nervous. Cordelia was gracious, hardly leaving your side. Eating together and sewing, telling stories. You found she loved history and was able to explain things to where you understood them plainly like a good teacher. She made you smile. She cheered up even the gloomiest hall and she even had a knack for playing all sorts of games, mature and childish. Once the mud had cleared and the rain was light, you felt sad to see her go. “Here, there are some books from the library, you might enjoy them…” you offered, as a small parting gift before she boarded her carriage two mornings later. “Wait, may I invite you, y/n?” she asked, her fur gloves holding onto the books. Her father was being helped into the carriage. “Me? No, I couldn’t!” “I think you need to have another woman around who isn’t your mother! And you need to come over and see me!” “Well…yes, I guess so.” “I promise, no one will bother you! You may visit our palace, or I’ll visit yours! Do you not mind? I’m not being a bother, am I?” “No, Cordelia, you aren’t!” “Time to get in the carriage, dear, Burgandy wants to dine with us tonight!” Lear reminded, sticking his white head out. “Burgandy-then I must go!” she cheered before hopping into her seat. As the door closed, you saw Lear lean over and kiss her cheek before it took off. Even he seemed to melt around her. Sighing, you watched the carriage vanish over the horizon. “If only I could be like Cordelia-a princess, adored and worshipped with beautiful men fighting over me. My choice of the litter, and not chosen for me…” you sighed. It must be nice to be as lovely and as desired as Cordelia.

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It was nerve-wracking at first to be on a horse. It was a strong, moving animal that could knock you out or kick you if you gave it a reason. But as long as Edgar was there to help you, lesson by lesson, it made you braver about riding. “Come on, come on!” Edgar said, leading the horse on its reigns. You held it gingerly. He picked up the pace, walking in a wide circle in the back courtyard. Gloucester walked by with another earl, Kent, discussing something passionately when he turned and saw you. His dark red robes flapped with the breeze and his bright eyes glittered when he saw you two. “Well! A young man leads a sweet betrothed on a steed-if it wasn’t a horse I would have mistaken you for the Nazarite couple that brought our Lord!” he commented. “Father, we have no grand, divine matters as a holy child- I am just teaching Y/N how to ride…” he explained. The wind made his cheeks pink and his hair tossed. From your high advantage, you couldn’t help but admire him. “With Joseph! He’s the gentlest one-he already likes her!” Edgar continued, patting the horse's muzzle gently. There was a small laugh from Gloucester. From the back, your mother smiled as she read her book. She usually sat in the corner as you and Edgar did things together. Just to make sure everything was kept appropriate. “Is that why we have no apple tarts for dessert this month?” he asked. Edgar shook his head but grinning, you bobbed your head up and down. He turned around, saw you, and then added. “Yes…my lord father, it is!” Gloucester went to the horse and then looked up at you. See, he’s a gentle soul…all you have to do is give him apples and he’ll be like your dog…” “He’s a lovely horse,” you cooed, gently patting his speckled face. “And he’s every bit as arrogant as his namesake without some colorful coat!” The horse had the sweetest brown eyes too. Beautiful and fierce, but he carried himself with lightness. And that lightness came across in his speed and the strength you felt.

”Let me help you down, Y/N...”

