#The Man with Glasses Who Increases Tax | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darklinaforever · 9 months ago

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1. I'm going to teach you a very simple thing. The law is the word of the king in the GRRM universe. If Viserys decreed that Rhaenyra was his heir, then she is his heir. No more no less.

2. You spoke of royal men, not of noble men. Otto is not a royal men. And sorry, but House Hightower is not as important compared to other houses in the GRRM universe / in the ASOIAF books... Is just the true. Sorry.

3. My mistake for Vaemond, I don't wear my glasses, having forgotten them at home and being elsewhere. And... where did I get this ? Well in the book. You know, where Aemond, after having massacred the entire Strong house, took Alys as a prize of war ? Which involves rape. And I won't even bother explaining further if you don't understand how Alys is most likely the victim of rape by Aemond...

4. I'm talking about the children of the Greens team. The usurpers, therefore members of the Greens team, not survived and had descendants. It's literally karmic punishment. While Rhaenyra's lineage continued. And, are you aware that the show is not the books and that Daenerys and Jon probably won't get the end of the show at all ? Like, Daenerys isn't going to turn crazy and evil in the GRRM books, that's pretty obvious. The Targaryens are not the big bad guys in the GRRM universe. On the contrary Daenerys and her dragons are what will help against the White Walkers. The threat is cold and ice. And what can defeat that is fire, represented by Daenerys and her dragons. If you are interested, you should check out the Phoenix Ashes YouTube channel. But I'm pretty sure you won't go see it at all.

5. BOTH sides committed equal atrocities ? Really ? The canon is not agreed with you...

6. I've already explained my point of view on the books and you obviously don't understand what the books are about.

7. No. The people don't call her Maegor with teats because she's horrible. I already said why they started calling it that. This nickname was given to Rhaenyra after she raised taxes because the Greens literally emptied the kingdom's coffers. Demonstrating that a female monarch is always judged more harshly than a man even if she is clearly not an equivalent in terms of cruelty. At no time can the increase in taxes, the original reasons for this nickname, put her on an equal footing with Maegor. So yes, it’s a form of misogyny.

8. If the Greens are not the antagonists /villains, why did they start the war for the sole purpose of obtaining power that was not theirs ? Why are they usurpers ? Why has Alicent, an adult woman, harassed Rhaenyra, a child, from the moment she was named heir ? Why is Aegon II a rapist ? Just like Aemond is a rapist, who has also committed countless massacres, being borderline described as a little demon from birth while the dance is mainly told by pro greens sources ? Why is Criston Cole a man without honor ? Why did each member of the Greens team die a horrible and / or pathetic death ? (while most of the members of the Black team have dignified and heroic deaths ?) Why was their entire lineage extinct ? (I remind you that Rhaenyra's lineage is not at all extinct, Daenerys, still alive, is her descendant, just like Jon) If they are not the bad guys, why do they generally not give a damn about people ? Why are they capable of committing the worst crime in Westeros ? Namely killing their own family members ? Why a huge list of war crimes ? The Greens are the antagonists of the Dragon Dance ! They literally started shit for no reason other than greed for power. Why couldn't the Greens be bad guys ? They have all the characteristics. And GRRM has already written plenty of villains. Stop with the myth that GRRM only writes nuanced characters. Your comprehension problems are really big...

I would also like to clarify a few things.

Even if Rhaenyra and Team Blacks don't specifically fight for feminism and women's rights, if Rhaenyra becomes queen it will set a precedent for the right of women to inherit the throne! Unlike Aegon who will not help this aspect in society. (needing to change)

Then, the Blacks team, although fighting for their team and Rhaenyra to have the throne, it is not just a question of power. It is also the fact of respecting the law / the word of the king, of honoring his promises and his oaths. Fighting for the honor and future of their house and their family. Also, a form of technical change.

The Greens' fight is due to the pure ambition of power, to steal what is not yours / to be a usurper, to go against the law / the will of the king, that oaths and promises do not worthless, fighting for archaic patriarchal traditions with keeping men first.

Not to mention the purity of blood with their aversion to children born out of wedlock while the Blacks team essentially has nothing to do with it... (As proven by the fact that Jacaerys is not at all mostly contested as heir... And then also the simple fact that there is no real proof on the paternity of the children and that only the Greens were interested in this to discredit Rhaenyra)

You do not agree ? Not my problem if you don't have reading comprehension.

Honestly, you're probably one of the worst people I've ever chatted with on tumblr. You are completely biased. And I've clearly had my fill of your nonsense. Oh and also : Frankly. You’re everything that’s wrong with society. You disgust me. You are stupid.

Being a female viewer and hating Criston Cole is deranged.

I have to get this off my chest. The blind hatred that Criston is receiving from women is insane and I’m going to explain why.

For context, I am talking about Show Criston, not Book Criston. Comparing two standalone versions of a story is silly.

I cannot wrap my head around the fact that so many women, who are the primary victims of utilitarian relationships, would ever come together and shit on Criston for enduring such a situation.

I’m sorry, but how many of you have been used by men? How many of you have been reduced to one night stands, situationships and placeholder wives? How many of you have been deemed “not good enough” to be an exclusive partner? I log into tiktok and I see NOTHING but stories of broken women who are just used for sex, money, care and whatnot by men, and then they are tossed away like worthless trash while said men continue their pursuit of the ideal woman. Being used by men just for sex and being denied the status of girlfriend, let alone wife, is probably one of the worst plagues women are experiencing in the western world because the MOMENT we were emancipated, men understood that they don’t owe us shit anymore and instead of treating us with respect, they decided to grab whatever they can and give nothing back. Do not tell me that there are women out there that are fine with this arrangement because the multiple “GWM while I tell you about the guy that was with me for 12 years and then married someone else” tell a different story, one of multiple women’s dignities being trampled by hungry men. My heart breaks for every woman (EVERY woman, cis, trans, EVERY woman) who has been called by a man she loves just for sex, for every woman whose man never wanted to be seen in public with her, for every woman who had to hear that her man is not ready for a relationship only to witness him getting engaged to another woman 2 weeks after. I hope you overcome this and become stronger and I am glad that we are finally supporting one another.

How can we then, the women who are helping other female victims rise up and speak out against this kind of abuse, push Criston down and tell him to suck it up and accept being Rhaenyra’s plaything? Have we no mercy? Are we so hungry for revenge against men that we’d want them to endure the same humiliation that we did, as if one fictional man’s suffering would bring us justice? Are we so jealous that Criston didn’t sit down and just take it like the rest of us, but instead spoke up and removed himself from that situation? Or are we so gullible that we accept what the screenwriters shove down our throats and unknowingly support the patriarchic view that if you’re being used by someone you should just accept it?

I can hear some of you arguing that “Oh, this is different because Rhaenyra is royalty!” as if being used and tossed by a powerful person somehow makes the situation any better? Would it be okay if a rich person wanted to constantly use you for sex while he keeps looking for a better woman to be by his side, just because he values his wealth and status more? Rhaenyra straight up sneered at the idea of a simple life with him. She straight up told him that HE is not worth as much as her crown. OUCH. Even though I can’t even begin to imagine the pain of being told you are not enough by your loved one, it was Rhaenyra’s right to choose what her priorities are, but WHY would he have to accept being her sidepiece? “These were different times”: does this make it any less devastating for the victim? And he was a victim because Rhaenyra still used Criston and misled him by constantly complaining about how she HATES her duties for YEARS and then luring him to break his oath. Do you think he would have still slept with her if he was aware that moments ago, Rhaenyra was begging on her knees to be fucked by Daemon and only turned to Criston because her first option was no longer available? Like, the man was contemplating having sex with her and resisted her for a good fucking while, so imagine how quickly he would have turned around and walked out that door if he had that information beforehand. You know why? Because he loved her. He loved her to the point that he broke his oath for her, the oath of a station he FOUGHT FOR IN A WAR. He shed blood and sweat and risked his life for the mere opportunity to gain that position. This was ALL he had, he came from NOTHING and he was still willing to toss it all away for Rhaenyra not once, but twice. It wasn’t just sex he wanted because we never see him have sex again after that. He became vulnerable and gave up everything that he was to be with Rhaenyra. He was willing to abandon his whole identity for her sake. Is this not what the ideal partner is? Ready to abandon everything for your shake? Everything he fought for, tooth and nail? Was he unreasonable in thinking that Rhaenyra was willing to do the same for him? Was he crazy to think that because he was ready to put everything he FOUGHT for aside for her shake, Rhaenyra would also put aside a duty she was handed and actively seem to hate for him too? Fuck no! After hearing her constant talk about how she hates her father, her duties, her refusal to wed other men, how she is trapped as a princess, how people have no idea how much it SUCKS being her, why would he not assume that she’d be willing to give it all up for him, as he’d do for her We never see Rhaenyra even TRY to be a ruler, just complain about it. Of course it would be a fucking shock to him hearing her say “Lol dude, I actually do kinda want this”.

Criston was actually the only person in the series that wanted Rhaenyra for her, not her money or crown. I’m not saying she had to follow him, it was her right to refuse him, but his willingness to lead a simple life with just her has got to mean something. And don’t give me that “he only wanted to redeem his honour by marrying her” crap, because first of all Criston nutted up and admitted everything to Alicent and was ready to face death without EVER blaming Rhaenyra for anything, and second of all, oh no, how dare a human being have ethical values and desire to live with dignity in society’s broad light rather than move in the shadows as the princess’s secret boytoy! Bad, bad Criston for feeling you have to atone for your sins. Maybe we as people have become so corrupt that we envy those who wish to walk a virtuous path in life. Or maybe y’all have become so fond of the unhinged unapologetic character trope because it feels “original” (even if it’s ridiculously overused nowadays) that you’ve actually forgotten what characters with good morals are. Like, picking your fave war criminal and rolling with them because you enjoy good drama, especially in a show that’s meant to provide entertainment, is one thing, but passionately stating that Criston had to submit to that humiliation is something else entirely.

Finally, let’s ditch the Criston being a misogynist bullshit because he had NO issue obeying Rhaenyra before their affair or Alicent. And he is ALWAYS true to himself and his values, because even after everything he endured, he did not use Alicent’s anger as an excuse to take revenge on Rhaenyra and harm her children. Criston never betrayed her, Rhaenyra used him and he walked away and he went towards the only person who seemed to spare him some sympathy and understand him and not condemn him for his crimes even if he hated himself, which is typical victim mentality. And don’t get me started on the Joffrey incident because y’all tore Cole to SHREDS for it. Joffrey had it fucking coming. You don’t go up to people’s faces, especially ones you don’t know, threaten them by telling them you know their secret, a secret that SHAMES them and burdens them to the point they’re ready to commit suicide, and all but directly call them a whore. What the fuck did he think was going to happen? They’d shake hands? Piss off. Let this be a lesson to anyone that doesn’t know how to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of other people’s business. Also, mocking his suicide attempt makes my stomach turn. Just take a moment to consider all the young women who just like him, reluctantly surrendered their virginities to men only to find out they were nothing but sex dolls in their eyes, all these girls whose trust led to their secret being spread and them getting ridiculed and slut shamed for it: how many girls have taken their own lives because they found living with such a burden unbearable?

For the love of everything you hold sacred, please wake up sisters. The narrative that you can be used by someone powerful and you have to accept it because that’s the way things are is a man’s construct. Do not let them fool you.

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giftofwonder · 3 years ago

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Cirque de Yuuie - MHA Various x f!Reader

A/N: Hey guys! So this is going to be a multi-part series of one shots. Each part will be a different character. There might be smut, we’ll see what happens. This is the introduction to the plot and characters. Some characters might have multiple parts as well. Let me know if you want anyone specific and also if you’d like to be added to their tag list! Also, let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated.

Intro

Your eyes cracked open, taking in the deep midnight hues that were cast over your room. Pale moonlight bathed everything in a faint glow.

You shifted, rolling to look at the clock on your bedside table. You groaned, pushing yourself up to sit on the edge of your bed and turned toward your open window. You could hear the boisterous chatter from the streets below. A cool breeze swept in and danced along your heated skin, and you welcomed it with closed eyes and a soft sigh.

Each night you found yourself waking up restless and antsy, unsettled. You’d sit in the confines of your room, and then dress and make your way to the tavern across the road. Tonight was no different.

Your tired limbs trudged across the cobblestone, pushing through drunken bodies that reeked of liquor and sweat.

You grunted as you pushed open the heavy oak door, finding it just as congested as outside. Bodies littered the room heavily, the music and laughter so loud it left your ears ringing. You weaved through the empty spaces and took a seat on a stool by the bar.

“The usual?” You heard a voice called out.

You glanced up, locking eyes with the bar tender as you gave a faint smile and nod.

A glass was slid in your direction a few seconds later, and you wondered if he’d already had it ready for you. You figured that must be the case, it was routine at this point.

“No luck sleeping again, huh?” He said, leaning across the counter as you nursed your drink.

“Afraid not, seems like this is becoming my normal.” You gave a dry laugh, trying to offer up something lighthearted.

“Seems like it. Something troubling you?” His head cocked to the side.

“Just the usual, nothing too bad.” You said, shifting your glass around in your hand.

“Come on now, you waltz in here every night and drink, people with problems that aren’t too bad don’t find themselves perched on one of my stools this often.” He whispered, his gaze intense as he inched across the counter toward you. His hushed voice was lost in the roars of the crowd around you, but you could hear him clear as day.

He wasn’t wrong. You had to give him that. The cluster of people surrounding you dispersed as groups made their way to exit back to the street.

Mummers still resounded around the room, but in the now much quieter atmosphere, you felt yourself relaxing. You leaned forward, propping your elbows against the chipped counter and braced your cheek in your palm.

“I just feel...I don’t know...an overwhelming amount of disinterest in my life. I wake up, I work hard and long days, I come home, eat and bathe and sleep. It’s a never-ending cycle that I’m doomed to repeat each and every day. It all just feels so lackluster.” You said, your voice soft as your eyes gazed at nothing.

“Well, that is quite the conundrum. Might I ask, why don’t you just do something else?” He quipped back with a grin.

“If only it were that easy.” You sighed, eyes slowly drifting back to him.

“Isn’t it, though?” He asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Is it?” You asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Hear me out, I’m no stranger to a hard days work by any means, but I like what I do.” He shrugged.

“Making drinks?” You pressed.

“No, I watch people. Get to know them, help them sometimes. You work in a pub and you meet a lot of people, hear a lot of stories. People get a bit of alcohol in them and suddenly their lips become uncontrollably loose.” He chuckled.

“So you’re nosy, then?” You spat back, a smile turning the corners of your lips.

“I prefer curious, it sounds much more pleasant.” He offered.

He turned and grabbed an envelope from behind him and slid it across the counter to you. It was unmarked, other than the intricate wax seal holding it closed.

“What’s this?” You asked, taking it and inspecting the “CdY” ingrained in the seal.

“A chance to escape.” He shrugged, and then leaned back abruptly, hands grasping glassware and a towel to polish the crystals surface.

“What do I owe you?” You asked, standing and grabbing your coin purse.

“Nothing. This ones on me.” He waved his hand.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it. By the way, what is your name?” You asked, tucking the envelope into your pocket.

“Shinso, now get out of here and go off to do whatever it is you do when you stumble out of here each night.” He called, waving his rag at you. You smiled at the mirth lighting his eyes, offering a wave as you turned and made your exit.

______________________________________

You plopped onto your small wicker chair, it’s grooves lining up with your back perfectly, molded to your body after the countless hours you had spent hunched over in this seat.

Calloused fingertips reached to caress a fine silk that you’d never be able to afford. You pulled it to you, laying it across the table ahead and dug the patterns for a dress from the chest beside you at your feet.

You were a seamstress, and a fairly popular one. Women and men from both high and low society sought you out to tailor and craft their garments.

You had stitched an amazing collection of clothing, from simple gowns to the most intricate of pieces. Your customers had often boasted about your work, that you were able to create anything.

Until recently, you had been doing fairly well for yourself. You had purchased a home of your own, a massive feat for an unwed woman, especially one in her early twenties.

In the last six months, that had changed though. There had been civil unrest, looting and fighting at the capital. The local government had pushed back, increasing taxes heavily. With that blow came another, a new tailoring business on the other side of town. It offered cheap labor, using children from the orphanage as virtually free hands. The turn around was quick, much faster than the length of time it took you to produce a garment. But the quality was terrible. They used cheap labor and cheaper materials.

The first time you had seen their work, you had laughed till tears brimmed your eyes. However, the quick production and cheap cost had ended up hitting you hard. While the wealthy had no issue having you fashion something for them, most everyone else had flocked to them. It wasn’t terribly hard to do a simple stitch. To take in a gown or a suit. Suddenly, you found yourself praying for work as the jobs got fewer and fewer.

Meanwhile the heightened taxes left your coin purse extremely light. You hadn’t struggled like this in a very long time.

You finished the silken garment, folding it delicately over your arm as you took it over to the rack to hang.

Once hung, you patted off your apron and felt the crinkling of the forgotten envelope tucked in your pocket. You pulled it out, fingers dipping into the paper to tear it open. The red of the invitation was so bright, a high quality velvet lined in gold trim. You then wondered the status of your friendly barkeep, but chalked it up to his large amount of connections. Surely, a drunken man could be persuaded into giving an invitation in exchange for a free round.

Your eyes scanned along the paper, reading the fancy script that outlined the details of the event. You scoffed as you made your way back to your chair, shaking your head as the invitation was tossed onto your table.

A few moments passed before you picked it back up and read over the card again.

______________________________________

Your heels clicked against the pavement as you approached the large gate before you. You were in a state of awe at the lights and music making the night feel alive.

You stopped at the ticket booth, met with a disgruntled employee who looked half asleep. His thick yellow quilt was pulled taunt around his body and his hollow eyes stared at you with something akin to annoyance.

“Welcome to “Cirque de Yuuie”, admission is ¥220.” His bored voice stated monotonously.

“Oh...I actually have an invitation.” You said, giving a weak smile.

He held your gaze for a moment before he quirked a brow, his eyes scanning over you before he gave a sigh and a shrug.

“Alright, give it here.” He held out his pale hand, and you gently placed the invite in his palm.

He quickly pressed a stamp to your hand and shooed you away, so you turned and entered in through the gate.

______________________________________

You had wandered around the grounds for a while, but saw no familiar faces. It was odd, not even children were present. The cost had been rather high to enter, perhaps it was an adults only event.

After you had completed your lap, you were not too far from the entrance to the large tent in the center of the area. Red and white fabrics were draped beautifully, tied off with an intricately woven gold banding.

As you went to step forward, a large wooden pole cut in front of you, you gasped, your head shooting up to find a cheerful looking clown above.

“Whoops! S’cues me miss! Almost stepped on ya there!” He laughed, his painted lips opening to reveal his bright smile.

“Oh, no I’m sorry! I was enthralled by everything and wasn’t paying attention.” You waved him off.

“Ah don’t worry about it, it’s a beautiful night, and the tent looks great! I’ve been distracted by it myself! The names Mirio, by the way.”

“Y/N, it’s nice to meet you.”

He nodded and stepped to make his way off back into the crowd.