Edgar placed his hands right over your body. With an odd, warm feeling all over you, you accepted the touch as he helped you off. Lingering in the light hold for a bit, you stepped off and wiped your hands on your skirt. “Thank you, thank you for teaching me…” you said. “It was a joy to, my lady. I’m glad you’re able to ride a little.” Edgar added. From the window, there was a pair of eyes watching you both, Looking up, you glimpsed them before they flashed away. But you decided to ignore it. Maybe it was your father. Walking inside the castle through the stables, Edgar squeezed your hand to wish goodbye before he left off to the library. Behind you, you heard slow footsteps. “Did you heed my warning?” Edmund asked. “About what?” you asked, hands folded before you. “I told you, he left a maid pregnant and she died bearing a babe…any woman he has is bound to die, do you want that to happen to you?” he asked, looking you over. “Who are you speaking of?” you questioned, stepping forward. The stable had sunlight pouring through from the door. It was musty and smelly with animal dung. “Your ‘lord’, Edgar of course!” he said. Crossing your hands, you walked up to him, you glared daggers into Edmund. “The first time we spoke, you told me you were a half-brother. And yes, you mentioned a maid becoming pregnant, but you never specified who the father was. Then that means you’re speaking of Gloucester. Everyone knows what you are-you can’t fool me with that. That maid wasn’t Edgar’s maid, wasn’t it?” He paused, his head bowing down and then huffing deeply. “Yes. That maid was my mother.” A horse brushed his lips before he bit onto some hay. You heard another clopping by as it was led to its stable. “Y…did you enjoy the food?” you asked, trying to lighten the subject. “Yes, yes I did. I can’t fool you, Y/N, but I can make you hate him.” “My lord, what do you want of me now?” “I want your safety, isn't that obvious?” “How kind,” you sarcastically remarked. “Observe Edgar, observe him, and soon you’ll see he is…a horrid, spoiled man. He never earned anything-it was all handed to him. He’s a baby. How could you have a baby with a father who is a baby himself?” he dared, pointing his finger at the door his brother left through. Standing your ground, your eyes never left his. “I will observe him, and give a few months’ time, give you my answer. I’ll break off the betrothal myself if I don’t think it’s fit.” You reasoned. He blinked in surprise. He smiled “really?” “Really.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Later, you found where Edgar would be. He spent long hours of his free time in the library. Creeping over, you knocked on the door. “Oh-Y/N! What a surprise!” he greeted. His brown head popped from a table piled with books. “Why are you here?” If you were going to figure out if these warnings were true, you had to be proactive. Which means you had to be unaccompanied in one room with Edgar to see who or what he really was. “I just wanted to…to see you…to see what you were up to…” you said. Swallowing the other reason, doubt began to creep in. What if Edmund was right? Maybe he was reading something nefarious. “I just found this collection of plays and it’s fascinating!” “Plays?” “Yes! See!?” Looking inside, you saw it was a large book filled with all sorts of thin lines and names. Stage directions in brackets. “I’ve been lost in it all day!” he confessed. “What plays have you read?” you asked. “Histories, tragedies, pastorals, comedies, comic-pastoral, tragic-historic, historic-pastoral, comic-tragical…every kind!” he said. The smell of the old pages lured you in. And besides, you needed to stay with him per Edmund’s dare. “Could I…could I look at it too?” “I have an even better idea…let’s read one! Aloud! It’s how it should be!” he encouraged, his eyes wide. “But you have to read it with emotion, not monotone-alright?” “Alright!” He sat you down on a chair next to him. You selected a light comedy to read. Soon you were switching characters. Edgar was extremely talented. He altered his voice and moved his hands to make each of his own characters different. You found you were watching him read to the point you forgot your own place and had to catch yourself. In one scene you played a beggar encountering a shepherd. You had to read the beggar. “Oh, please sir! Sweet swain! But for a penny…” you attempted a decent tone. He shook his head a little, but with a smile. “Y/N, try and make your voice raspy and jumpy-“he advised. “That’s how the beggars on the streets talk if you notice them…” “Alright…” You tried the line again with a raspy quality and he laughed and applauded. “I just have trouble with the beggar’s lines, I promise! And the farmer-he just speaks oddly!” “Just do that one, and for the farmer…have you heard the way they talk? Their accent?” he asked. Turning the page over, you recalled the odd farmer visiting the palace to discuss something with Gloucester. “Yes, with the lilt and their r’s? Let me try that…” you said, trying to get the flavor of the sound. As you found a line of the farmers, you realized it wasn’t as hard as you initially thought. And he was smiling in encouragement. The door creaked as it opened. “Quite comfortable, are you two?” Gloucester asked, poking his head in boldly. Standing up, you blubbered out “m-my lord, we were reading, was all! I promise you nothing-” “I see, I see! Edgar’s a clever lad-well read lad, he is! I’m glad you both could enjoy it! But lady, your father has been calling you and would like to speak with you.” He announced. Checking around, you didn’t see your father nearby. Perhaps he was with your mother in their chambers. “I’ll leave at once…” you said. But you felt Edgar take a step near you, you turned around. “Y/N, could you come again, you think? Read another one?” he asked, his eyes bright. “I…I will. Thank you!” As you left, Gloucester closed the door and turned to his son. “Nothing happened?” Edgar shook his head, walking forward and gesturing in a slight panic. “I swear on my right arm, nothing inappropriate happened. She didn’t say anything too forward and I was chaste as ice with her…we’ve only touched hands and that’s all! We didn’t even touch hands as we were reading!” His father let out a sigh. “I was worried…I was hoping for a kiss!” “Father?!” He relaxed and smiled, letting out a half-laugh in disbelief. “I want to know my son will be happy! At least, have a wife he likes kissing!” “I have to confess…you’ve told me ladies love it but…at the thought of kissing her I…I shake! Besides, how will I know she wants it? Then she really will hate me!” “Have you considered asking her?” he asked with a grin. Edgar shoved his hands in his pockets and exhaled deeply. “Well, it’s too early for any kissing anyways…” Gloucester walked closer, his voice a little sharper. “You’ve always been shy around women. Polite. Formal. But now you’re being too formal. But it seems like this lady will be your wife at this rate. And you understand the laws about annulment-how easily your marriage could be denied like it never happened. And leave all your lands and title heirless, too!? You will make sure the marriage is consummated…” “Father!” he gasped, his ears turning pink. “You’re a young man and she’s a lovely woman! It shouldn’t be a challenge! I have to make sure the marriage is solid and …besides, I want to see my own grandchildren!” “I can’t think of…of that without a heart attack…it’s not that I don’t like touching her or I don’t want to kiss her I just…I get nervous when I’m with her! Why are we even talking about this now!? but…Father, I just want to…I want to make sure she’s…she’s happy…” he said. Gloucester patted his shoulder lovingly. “You don’t have to touch her now! Not at all! We’ll think of something” ------------------------------------------------ The physician felt your head. “Humph, she’ll be fine. It won’t be pleasant, but she’ll be fine…” Head spinning, you laid down further and coughed into your fist. Your parents looked at you worriedly. Sitting down, your father reached over to hold your hand. The illness arrived right at Goneril’s wedding, rendering you unable to go. For a few days, you laid burning of sickness in your bed. “It will be alright, it’s just a little fever…” he assured. He felt warm. Everything was freezing. Freezing cold. You remained in bed with blankets piled over you. At a knock at the door, you hear a familiar voice, his voice. “How is she?” Edgar asked. “Nearing the end, she’ll be better in a bit after some rest. And she’s taking medicine.” “Thank God.” Edgar walked forward, holding a large bowl with a spoon in his hands. “My lord? What are you doing here?” you asked worriedly. He was seeing you as you were sick, your face lost of its color, your hair horrid, and your voice hoarse, far far from “loveliness itself.” Part of you wanted to just bury yourself in the blankets before he could see you. But he looked at you kindly. “I have this. I heard Y/N was sick and I…I wanted to bring it here.” He brought a bowl of brother and a spoon. “Eat all of this broth, there’s a special tea I’ll give you later. My mother insisted on these when I was sick, it will make you strong, Y/N.” Nodding, you sipped the broth, delicious to you. The tea was bitter and full of herbs. But your taste buds were weak. You didn’t mind. It felt good on your stomach. “I’m sorry I… I look like this…” “But Y/N, you’re sick!” “You don’t think-“ “You don’t have