“HEY WAIT!” You heard a loud voice call out, and not a moment later, two more clowns turned the corner. One with green hair raced along side a blonde with large sunglasses and a lightening-shaped black streak in his hair. They were tailed by a very awkward and scared looking mime who ran behind them silently looking like he was going to be sick.

“Come on, Amajiki! Hurry up!” The blonde clown yelled behind him, causing the mime to flinch and pick up the pace. You laughed at their antics, they were definitely a good source of entertainment.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THIS IS YOUR ANNOUNCER: PRESENT MIC, PLEASE GATHER TO THE MAIN TENT AS THE FESTIVITIES ARE ABOUT TO BEGIN.....YEAAAHHH!!!!” A loud voice blared through the speakers overhead.

You pushed through the gathering crowd, entering through the fabric doorway. The ceilings were vaulted, and you were amazed by how large it seemed inside.

Chatter broke out amongst those around you as you passed a sign that read “Yuuie’s Spectacular Freak Show!”

You followed the corridor, peering in the labeled rooms as you passed by.

“Strongest Men Alive! All Might and Red Riot!” Inside the room were two muscular men. The blonde man was tall, looming over the crowd as he smiled and flex. The redhead was laying on a bed of nails, and a crazed looking woman with pink hair walked across him while he looked on unfazed.

“One Body- Two Men! Twice!” A man sat, arguing with himself, the crowd would call out questions and he’d answer two opposing ways, often breaking out into an argument. The crowd giggled and taunted as he yelled seemingly to himself.

“The Vampire: Toga!” Your stomach twisted as you watch the girl give a cat-like grin and chug a vial of blood. Shackles held her to her spot but she called out to the audience, telling them to come closer and let her have a drink.

“Invisible Girl: Toru!” You blinked at the empty room, rolling your eyes as you pushed past to the next stall.

“Frog Woman: Tsuyu!” A girl in a green dress crouched in a pool, her long tongue falling from her mouth as her large hand gave a wave. You couldn’t help but notice her webbed fingers and the faint croaks.

“Worlds Largest Woman: Mt Lady!” An insanely large woman sat on her knees, smiling and chatting with the audience. She was beautiful, but had to be at least 9’ tall.

“World’s Largest Man: Fatgum!” A very large man sat in the center of the room smiling and waving as he let children drift into his stall and eat from the various sweets lining the table beside him. Though the adults around you spoke insults quietly, you couldn’t help but think the man looked very kind. You smiled softly at the sight of a child hugging him in thanks before returning to their mothers side.

“Bird-Man: Hawks!” A young man laughed loudly, his beautiful red wings flapping as he gave a slight show to those who watched. Many looked on in awe and wonder, and women swooned at his charm. His feathers seemed to almost sparkle and while you noticed something mischievous in his gaze, you were mesmerized nonetheless.

“Dabi the Dragon and the Indestructible Bakugou!” This room was larger, and smoke poured out. You were curious about this one, as there was no crowd gathered out front. You only saw one person, a rather attractive but angry looking man, growling as he noticed you. He rolled his eyes as he lit off explosives in his hands.

Your hands shot up to cover your eyes, before peering out to see the man looked fine, bored even.

“That was amazing!” You exclaimed.

“Course it was!” He sneered.

Suddenly, the curtain behind him rustled and another man emerged from the darkness. He was shirtless, his body scared in burns that wrapped around his torso, arms and face. His black hair spiked wildly, just like the blonde beside him. He smirked at you, sauntering toward you before lifting your chin with his index finger.

“Want me to put on a show for you, doll face?” He whispered. You nodded mutely, feeling much like the mime you had saw earlier that night. He chucked and stepped back. His hand grasped a bottle and he turned his back toward you, taking a large swig from the drink.

He abruptly turned back, and blue flames shot from his mouth and filled the room. You could immediately feel the immense heat and no longer wondered how his scars came to be.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, giving a small cough before grinning at you.

“Well, what’d ya think, princess?”

“It was amazing! Does it hurt?” You asked.

“Hmm? Nah, not really. Just burns a little.” He snickered at his joke while Bakugou rolled his eyes in the background.

“I also do a bit of sword swallowing.” He added, stepping in close to you.

“Oh, yeah? That’s a neat talent to have.” You spat back awkwardly.

“I could teach you, after the show that is. I’ve got a good one for you to practice on.” His deep voice said in a hushed tone, hot breath hitting you as his hand gripped the crotch of his pants.

You stumbled back quickly, mumbling about needing to find a seat, and then ran off to the main room of the tent.

Your heart was pounding as you took an empty seat in the front row that had your invitation number on it.

The lights around you dimmed and the seats behind began filling quickly. People chatted amongst themselves until the music changed and the curtains at the far side of the tent were drawn.

A pale looking man with light blue hair and red eyes slowly walked out, taking center stage.

“Welcome. I’m so glad all of you came to join us for the show.” His hoarse voice spoke out loudly. His eyes dragged along the audience, taking in those around him.

“My name is Shigaraki and I’ll be your host tonight. You’ll see things that you never imagined, acts of wonder put on display before you. Prepare to be in awe and amazed.” He cheered, giving and eerie grin.

______________________________________

Halfway through the show, they called for an intermission. The lights brightened as people stood and flocked outside to grab drinks and food.

You stayed put, reflecting on the show so far. There had been an amazing act with tightrope walking, acrobats and aerial silks. They had been called “Children of the Sky” by those sat around you. Aoyama, Mina, Uraraka and Nejire were their names.

Then there had been the father and son act of fire performance. Enji and Shouto Todoroki. They danced with fire and spun batons and hoops that were blazing. Their act would have been more enjoyable if the father had been quiet, but instead every few moments he’d call out to his son correcting his posture and moves. Mid performance, Dabi had joined them on stage. His blue flames shining brightly in contrast. He had quickly noticed you and his eyes lit up as your stomach filled with dread.

He marched over, pulling you from your seat as gasps and whispers of his damaged skin rang through the crowd. He didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care. He had spun you around, dancing as his azure fire lit his arms. You were worried you’d be burned, but the fire never touched your skin. He brushed his arms with his hands, extinguishing the flame, as the music had haunted. You watched the smoke rise from his skin as you frowned, but he simply took your hand and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of it before walking away.

You heard a voice rasp out “fucking show off” before seeing the angry blonde, Bakugou, take off after him.

Now you sat, watching a small man with balls on his head. He wore a jesters outfit and juggled before those left seated in the crowd. Slowly he made his way to you.

“Hey, how do you know Dabi?” He asked bluntly, wonder in his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t. Not really. I saw him in the freak show. That’s all.” You said, uncomfortable with the small mans leering.

“You actually watched him?” He asked dumbfounded. “No wonder he’s all over you.”

“What do you mean?” You asked perplexed.

“Uh hello, he’s gross looking. Definitely not as attractive as someone like me.” He beamed at you. You stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond and afraid to break the poor guys dilution.

“Hey I also do puppet stuff, you wanna see?” He asked, tone chipper.

“Oh, no that’s okay-“

“Okay cool, watch this!” He cut you off, pulling a small puppet from his suit. He dropped it and it limply hit the ground, the string much too long for him. The puppet dragged around weirdly as the jester spoke in a high pitch, giving the wooden body a voice.

You blinked, watching the train wreck as the doll slid through the dirt, getting jerked around by the man before you. He picked up the puppet and threw it at you, it landing in your lap. Then he pulled the string and yanked it back to the ground. You abruptly stood and walked away, hearing him call after you, but you only quickened your pace.

Once outside in the fresh air, a loud bellowing laugh burst from your lips. That was the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to deal with and you had been holding in laughing in the strange boys face.

“Seems like you’re enjoying the show.” A voice cut in.

Your head quickly spun, meeting the red eyes of the ring leader.

“Yeah! It’s nice, you guys are doing an amazing job!” You scratched your neck, feeling the hairs on your arms standing at the sudden tension as the mans smile fell.

“You weren’t invited here.” He stated.

“I...well I was given an invitation.” You replied.

“It wasn’t yours though. It wasn’t meant for you.” He said, eyes blank as his head cocked to the side.

“No, it wasn’t. I don’t know who it belonged to. A bartender gave it to me.” You explained.

“Hmm, is that so? Well, do enjoy the show then. But do me a favor, sit in a different seat when you go back in.” He sneered, and then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

You headed back inside, choosing a different seat in the front row that had been unclaimed earlier.

The music roared again as the clowns, Midoriya, Kaminari and Mirio, put on a show. Kaminari was being shocked while Midoriya rode around on a unicycle. Mirio stayed on his stilts and walked around the stage dancing and doing tricks. The trio was truly fun to watch, and then the mime, Amajiki, was shoved forward. A spotlight hit him as he stood frozen in fear.

“Come on buddy, you can do it!” Mirio whispered loudly in support.

Amajiki took in a big breath and lifted his arms, hands shaking as he formed an invisible wall in front of himself when a box hit him in the head and a drunken man “booed”. Amajiki immediately rushed to the shadows, pressing his face into the wall of the tent as an air of dread surrounded him.

“Uhhh...look over here!” Midoriya yelled out, pulling the attention of the crowd as he gave a large shock to Kaminari. Kaminari then “beeped” and “booped” and drooled as he wobbled around. The audience cheered and laughed.

Finally it was time for the final act of the night, the mysterious and powerful Mr. Compress.

A spotlight roamed the stage, and in a cloud of smoke he appeared. He wore a mask, top hat and yellow overcoat. His cane tapped against the floor with each step he took.

“Tonight, I will make you question everything you know about the world. Everything you believe to be real!” He called, and the crowd went wild, hooting and hollering.

He started with a few jokes, one about how he wasn’t the type to pull a rabbit from his hat, but then his hat shifted and he took it off. He pulled out the first rabbit, and then another, and then two more. You laughed at his seeming confusion. Finally, he plopped his hat back on his head and called out Bakugou to the stage. Bakugou marched to him, stomping his feet and crossing his arms as he came to a stop beside the magician.

Mr. Compress draped a large piece of fabric over the man, and then quickly pulled the cloth back to reveal a confused looking Shouto.

“I was just over there.” Shouto said, pointing to the other side of the tent.

“Yes! And now you’re over here!” Compress smiled, giving a grand wave of his arm.

“Aren’t I the one doing the magic then?” Shouto said blandly while Compress laughed.

“Alright then, do another trick for us.” Mr. Compress said, his tone amused. Shouto stood there silently, expression blank.

“I’m-“

“YOUR FIRE! USE YOUR FIRE SHOUTO!” His father yelled from off stage. Shouto glanced behind him, annoyance radiating from him.

“No. Nevermind. Just put me back where i was.” He said to Compress. Not a second later, the cloth was thrown over him and pulled off to reveal what looked like 100 butterflies.

The crowed oohed and awed in response, and you felt your eyes widen in amazement as well. It was so quick, you were trying to understand the trick, but could hardly wrap your head around it. This guy was good.

He went through a few more tricks, each a little better than the last. Finally he called for a volunteer from the audience.

Many hands shot into the air, while yours meekly raised. You weren’t one who gravitated to the spotlight, in fact, you had no desire to go onto the stage and have everyone’s eyes on you. But, you had promised yourself you’d let go for tonight and do as the bartender recommended. Escape.

Perhaps he could sense your distress, or maybe it was just because you were the closest to him, but he slowly walked toward you and extended his hand.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love it if you could assist me madam.”

You smiled, cursing inwardly at yourself, as you took his hand and let him pull you to your feet and lead you to the stage.

Red Riot ran over holding a heavy wooden chair, one you might find used as a throne.

Compress lifted the bottom of his mask and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, much like Dabi did, before directing you to take a seat. You did as you were asked, feeling the heat of the light on you, thankful that it’s blinding light prevented you from being able to see the crowd.

Mr. Compress started his speech about defying nature, and the use of powerful magic.

“Do not look away for a second, it is imperative you see your reality bent before you. With the help of my beautiful assistant, I will show you that the limitations we set for ourselves are often just an illusion. Anything you can think of is possible!”

He turned toward you, pulling the yellow coat from his body and leaving himself in his black vest and pants, the orange shirt beneath now visible. He pushed up his sleeves and held his hands outstretched toward you. You felt the chair jerk and sucked in a breath. It lurched again, and soon you were floating above the ground. You kicked your feet and smiled, trying your hardest not to shift in the chair.

Then the lights flickered, and a spotlight fell from the ceiling, crashing into the empty seat that had been assigned to your invitation.

In the moment of chaos, the chair dropped harshly, cracking against the ground as the impact tossed you to the side. You grunted, the wind knocked from your lungs and your eyes unfocused after smacking your head in the fall.

Screams were heard as the crowd panicked and scattered, the roars of animals following after them.

A harsh tug lifted you back onto your feet, and in the darkness you could see nothing, but allowed the person to drag you from the tent as your head spun.

Your mind was trying to process as you were pulled into a trailer, and as your body met the cot inside, you fell unconscious.

#dabi x reader #bakugou x reader #mr compress x reader #shigaraki x reader #mirio x reader #amajiki x reader #midoriya x reader #todoroki x reader #fatgum x reader #aizawa x reader #shinsou x reader #hawks x reader #kirishima x reader #all might x reader #endeavour x reader #kaminari x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader

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writewolf90 · 3 years ago

Text

Rivalshipping Week Day #5

Rivalshipping Week 2021: Comfort/Growth

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a wallflower. Sure, I can beat someone easily in a card game and will tell anyone off when they hurt my friends. A lot more people are learning the latter as they get to know me. Tonight, has afforded me an opportunity to do neither of those things and I stand politely in the corner of the room sipping on my champagne, smiling as people pass me and wishing I could just go home to my son.

Seto’s launch events are coming more frequently as the company picks up steam in turning out new technology. Never one to do something halfway, he makes them red carpet events. Lights, photographers, local celebrities in their finest attire fill the room as waiters offer fancy foods to those milling about, chatting in their affluent circles. My fingers grip tighter around my champagne glass. My friends sometimes make it to these events, but not this time. I’m content to wait for my boyfriend to be rid of the press for a moment.

A waiter offers me some kind of meat with fig jelly or filling or something I know it had figs in it but I’m not paying much attention. I’m hungry and lonely. I chew on it absentmindedly as I look around the room.

When I finally see Seto, I can’t help the large smile that immediately covers my face. He walks toward me with purpose and barely stops to let me greet him before he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the center of the room.

“Come on,” he says flatly. He’s not smiling, but it’s not an angry look either.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, still feeling that something is off.

“I think we need to have a discussion.”

“About?”

He bites his lip and stops in the middle of all the lights, the people, and the holograms that line the room. “The press wants…they want us to take pictures together.”

I groan. “I told you we needed to talk about how public this relationship would be. I asked you to-“

“I know,” he says, cutting me off. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Well?” I ask. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them my personal life is my personal life and they already have the pictures of us posing together outside on the way in.”

I sigh. “That’s good. But how long will it hold them off?”

“Not long.”

I exhale deeply. “I love you but…you have to remember I don’t come from this world.”

“I didn’t either!” he says with an exasperated tone. I finally get a good look at his eyes. They’re pained.

I sigh and stroke his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- I’m just sorry.”

He sighs too. “I didn’t want to come tonight, either, you know.

I tilt my head. “Why not?”

His eyes meet mine again, and I see the anxiety creeping up in them. He never liked talking about how taxing his job was. He used to say it was a waste of time. He had no choice but to show up and put out all the fires at his job and help his company strive for perfection. He used to tell me that any bit of faltering would lead to ruin. One day of letting things slide would make him feel he could get away with half-assing it more often and then it becomes a bad habit that destroys everything. But as I spend more time with him, the more I see the cracks giving way to anxiety attacks and burnout. I hate seeing it happen but as long as I’m around to catch him before he falls too deep into it, I’m happy.

“Do you need to… I don’t know what we can do,” I say, wanting to take him away from all of this. I’d say that we should just leave, but as the man of the hour, that’s not the most plausible thing in the world right now.

He rubs the back of his neck. Is ee sweat starting to form along his hairline. He tugs at the colar of his dress shirt. My heart sinks. It’s the classic signs of one of his pending anxiety attacks.

“I know you’re not ok here,” he mumbles.

“I’m holding my own,” I retort. I can’t have him worrying about me, igornig himself fand adding onto his anxiety.

His breathing is increasing in speed and is shallow. I touch his arm gently. “Come with me to the bathroom.”

He smirks through his harsh breaths. “I know it’s my event, but you don’t need to do me any favors. I may be the VIP here but I’m trying to keep my ego a decent size for tonight.”

I purse my lips, fighting the urge to give into his attempt at humor. I flash him a look that I hope conveys that this is not the time for joking.

“Let’s just go,” I say firmly.

I guide him gently by the hand towards the restroom. When we enter, there are other people at the sinks in front of the mirror. They all look up to us in unison and I see their eyes widen. All of them scramble for the only way out together, leaving us alone.

I pay no mind to what just happened and order Seto to stand along the wall. I grab a paper towel or two, fidgeting as it takes a few seconds too long for the sensor to spit out only a couple inches of paper at a time. I’m killing trees, but I don’t care. I fold up the multiple pieces I managed to get out and run them under cold water from the sinks for a couple of seconds. Behind me, Seto’s panting echoes in the room, sending my heart into overdrive as I try my darndest to move as quickly as possible.

His eyes are closed when I turn back to him. I can tell he’s struggling to breathe. I’m willing to bet his vision had gone cloudy before he closed his eyes. I press the wetted paper towels to his forehead and hold it down.

“Open your eyes,” I whisper.

He groans but obliges me. I hold his face in mine with both hands, keeping the paper towels against his forehead with my thumb.

“Tell me what color I’m wearing,” I say firmly.

He frowns. “What?”

“Tell me about my outfit. What do you like about it?

His eyes leave mine and they search my torso as his breaths continue to escape his mouth shallowly and loudly.

“It…” he pauses, trying and failing to catch his breath.

“Seto? Seto stay with me!” I order. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s…” he manages in tween two more shallow breaths. “It’s a shade of blue that… it makes your eyes stand out.”

“Good,” I say, not smiling but feeling secretly flattered. “Tell me more. What else do you see?”

“You’re wearing a…Dark Magician Girl pin on your lavender tie.”

“That’s it,” I say soothingly.

I quietly take his hand again and press it to my chest. “Keep looking at my shirt. Can you breathe with me?”

He winces, as if it’s painful to try and slow his breathing. I wouldn’t doubt that it is to some capacity. This isn’t my first time talking him through an anxiety attack. At least this one was building slowly, and I was able to catch it early. He’s had many worse ones where his breathing was so labored, he screamed anytime he inhaled because of the pain.

“You’re doing great,” I say as I feel him grip my shirt in a fist.

“I’m…wrinkling it,” he observes next about my attire.

“Don’t worry about that,” I whisper. “Just tell me facts about it.”

Seto squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, fighting to control his breathing. He reopens them and looks down again.

“If…if I look closely, I can see stripes.”

I nod. “Good. What about me? Anything else about what I’m wearing? I need you to make me a list.”

He looks me up and down.

“You’re…you’re wearing black pants,” he whispers.