to feel like you have to be pretty all the time for me, or my father or anyone…just rest!” Soon enough, you were sleeping soundly. Edgar even came by to talk, telling you stories about his childhood, things he heard of some old king named Arthur, and his companions, and adventures. Reading from books his mother would read him. You hardly noticed the hours passing and your sickbed became pleasant with his company. You were lying asleep. Edgar sat by on the chair, watching you rest soundly. A smile pressed on his face. The color on your face was returning and you had a small smile on your face as you dreamed. “So…a little peck on the head?” Gloucester asked. Excitedly. “No! She’s asleep-and she was just sick too!” “I’ll never understand a man who wishes to be so formal with his bride-to-be!” he muttered, shaking his head. “Alright, I won’t kiss her yet. I’ll give her something…what do women like? What does she like?” “I know she likes books, like me. She seems to like animals well enough. And she likes these foods because she smiles when we serve these at dinner…” Gloucestor recalled, listing various treats off of his fingers. ------------------------------- “Checkmate, I win.” “Again, Cordelia? I can’t believe you.” You gasped, blinking at how her white pieces in one turn overtook your own black ones. “See for yourself, plainly I’ve won!” she reasoned, though there was a mischievous light in her eye. “We should switch to cards-You always win the strategy games!” you teased, taking in a deep sigh. “You just need help with coming up with better strategies!” she laughed merrily. “I can help you with that!” As you began to pick up the pieces to stand again, the floor creaked with the weight of a new pair of shoes on it. Looking up, you saw it was Edgar. Dressed in a nice jacket, his shoes shined, and his hair combed. He held his hands behind his back. “I’d like to speak with Y/N, for just a minute, princess.” “Speak away,” she consented, eyes wide in curiosity. “I have this, a gift….” In his hand was a small bowl of your favorite berries. “What?! You found them in season?” you cried. “A sweet thing, for my sweet mistress. To make sure she is fed and has something to taste she loves…” “Edgar, I…thank you!” You sat this time with Edgar’s added presence as you played cards. He joined sometimes, other times he contented himself to read. But the berries did taste wonderful as you popped them in your mouth. As the week passed on and became the next month, he went over with his father behind him. You sat in the hall with your mother finishing your breakfast. “Here, open this box.” He said, nudging a wooden box in his hands. “I had to ask my father, but he gave his blessing…” Inside was a beautiful necklace. The gems sparkled with the yellow morning light. “Could I…could I put it on you?” he asked. “Yes.” Taking the necklace from his box, you turned around, moving your hair out of the way. His arms reached over you and you could feel his breath, Aware of his closeness, of his hands around you. The cold metal gave the sensitive skin on your neck and shoulders goosebumps. When he clasped it, you felt the contract with his hands. Suddenly vulnerable for no reason other than you were very physically close. Heart fluttering a little more, you turned around slowly. “My lor-Edgar, I…thank you…” you replied. It felt light and cold on you, but you loved the color and how it looked against your skin. “That was my mother’s necklace. My father gave it to her, and now it will be always yours,” he informed. “I will take good care of it,” ------------------------------------------------- Every month you stayed, there was another gift. The next month brought you a special new skirt to wear which you did for him. The next month it was a rich springtime, so you had arrangements of flowers. The next month you had your own little collection of books like his. With each gift, he became less quiet. You talked more. Of your memories. What you dreamt of last night. Your childhood friends. Your own fathers and mothers. The more you thought of it, late at night. You wondered what you would tell Edmund. Awaking in the middle of the night it struck you- the six months were running up already. He was pitiful. He was charismatic. He was charming. He was clever. And he looked at you with a slight smile and sometimes a wink that made your stomach drop. Perhaps this was to get you to fall for him… Tossing in your bed, you wondered about what being married to Edmund would be like… He tried to trick you with his words and outright lie to you. He tried to persuade you that a generous, gentle young man was a bad person. If you could throw away Edgar and marry his brother, what kind of marriage would that