I nod. He’s catching onto our routine again. Listing things doesn’t always come naturally to him, but I’ve seen it work. It’s worked for me before big duels, too.

“Your right shoe is untied.”

Shit. I didn’t even notice that myself.

“Your tie is powder blue”

I smile at him.

“You’re wearing a belt I gave you for Christmas last year.”

“Great! You have one more thing.”

He looks me in the eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

I grin, holding back the urge to roll my eyes.

“What about 4 things you can hear? Can you list those?”

“Your voice, the dripping faucet, the beats from the music outside, and that light above you is buzzing.” He lists them all of quickly, but not too much so. His breathing is slowing even though he’s still not getting as much air in with each breath yet as I would prefer.

“What about 3 things you can feel?”

“Your hand, your heartbeat, and the towel is warming up.”

I remove the paper towel from his forehead. I feel his cheek and listen to his breathing, which is nearly where I want it to be. I smile.

“How are you doing? Do we need to keep going?”

He takes a deep exhale through his nose. He shakes his head.

“Well,” he says quickly, “Maybe one more thing.”

“Anything,” I whisper, not removing my hand from his cheek.

“You didn’t get to ask me what’s one thing I can taste.”

I open my mouth to question him, but before I can, his mouth is on mine in a sweet yet passionate kiss. His lips are firm and I open mine to allow his tongue to explore and get the full experience he wanted. When we part, I’m the one panting this time.

“I taste you,” he whispers. “There. I’m all good now.”

I let my eyeroll show this time. “You’re the only person I know who can come out of an anxiety attack and immediately do something like that.”

He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you. Really.”

I smile. “Anytime. Really.”

#rivalshipping #dm rivalshipping #rivalshippingweek2021 #yuugi mutou #seto kaiba #yugioh #anxiety attack

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liquidheartbeat · 3 years ago

Text

She Didn’t Choose This Life: Flashback

Barry’s fork and knife clink loudly against his plate, as he scoots his chair backward, hands perched on his inflated abdomen. “God, I am stuffed,” he says, already regretting finishing off four T-bone steaks and all the rich, decadent sides that rounded off the meal.

From across the table, the eyes of the woman responsible for his predicament widen, as she cuts into her barely-touched steak. “Oh, really?” Iris asks, chuckling.

“What?” Barry asks, tilting his body forward.

“Well, we’ve been dating for almost a year and this is the first time I’ve ever seen you full. Like actually satiated.”

Barry chuckles as he nods, slight unease shooting through him. It’s a simple explanation, really, but he can’t tell her that being The Flash has increased his caloric requirements, because he hasn’t figured out how to tell her that he is the Flash.

And it’s not because he doesn’t want to, it’s because, everytime he scrounges up the courage, he finds out another unsavory secret about her lifestyle.

When they first met, she’d introduced herself as an art buyer, but conveniently left out the part about also international money laundering. That discovery had come months later, in the dead of night, when she’d slipped out of the bedroom for a phone call with one of her partners but wasn't nearly as quiet as she’d thought.

Of course, that led him down a rabbit hole where he also found out about the tax fraud and other financial crimes that would put her away for life if she was ever caught. Crimes that, if committed by anyone else, he’d gladly help prosecute as a member of the police department. But she’s not anyone else, she’s Iris, the first woman he’s ever fallen completely, wholeheartedly in love with.

And yes, her misdeeds probably should make him love her less, but his heart doesn’t abide by common sense. Even from across the table, as she hides a lifetime of secrets under her smile, he knows the same lips that lie to him about her whereabouts and the source of her wealth tell sweet truths to him in the middle of the night. About how much she loves him and needs him.

The same hands that gleefully count dirty money, help massage away aches she doesn’t know the truth origins of at night. The same hands that consort with criminals bring his body to romantic peaks, over and over again.

And the same eyes that stare into him before he leaves her apartment each morning, connect with his soul, and let him know her love is real.

As real as his is.

“Barr,” she says sweetly, as she dabs butter from the corner of her mouth. “Did you hear me?”

“Hmm?” He asks, snapped back to the present.

“I said...I’m glad you enjoyed dinner, because it’ll probably be a few more months before I sweat out my hair to cook again,” she says as she stands to gather her half-empty plate and glass.

Barry laughs, gathering his hands on the table as she walks over to the counter. “It’s a shame a cook as good as you hates it so much.”

Iris returns to the table, walking over to where he’s sat. “I don’t hate it, it’s just time consuming, and my jobs…”She pauses, playing off her flub with a smile, “I mean job ...is very demanding. Doesn’t leave much time to cook.”

Barry frowns, nodding slowly. Another lie, and an unnecessary one at that. But she doesn’t notice his disappointment as she gathers his empty plate and saucers. “If I wasn’t with you,” she continues as she walks his dishes to the sink,” I probably wouldn’t cook at all.”

His smile returns slowly -- a truth, however small, makes him feel special. “Oh, really?”

“Pretty sure. But my man likes to eat,” she says with a smile as she turns towards him, “So I have to oblige him from time to time.”

“So you cook...just for me?”

“Duh.” As she nears him, she pushes her slightly frizzy hair behind her ears,.

“Well, what else are you willing to do just for me?” He asks, eyes sparkling with mischievous intent as she stands over him.

Iris rolls her eyes fondly. He’s so stinking cute, extra cute when he’s confident, but she doesn’t have time. Not tonight.

After their dinner, she has another engagement with a potential business partner that could potentially double her income for the year. Of course, she can’t tell Barry that. He’s a sweet, by the book CSI, who definitely won’t take kindly to her extracurricular activities.

Shaking her head fondly, she steps backward, but he catches her by the skin of her flowy cotton top and pulls her into his lap. “Barry,” she protests, but only for a moment because his hand shoots to the base of her head and guides her open mouth down towards him.

For a skinny guy, he’s way stronger than his physical makeup should allow for. He effortlessly twists her legs around his waist, and pushes their bodies together. But she doesn’t question it. She embraces it, moaning harshly as he kneads her ass in his hands.

They haven’t had sex in a few days, and not just because of her schedule. He works long -- sometimes odd -- hours. But she assumes it’s par for the course, for a CSI. And she’s this close to putting on a show for her kitchen appliances, especially as he slinks his fingers towards the seat of her cotton shorts, dipping one near her slit. But that little touch of pleasure snaps her back to reality. Dinner and a little makeout sesh is the only thing she can offer him tonight.

“Barr,” she breathes, as she catches his hand. But he’s defiant as he curls his finger against her.“I can’t,” she whimpers. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I gotta...prepare for work tomorrow.”

He lets out a loud sigh, face wrinkling in dissatisfaction. It’s a look she's becoming increasingly familiar with, appearing any time she mentions work.

It should strike her as odd, but doesn’t. “Oh, babe,” she says with a pout, as she runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t be mad, please.”

He sighs again. “I’m not mad. I’m…” Disappointed. Wish you would tell me the truth , “ he thinks, but he actually says: “Upset. You've been ‘working’ so much lately. And Friday nights are supposed to be our uninterrupted time.”

Iris pouts, hating when she disappoints him. Hating that she has to keep such a huge part of herself from him. Of all the men she’s ever dated, no one has ever made her feel as loved, as safe, as desirable as Barry Allen.

And yet, she feels she doesn’t fully deserve the love he gives so easily. Love -- true love -- isn’t shrouded in secrecy and shadow lives. But what will he think of her if he finds out who she really is?

Just cancelling an overnight date has him looking like she punctured his lungs, and she can barely stand it. Biting her lip, to quell the trembling, she brings her other hand up, and rests them on his shoulders.

He’s so tight and fraught with tension, and her touch seems to intensify it. God, he’s really mad at her. She tilts her head, managing a soft smile as her hands move in tandem across his shoulder blade, increasing the pressure as she moves. His eyes flutter closed, defiantly, her hands attempting to squeeze the displeasure from his body. And then she leans down, pressing a soft kiss just underneath his earlobe. “I promise, I will make this up to you,” she says, softly, “Okay?”

She lifts her head up to meet his face, still rife with displeasure.

“When?”

“Tomorrow-- promise.” In actuality, she has another client meeting tomorrow, but it doesn’t have as much riding on it. And she can’t possibly stand to see Barry look at her like this twice in one week. So she’ll have to reschedule.

“Fine,” he agrees.

Iris smiles, and thumbs his chin, happy for the compromise. “Thank you, baby, for being so understanding. I’ll make it worth your while.”

"Any time with you is worth my while,” he says earnestly, his words nearly drawing tears to the surface of her eyes.

But she sniffs, hoping to keep them at bay. She can’t close this deal if she’s an emotional mess. And then she smiles, offering him one last kiss for the night.

Though the need in his return drags one kiss into four, five, and six kisses. At least until she manages to snap her neck backward and pry herself from his lap.

As she stands, she fixes her clothes, which almost ended up in a pile on the floor. Her eyes catch the time on the clock and she realizes she has less than 25 minutes to get ready before her business meeting.

“So,” she says, casually, “Do you want me to walk you down to the lobby?”

“No, that’s alright,” Barry says as he stands. “Unless you want me to beg you to change your mind in front of your neighbors.”

Iris laughs softly. “No, definitely not.”

Barry stills, taking in the sight of her. She projects an effortless beauty, even with no makeup, slightly frizzed hair and pajama shorts. He takes a step forward and leans down to kiss her on the cheek, knowing that if he aims for her lips, he might not be able to stop himself.

And while he’s not happy she’s working on a Friday night, at least she’s cleared Saturday for them. She leans up into his kiss, softly palming his shoulders with her hands. When they part, she holds his gaze.

Two beautiful, chestnut brown eyes looking up at him sweetly. “I love you,” she says softly.

His response is effortless. “I love you too -- now, tomorrow. Forever and ever.

She squeezes her hands together excitedly, and does a little sidestep. It’s an obvious attempt to make fun of his saccharine tone, but he doesn’t mind -- in fact, he welcomes it, shaking his head from side to side.

“Anyway,” he says through a growing smile, “I’m going to head out, and let you handle your business.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Just please... be careful. I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to you.”

His words are weighted with hard truths she doesn’t yet know he knows, yet his tone still uneases her. “What could possibly happen?” She asks, feigning obliviousness. “I have like the safest job in the world.”

He sighs, loud and hard, but goes forward with her charade anyway. “By the time you return from the museum, it’ll probably be really late. Dangerous. You have to be careful.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening. Of course, he thinks she’s going to the museum. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be careful.”

“You are going to the museum, right?”

She pauses, just long enough for him to prepare for the lie to come.

“Uhh...yeah.”

His brows furrow as he crosses his arms across his chest. “Are you sure?”

She forces out a laugh, hoping to quell his rising concern. Because if she doesn’t get him out of here now, her entire evening will fold.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” She smiles fluttering her eyelashes “Come on, honey. I gotta get ready.”

He takes a moment to contemplate whether or not to call out her obvious lie, but ultimately decides against it. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She smiles wider. “Bright and early,” she says, as she glances at the clock, growing wearier of his presence.

“Yeah,” he deadpans, out of options. “Bright and early…”

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

Five minutes later, Barry swivels absentmindedly in his office chair, chewing on the dead skin of his thumb. Caitlin, who’s been watching his skittish display, glances over to Cisco, who pretends he doesn't notice her pleading gaze. Eventually, he sighs and begrudgingly casts down the chain of sour straws he’s snacking on, and scoots forward.

“Dude. Just go talk to your girlfriend," he replies, voice filled with disdain.

Barry shoots him a warning glance, in no mood to deal with his best friend's judgement over his choice of partner. “Don’t.”

“Fine.” Cisco throws his hands up. “Then do...that...all night. But I’m going home.”

Barry sighs. When it comes to his relationship, talking to Cisco is like talking to a brick wall. He turns to Caitlin, hoping his other best friend can offer some advice.” Caitlin stews in silence a moment, carefully gathering her words. The things Barry uncovered about Iris are damning, and a stark contrast to the straight-laced businesswoman persona she presents outwardly. But she’s also seen the way Iris looks at him, those rare moments they all hang out, like he hung the moon just for her with his bare hands.

Yet, still, she has to ask: “Do you think she could be seeing someone else?” Her words are careful, knowing how touchy of a subject this is.

Barry huffs. Almost offensively. “No.” At least he hopes. “But she’s definitely still lying about her plans for tonight. Probably another dirty deal she doesn’t want me finding out about.”

Unable to resist, Cisco presses a hand into his chest. “Iris West? A LIAR?” He gasps. “You don’t say.”

Barry shoots up from his chair, a second away from lunging at Cisco but Caitlin blocks him with her body. “Cisco. Please,” she scolds him backwards, gently pushing Barry in the chest.

That seems to calm him, as he flops back into his seat with a sigh. But Cisco pushes forward.

“Cool it, Cait. Alright. I’m not the one who’s leading on our best friend -- she is.”

“She’s not leading me on!” Barry yells, scooting to the edge of the chair. “She’s just…”

“...Not just an art dealer, apparently, not in good standing with the IRS -- or at least she won’t be--and in no danger of becoming a Girl Scout troop leader. Or a nun either,” Cisco retorts.

Barry shrugs, unphased by his recounting of events. “So she’s not perfect. But I have my own secrets. “

“Yeah. You’re the Flash, but, she's a criminal, who lies to you constantly. About what she does, where she goes. How many times, since you found out, have you had to save her from the trouble she’s gotten into?”

Barry sighs; he’s almost lost count of the number of times Flash has scooped Iris from the pits of danger, during a business deal gone bad. Shadowy figures, unrelated to her business dealings, looming in dark alleys after she’s left some abandoned building, scorned men whose pockets she’d bled dry, but who couldn't pursue legal action due to their own dirty dealings, who took things into their own hand.

One by one, he’d laid out anyone who crossed her path and had the audacity to even breathe at her wrong, which all amounted to silent acknowledgement between her and Flash. Because she damn sure hadn’t told him -- Barry Allen -- about these chance meetings.

Another reason he had to be cautious around her. She held her cards too close to her chest.

Cisco takes in a sharp breath. “I just want better for you man. You deserve someone who doesn’t lie to you.”

Barry holds Cisco’s gaze. “She might be a liar, but when she tells me she loves me, it’s not a lie. And because of that, I can’t just throw away our relationship -- we can get past this. I know it.”

Cisco rolls his eyes and twirls his hair round and round his finger. “Whatever.”

Caitlin, who’s grown tired of Cisco’s negativity, faces him. “If you’re not going to offer Barry any understanding, you should probably excuse yourself.”

“Fine,” he says as he shoots up, “’I‘ll go.” But when Barry finds out something else about Iris that he can't handle, I can’t be the person he vents to anymore. ” He pauses and turns towards his friend, who’s struggling to bite his tongue. “It hurts to see you like this, man.”

With that, Cisco makes his exit, leaving just Barry and Caitlin in the room. Awkward silence fills the space he leaves, as those little stubborn nuggets of rationale, in between Cisco’s snark, tries to penetrate his brain.

Slowly he looks up at Caitlin, a fervent lea in his eyes. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think you and Iris need to have a talk. A long talk, about what you know about her. How dangerous this game she’s playing is. But most importantly, what you need from her, going forward if you’re going to work, romantically. Which I imagine is total transparency.”

Barry nods slowly, taking in her advice. These are things he already knows he’ll eventually have to do, but he still still isn’t ready, He doesn’t know how Iris will take him knowing the truth about her, and he’s not ready to deal with any potential fallout. “You're right,” he says, the only answer he can scrounge up. “I wish you weren't, but you are.”

Caitlin tilts her head sympathetically, unspoken words fighting to be free.

“What?” “

“You….also... need to tell her you’re the Flash. I know, you have reservations. But if you’re willing to stay with her, through all she’s doing, she deserves to know who you are as well.”

Barry sighs, letting his head fall into his hands. There’s a universe of lies between them, and he worries their relationship is too new to handle such added weight. But he can’t continue to live like this, and can’t let her continue to live like this. They’re either going to be together, without secrets, or...He pauses, unable to let the rest of the sentence form in his head, then shoots up. “Okay. I’m going,” he says, finally. “I’m going to go talk to her.”

“Goo-,” Caitlin starts, but he’s gone in a flash of lightning, before she can finish her statement.

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

Iris steps out of her bathroom, with barely a minute to spare before Randolf Helming, the owner of the Helming Hotel chain arrives. He’s looking to cut his tax bill in half, by funneling some of his cash into a few high end art pieces, and he thinks Iris can assist him. What he doesn’t know is that the pieces she’s going to sell him are forgeries that only 1/10 art experts can spot. So she’ll pocket his commission for her time and also the value of the real paintings she’ll sell again to an unsuspecting schulub, later in the year.

Probably to some secluded older gentlemen, who buys art for social prestige, thousands of miles away in Prague or Berlin.

A hefty journey to travel, but a necessary trip if she’s going to do better at covering her tracks. Over the past few months, some of her old dealings have started to catch up to her, and she’s had more than her fair share of brush ups.

Oddly, though also fortunately, enough, she was saved each time by Central City’s guardian angel: The Flash. Though, at this point, it almost felt like he was her own personal angel, always seeming to be in the right place when she was in the wrong place.

She’d think it strange if not for the multitudes of people he saves everyday.

As she makes her way into the living room, she takes one last look at her appearance in the big mirror hanging over her fireplace. Her previously frizzed hair has been tamed into a low pony-tail, and her face has been painted with a light dusting of makeup. But it’s her attire, a chic red, high-waisted skirt and black fitted blazer blazer that's sure to wow any potential business partner.

A knock at the door pulls Iris away from her thoughts. She pulls at her skirt, not wanting to give Randolf the wrong idea -- she might be dressed to the nines, but this is not a romantic engagement; she has to work to do-- then waltzes over to the door.

“Mr. Helming “ Iris says warmly, as she opens the door. “I’m glad you could make it.”

The silver haired man, who hovers around around 5’10 and is dressed in a light gray suit, lets his eyes travel unabashedly down Iris’s body before he greets her. “It is my pleasure, Ms. West.”

He takes a huge step into the apartment, nearly brushing his body against hers. Uncomfortable with the closeness, Iris steps backward, letting out a nervous chuckle. She doesn’t usually entertain her clients -- legitimate or otherwise -- in her home, but she figures that someone as high profile as Mr. Helming has too much to lose to act out of turn.

Still, the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention as her attempt to create distance does nothing to soften his gaze. “Well,” she says, running her hand over her hair, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Oh, yes,” he mimics, seemingly remembering the reason for his visit. “Business. Lets.”

Iris smiles politely and steps aside to give him ample room to enter further. He strides past her, and heads for the couch, taking in the sight of her place as he walks. “Wow. The art world has treated you quite, well, huh?”

Returning from closing the door, Iris walks over, proudly. “Yeah, I guess you can say that."

At the couch, Randolph takes a seat in the middle of her cream colored sofa, and spreads both arms across the back. Iris, who was gearing up to take a seat next to him, pivots and takes a seat in the black recliner sitting adjacent to the couch.

He frowns and scoots his body towards the end nearest to the chair, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort.

“So. I hear you’re trying to lessen your tax burden,” Iris says, diving straight into business."

“Yeah.” He crosses one leg over the other. “My hotels are doing well. But as it goes, I owe the government 10s of millions this year in taxes and so I need a tax write off. And a big one.”

Iris smiles. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I just so happen to have a direct connection to the Murdock Estate, who handles affairs for the late oil painter, M.N. Murdoch. They’re looking to unload a couple of pieces for the right buyer.”

“And when you say right…”

“Well, aside from the assets to afford the seven figure price tag, they’re deadset on selling it to an astute businessman -- someone who understands the value of fine art.” But who can’t tell a forgery from a real pieces.

He nods, pleased with her response. “Well, let’s see these paintings.”

Iris pulls her phone from her pocket, and opens up the PGN files of the paintings, still on display at the Central City Art Museum and hands it over to Mr. Helming. He takes the phone, finger sliding haphazardly across the screen, sending him back to her home screen.

“Oops,” he chuckles. I clicked off of the screen. Can you fix it?”

“Of course.” Iris reaches for the phone. As he releases it, his fingers graze over hers, sending a wicked chill through her.

His skin is somehow cool, yet sweaty at the same time. Iris draws her fingers in awkwardly as she retrieves the phone and reset the screen. From the corner of her eyes, she sees him wipe his palms on his pants leg. Her return is smoother; managing to hand over the phone without making skin to skin contact.

Randolf takes a moment to look over the pieces, genuine contemplation painting his face. His concentration on the task at hand eases her growing anxiety a tad, though the silence that settles over the room still tickles her nerves.

She glances over to the table, where the unfinished bottle of wine she and Barry had for dinner sits, and her mouth nearly waters for a glass. But she doesn’t drink while doing business -- at least not this kind.

When she looks back over to Randolf, he’s done with her phone and also eyeing the wine. “I could go for a glass, myself,” he says over a prickly laugh.

Iris opens her mouth to respond, then realizing no words are coming out, pushes out a choked response. “Right. Of course. Is Merlot okay?”

He nods. “That’s just fine. Though, if you have something a little stronger, I wouldn't object.”

"No,” she says quickly. “Just the Merlot -- I’m not much of a drinker.” She stands and smoothes down her skirt, and walks across her living room, towards the kitchen.

Iris had already cleaned up from dinner, so she goes to the cabinet to retrieve two wine glasses. Even though she doesn't drink on the job, she has to at least pretend to indulge him if she wants to close the deal.

Glasses in hand, she turns for the island and lets out a loud shriek when she notices Randolf is standing just feet away, at the other side. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you walk over,” she quickly offers towards his slightly offended expression.

“Oh.” He relaxes some. “I am quite light on my feet -- blame my wife.”

Iris quirks a curious brow. “Your wife?”

“Ballroom dancing,” he says, settling his weight over the island. “She makes us go once a week. On my one off day too.”

She smiles politely. “That is very sweet. I’m sure you two have a lot of fun.” Feeling more comfortable at the mention of his wife, Iris walks past him towards the table where the wine is sitting.

His shoes scuff her floor as he turns, a sound that easily penetrates her eardrums. Iris turns just in time to see his outstretched arm, reaching for her. She pulls away right before he lands and steps backward. He presses forward, trapping her between him and the table.

“What are you doing?” She asks, now on high alert.

He sighs harshly, his body drooping from the aggravation as his face contorts into a frown. “Oh come on; surely, you know how this works, Iris.”

“How what works?”

“I could get art from any buyers in the city. Men much more accomplished than you. If I came to you, it’s because of an added incentive.”

“Which is?”

“ You.” He tries to press his body into hers, but Iris pushes him in the chest. He stumbles, but only barely, as Iris rushes to the other side of the table, grabbing the half-empty bottle of wine as a weapon. “Get out. NOW,” she commands voice loud and firm.

Much firmer than her nerves on the inside. There’s no way she can overpower him, physically. And this high up, no one will hear her screams from her penthouse.

“Or what?” He asks, casually rounding the table, completely unphased.

“Or I will bash your fucking skull in.”

She raises the bottle higher, hoping to appear more threatening. He chuckles, nearly spits at her attempt. “Oh, you’re not going to hit me. Not if you want to keep doing business in this town. Remember, I have a lot of rich friends. One word from me, and you’re toast.”

“Excuse me?” She asks, overcome with offense at his audacity.

“You heard me!” Randolf yells as thrusts himself towards her, and tackles her to the ground.

The bottle of wine falls from her hand, shattering into a million pieces on the floor around them. He tries to kiss her and Iris squirms underneath him, fighting to free from his grip, shards of glass digging into her exposed flesh. She yells, the stinging pain piercing all her nerves.

“Shut up!” He yells, wedging his leg between hers as he plants a firm hand round her neck.

Iris freezes, pinned in place, chest heaving up and down as his tar-black eyes singe a hole through her.

“There.” His smile is dark and haunting. “This isn’t so bad is it?”

Unwilling to let the last sight of her be a disheveled, powerless woman, Iris spits clean on his face. His hand shoots to the spot in disbelief, face as red as the blood trickling from the wounds on her leg, “Oh, you’ve done it now!” He yells, drawing his hand backward. Iris presses her eyes shut, preparing for the blow. But where she should feel stinging pain, possibly a broken nose, she only feels a gust of wind and the relief of Randolf’s body no longer being on top of hers.

The crash that follows is deafening as the force propels Randolf into her walls. And that’s when she sees a red blur, wrapped up in blazing lightning, delivering the final blow that knocks Randolf clean out.

His limp body falls to the floor, his skull cracking against the luxury vinyl tile that covers her kitchen floors. The masked hero, who she now registers as The Flash, comes into focus. She watches him watch look over Randolf's unmoving body, making no effort to check on him.

Iris uses her depleted strength to stumble upward, grunting as fresh shards of glass pierce her hands. She lets out a guttural cry, nearly tumbling over from the pain.

From the shock. From the devastation.

He runs over and catches her, letting her body crash into his soft, open arms. She can’t even scrounge up the energy to wonder how or why The Flash has yet again saved her from herself. She’s completely overwhelmed at the fact that this night couldn't have ended so much worse.

And then come the tears, a ravenous stream down her face. Iris presses her hand into face, to block the sight of her

“Oh, God. Are you bleeding?” Asks the masked man in panicked frenzy, though his voice unmasks him immediately.

Slowly, Iris raises her head, every odd encounter with the Flash she’s had over the past few months settling into place like a finally-finished puzzle. All the she time she almost met her demise, but didn't.

He looks at her, fear coursing, over the lingering anger in his eyes, but that voice is unmistakable. It’s the same voice that awkwardly asked her out nearly a year ago, and grew giddy when she agreed. The same voice that’s crooned sweet “I love you’s” in her ear since that first night he nervously admitted it, over frozen yogurt.

“B-” Her throat is dry and ragged. “Barry?” She pushes out.

With a sigh, he tears his cowl off, revealing fully the face of the man she loves more than she knew was possible. His cheeks are bloodshot red, his eyes puffy, and glossy, a clear sign his own tears will soon spill forth.

“Oh, Iris,” he groans, sweeping her up into his arms.

Now knowing this masked hero is the man she loves, has been the man she loves, she melts further into his chest, every bit of hesitation to maintain an air of control falling away. She cries, shamelessly, unabashedly, into his chest as he rocks her.

She has a thousand questions, and knows he does too, but she can’t scrounge up a single one, only caring that he’s here now. That he’s saved her. Again.

As Iris goes silent, Barry’s mind races a thousand miles a minute. He’d taken Caitlin’s advice and headed here to talk to her about her lies, never imagining the scene he’d walk in on. He can’t think straight, can’t even worry about his former objective, he’s only grateful that he got here in time before…

“Fuck!” Yells. Iris jumps against his chest, but he’s unperturbed. “You could’ve. He could’ve…” He continues, trying to push past the ugliness these sentences conjures in his brain, but the defeated shame on her face stops him.

He kisses her cheek, and stands, lifting her in his arms, bridal style, though the apartment is devoid of the the joy of a burgeoning marriage. The air is heavy, as heavy as both their hearts, as her body in his arms. Yet he soldiers on, through the resistance. When he arrives at her bedroom, he kicks the door open with one foot and carries her over to the bed, covered in the black, floral comforter he’d bought her as a gift early in their relationship.

Before he knew of the lies and deceit.

As her raw skin makes contact with the bed, she hisses in discomfort. “I’m sorry!” he’s quick to say, swiping a comforting hand over her head.

“It’s okay, Barr,” she croaks Her voice is thin, barely meeting the air. She's afraid to bring up the obvious, knowing now that the sweet, gentle man she’s been getting to know over the last year is The Flash. A masked hero, a force of nature, keeping the city from descending into anarchy. But she has to express her gratitude somehow. “Thank you.”

He swipes a gentle hand down the side of her face, lingering on her beauty, then leans down, planting a soft kiss on the side of her face. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, as her straightens his posture. “Now, I’ll be back.” He turns away from her and heads to the bedroom door.

Iris sits up on the bed. “Where are you going?”

“To see if that asshole is still breathing. Hopefully, he’s not. But if he is, I have to drop him off at Iron Heights.”

His response is dry, matter-of-fact, and it sends a tingle down her spine. “But. You can’t. He’ll talk.”

“It’s okay.” Barry continues to walk away from her. “He didn’t see my face.”

“But. Still. I don’t think jail is the right path for him.”

She isn’t saying what she wants, and he knows it. But he’s too amped up to care. “So I’m supposed to let the man who almost raped my girlfriend go free?! Is that what you want?”

“No. I…”she sighs, long and hard. “I just…”

He turns, the painful implication settling inside of him. Even after all of this, she’s worried about her dirty business deals. “What? You’re worried that the police will find out what you’ve really been doing all this time? How can you afford to live like this?” He motions around the apartment.

Iris gulps, the judgement in his tone hurting more than the gashes on her legs.

“Well, newsflash: the police -- me, I -- know, and have known for months. And what you’re doing, honestly? You deserve to be in jail.”

“Well why didn’t you say anything?” She croaks. “Why haven’t you turned me in?”

He chuckles, offensively. “Because...I love you more than your mistakes. And I was trying to give you time to either stop this or be honest with me.” He shrugs, painfully. “Guess it’s too late for that.”

“Barr, I’m sorry. I--.” She sighs, letting her head fall forward in shame. “ I’m sorry.”

Barry sighs. “Yeah. Me too.” He casts one final look of disappointment over her, one that softens ever so slightly when she raises her head and he meets her sad, concerned eyes. “Look, we can talk about all of this later. All that matters right now is that you're safe."

Iris nods meekly.

"I’ll be back in a sec to help clean you up,” he says, before flashing away, leaving her alone in the room....

#The flash #westallen #fanfiction #archive of our own

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anavatazes · 1 year ago

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Ugh, slings. I know they are necessary, but I hate being immobilized. Just knock me out and let what needs to happen, happen. Or increase my anxiety meds so I don't give a fuck. My poor mother, when I broke my wrist, twice as a teen. How did she put up with me 🙃?! My Mister dumps me in the bed and leaves me to the mercy of the animals after making sure I have what I need 🥰. I am not a good patient when slings are involved.

On high pain days before my neurologist found the right mix to take the edge off my Fibromyalgia pain (fellow Warrior Queen 💪), trying to get dressed for work when I was at the Bakery and at the Restaurants was a nightmare. I always woke up early because I needed to give myself for the just in case, because I had to wear specific clothing. When we discovered I have degenerative disc disease, it was worse because belts were a requirement. Even wearing them loose sucks. Now that I am my own boss, I can pick and choose, like you laid it out for Pedro. What is easy to handle on such and such a day? When this body part starts to fail? I know a lot of people with Fibromyalgia have set up their wardrobes in similar ways. Dress for how they're feeling for the day, not for anything else. My clients love it. I am a bookkeeper who also takes care of taxes. I do 90% of it at home. But 10% does require face to face time with the clients. I don't go out in PJs, but I do dress comfy, and I have my Under Armor flip flops that offer the best support I've ever seen in shoes, especially in flip flops. They love my various nerd/geek t-shirts (that are easier to get on and off, especially if I need help). I still try to look a bit professional, but there are days when it's hard to be 100%, but my clients know me and know my work. They are there for my work.

So, I will defend others, even celebrities (like Pedro), who want to be comfy. I've no doubt there will be someone bringing up why didn't he stay home if he didn't feel good? Can I have a buck every time I hear that directed at me? Pennies and nickels ain't worth much anymore. He could have contractual obligations... maybe he wanted to be with friends? Maybe he wanted to go? Maybe it's none of our business? Remember when we had a drought of no Pedro? And now we are being fed Pedro damn near daily, and the new year has barely started?!

I adore that lovely, sweet, glasses wearing, inspirational, squish pillow of a chisled man 🫠🫠🫠. Comfy clothes and all. And I am glad I am not alone 🥰.

People are saying they hate how he dressed here but my bf dresses like this - he has a lot of Uniqlo shirts that have the same fit and cut so I don’t mind it (also how cute is he in this pic?!)

#Pedro pascal #wear the damn sling if you are told to wear it #i know they suck

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couchpotatoaniki · 4 years ago

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The Queen’s Consort

You love him dearly, but a servant cannot marry their Queen. Luckily, you’re not one to give up so easily, despite what others might think.

Pairing: Servant!Namjoon x Queen!Reader Genre: Royal AU, ‘Secret’ lovers AU, fluff, slight angst Warnings: smoking, swearing, mentions of misogyny Loosely based off: I’m a bit of a history nerd, so this is a weird fantasy mash-up of the reigns of the English Tudor Queens, Mary I and Elizabeth I Word count: 4.5k+

Pungent smells of rose perfume and sweet vanilla filled the room, a cloud of cigar smoke mixing in occasionally as it lay in the atmosphere.

You exhaled after another puff, feeling the tension in your muscles ease with every deep breath. Namjoon drank the sight of you, eyes closed, head tilted back, light grey smoke escaping past your puckered lips.

No matter how many times he sees this, he thinks, he won’t ever get used to it. Normally seeing you in tight corsets, confining gowns, adorned in pretty, expensive things.

But this picture of you is the prettiest.

No fancy makeup, no fancy jewellery, no fancy dresses.

Just you, in a plain nightgown as you smoked a cigar that lay loosely between your fingers, the firelight flickering across your glowing skin (blemished from the years of stress and fighting, but gorgeous nonetheless), and occasionally taking sips from whatever alcohol was in your chalice.

Today was whiskey.

As inappropriate as it is, you never minded him seeing you this unguarded. It was your time to unwind, and Namjoon helped you do just that.

In this room of paintings, you two sat on velvety golden chairs in front of the roaring fireplace and let go of the day’s troubles.

The real world was just on the other side of the door, a twist of the brass doorknob and you two would revert back to a Queen and her servant.

But in here...

In here, in this sanctuary, you were you and Namjoon was Namjoon.

Staff and all those who worked within the palace grounds knew exactly what the two of you were. How much you two meant to each other.

Whispers went about but neither of you paid much heed, even if it caused more than its fair share of trouble at times.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Namjoon asked, noticing how your relaxed brow returned to it’s familiar scrunched-up look.

Chuckling, you kept your eyes closed as you exhaled once more. “You know very well I don’t need money.”

“Okay then,” he huffed, “a kiss for your thoughts?”

One eye opened at his proposition, brow above it quirking as you smirked. “Holding those lips hostage, now?”

A large hand enveloped one of yours, giving it a tight squeeze as he sported a lopsided grin of his own. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You loved seeing him smile, trying to etch the curve of his lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the two tiny valleys of dimples.

Using the thumb if your other hand, which had placed the dying cigar on a nearby glass ashtray, you caressed the knuckles of Namjoon’s hand. “Nothing, my love. Just the same as last week.”

The muscular man leaned in closer, whispering faintly in your ear, “and remind me of what that would be...”

His breath smelled of the exotic fruits he just finished eating and all you wanted to do was see how many you could taste on his tongue.

“How much I love my country,” you teased with a sly look, something you loved to do, and you knew that he did too. Probably why his lips lingered over yours, barely brushing together, and before you could kiss him properly, Namjoon abruptly pulled away.

Sat back in his seat, the taller man chuckled at your rouge cheeks and furrowed brow. “I promised you a kiss, only if you told me what you were really thinking.”

As much as you cared him, what had been lingering in your mind was not something he should know yet. Not how stressed you were, not how your advisors had pressed for you to marry someone soon and sire an heir, now that you were of age.

While one faction--led by Seokjin and Jimin, the Secretary of State and Lord Treasurer respectively--had pushed for you to marry the sole Astopian Prince, Jungkook, another faction of advisors (led by Hoseok, the Captain of the Royal Guard, and Taehyung, the Lord Chamberlain) wanted you to marry a noble from the country you govern.

These were you’re most trusted and efficient advisors, but the headaches they have been giving you make you dread to think of how much worse it would be with others in their position instead of them.

Sure, you’ve met the Prince who hails from the Jeon dynasty that has ruled the Astopian Peninsula for many centuries. Conquering copious amounts of land despite not being coronated yet. An over-talented man with an ego too big for you to handle.

Safe to say you weren’t a fan of the idea of being tied to the childish person.

And then the nobility...

All those beasts wanted were two things: the jewelled crown on your head and the golden throne you occupy.

It was one of the reasons why the advisors were so pushy lately--people wanted your strength and your nation, and with no direct legitimate heir, your position became more unstable.

It was shown when you had to squash rebellions to overthrow you with a distant cousin or half-sibling you had no idea existed until you heard of their claim to the throne.

Either Father sure was promiscuous or they did well to cover their lies.

But there was only one man right for you, and he was happily tasting the strawberries you had requested just for him. Servants couldn’t get the quantity or quality of food of your palette. Filled your heart to see him try all the things your taste buds had now grown used to.

“May I lay with you? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

Not because you were his Queen, but because he understood you. Knew you had more weight on your shoulders than any other in the country.

So Namjoon did what he he could to ease the burden, letting you lay your head on his chest once you both moved to your bed. Calloused fingertips, rough from a hard day’s work, brushed between silky strands of hair that cascaded down.

“Namjoon…” You could feel his hum vibrating through his chest as he continued to run his finger through your locks, gently untangling them. “Would you marry me?”

If he was shocked from your sudden question, he did not show it.

In fact, he wasn’t surprised at all. Despite how well you were trying to keep it from him--he would have to commemorate you for your efforts--he was still a part of the servants workforce. And servants talk.

“If we could... then yes.” His lips pressed against your scalp for a sweet kiss, mumbling, “would marry you in a heartbeat.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I love you.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough for a marriage to work.”

Namjoon knew what you meant. A classic example of this case would be your parents, the previous King and the late Queen. Your mother slandered for being unable to bare any healthy children save for you, the rest of them unable to live past five years of age.

Their marriage was one of love, you had heard, but after her complicated fertility issues and the pressure of a nation on their heads, things turned sour.

You saw how two loving parents become bitter and died cursing each other with their last breaths.

“You’re right... but we’ve been able to work together well before we fell in love. We’re familiar with each other, how the other works. Their needs and wants. I won’t let us end up as a heap of melted wax, our passion and care for each other burnt out. And I know for a fact you won’t either.”