be? Even if Edmund inherited anything at all, he was making a fuss of nothing. Was it because of…jealousy? The thought made you wish you could shrink away and hide. Getting up, you paced your chambers in the dark of night, turning it over. Technically, you could refuse the older and leave unscathed. Marry the younger even. But you didn’t want to do that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Edmund, I have observed him closely enough. I see no real fault in your brother.” “You aren’t looking closely enough,” he quipped. He leaned against the wall, eyes peeled for anyone listening or watching. “Closely?! The other day I saw him as he was sitting peacefully at the window, observing how the rain fell down. A fly came by and landed on his leg. I have seen many people attempt to swat at the creature and kill it, but he…he let it be. When it stirred, he would only glace at it, moving his clothes so it would go somewhere else, but was content to live with it in peace. Why should I be repulsed by a man who would not hurt a fly?” you asked. “He barely even has his sword with him!” He huffed, then crossed his arms again. “You haven’t known him long, you’ve only known him for a few months, I for years…” he reasoned. “Edmund, do you think I am foolish?” you asked angrily. “I…what, no. Not at all, my lady.” He walked over to you and looked you back into your eyes. Taking in a deep breath, you squeezed your fists and spoke as calmly as you could. “Edmund, I don’t want to marry you.” He paused. His frown was stubborn. He put his hand to his mouth, thinking before he continued. “It’s my status. I was born of lechery and you mistake me for lecherous.” “No, I don’t…” “If I had a claim to that title. If I was called a real son, if I could have a few acres of that land, just a few more rooms of the castle, be called ‘earl’ or ‘lord’ or what have you and spoil you with all of those trinkets…would you take me?” Giving it careful thought, you shook your head firmly. “No, Edmund. I don’t love you like a wife. I will love you like a sister, a friend. When I become countess, I will make sure you are every bit as equal. You’ll have some land, plenty of money-Edgar will be earl then. I’m sure I can persuade him. We’ll take you to court. I’ll make you dine with the king and his daughters too! But…I cannot force my heart to love what it cannot…” “Do you love my brother then?” Freezing, you gave it a bit of thought. “I…I don’t know. I’m not sure. But I…I like him. And we are already engaged, he will be a good husband to me, I know it.” “Oh, because of all of those silly things he spoils you with! If I had his money, I’d give you a hundred of those necklaces and ten horses!” he boasted, gesturing away. Taking in another breath, you dared not lose your ground now. “Why do you even like me? You’ve known me less than you know my brother and you don’t like him yet you’re fond of me?” He swallowed. You saw him tear up a little. “I still remember the night you sent me food, I thought I…I had hope that maybe, maybe you could see me…” he cursed. He then went to the wall and punched it with his fists in frustration. Taking a step forward, you softened your voice. “I do see you, but not as a lover… There will be a maid for you, someday. A wonderful, sweet, beautiful maid who will make you happy. But I cannot make you happy and you cannot make me happy either. That is all, I must leave.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was solacing to walk about the gardens. The late spring was arriving and with it the blooms. There was heat and you could smell the hotness on the dirt and feel it on your sweat as you walked continuously on the ground. Often your father stayed in, dozing away the afternoons but your mother joined you. You discussed everything and nothing. Often on those walks, she was more candid about marriage. What to do with quarrels and conflicts. She told you everything about what happened with lovers and spouses in a bed together and what to expect on your wedding night and on nights after. Where men wanted to place it on you and what you could do, how it could be painful or enjoyable. Your ears burned and you were glad that only some flock of sheep could hear these words. But you returned, discussing everyone at home. How badly you missed them, funny stories, and how odd it was that this was now your reality. How this strange, large castle was now even called “home.” “Do you have any questions?” “No, not anymore…” you answered. As you both returned to the castle, you heard a clanging noise and the sound of harsh grunts. “What…what on earth is it?” your mother asked. You thought you recognized Edgar’s voice. Following her, she curiously turned the corner, going