You heard him through the rumbles in his chest, finding the warmth of both his body and his words comforting to you.

“Be mine and mine only,” you muttered as your lids grew heavy, shutting from exhaustion.

Noticing this immediately, Namjoon chuckled to himself.

“As if I was made for anyone else.”

“--and make sure to increase the taxes on the fishermen in certain areas of the coast as well as lessen them in others. I hear the marine life is becoming scarce these days along the eastern seaboard and to replenish it, we should encourage the fishermen to avoid those areas of concern.”

“Yes, your majesty. That sounds like an excellent solution,” Seokjin said, though not at all surprised you came up with it (even if it sounds simple when you say it out loud). To him--as well as the rest of your court--you did more than an exceptional job at governing your state.

You were the best monarch they had seen in a very long time.

Only, there was one issue, and you were well aware of it.

Breathing slowly, you looked at your council, dreading the words you were going to say next, because the touchy topic was going to be brought up sooner or later.

“Is there anything else on our agenda today?”

The Lord Chamberlain cleared his throat. “Other than the daily workload, there is only one matter left for discussion, your majesty.”

“And what would that be, Taehyung?” you sighed, slight hint of sarcasm laced in the tired tone you spoke in.

“Your marriage.” Seeing you roll you eyes only fired him up more. “You really need to decide! Do you want to completely secure your throne?”

“What about marriage is so important that my throne is insecure without it?” you burst out, not being able to hold in your frustration. “There have been Kings in the past who have lived their entire reign in peace without tying the knot with another, so why me?!”

“Because your a Queen, not a King!” Jimin yelled back, his old habits of arguing with you while you two were younger beginning to kick in. “We all know you’re more than capable of of ruling by yourself, but others still have their old-fashioned way of thinking! They believe that without a legitimate heir from you, your throne is theirs for the taking!”

Hoseok rested his hand on the red-faced man’s shoulder, pushing him back down in his seat from which he left as he argued with you. “What we’re trying to say, your majesty, is that the world’s attitudes are years behind ours. They’ll keep coming for your head if you don’t produce a legitimate heir, and the only way you can do that is if you marry.”

Grunting with frustration, you stormed out of the room, rushing to your bedchambers.

Felt lightheaded. From the advisors, from the world, for the corset restricting your breathing. Too many thoughts rushing through your head, you didn’t see Namjoon following behind you with concern hidden beneath a blank expression.

It was only until you stopped to open the door to your bedchambers did you realise he was right behind you. “Leave me to rest,” you spoke firmly, remembering to maintain the roles of servant and Queen even if you two were at the boundary of sanctuary.

Wanting to say more but being unable to have the freedom to say it while you both were in the doorway, Namjoon simply sighed and stood outside as you closed the door on his face.

Threw yourself on the bed, hoping for some miracle that will allow you to knock out there and then.

First, you needed to breathe. You needed air into your lungs to stop the dizziness.

“In... Out...” You hear someone speaking from your mind, louder, yet more soothing than the rest. Namjoon’s deep voice lulling you from a past memory.

“In... Out...” You followed as instructed, listening to his advise to settle your pounding heart.

“In... Out,” you repeated alongside his voice in your head, finding your beating organ relax bit by bit until it returned to normal.

Squeaking of the hinges had not brought you out of the trance you were in, but the dip in your bed under a person’s weight did.

“Don’t mind me,” Yoongi said as he lay beside you, his arms crossed behind his head, “your servant let me in.”

“Of course he did,” you smiled. Namjoon knew that if he was not allowed to comfort you, then someone else would have to in his stead--and there was no one better than the Foreign Secretary.

Yoongi--like some of your councillors--had grown up with you. He knew you like the back of his pale hand, and he was the only advisor you completely trusted.

Others had lost that level in pursuit of their own ambitions; he was the only one who fought against you appointing him for his role, wanting to stay in the shadows--something he had grown accustomed to.

Only when you explained that his real job would be your Spymaster did he agree. It was the shadows he was used to, and you weren’t going to fully rip him away from his comfort zone.

After a few minute of laying side by side in silence, you began to spill your thoughts.

“No one has any idea how painful this position is. Nor how bothersome getting the throne was in the first place. Now they want me to marry and relinquish my power after everything I had sacrificed to get and maintain it. Want nobles and Princes that would just overrule me and ruin this nation I brought back from the ashes like a phoenix.”

Attempting to gulp down the lump rising in your throat, you just couldn’t stop.

“After the shitshow my parents and my forefathers had turned this place into, I returned it to it’s rightful glory. It became a mythical beast because of my efforts, and now they demand I marry a man who would mistreat me and my people, as if we were mere deer or rabbits rather than powerful, fiery birds of the sun.”

Silent tears rolled down the sides of your face, the muffled drops on the sheet being the only sound indicating to your advisor that you were indeed crying since his eyes were closed.

“What do I do, Yoongi?” you begged in a small voice, not to an official of your court but your childhood friend. “How can I marry someone who cares more for power than they do for me? More than my people? How could I marry when the whole of my heart belongs to another?”

“Well, that’s easy,” he replied--already knowing exactly who you were talking about--not even opening his eyes as you turned you head to see him, awaiting his explanation. “Just marry the person your heart belongs to.”

Glaring at him, you spat, “if it was that easy, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Don’t lash out at me like you did to Taehyung and Jimin. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re my advisor and you fail to give me advise--”

“I just did--”

“Advise that I can use.”

Opening one eye, he looked at your annoyed face. “I told you before that I didn’t want to be an advisor.”

“Well I couldn’t just let you stay in the gardens your entire life. You need people skills, and to do that, you need to socialise with things that can actually speaks,” you threw your arms up, gesturing to nothing in particular just to emphasis your point, tears dried. “Besides, I prefer your company and council over the rest.”

Yoongi was not one for taking compliments--it was an unusual and unfamiliar task for him, especially if it didn’t come from you--so he stayed silent from the next few minutes.

“Who said it? That you can’t marry the person you love?”

You snorted at his stupid comment. “Everyone, Yoongi. Everyone.”

“Really?” He clicked his tongue. “That’s strange. I’ve never heard anyone say those words to you directly, and I’m the Spymaster.” He saw how you gnawed on your lip, eroding away the ruby lipstick until you finally got what he said.

Rapidly propping your body on your elbow, you snapped your face to look at him. “Are you suggesting I just marry who I want anyway?”

“Well, yeah, that is what I said at the start.”

Sent him a pointed look. “You know there’s gonna be a lot of opposition.”

“So? You’ll face opposition if you choose one faction over the other. You already face it daily anyway, so I don’t see the point in fretting over it. At least this way, you can live your life with the person you love the most.”

For the first time during the entire conversation, Yoongi’s face softened as he sat up with you, taking your hands in his as a comforting gesture. They weren’t Namjoon’s hands--certainly weren’t as big or warm--but they did the trick.

“Listen, the only reason they’re pushing for a marriage with a nobleman or a foreign prince is because they want to milk this opportunity for all it can be. An advantageous marriage, that’s all they’re looking for.”

“But their main issue can simply be resolved with an heir.”

“Exactly. You can have a legitimate heir with the person you love, regardless of his status. All you have to do is marry him.”

Bursts of happiness bloomed in you, showing your smile and rosy cheeks, in your thumping heart and rushing blood. Unable to contain it, you pounced on your old friend. “God bless you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me,” he chuckled, with his own ruddy cheeks, “Besides, I never approved of those half-baked fools they offered to you. Especially Prince Jungkook.”

Releasing him from your tight hold, you looked at him fondly. “Would’ve been a pain in my ass if I really had married him.”

“Mine too,” he shuddered at the thought, “Rather have someone I know marry you than an arrogant stranger that I have to learn how to speak respectfully to.”

“You should be used to it!” You lightly hit his arm. “You’re the Foreign Secretary! It’s your job to talk to arrogant strangers.”

“And I dread every meeting,” he grimaced.

“...so it would be wise to change the systems in the areas that are being raided. For those most at risk, use all you can to protect our citizens. Place more guards and use stronger, more-resistant building materials for reconstruction, and also see if you can build an underground shelter for the people to take refuge in, stocked with supplies.”

“Wonderful, your majesty,” Seokjin said, scribbling down what you said in his little notebook. “We’ll begin that immediately.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back in your chair, which was significantly bigger and fancier than the others. “Is there,” you sighed, still not ready for the conversation to come. “Is there anything else on today’s agenda?”

“You know very well what we’re going to say, your majesty.” Your eyes landed on Jimin, who was much more calmer than last week.

“Yes, I know.” Briefly, your eyes shot to Yoongi, who was sat opposite to you on the large, round, spruce table. Puff of air pushed out of your lungs as you cracked your knuckles as a way to release the tension in your fingers. “How about this? State your cases; who you nominate to be my husband...”

Taehyung was smart, so he caught your hesitation. “But..?”

“But I have conditions of my own. Two, to be exact. Nothing exactly difficult.”

Hoseok scratched his head, feeling somewhat happy you’re not avoiding this topic as usual but also slightly suspicious.

“You main argument for me to get married is so I can have a legitimate heir, right?” Mumbles of agreement erupted around the room. “Good. So my first condition would be that whoever I marry won’t be King, they will be my consort.”

“But that’s unorthodox,” Seokjin piped in, more as if it was a passing thought than a counter-point.

“So would you rather me marry and then be overruled?” Your brow quirked, challenging them. Standing, you looked around, leaning your weight on the hands on the table.

“All of us here know that I am more than capable of ruling--you even said it yourself, Jimin. I know I can handle the weight of the country on my shoulders. Have been since I was 15, and I won’t allow some officious idiot ruin what I’ve build from the ground up.”

None of the advisors said another word on the matter since they knew you were right. Their Queen knew the country inside-out and having another person who had less experience or was not so familiar with the customs of the nation become more powerful was certainly a recipe for disaster.

“Very well,” Seokjin muttered. “Your second condition, your majesty?”

“This one may be a bit more challenging for you to follow, but it is just as important as the last.”

“And that is...?” Hoseok pried.

“After I choose, there will be no arguing. The monarch’s word is final and you should treat it as such. Once the decision is made, all of you--regardless of personal opinions--will have to greet the Consort with respect since they will become a part of the Royal Family.”

Carefully crafted words made the others oblivious to your plan. All but Yoongi.

“I think it’s safe to say that we all agree to your quite reasonable conditions, don’t we?” Taehyung looked around the room to see if anyone would object to his statement and, luckily, no one did.

Sitting back down on your seat with a silent groan, you waved your hand to signal the start of the debate. “Finish this matter by noon.”

With no further need for delay, the talks began. Seokjin, Jimin, and a few others opted for Prince Jungkook on the basis that he held power and knowledge, while trade and relations between the two countries would be much better.

An argument that you could handle without being married to him by simply being his friend and whatnot--but you of course kept this to yourself.

Various others began to offer you more local choices of husbands; lords, earls, dukes and the like. Hoseok and Taehyung both wished for the Duke of Lysia as he held a lot of support from the people, understanding of the country and culture and had retainers for your army should you need them.

It was as if they had forgotten you had no need for more love from your people since almost every single one already supported you. Also letting the fact that it would be treason if the Duke didn’t raise his retainers for your army upon your orders slip their minds.

But as the two sides died down, you looked at your Foreign Secretary. “You’ve been awfully quite, Min. Do you have someone’s name to put forth?”

“Yes, I do, your majesty,” he said quietly, appearing to be uninterested but you knew better.

Chuckling beneath your breath at his coldness, though never letting the smile become visible, you cocked a brow. “And who would that be?”

“Kim Namjoon. Your personal servant.”

“This is preposterous!” Jimin yelled, slamming his fist on the polished spruce.

You lifted your hand up to silence the Lord Treasurer, glaring eyes reminding him of your second condition before returning to question Yoongi. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you both love each other.” He tilted his head to the side, yawning.

“Also on the grounds that he too is familiar with the royal customs and culture of this country, not to mention that he normally overhears what goes on in important meetings--excluding this one, of course. You confide in him and he has never broken your trust, despite how well he is within the servants--who often tend to chatter amongst themselves. He knows the ins and outs of the place and already unofficially aids you in decision-making.”

He licked his lips. “And, most importantly, he is fertile so you can sir a legitimate heir.”

“But what about his lack of power?” the Captain of the Royal Guard countered.

“He knows how to move with the people. The lad keeps his ear close to ground and is smarter than he looks. Besides, none of this matters since he’ll be a consort anyway, not a King.” Yoongi lazily shot back, killing Hoseok’s argument.

Silence grew over the room as each pair of eyes looked in your direction, already knowing the decision deep in their hearts. “A five minute recess is required.”

The advisors all stood as you did, only taking their seats again once you had left the room and the double oak doors shut behind you.

“How was the meeting, your majesty? Was awfully long this time. Any difficulties?” Namjoon enquired, not knowing what exactly went on.

Without answering him, you walked to a nearby empty room, with him trailing just behind. Turning on your heel, you held his arms, intensely looking in his eyes. “Did you mean it? When you said you would marry me if you could?”

Knowing that the two of you were hidden in a temporary haven, he gazed lovingly at you, caressing your cheek with his rough hands that only seemed to sooth you. “Of course I did, my love.”

“And if I could make that happen? Today? What would you say?”

As if he ate multiple salted crackers, Namjoon found his mouth dry up instantly. “What?”

Seeing his hesitation, you fought back the bad thoughts, the lump in your throat, the storm brewing in your stomach. “What would you say?” you pressed again, much harder than last time.

“I-I...I can’t.”

Tears tried to spring into your eyes, the sheer willpower you had to stop them from showing made your eyes burn. “Why?” Your tone turned stiff and stone-cold. He hated that--hearing you talk to him without emotion.

“Because it would mean I would have to become King. Although I want to lessen the burden you carry by your lonesome, I can’t take away the power you fought so hard to keep. Can’t be a ruler this nation and you deserve.”

Water began to spill as you closed your eyes, a sigh of relief escaping past your lips as your legs gave out under you. Luckily Namjoon was there to catch you. Lifted you from the ground and place you gently on a nearby chair. “You should really explain before you finish.”

His brows furrowed, kneeling down in front of you as he looked up to see your soft smile that had his heart beating just a fraction faster. “Should know better than to doubt my love for you at this point,” Namjoon whispered against the cold skin of your hands that he held in his own warmer ones.

Chortling lightly, you leaned to rest your forehead against his. “I really should, shouldn’t I?” Biting the lower flesh of your lip, you continued. “Would you reconsider if I said you’d only be my consort? Not a King?”

Could feel his lips stretch into a smile as it was still pressed against your knuckles. “If that’s the case, then definitely.”

“Good,” you grinned, standing up as you noticed the time on the clock. Wiping away the tears, you checked to see if you were decent in one of the mirrors.

Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, you kissed his cheek. “Time to tell them my decision.”

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writing-prompts-for-friends · 5 years ago

Text

Questions to Help World Build

I’ve realized I have a big problem with my writing. I am awful at world-building. Like, I just start writing without thinking about the world. And since I write fantasy. Well. That’s pretty no bueno and leads to all kinds of problems down the road. So I did some brainstorming with my friends and we created a list of over 100 questions to help think about our stories’ worlds and make them more concrete. Thanks to everyone who chimed in and gave me a hand!

A traditional Japanese clock, wadokei, that counted hours from 9 to 4, starting from sunrise, and then starting once again from sunset. (1-3 were not used for religious purposes.) They’re super interesting and confusing. You should definitely check them out.

Temporal

Is your story set in the past, present, or future?

Specifically, what year(s), month(s), day(s)?

Are days 24 hours? Or does time pass differently in this world?

How many months are there in a year? Is it a seven day weekday? Does the concept of weekends exist?

Have most existing societies developed a timekeeping device?

Is there a way to communicate across long distances?

The concept of time zones is still relatively new to our world. Prior to the late nineteenth century, timekeeping was a purely local phenomenon. Each town would set their clocks to noon when the sun reached its zenith each day. Do standardized time zones exist across the world?

Geographical

From a planet perspective, is it Earth? If it is not Earth, or an alternative version of Earth, what is it like? Is gravity the same? Does it have a moon or multiple moons? Can you see other planets? Is it closer or further from the sun? If so, what impact does that have on the climate and passage of time?

What town, state, region, country, continent, planet does this story take place in? What are its bordering/nearest neighbors? Draw a world map if you want.

What kind of land is it? Landlocked? Mountainous? Along the sea? Desert? Tundra? Tropical forest? Plains? Agricultural? Industrial?

What kind of plants and animals are common to the area? Are there any that do not exist in the real world?

What are the most common crops and livestock in various regions? What geographic features influence certain regions ability to grow/raise their crops and livestock (positively and negatively)? Are the regions diets strongly influenced by what they are able to grow themselves, or do other circumstances (like strong international trade) allow them to have more varied selections? How does religion influence what is considered ‘normal’ to eat?

What, if any, natural disasters are common to the region? Earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, monsoons, blizzards?

How many seasons does it have? Are any longer than others?

What is the typical weather like for those seasons?

Does the region have any unusual geographical features that set it apart? Perhaps there is some weird thing like Devil’s Tower just chilling out. Or hot springs because of volcanic activity?

Is it easy to travel from place to place within the area? Is it difficult to travel because of terrain/technology issues, or because travel is strictly regulated?

Main Locations: Cities

Many stories take place within one city. In Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, a character remarks, “So, if a city has a personality, maybe it also has a soul. Maybe it dreams.” What personality does this city have? What soul does it have? What does it dream of when it slumbers? If your story takes place within a settlement, town, or city, give these questions some thought.

Exactly where is it located within the lands you conjured up in the above Geography questions? Does it have a bay? A river? Does it butt up against mountains? Draw a map of the city.

How big is the city? Is it compact, or sprawling?

How old is the city?

What is the history of the city? How did it come to be? What tumults and triumphs has it seen?

What is the population? Is it currently increasing, decreasing, or remaining the same?

Does the town have any claim to fame? Any tourist attractions? What are they? What’s the story behind them?

If it’s a big enough city, how many and what kind of districts does it have? Residential, Commercial, Industrial, etc. Where are they?

Are there any areas that are deemed unsafe? If so, where are they and why are they unsafe?

Is there public transportation? What kind, bus, tram, train, subway, monorail? Is it good?

How do people get around this city if not by public transportation?

Are the roads narrow or wide? Crisscrossing in a methodical grid or higgledy-piggledy?

What are the buildings like? What materials are they made of? If they’re wooden, are they new wood, old wood? If they’re painted, what colors? If they’re stone, what stone? If they’re brick, is it new red brick or blackened, crumbling brick? If they’re glass and metal, are they sparkling with new hope or dull and jaded?

Are there many skyscrapers? Or are most buildings 1-3 stories tall? What does the skyline look like?

Are there many parks?

How is the city powered? Coal? Hydroelectric? Wind? Nuclear? Has it always been so?

What is the city’s main source of revenue? Agriculture? Tourism? Manufacturing? Mining? Something else? A combination? Dive deeper into this. If it’s agriculture, what do they grow? Tourism–what is famous? etc. This will help to determine what a lot of people do for a living.

What are the demographics? Ethnicity, age distribution, distribution of upper, middle, and lower class, etc.

How many schools are there? Universities? Are any of them good? Do they specialize in anything? Do schools even exist? Perhaps there are clans that teach their children everything they need, for example, or education isn’t viewed as important.

Are there any particular landmarks within the city that standout?

How many and what kind of restaurants are there?

Are there supermarkets, open air markets, or both?

Where do young people go to spend time? What about adults?

Do people there bustle or do they amble?

What are the nights like? Does the city grow quiet, or does it grow rowdy?

What does the city smell like?

If you had to give your town a color, one that represented its personality, what color would it be?

Main Locations: Houses (or buildings, but mainly houses)

There are many stories that have a house or headquarters or hospital or some sort of building as their main setting. These questions will mostly be geared towards helping you figure out a house, but you can apply these to other buildings too probably.

Exactly where is the house located within the city or outside the city? How does your character usually get there? Draw a map.

What year was the house built?

Was this house built by the current family or their ancestors? Who else lived in the house before the current dwellers? What were they like? Did they leave their mark on the house somehow?

What style is the house? Bungalow? Cabin? A shed? A cave? (makes the following questions mostly useless if so lol)

How many stories is it?

What is it made of? Wood? Brick? What color is it?

Does it have a lot of windows?

Are the curtains usually open or drawn? Are thee curtains at all?

What does the front door look like?

Is there a porch?

You enter the front door. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you use the side door because the front door is for show or something. Anyways. You enter the house. What room do you step foot into?

Draw out the floor plans for each floor. How many rooms are there? Where are they? How big are they? How are they connected? What color are they? What style of decor?

Is there a basement? Is it used or is it just a home for spiders and darkness and unwanted things? How about an attic? Crawlspace?

How many bathrooms?

Are there any rooms that only certain people are allowed to enter? If so, why?

What is the flooring? Carpet? Wood? Tile? Linoleum?

What does the house smell like?

Government/Military/Economy

In other words, “the boring stuff,” if you ask me. But this is a very important aspect of any world.

What sort of government is in place? Democracy, oligarchy, etc? Is it a just or corrupt government?

How are goods exchanged? Bartering? Money? Coins and bills? Credit cards? A specific kind of sea shell? Lol

What are the police like? Strict? Lax? Is there a curfew?

Do taxes exist? If so, do the people feel as though they are heavily or unduly taxed?

Where is the intersection between theology and law? Is it common to have religious leaders in positions of power? Are laws based around religious ideology, or is there an effort to keep them separate?

Is there an organised structure devoted to halting criminal acts? Are they corrupt? Who runs the organisation? How does their reputation change based on demographic? What is the history of the organisation, and how does that history influence how it operates today?

Regarding potentially criminal acts, what is the elgality of prostitution, sex work, ect.?

What about drugs and other illicit substances? Alcohol, illicit drugs, recreational use. Legality, festivity, age limits, etc.

Underbelly. How prevalent is crime, what sort of crime (scaled from pickpocketing to human trafficking) is there? Are there areas that have bad reputations because of it?

Regarding war, are there currently conflicts in the world? Are they international or civil wars? How common is it to have an active war? What is the history of war? What does current warfare look like (Is it dudes in metal suits swinging swords? Have longbows been invented? Gunpowder? Tanks? Missiles?) Is military service mandatory or voluntary? How is the military seen? Is there a sense of patriotism for the military, or does the common man fear it?

Is there stigma around certain genders entering the military? Are come genders regarded as better recruits than others? Is it illegal for some genders to enter the military? Does a person's sexuality affect their ability to serve?

How has religion influenced war? Have there been holy wars in the past? Do any religious institutions hold their own military forces?

Cultural/Historical

I’ve put these together because events in history lead to cultural change. You can apply these questions not only to the world/country, but also the city or even the neighborhood, workplace, or school that your story takes place in.

What is the history of the region? Who was it settled by? Was another group of people displaced? After that, did any new cultures come in? Did they get along?

Were there ever any wars or serious conflicts in the region? What was the cause and what was the outcome of the war if there was one?

In our world, the internet, social media, and film/tv are massive cultural drivers. They determine the latest fashions, jokes, topics, and expressions. What are the big cultural drivers in your world? Books? Plays? Radio? Oral tradition?

Is it a collectivistic or individualistic society?

What languages are spoken by your characters? Is multilingualism common?

What sorts of cultures can be seen? Do any clash? Do any mesh?

What sort of foods are most common?

What superstitions do people hold? Is there a version of “knock on wood” or throwing salt over your shoulder after a funeral? What are the roots of these superstitions?

Are there religions? If so, what are they? Do any conflict with each other? Are zealots or extremists an issue?

Does slavery or indentured servitude exist?

Are there any class or caste systems? If so, what are they, and what does an average day look like for a member of each class/caste?

How does a person's appearance change from country to country? Do certain countries have very distinct fashions? If so, are the fashions influenced by religion, surrounding countries, the cultural majority or international trade partners?

How does a person's clothing relate to their social standing? Is it very easy to assume someone's roll by appearance alone? Are there punishments for dressing above or below your social standing?

Does the society place a great deal of importance on a person's presentation, or is the society more lenient on such things?

Is there an emphasis on conformity to a dress code, or is individuality encouraged? How strictly is clothing regulated by gender binary? Is it commonplace to see a man and a woman walking down the street in the same cut of clothes? Is there a social stigma when a person does not conform to the most common form of dress for their gender?

How are sexual rights viewed? Does the LGBTQ community have the same rights as people outside the community? How are sex acts between people of the same sex viewed? Is it legal? Taboo? Are there cultures that encourage those relationships in some circumstances (like how the romans were down with guys with guys in the military)?

Are there any groups of people that are victims of prejudice? If so, who are they, who holds these views against them, and what views specifically are they?

In regards to gender, do certain societies hold differing beliefs? Is there a commonly accepted number of gender identities or does it change regionally? Is the most common gender spectrum a binary, or do certain racial and cultural differences allow for a wider range to be seen as the baseline?

Are children raised by their biological parents or are children considered to be in the care of the wider community? Is it common/acceptable for extended family to raise children, such as parents needing to study, work, or serve time in the military? Is adoption a common thing in society? Is there a stigma around adoption/being adopted? Do cultural or religious views impact how adoption is seen by the wider community? What is adoption like for a single perspective parent? When adopting, is interracial adoption accepted/common, or is it seen in a negative light? Are some societies more open to adopting children outside of their own race?

How is sex and virginity viewed? Does religion influence it? What is the age of consent? What is appropriate on a first, second, third date? Is sex something that is talked about openly, or something taboo? Are you supposed to wait until marriage? Do couples stay monogamous while dating? Do some regions place higher importance on virginity than others? Do some place higher importance on one gender’s virginity than others?

How is marriage viewed? Are arranged marriages a big thing, or are people free to choose? Is monogamy common? How is a marriage symbolized? A wedding ring, or something different?

How is divorce viewed? What is the divorce rate? Can people remarry?

Magic and the Supernatural

If magic or spooky stuff doesn’t exist in your story, disregard this section.

Does magic exist? If so, who can use it? What are the limitations to their magic? What things are they capable of using their magic to do? What things are they incapable of doing?

Are there laws against what kind of magic can/cannot be used? What sort of laws? Who enforces them? What are the punishments for breaking said laws if they exist?

How does the existence of magic affect religion? Are there religious institutions that infuse magic into their worship? Are there religious sects that see magic as immoral and in direct opposition to their faith? Have there been conflicts in recent or ancient history between religion and the supernatural? Do some sects employ people to hunt and/or enforce law over the supernatural?

Assuming that magic does exist, is it taught? Are there different schools of magic? Is there a system of ranking for magic users based on their skill level?

Do non-magic users look towards magic users with respect or fear?

What role does magic play in this world? Has technology not advanced because magic solves many problems? Or has technology advanced and the use of some magics has become unnecessary?

Are there any mythological creatures/monsters, such as vampires, demons, skinwalkers, dragons, or other creatures of your own creation? Are they common? Do people believe in their existence? Do people worship them? Where can they be found? Do they interact with humans? Do humans fear them or try to put up with them as they do nature?

Do the dead continue to exist in some form, such as ghosts or zombies or the like? Can the dead be summoned or brought back to life?

Are there human/supernatural hybrids? Perhaps a half-demon half-human, for example? How are these people viewed by their peoples, and by society as a whole?

How has the supernatural influenced war? Do armies tend to have a mix of regular and supernatural soldiers/weapons? Have there been wars between the supernatural/magical and those without? How does magic influence a person standing in a mixed army? Is it more likely for a magical being to be promoted than a non-magical being? Conversely, are supernatural being forced into service and seen as pawns?

The End!

Please feel free to reblog and share, and add on any questions you think should be added!

#worldbuilding #world building #creative writing #writing fiction #writing tips #brainstorming #creative writing methodology #writing prompt #writing exercise #writing prompts for friends resources #long post #writing inspiration #writing prompts for friends

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captainreverie · 3 years ago

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ok I'm obsessed with ur au drop the word doc and I WILL cry about link and the fact that hes scared to reclaim the master sword 🥺🥺 also curious about the inktober thing u just posted with link in chains?? I think it was 10? what did the poor man do....

💕 I’m so humbled by your interest like seriously, blown away!💕

I have some things in my Master Doc that i should update but ill see what i can do over the next few days between inktober work.

In regards to Picture 10 - Wrong Side in A Strangers War - i was just going to post the 6 dot points from the Master Doc but naturally i went off on a tangent so i’m sorry for the 1.2k and if this makes no sense. Also there is a hint of this plot line in Inktober 08 - Rauru's viewing glass, Since the Temple of Light exists in the Magical plane and is therefore not subject to the laws of time.

I will also say it’s the darkest part of this AU and is more background history and happens before the start of the story proper. I’m not really knowledgeable on tag etiquette in 2021 so I’ll just say mentions of violence, war, bloodshed, character death.

It's dark but i swear this AU has a happy ending!

First thing to understand about this is that it’s got no roots in canon and i have been avoiding naming the billion OCs and Kingdom creation it required so bare with me as I use default descriptions. (I hate naming things)

Between Majora’s Mask and The start of The AU when Link returns to Hyrule (10 year span approx) he has been wandering throughout other Kingdoms, getting pulled into things because he is a good bean who can’t ignore people in need.

for 2 years he is caught up in a foreign Civil War (when he is about 19/20). The Kingdom is ruled by a Tyrant King who treats his people like absolute shit. A Resistance forms amongst the common people and Link joins it. Their goal is to depose the King and put someone else on the Throne. The King of course tries to wipe out the Resistance and crack down on any civilians that support it. He destroys entire villages, hangs people for treason and levies increased taxes to bully everyone into submission.

Link plays a mainly defensive role because a lot of the people of course have no idea who he is and still see him as very young. However he does prove himself and becomes a high ranked member of the resistance. He leads raids on supply caravans and rescue missions, proving himself a master strategist. Also while he tries to downplay his magic and the Ocarina, he over time reveals his overture of musical magic.

The Songs don’t function as teleportation anymore:

Minuet of the Forest = plant growth (Link used razor leaf its super effective)

Bolero of Fire = Fire creation and manipulation

Serenade of Water = Water manip

Nocturne of Shadow = Darkness and mirage

Requiem of Spirit = Aura cleanse

Prelude of Light = Glowing/ blinding light

Song of Storms = Storm creation, a bit OP but unpredictable

Suns Song = Breaks storm

Song of Soaring = Wings spring from back and can fly for awhile

Song of Healing = Sends souls to peaceful rest as per MM

His Brothers and Sisters in arms stop perceiving him by his age and see him as a powerful warrior for Justice. This of course makes him a target as a key member of the Resistance. He’s also the only Hylian so he’s recognisable (i want to portray this as Hylians ears are longer or something to make them seperate people. Like half-elves vs full elves ect)

One of his close friend turns out to be a double-agent working for the King who naturally betrays them all at a key moment. A lot of the Resistance are imprisoned or executed. Their supporters punished. Link is imprisoned and beaten/tortured for information because the Betrayer knows he has information also maybe he can claim this kid's power somehow..

This is basically what the drawing is about, the title of ‘The Wrong Side in a Stranger’s war, is in reference to dialogue the Betrayer says to Link in Prison. When he is reiterating, you had no part in this land and no reason to get involved but you are a foolish boy who got involved and you picked the losing side.

inevitably, having watched a lot of his friends suffer or killed and blaming himself for not stopping it he snaps. (hero label is a curse, he is expected to save people but he only seems to fail these days). The Trifroce of Courage activates and since he is beyond caring if he survives and is just 100% righteous fury at this point he destroys the dungeon and palace single handedly, freeing his comrades who are unable to process the god-like power their friend is wielding. He looks terrifying, He slays the King and the Betrayer.

In the end he stands in a shattered kingdom leaving the remains to the last surviving members of the resistance to try and put it back together and disappears in the night. They don’t know how to treat him after this incredible show of power. Spirit broken from failing the people and losing the war, he wanders down a road without direction and finds the road has led him back into Hyrule.

The main sort of idea I wanted with this plot history is that you don’t win in war. And in stories you obvious have heroes who fix everything or save the day but it’s doesn’t really fall in with reality. In OoT, it is implied that a lot of people were killed but with the reset of the timeline they are all alive again. Sure he experienced destruction while a child but in the end everyone survives and the day is saved as you would expect in the tales (Zelda’s perspective is obviously different).

With his experiences in MM and Termina he learnt that he can’t save everyone, if you decide to help one person, someone else will suffer from that decision. There must be balance. This of course is upsetting for him as a child whose idea of what it means to be a hero, his fairytale perception of it is being shattered with ever time reset. He only makes it out of the Termina when he accepts the truth that he can never save everyone. a choice must be made. Then you have the Rebellion and he witnesses the loss of a lot of dear friends and innocents. He views this as a total failure, that he has no grounds upon which to wield the mantle of a hero. Technically the Rebellion wins the war but it depends on whether you view victory in regard to power won or lives saved. Link’s beliefs all circle around the protection of life. He will always do what he believes his right but as time passes he is loosing confidence and begins second-guessing himself.

Of course those in Hyrule who know the legends and remember the Forgotten War (High Fae, Sages, aka those with strong connection to the magical plane) still see him as a hero. Even after hearing this story Zelda still views him as one because of course he has always fought on the side of good / light. So a big part of this whole AU in regards to Link’s arc is him coming to terms with what it actually means to be a hero of the world, and that the truth does not always match the fairytales that are told to children.

In regards to the Master Sword, after his return to Hyrule and his sort of rock bottom confidence i see him as no longer believing himself worthy of the Mantle of Hero of Time. Part of him doesn’t actually believe he could pull it from the pedestal, that the sword would probably act negatively to the darkness that’s grown in him. Zelda believes he could still draw it but she knows that this internal battle can only be fought by him, she can only support him in the healing process.

Big part of this AU is Recovery and Moving Forward despite your past so know it's angsty as hell in places but i swear it's got a happy ending!

#rev's mailbox #forgottenwar au #this is so much fun seriously anon thanks for your interest 💕💕

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farfromsugafanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Innocence

Genre: Mafia AU, Angst, Fluff

Pairing: Namjoon/Reader

Warnings: violence, guns/gun violence, cursing, violence against women, home invasion

Synopsis: When you end up getting caught in the crossfire, you’re brought to the local mafia leader who promises to rehabilitate you. Although, falling in love you certainly wasn’t part of the plan.

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"Shit, she's bleeding out," someone said from a few feet away.

"What? Who?"

"I don't know some random lady."

You moaned in pain as a pair of boots approached you and eventually, you could make out the fuzzy face of someone crouching over you. You couldn't tell where the pain was coming from, only that you felt it rippling through your body

"Fuck, Namjoon doesn't like when innocent people get hurt. We've gotta take her back with us."

"What? Isn't that just part of it? Innocent people get caught up in this shit all the time."

"Not the way Namjoon does it, come on, come grab her legs."

As one of the men looped his arms underneath your armpits, you felt one final jolt of pain that felt like it was ripping your body apart before everything went black.

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

"Is she going to live?" one of the men who'd brought you back asked.

"Yes, barely," Namjoon said, his face firm and his voice steadier than normal. "You're sure it wasn't one of your bullets?"

"All of our bullets were accounted for, sir."

Namjoon nodded. "If I find out either of you are lying, you know the consequences?"

Both men nodded in understanding.

The doctor emerged from the room where you were. "She's waking up, sir. I'll leave the rest to you. Call me if she starts showing any concerning signs."

Namjoon nodded and waved the doctor off and entered your room.

If it weren't for the drab gray appearance of the room, it would've looked like you were in a normal hospital room. An IV in your arm and white sheets pulled up to your chin. Your eyes were still closed, but your heart monitor was beginning to slowly pick up from it's near flat line when you'd arrived.

He pulled a stool from the corner of the room and sat next to your watching as your chest moved slowly up and down. The doctor had extracted the bullet and cleaned the blood from your skin and clothes. Your bloody jeans and sweatshirt had been washed and were folded on a table in the corner of the room. Your hair was still dirty, but the blood washed from its tips.

You looked younger than when he'd first seen you and it only made his chest ache. He had no idea who you were or what you had been doing in that part of town, but you certainly didn't deserve the bullet in your shoulder. It had nearly missed your collarbone and the important blood vessels, but you'd still lost enough blood to be anemic.

Your eyelids began to flutter and Namjoon sat still as he met them.

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

You opened your eyes and were immediately met with a pair of unfamiliar brown ones.

"Hello," the man said. He sat with his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped together.

Other than the fact that you had no idea who the man was, the more concerning thing was that you had no idea where you were and you were seemingly alone with him. If you had to take a guess, the room almost seemed like a storage room of some sort; a cement floor and shelves lining all but two of the walls. They were mostly empty except for vague medical supplies.

"Where am I?" you asked, the beep of your heart monitor beginning to quicken.

"You're safe." The man sat up straighter, but his eyes never left you. "I'm Kim Namjoon. What's your name?"

You eyed him suspiciously. "Y/N."

"Just Y/N," he asked, his eyebrow arching.

"For now."

He chuckled before getting up and heading for a sink in the corner of the room. He filled a glass and walked back over to you with a pill in his hand.

"Take this," he said, placing the pill in your palm and holding the glass above you for when you were ready. You stared at him for a moment before glancing down at the pill. It looked normal and based upon the fact that this man was most likely the one responsible for saving your life, he would have no reason to kill you now, right? "It's an iron supplement. Cause you lost so much blood. You'll have to take them every day for a couple months."

You nodded and placed the pill in your mouth and swallowed it down. There was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that you could trust Namjoon, at least that he wouldn't kill you.

"Now, I need you to tell me everything you remember from the night you were shot."

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You were on your way home after work. You'd just graduated and started in an entry-level position at your dream company, but it left you exhausted and overworked. It was already nearly 11 and you knew you should've allowed your co-worker to drive you home, but you didn't know him well enough yet to trust him with where you lived.