to the stable where horses were kept. There was Edgar with a sword fighting away with a tall, thin man with curly black hair and a thin mustache. “Good, my lord! Now parry-there!” he spoke with a thick accent you could not place. He parried but lost his footing, only to get a tap on the leg. “Oh-there!” “I can’t believe I missed that!” Edgar cursed. Turning, he saw both of you, his eyes widening. “Oh! Lady Y/L/N! And Y/N!” A few chickens scurried out of the way, past your petticoats. “Are we stopping some needless fight?” your mother asked. Edgar shook his head, face flushed from the movement. ‘No, this is my swordsmanship instructor-I’m sorry, I’m not that good.” “My lord only needs some practice, is all! Head too much in books and no real action!” the instructor joked. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his younger brother watching from the shadows. He looked at you, but he did not wink. “Any good gentleman should know how to fight properly! Like my brother-Edmund! Oh, he’s good!” he bragged, gesturing to him. The instructor applauded. “Will Sir Edmund like to try?” Edmund was quiet. “Unless you fear upsetting the ladies, brother.” “We can stomach a fight for practice-your respect means well, but we can handle it!” your mother shrugs. “Gladly,” Edmund said. Though there was a slight twinkle in his eye that made your stomach drop. He unleashed his false sword, swinging it high in the air before he landed it. Eyes wide in panic, Edgar threw his sword up to stop it. It hit with a loud, wooden clang. Edmund was aggressive, furiously attacking him. Backing him into corners, Edgar ducked, the sword barely missing him. Your mother pursed her lips though the instructor practically glowed with excitement. But you had a feeling that it had nothing to do with just practicing. Watching worriedly, you decided enough was enough. “Stop! Stop! Both of you-stop!” you walked forward, hands-on hips. Edgar turned, glancing his head up at you, Edmund swung, knocking the side of his body. With an “oof” he fell on his bum to the ground, Edmund’s sword at his face. “Well played, gentlemen! My lord Edmund- practically born with a sword!” the instructor praised, clapping. “That’s your problem, you’re not a born fighter, brother. If only you could thrust properly” he added with something in his tone that made you feel cold. Marching up, you took his hand and pulled Edgar to his feet. He was surprised, first at the feel of your hand on his own hands, eyes wide with embarrassment. “Are you alright?” you asked, brushing off some hay from his shirt. “Perfectly fine!” he assured his face blank. Turning around your skirts, you suggested that your mother and you go inside and sew. The less you saw of Edmund today after that, the better. ---------------------------------------------------------- “Today we celebrate, for now, am I a year older, with two lovely sons, a daughter-in-law to be, a wedding in two months, lands, a king for a friend, and all the luck of the world!” Gloucester announced, drinking deep his goblet. Drinks followed in his honor. You were getting used to standing by Edgar more. Both of you held your goblet in both hands and drank deeply. You caught a slight cough, holding in the beverage and he laughed at that. Wiping up your lips with your sleeves, you smiled. “Everyone, go! Dance!” Gloucester wished. “Musicians, play! Dancers, dance! Fools, go fooling! Just be merry tonight!” “Dance with me!” you insisted. You took his hand and pulled him down. “What! I’m not that good…” he denied. “Doesn’t matter! Just dance with me Edgar, once!” you pleaded. “Well, alright! You wound up dancing four whole dances together. He laughed and you realized he was good. He caught on quickly. Even when he messed up steps you both burst into laughter. As the music faded, you both went to a corner, catching your breaths and drinking water after all that excitement. Edgar tapped at a small crack on the brick wall. “Here, this spot near the walls…do you hear the wind?” “I do!” “It’s the best spot…makes you cool down at once!” “Ah! I feel it!” you say, waving your hand over it. It was further away from the crowd. The music and chatter were dimmer and you could hear each other clearly. Both of you put a hand to feel the blast of cool wind. Refreshing despite the sweaty heat of movement. “You are a good person, er dancer!” you corrected, looking down in embarrassment. “What?!” “You’re a good dancer!” “So I am not a good person, then?” Eyes up, you set your drink down. Inside your dress, your legs shook a little. “Edgar I…months ago, I didn’t even know who you were. Only that you were to be my husband. I was so worried that…that you would be a monster. But you’re not that…you’re…you’re