You normally felt fairly safe walking through the city by yourself. You'd grown up there and you knew the areas to avoid, but you were tired and decided to take a short cut through a rougher neighborhood.

You took out your headphones and increased your pace so that you were walking faster than your normal pace, but wouldn't look too scared or suspicious.

For the first ten minutes, everything was normal, but as you neared the end of the neighborhood and the beginning of yours, you heard yelling. You looked around and couldn't find a source, so you kept walking and as you crossed an alleyway, a man ran into you, knocking off your feet.

You sat up, your vision a little blurry and your head still coming off its daze. As your vision came back, you stood up and braced yourself against the wall. That's when you looked up and the shot came. You couldn't see who shot you, if they meant to, or if it was just an accident. Heck, you couldn't even tell which direction the bullet came from.

You fell to your knees and eventually on your back. At first, the pain was unbearable, you felt the blood pouring out of your shoulder, although couldn't tell if it was from the back or front. But, eventually, the pain ceased and your eyelids began to feel heavy. It was soon after the man lifted you that a final burst of pain caused everything to go black.

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"You don't know who shot you?" he asked. The darkness in his eyes as he asked the question caused the pain in your shoulder to flare.

You shook your head. "It happened too fast."

He nodded, before getting up and leaving the room without another word. You then only saw strangers as they came to give you meals or check your wound which still had a long way to heal.

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

"Morning," Namjoon said, in the exact same cadence he said it every morning. He laid a tray over your lap which had a spinach and cheese omelet, toast, and a rotating menu of meats. Today was two slices of bacon. And, of course, on the side was a pair of iron supplements.

"Think you can eat it all today?" he asked. While you needed the nutrients, you had basically no appetite most of the time, but today, the toast was spread with a red jam it usually wasn't, which made you bite into it immediately. Raspberries. Your favorite. "Why don't you tell me about your job today?"

He pulled a chair to your bed and flipped it around and sat on it backward, allowing his arms to dangle off the top. The two of you had promised to tell each other something about each other each day. You knew it was a way to get information out of you and monitor your well being, but you didn't really mind. It started to become one of your favorite parts of the day.

"I'll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours."

He stiffened at that. You had your suspicions that Namjoon's job was less than legal considering how you ended up meeting him. You just weren't sure exactly what it was he did. Was he some sort of drug lord? A gang member? A pimp? Your stomach turned at the possibilities.

"Okay," he said. "You just have to promise that you won't be scared of me."

"O-okay."

He nodded, although you knew he caught the shaking in your voice. "You first."

"I—uh—I work for a non-profit that benefits women who have been victims of violence," you said. "I help process all the donations and make sure all the finances match up. I was an accounting major in college, but I didn't really feel like doing other people's taxes for the rest of my life. I want to feel like I'm making some sort of difference. Even though I don't make as much money, I feel like it's worth it."

"You are," he said. "You are making a difference."

Silence filled the room for a few moments, but it wasn't awkward or tense, it was simply you and Namjoon in your own thoughts. His eyes locked on you and your eyes unconsciously noticed the dimples on his cheeks that appeared and disappeared as he talked.

"All right, you promised," you said. "Your turn."

Namjoon's posture straightened and he cleared his throat. "Oh, well, I'm sort of the leader of the local mafia. I mean, it's not quite as nefarious as it seems. It's mostly just money laundering and stuff like that."

"But, you still kill people?"

"I never have. My men do only when necessary."

You gulped and pulled your eyes away from him. "Then, why did you save me?"

"Because I don't like innocent people getting hurt."

"How did this happen? How did you become the leader? You--you just don't seem like the type."

"My family," he said. "They kind of started this whole thing. I went to college and everything, but ultimately, I didn't know how to be anything else."

"You know you could always leave it behind. You're the leader. You could end all of this."

"It's not that easy. If I end it, I immediately become a target or someone would start it back up. And, let's just say, you don't want this kind of operation falling into the wrong hands. Many wouldn't have batted an eye at you getting shot."

"Don't think you're the hero here. Whether or not it was your men who shot me, whether or not you chose to save me, I still got shot because of you."

Namjoon's jaw stiffened and he crossed his arms over his chest. "You're right, I'm sorry," he said. "Although, it's not quite as easy to just leave."

"What did you study in college?"

"Huh?" He paused. "Literature and Writing."

You smiled. "Why don't you read to me?" you asked. "I never really got to take any literature classes in college and I missed them. I still have longer to recover. You could read to me whenever you wanted to."

"I'd like that," Namjoon said, his dimples appearing and lighting up his face.

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You laid back with your head and neck pressing back against the pillow as you closed your eyes as Namjoon's voiced lulled you asleep. You knew it wasn't just his voice and the way his voice took on a smooth rhythm as he read or the way his voice grew hoarse eventually. The doctor had slowly been weaning you off of the painkillers, while the pain wasn't as intense as before, it still exhausted you.

He was reading from Jane Eyre a book you certainly hadn't expected Namjoon to choose. The gothic element was enough to send shivers down your spine, but not keep you from falling asleep.

You were halfway through the book now and you knew you would never finish. Your condition was improving and you barely needed pain medication anymore. The doctor came once a day and today he had told you that he thought you'd be able to go back to your own apartment and life the next day.

Namjoon stopped reading and it jolted you out of your half-slumber.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I thought you were asleep."

You opened your eyes and shook your head, although your eyelids were only half open crescent moons and the way you were forcing them open made Namjoon chuckle.

"You're tired, anyway," he said. He closed the book and stood up from his chair. "Goodnight. Sleep well."

You watched as Namjoon walked towards the door and felt something in your chest. "Wait," you said. "This is the last night and we haven't finished the story."

"Y/N, we still have half the book left. There's no way--"

"Just stay with me tonight," you said. "I'll have to go back to being in my apartment all alone tomorrow and I don't know. I've enjoyed having you around."

"Y/N--" Namjoon said. "You're just--this isn't right--"

Namjoon's eyes met yours for a second before he ripped them away and walked out of the room with the book still in hand.

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"She--she asked me to stay with her," Namjoon said. He sat in his desk chair with his feet resting up on the desk, something he only did when he was thinking deeply.

"Is that a bad thing?" his right-hand man, Yoongi asked. "You like her, right?"

"Yes, but Yoongi, she hasn't been out of that room for weeks. She's only seen me and the doctor with only a couple of exceptions. It's just Stockholm Syndrome."

"We didn't kidnap her though. She could've left if she wanted."

"Yes, Yoongi, but why would she? She would've had to pay for medical care elsewhere. Even if we didn't mean to, we trapped her here. She's hardly seen anyone but me. Of course, she'll become attached."

"It's not like you were torturing her, Joon. You were helping her and I see the way you look at her too. Everyone does."

"If I wanted to, I can't give her the life she deserves. She's doing good things, Yoongi. She's innocent and I want her to stay that way." Yoongi nodded in his head in understanding, but there lingered a small glint of hesitation in his eyes. "And, even if I could, keeping her around her is dangerous. If our rivals found out about her, she'd become a target."

Namjoon sighed and stood up from his desk and shuffled through his papers. "Make sure she gets home safely tomorrow. Keep a couple of men in the area for the next week or so just in case it was a targeted attack."

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"He's not coming?" you asked the man who introduced himself as Yoongi.

He shook his head and gave you a sympathetic look. "But, he did want me to give you this."

Yoongi reached into his bag and pulled out the copy of Jane Eyre Namjoon had read to you. It was an old copy--at least fifty years old--and he had a bookmark stuck halfway through. You opened to the marked page and found his handwriting on the bookmark. He wrote in black ink. It was neat, although smudged around the edges because he'd closed the book on it when the ink was still wet.

It's your turn to read now Namjoon x

Your eyes focused down on the 'x'. It certainly didn't mean anything, it was just his way of signing off, but it left you satisfied as you walked out of the door escorted by Yoongi and a few other men.

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3 months later

"Y/N!" one of your coworkers said, rushing into your office. "You're never going to believe this."

"What?" you asked looking up from your work.

"Some guy just came in here. He was so handsome and wearing a fancy suit and he wrote us a thirty thousand dollar check." She held up the check so you could see it.

"No way," you said, grabbing the check from her hands. You held it up to the light and placed it under the black light you had to verify authentic donations. You had a weird feeling in your gut and you glanced down at the signature on the check. You couldn't make out a particular name, but a shiver ran down your spine. "What was his name?"

"Oh, well, I don't think he told us his real name. But, you know the rich types, always wanting to protect their identities."

"Y/C/N, what. was. his. name?"

"Mr. Rochester."

6 months later

"We're a bit short his month, Y/N," your boss said. "You know I hate to deduct from wages. It wasn't much this month."

You nodded. It was the reality of working for a non-profit. Sometimes you got paid and sometimes you didn't, but you knew the money was going to people more deserving of yourself. You waited until you were on your way home to open the envelope and see just how much you were getting that month. When your eyes met the total, you slowly looked down before continuing onto your apartment.

You pushed the key into the lock wondering just how you were going to scrounge up enough money for next month's rent. You could always sell something or do some odd jobs on the weekends. You opened your door and stepped inside feeling your foot slip forward, causing you to nearly trip, your only savior is your right hand was still holding on to the doorknob.

You got your footing and bent down to find a small envelope that was slid under your door. Your name was printed neatly on it. Normally, this would freak you out, but you noticed the same black ink from the bookmark in the copy of Jane Eyre.

I know money has been tight. Here's rent for the next couple months. Keep doing what's important x Mr. Rochester

Tears came to your eyes and your bit your index finger as you read the note over and over again. He was absolutely insufferable and part of you wanted to rip up the check, but instead, you slipped it out of the envelope and into your purse.

9 months later

It was a quiet Saturday night when you heard the knock at your door. It was nearly 11 pm and you weren't expecting anyone. You were already in your pajamas and you had picked up Jane Eyre for the first time in a few months. It wasn't that you found it particularly hard to read, but every time you picked it up, you were reminded of him. The man you had no idea why you still thought about. The man who occasionally came into your life and then left just as quickly.

The knock came again and louder this time. This time panic rushed down your spine and you froze. Was it best to approach the door and give away the fact you weren't asleep? Or was it best to just act like you'd already done to bed and hope they go away?

You stayed put, but clutched your cellphone close to you. Another knock never came, but instead the rustling of the doorknob and the clicking of the lock. It was when you heard it successfully unlock that you ran towards the kitchen. You grabbed your largest kitchen knife and crouched in the corner.

You were in the middle of dialing emergency services when you were yanked up by your hair and your cellphone went clattering to the floor.

"Ah, yes, you are her," the man said.

You didn't recognize the man in front of you. He was taller than you and held your hair in a tightening grip that caused you to whimper.

"You're plainer than I expected. He's head over heels for you, so I figured you must be beautiful. But, I guess, you must have better things to offer." He smirked, but unlike the smirks Namjoon sometimes let slip, this one terrified you.

"Who are you?" you asked.

"It doesn't matter to you baby girl," he said. "All you need to know is that you're going to die."

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"Namjoon!" Yoongi said, running into the room, breathless. His face was red and his eyes were creased, almost in fear. It was uncommon for Yoongi to get so worked up, let alone run. He spoke when he finally caught his breath, "Min-sung," he said. "Min-sung was seen near her apartment."

Min-sung had once been a trusted man, but he began getting greedy. Wanting to take all the jobs. Skimming money off the top. He felt betrayed when Namjoon finally let him go. You'd think he'd be grateful, most other bosses would've had him killed for how much money he stole, but no. Min-sung's mind was only focused on the drugs he took and the money he needed to buy them.

Namjoon's eyes widened. He pulled open his desk drawer, nearly pulling the entire drawer out of it's setting. He pulled out a handgun and fed in the clip. It had not once been fired. Namjoon had never had the urge nor the need to kill, until that very moment.

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"I'm going to play with you," he said. "To let him know you suffered. His precious little secret on the south side of the city."

"Please, I don't know who you're talking about. The walls are thin. I'm sure the neighbors are worried by now." Both were lies, but you hoped it came off convincing enough. He'd let go of your hair, but now he straddled you.

"Tell me, how do you want to die?"

"I don't want to die."

He laughed. "Of course not, sweetheart. But, you're going to. I'm being generous and giving you a choice. I could take that knife you had when I came in and stab you or I could kill you with my hands on your throat. Or, I could hold your head down in the bathtub and watch as you writhe around--"

Tears pushed out of your eyes and you felt blood sprout from your bottom lip as you dug into it. You squirmed underneath the man trying to wriggle yourself free or one of your limbs free.

"You know, I haven't really given much thought to dying," you said. You slowly slipped your foot upwards until you had enough leverage to bring your knee into his crotch.

He doubled over in enough pain for you to free yourself. You ran back towards the kitchen to grab the knife from earlier. You wrapped your palm around the hilt, but he was behind you before you could turn around. With all your might, you forced the knife backward, but it was at an awkward angle. Yet, you still heard him wince.

The knife dropped from your hand and the man turned you around, forcing your back against the counter. You noticed a long cut on his arm and felt a small sense of pride. At least if he was going to kill you, he would have a scar.

His hands wrapped around your neck and his thumbs sat right on top of your windpipe. You made eye contact with him as he pushed down and you made a small croaking sound as your eyes grew wider and your toes pointed in reaction to the lack of air.

"Stop...please...help...Namjoon..."

You managed only a few words before you ran out of air to manage any sounds. Your vision was beginning to blur and you knew in a few seconds you'd black out and it'd be the end.

The last few moments were so loud you couldn't make out what happened. Yelling, shuffling, a slam of a door, a loud pop. Then, it was all over.

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"Y/N, Y/N, please come back to me."

You opened your eyes to see Namjoon crouched over you. Blood stained his shirt and even parts of his skin, but his hand was clean as it caressed your cheek softly.

"Thank God," he said. "I thought I was too late. The doctor is on his way and so are my men to clean up everything. We'll pay off the neighbors to keep things quiet if we have to. You don't need to worry."

"I'm not worried, Namjoon." Your voice was hoarse and still not all the way there. You felt the bruises forming on your neck and your entire body ached. You turned you head to see your attacker laying in a pool of blood a few feet away.

"Hey, hey, don't look at that. Come on."

"I'm not a child."

"That doesn't mean you need to see a dead guy on your kitchen floor."

He lifted you up and carried you into your bedroom. After setting you down, he went back out to the living area and grabbed the copy of Jane Eyre.

"You didn't get very far."

"I've been busy."

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1 year later

Namjoon is almost done setting up everything in his new office when he hears a soft knock at the door. A delivery person carrying a large bouquet of flowers strides in and sets the vase on his desk and left without a word.

Curious, Namjoon walked from the corner of the room where he had been shelving books and to the center of the room. He plucked the card from among the flower heads.

I finally found time to finish the book. Congrats on the new job. Let's meet soon. Love, Jane

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delimeful · 4 years ago

Text

cut clean from the dream (3/3)

Part 1 | Part 2

warnings: fear, misunderstandings, small head injury (only a little one)

Patton hovered at the roof of the shady-looking human store, occasionally sticking his head over the ledge to peer through the dusty display windows.

He’d come all this way, past what felt like hundreds of sprawling human cities, and now the only thing between him and the next step to finding his best friend was one measly wall. His cloaking magic had served him well so far, but being invisible wouldn’t help him walk through solid surfaces.

And getting in there was vital. The dark blue life-trail that he’d been tailing for so long had led him to this doorstep, and hadn’t emerged again. He was exhausted from using such powerful magic for such a long time, but he wasn’t going to stop now! He would stay right on this roof until he found Logan, or at least a sign as to where the fairy had been taken from here.

‘You can’t help anyone if you pass out from magic exhaustion,’ a tiny voice in the back of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Logan reminded him. He bit his lip, considering for a moment finding a tree to hole up and recover in.

At that very moment, a human in a bright jacket turned the corner, striding towards the store with purpose. Patton’s wings twitched as his determination renewed. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity!

As soon as the stranger pulled the door open to enter, Patton invisibly dove past, any sound he might have made obscured by the small, ringing bell that the open door had triggered. The stranger’s nose twitched briefly, but neither him nor the shopkeep seemed to track Patton’s movement, so he hurried along to the rickety shelves.

There were all sorts of strange bits and bobs, some of which looked alarmingly fae-like, but no Logan. Against the advice of that little voice— one he was beginning to suspect was his common sense— he cast the tracking spell again, and found a heavy collection of deep indigo life-trail on one empty spot on a shelf. There was a ring in the dust, leftover from a container that must have been big enough for Logan to fit in.

But he wasn’t here now. And whatever had taken him, it had strong enough magic to cloak his life-trail entirely.

The air sprite felt his spirits sink as he realized that he had truly lost his only lead.

Then, he felt his stomach sink as there was a yell from the nearby shopkeep. He realized that the magic drain had caused his invisibility to flicker right out, leaving him hovering there clear as day.

He backpedaled immediately, but there was no breeze to aid him in the stagnant store, and before he could get out of range, thick fingers were closing around him, crushing his wings to his back painfully. He cried out, but the grip didn’t loosen.

“What in the world did you get out of, you little--”

“Hey!” An indignant yell made the furious mutterings of the man holding him come to a pause. The stranger in the bright coat stood at the head of the aisle, frowning severely.

The shopkeep’s tone immediately turned customer-service pleasant. “Just one moment, sir, I’m simply dealing with some loose merchandise--”

“Excuse me?” the stranger cut him off, expression only growing more offended. “That is not your merchandise, that is my… my emotional support sprite!”

What?

“What?” the shopkeep echoed Patton’s thoughts, looking bewildered. The stranger walked over with purposeful steps, holding a hand out in demand.

“My property, if you will. If I’d known you were so callous with other people’s belongings, I wouldn’t have chosen here to browse.” The stranger stuck his nose in the air haughtily.

This seemed to snap the shopkeep out of his fugue, and he hurriedly dropped Patton onto the other man’s hand. “My apologies, sir, though I do ask that in the future you keep a closer eye on your… pet.”

Patton had tried to catch himself as soon as he began freefalling, but his wings were still crumpled, and it was only a short distance to the other human’s hand. As soon as he landed, fingers curled up around him, one keeping his leg pinned to the palm. He tried to wriggle free anyhow, and received another hand cupped over him for his efforts.

Above him, the stranger sniffed once and then turned on his heel and walked right out of the store. Patton breathed a sigh of relief; back out in the fresh air. Once this human let his guard down, all he would have to do was summon a slight breeze and catch a lift away on it. Provided his magic wasn’t too taxed for such a task.

The stranger walked rather quickly for another few moments, and then turned sharply into an alley. Patton looked up with wide eyes as the hands around him unfolded, revealing a face with bright red eyes that seemed surprisingly… concerned? The stranger let out a long breath of relief, and then started speaking rapidfire.

“I am so, so, so sorry about that,” the stranger said, flattening his hands out so that there was nothing stopping Patton from standing. He did so, but curiosity kept him from immediately fluttering away. That, and his wings. “I just needed him to let go of you, I promise I don’t think of you as anything less than the person you are, please don’t be afraid.”

“You-- huh?” Patton replied, eloquently. The stranger smiled with oddly sharp teeth.