kind and intelligent, and you make me smile and I…I’m just…I’m glad you’re, well, you!” He beamed, his hands taking yours. You felt his own pulse race as he asked. “Can I kiss you, Y/N!?” Nodding, you leaned forward, tilting your head forward. Edgar kissed you. He tasted like the wine they served and it was quiet. But it was far from bad. Away in the middle of the crowd, Gloucestor noticed. He lifted his cup, drinking it deeply with merry mischief in his eyes. His second son, noting the intimate moment as well among a feast bit down on his teeth. You held it for a while and then leaned away. Both of you sucked in a bit of air through your nose. Almost giddy, you sputtered out a comment. “That was…that was nice…” He nodded. His face was bright pink and his grin was the biggest you had seen it. “I don’t think it will be a bad thing at all to be married to you,” he said. “I don’t think so either.” There was a pause, he then took your hand. “Would you like to eat with me? They served some pastries-you have to try the gooseberry one.” ---------------------------------------- Those memories stung in your head now. Happy moments. Ones made miserable in an hour. You thought Cordelia would be enough, you thought it would stop there. But that night, Edmund’s cries of “torches! Torches! Yield! Father!” rang through the halls. You and Gloucester rushed to the stables, his hands pulling up his robes. Walking outside, he looked around the stables only to see Edmund. It was night, and thunder lolled with a warning of a coming storm. “What is it?” “Look-I bleed!” He opened his hand to show a cut on his palm. “What, why were you fighting!” “Where is Y/N? Where is she?” he asked, his head swishing as he found you behind the Earl. “Oh, Y/N, my poor y/n! Thank heavens you’re safe! I fought, I fought him, for your honor.” “My honor?!?” you cried. Gloucester glanced at you with fear. “Father, didn’t I tell you! I should have warned her too, I never thought….you must know, Tonight, Edgar was plotting to kill you to have his inheritance, he turned me over to boast to me-he’d have Y/N too, he…he was planning…” He pulled up the key to your room. “He planned to creep into the girl’s chambers as that poor maid slept and ravish her there in her bed-she’d be forced to marry him after! And no one left to protect her, poor soul!” “What-oh! You poor thing!” Gloucester went over and held you tight. “I would never let that girl within a mile of that demon had I known, I swear on it!” “As if his plot for you wasn’t enough! I couldn’t stand him to speak so crudely-to commit something unthinkable to that innocent maid, so I drew my sword to stop him. He only cut me, then ran away.” “Villain! Where are my men-get them! Search everywhere for him! If Edgar is found here, he is dead!” Head shaking, you could hardly believe it. You broke from Gloucestor’s arms. “See! Even she is in such shock that such a sin could even be thought of!” Edmund accused. You escaped back to the castle. Up, up, up you ran, skirts flying. Not caring that guests were over. Not caring for anything, your head spinning and your throat dry. You opened a window out to the open. It was dark and rain pelted on your face and hands. Lightning crashed, with brief light all over. You could hardly make out the wilderness in the night. But what you could make out were the sounds of hoofbeats and the dim flame of torches. You scoured everyone for one figure, one body, one hint that he was out there, somewhere. “Edgar!!!” you cried, your voice barely echoing out. Thunder rolled again. “Edgar! EDGAR!” you screamed. Hoping, praying, somehow, he would hear you. That you would make out one small figure in that dark. That you would see him turn back. But the men with torches advanced. Their swords were drawn, and they were drawn for your betrothed. They rode off into the night with a whinny of their stallions. You had sunk down on your knees. Thinking of that first kiss briefly, on the night you danced together, of your gifts, of your sickness thinking of everything that just happened, how it all seemed like a nightmare and yet it was all real, you finally sobbed. Sobbed and heaved until you had no voice, and your face was soaked with tears. You lost your friend. And now you lost him too. To think it all began with a letter. That stupid, stupid letter. To think you never saw any of this coming. All because of a letter that arrived that first morning. You wished you could have burned it away instead of letting it sit burned in your pocket, mocking you with its innocent words.

“His highness, King Lear, will be dividing his lands between his daughters. We would like for you to be present.”

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