“Sorry, let me start over. I’m Roman, and you are?”

“Um, Patton!” he offered, still a bit thrown off. A moment ago, he’d been sure he was going to end up as part of a potion, and now he was… free? Maybe? He subtly started straightening out his wings, just in case.

“Nice to meet you, Patton! My sincerest apologies for my rough handling, I hope you’ll forgive me such actions in the name of getting you out of that cursed place.”

Patton nodded, and then shook his head, trying to figure out what to focus on first. “Why were you in there in the first place?”

Roman took on a proud expression. “I’ve been stopping by to inspect the place for other fairies or sprites that are trapped, waiting to be sold. That way, I can buy their freedom. Not that the store owner knows that, of course.”

“But why?” Patton knew better than most that humans, magic or not, saw their kind as useful at best and pests at worst.

“I will admit to my shame that it took the intervention of another to show me that the portrayal of fairykind has been terribly skewed,” he said, and then a fond smile overtook his face. “Luckily, I have a roommate who is educated in such matters, and didn’t hesitate to inform me of the truth as well.”

Huh. Patton hadn’t known that there were humans who considered fairies people. It made his heart feel warm as a summer wind. For a moment, he wondered if maybe Logan was one of the fairies he’d freed, but… Roman was no witch. He couldn’t be able to cloak a presence so effectively. He shook the thought away, focusing on the present. “Then, I’m free to go? For realsies, right?”

“That’s right! For realsies,” Roman said, and then shifted to rummage in his pocket with one hand. “Here, if you ever find yourself in need, this little card will point you in the right direction to my abode. Me or my roommates would be happy to help!”

Patton took the square of paper, which was thoughtfully very small, and tucked it into his belt. “Thank you!” Hesitantly, he hovered into the air over Roman’s hands, and smiled when the human didn’t even twitch in his direction. “Really. Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” he said, and then added with a wink, “but I do appreciate them greatly!”

Patton laughed, and then let the wind carry him up and up and up, until Roman was just a bright speck of color on the ground, and he headed back to the evergreen he was using as a temporary sleeping perch.

Close encounters aside, he had a lot of thinking to do. Logan would be proud, once Patton found him.

He was going to find him. He had to.

---

Two days later, Patton had scoured every nook and cranny in the entire town, and all he’d gotten for his efforts was an increasing sense of despair and exhaustion. There was no trace of Logan anywhere, and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep his spirits high. The fact that he hadn’t found a place to safely rest and recharge wasn’t helping, either.

He ducked behind a reflective street sign as another car rushed by in a rumble of noise and smoke. On the bright side, so many hours spent eavesdropping on humans meant that he was learning a lot about how things worked outside their home forest. Logan would have loved to hear all about it...

“Wait… humans!” Patton hurriedly perched on the top of a nearby lamppost, pulling a flat sheaf of paper from his belt. He’d been so consumed with his search that he’d almost forgotten his encounter with Roman.

The human had said that he or his roommate would offer help, and he had meant it, Patton was sure. Logan would have been concerned about what the humans wanted from him in exchange, but Patton wasn’t quite as cynical. Logan could lecture him about it later, after he found him.

Stretching out his wings, he tapped the paper and activated the rune on it, smiling as a bright, glittering trail glowed its way into existence. The magic was fairly nature-based, he noticed as he darted into the air and followed the weaving path between buildings and over streets. Roman had probably asked for the help of a fairy to create it.

Maybe, once he found Logan, he could convince him to come along and visit Roman? They had so much in common, it seemed like they’d get along! They were both pretty stubborn though… Maybe after an initial rough patch.

Soon enough, he reached the third level of an apartment building, and the trail led right to a window that was draped in red curtains and closed tight. He knocked on the glass politely, but nobody seemed to be inside, and the paper didn’t work as a key.

Patton hummed, brow furrowing in thought, and then hovered over to the other side of the building. Maybe the roommate was in?

There were curtains on this window too, dark heavy ones, but they were parted just slightly enough that he could see into the room. The glass part of the window was lifted up, but there was a layer of mesh still preventing him from just flying in. He almost called out, but as he got closer, he could sense human magic thick in the air.

Instead, he pressed closer to the glass and peeked through the drapes, promising himself that he would apologize for intruding if everything turned out okay.

There was a human inside, but it definitely wasn’t Roman. He was tall, dark, and covered in glowing magic tattoos, ones that marked him as a witch, which made the tips of Patton’s wings flutter fearfully. Was this really Roman’s roommate?

The witch seemed to be hunched over something on his desk, going by the faint muttering and surges in magic, he was casting something. Patton tilted his head, wondering if maybe he should just go back to the window he knew was safe and wait for a little bit. This could be a whole other section of the building, for all he knew.

He drifted back just slightly, but at that very moment, he saw the witch move away, and got a perfect glimpse of what was sitting on the desk in front of him.

Or, rather, who.

Logan, his Logan, sat there, wings disheveled and face scrunched up in pain, his hands held out, magical cuffs of glowing script just barely visible around them.

Normally, Patton wasn’t the type to just jump into things without talking first, especially not fights. But the sight of Logan, his best friend, who had been captured and put in chains by a witch? That was far from normal.

Between one blink and the next, there was a gale underneath his wings. The cutting winds tore through the window mesh as easily as a knife through butter, and he rocketed towards the witch’s face fast enough to make them flinch. He stopped inches away, between the witch and Logan, and spread his wings wide and threatening.

“Get away from him,” he screamed, and the winds answered his call, throwing the room into upheaval and shoving the human to the ground as effectively as if Patton had been human-sized himself.

Convinced that the pin would hold, he turned to Logan, his vision already blurring with tears at seeing his friend alive and safe, even if just barely.

“Patton--” Logan attempted, and then cut himself off with a huff as Patton tackled him into the bear hug of all bear hugs, knocking them both into a sitting position. Despite his exasperation, Patton could see the way his friend’s wings were beating hummingbird-fast, and if the spot on his shoulder that Logan pressed his face to was a bit damp when he pulled away, well. Patton wasn’t going to tell anyone.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he told Logan, still holding his hands desperately, as though he’d vanish if he let go for even a second. “I was so scared, you can’t ever leave me behind like that again, okay?”

They both knew Logan hadn’t chosen to be abducted, but Patton’s voice cracked on the last syllable of his plea, and Logan’s face softened.

“I won’t,” he said, gripping Patton’s hands back just as tightly. “I promise.”

Patton sniffled, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. His magic pulled at him, and he abruptly remembered the human witch he’d attacked only moments ago. “Oh no! Logan, come on, we have to get out of here.”

He pulled them both to their feet, but when he began to hover towards the window, Logan didn’t follow. He looked back to him, confused. “Logan? It’s okay, we’ll find someone at home who can get that human magic off of you, no problem! So come on, okay?”

Logan adjusted his glasses, using his other hand to tug Patton back to the surface of the desk. “Patton, hold on a moment. While I do appreciate your… dashing rescue, you’ve misunderstood a few things.”

Patton stared at him in disbelief. “What’s there to misunderstand? I saw the witch hurting you!”

“Pat, look at him,” Logan said, and turned Patton to face the witch, who was still pinned to the floor by swirling winds.

… He wasn’t straining against the magic at all, now that he took the time to feel the enchantment. He was just laying there, in a tipped over wooden chair on the floor, looking up at them with half-lidded eyes like he was already over the entire situation.

“You alright, Virgil?” Logan asked, and the witch rolled his eyes.

“Other than the headache?” he snarked back. “Yeah, I’m fine. Have you convinced your sprite friend that I’m not evil yet?”

“I am working on it,” Logan replied, the slightest smile on his lips as he looked down at the human.

And that-- that smile, more than anything, convinced him.

“Okay.” Patton released the spell, stumbling slightly as the magic drain hit him fully. “Okay. But you…,” he yawned, “you have a lot of explaining to do, mister.”

“I’m sure I do.” Logan helped him sit, not complaining as Patton slumped over and used him as an improvised mattress. “For now, though, I think you need to rest.”

Even as Patton’s eyes drifted closed, he was clinging to Logan’s hand. And from the firm grip that he got in return, he knew that the other fairy wasn’t planning on leaving him anytime soon.

That was enough, for now.

#sanders sides #g/t #fairy au #ts roman #ts patton #ts logan #ts virgil #ccftd #cut clean from the dream #fairies #writing #my writing #me writing this: *in tears* they are friends....

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renxzs · 5 years ago

Text

Redamancy

Redamancy (n): the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Roommate AU - Maybe it was a bit naive to think moving in with your best friend and long-time crush, Bucky Barnes, was going to be some smooth road that led to an admittance of mutual feelings for one another and a happily-ever-after ending, wrapped up nicely in a bow. Naive indeed; especially when you have to consider the fact that Bucky is the biggest womanizer you know.

Warnings / Tags: sexual themes, mutual pinning, angst, cursing, fluff

Word Count: 7,305

A/N: Thank you so much to @marvelfulxbabes for hosting this writing challenge (and for being so gracious in giving me an extension)!! I really hope you like this! :) Also, I wanted to thank @xetoilerouge for her unyielding kindness and willingness to toss around plot ideas with me when I was hitting a wall. You're the best!! And last, but certainly not least, I want to give a huge thank you to my A1 since day one on here, @interabangs, for essentially being my beta, sounding board, and biggest cheerleader all wrapped up in one when this fic was being...difficult. 💚

You stare blankly at the ceiling above you, having been awake long enough for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Lifting the phone that was settled facedown on your chest, you squint blearily at the time. 2:17am. An indignant sigh heaves from your lips and a scowl is etched into your features.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The steady tempo of the sound--wood frame meeting drywall--grows erratic and increases in speed.

There is a deep, sick churning in the pit of your stomach and your breaths are unsteady. You swallow thickly against the growing lump in the back of your throat. Teeth bite into your bottom lip painfully as a wave of emotions clamor and claw their way up through your chest, demanding to be felt, released--the onslaught nearly suffocating.

Heartache sits heavily in your chest, and it takes a little more effort than usual to shove it back in its box--to compartmentalize it--before the ache can further blossom and seep; throb within your bones, prick and tingle in the tips of your limbs.

Eyes squeeze shut as the hot sting of tears threaten to fall. You roughly press the heel of your palms against your eyes in frustration. A deep breath is dragged in through the small parting of your lips in an attempt to steady your heart and clear your head. You were being foolish. He wasn't yours to cry over. He wasn't yours, period.

And that’s where the problem lies within the glaring truth of the situation: Bucky isn't yours.

He was free to bring home whatever willing woman he happened across while out with Sam and Steve. And tonight he did just that.

You shift under the covers and curl up on your side, placing your phone facedown on the nightstand with a pathetic inward groan. It wasn’t often, with everyone’s busy schedules, that the whole group managed to get together to go out for a night. However, tonight was one of those nights, and guilt had filled you when you chose to pass on seeing your friends--

A low muffled groan sounds through the wall and your features consequently pinch up as a momentary pang throbs in your chest once more and tears prick at the back of your eyes.

--but this was exactly what you were trying to avoid. Yet here you are, near 2:30am, wide awake and alone; pitifully miserable, and being taunted by the sounds of the man your heart ached for fucking someone else. A knife to the heart, really.

You hunker further into the soft plushness of bedding, seeking any form of comfort you can latch onto. Fingers tug at the edges of the duvet to pull it around yourself tightly to block out the cool air of the room and everything else outside the four walls of your bedroom.

You let out a heavy breath. Yes, you felt guilty turning down the boys’ offer earlier that day, choosing to stay home instead. A barely-there smile touches your lips briefly, thinking how Sam and Bucky always mercilessly poked fun at one another--albeit, lovingly--and how you and Steve were always smirking over beer glasses at their antics, eventually shifting your conversation to how things were progressing between him and Peggy or whatever else was going on in your lives at the moment.

The soft half-smile on your lips slowly melts back into an impassive line. By the end of the night though, you knew the inevitable was bound to happen; it usually played out the same. Bucky's attention would be pulled by a pair of flirty batted eyelashes, roaming hands that were as bold as the stifling perfume she would be wearing, and full lips that were glossed to the max.

You would then find yourself crammed in the backseat of a cab with Bucky and his conquest of the night, fighting back bile, the alcohol in your stomach suddenly feeling as bitter as the taste on your tongue at the sight of her hand inching higher and higher up his thigh. That, or you would cooly play it off that you weren't ready to turn in for the night just to avoid a shared cab ride home with Bucky and whatever girl was latched onto his arm, even though, in all honestly, you were exhausted as fuck and wanted nothing more than to be curled up in your bed.

In the case of the latter scenario, Sam and Steve never failed to look at you with the saddest eyes, though warm smiles still played on their lips--an effort to mask the utter pity they most likely felt for you--when you sat slumped at the bar just a little longer to wait out Bucky’s evening romp back at the apartment. Gracious as always, the boys never pushed you to talk about it; for that, you were grateful. Nothing like discussing how pathetically in love you were with your best friend to two of your other shared best friends.

Unwilling to stomach either scenario, you had politely turned down tonight's invite out, claiming you needed a quiet evening in after a week from hell at work. Mentions of understanding and oversized hugs soon followed, then Sam and Steve were out the front door. With a parting kiss to the forehead and a chuckled “don't have too much fun, doll,” Bucky was gone, too, a moment later.

In all honesty, the quiet night in actually ended up being just what you needed, having enjoyed two glasses of red as some cliche Netflix rom-com played in the background. The sweet hazelnut cream scent of your favorite candles had filled your bedroom as they burned, and the flickering firelight danced on the walls of your dimmed bedroom. Between lightheartedly scoffing at the cheesy movie playing on the TV and firing off sarcastic texts to Nat about the laughable state of your own love life, your spirits seemed to have gradually lifted.

Slowly you had nodded off, mind and heart at peace for a short while. Living with your best friend has proven to be far more difficult than you initially anticipated--far more emotionally taxing. Sure, you didn’t expect it to always be perfect, but you also didn’t expect to feel this exhausted as often as you did.

The heart could only take so much unrequited love before it was sure to shrivel up, grey and dark, and dust away to nothing more, starved of a love it so desperately yearned for.

The sharp sound of a bedroom door being kicked shut had jolted you awake, ripping you from the warmth of temporary peace. Groggily blinking the sleep from your eyes, you were only disoriented for a moment before the familiar low muffled tones of Bucky’s voice could be heard through the shared wall of your bedrooms. Your heart had plummeted as the reality of the situation sunk in; and another shriveled up piece began to crumble away.

The now deafening silence of the apartment pulls you from the inner thoughts you had fallen deep into. It was finally quiet again, your personal hell having ended for the night. A relieved sigh falls from your lips and your eyes droop heavily with an exhaustion you can feel in your bones before you are once again pulled into a dreamless sleep.

***

You are in a particularly foul mood this morning as you sit perched on a stool at the kitchen bar. Your shoulders slump forward while you stare unseeingly into the steaming mug of coffee nestled between your hands. Bucky takes notice of your sour demeanor, eyes continually falling back to you, gaze swimming with concern as he flips another pancake.

Already having shut down his attempts at conversation, silence falls between the two of you save the spatula scraping against the hot skillet. You slowly bring the mug up to your lips and take a long sip, allowing the liquid to spread and warm you; praying the caffeine will kick in soon and give you the needed energy to make it through this day.

A throat clears next to you and your eyes slide to the right to take in Bucky standing close by. He has on your favorite pair of black sweatpants that hang on his hips just right and a grey cotton tee that is a size too small but he always insists on wearing. Of course, you never complain. Gah--damn him! Why does he have to look so effortlessly good in the morning? Especially when you’re trying to be pissed at him.

Eyes tear away from his chest and your gaze falls to the plate in his hand that is stacked full of chocolate chip pancakes. He clears his throat once more, perhaps a bit nervously, pulling your attention up to his face, which is painted with an apprehensive grin.

He sets the plate down in front of you. “Made your favorite.”

The sweet smell of melted chocolate chips wafts in the air and makes your mouth water. A finger twitches against the hot ceramic encased by your hands as you fight the urge to reach for the plate. Bucky makes the best pancakes and he knows they’re your favorite. But you’re not ready to give in to his charm just yet, so all you offer in response is a quirked brow as you quietly eye the plate in front of you before flickering your gaze back to him.

He drops heavily onto the stool next to you and drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his apology. Bucky turns on the stool to better face you.

“I woke up feeling awful this morning, realizing how loud we must‘a been coming in last night.” He shook his head softly before racking a hand through his unruly chestnut locks. He dips his chin before peeking up, icy blue eyes catching yours as he smiles at you sheepishly. “I, uh, had a bit more to drink than I should’ve with the guys. You know how I get...” he says with a low chuckle.

You bite your lip as your eyes fall back to the cooling coffee in front of you. Bucky is quick to speak again. “Not that it makes it okay! I just-- I’m sorry, doll. I’m a shit roommate and a shit best friend--”

“You are not a shit best friend, Buck,” you finally say. Sure, he’s unknowingly stomped your heart into the ground repeatedly, but that doesn’t make him a bad friend. It just makes him clueless and you a coward for never saying anything. You huff a sigh as your resolve begins to crumble. “Your roommate etiquette still has room for improvement though...” a slow smirk tugs on your lips.

Bucky instantly breaks into a grin and nods as the tension melts away from his frame, relieved to get the white flag of truce from you. “I couldn’t agree more. Promise I’ll do better, doll. Cross my heart and all.”

You hum in acknowledgement while pulling the plate of pancakes in front of you. “Now give me a fork before these get cold.”

Bucky tips his head back with a hearty laugh as he stands on the rung of his stool and reaches across the bar top to snag two forks out of the utensil drawer. He loves how much you enjoy his cooking, especially how open you are about it. He watches with a soft smile as you drizzle syrup across the fluffy stack of sweet goodness, always careful to keep the stickiness contained to your plate.

You cut through the stack of pancakes and bring a forkful to your mouth. A blissful moan rumbles behind your lips as you chew happily.

“Good?”

“The best,” you say vehemently as you cut off another bite then push the plate towards Bucky to share.

He picks up his own fork and plucks up a piece of pancake from the plate. His eyes linger momentarily on your lips as you happily chew another bite. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple before joining in on the sugary breakfast.

“Good.”

***

The rest of breakfast proceeds like any other day, it being easy to fall back into the step of your friendship. Bucky recounted in the utmost explicit detail how Sam had a few too many drinks the night before and somehow got his hands on the karaoke microphone. You were almost sorry you missed such a sight, but your ears had been spared without a doubt. Sam has many great qualities: a kind heart, a great smile, a healthy dose of snark to his sense of humor… but a pleasant singing voice is not one of them.

The time spent with Bucky gradually lightens your mood, the morning’s sourness nearly forgotten. Your laughter trills throughout the kitchen space and your side aches in the best way. A goofy smile adorns his lips, eyes crinkled in the corners. His gaze never strays from you. Unwelcome flutters dance in your belly and your eyes fall to the faux granite island top, unable to withstand the heat of his gaze any longer. Teeth drag across your bottom lip as you slip off the barstool and gather up the dirty dishes and cooking utensils that litter the counter and stove.

Bucky remains seated as his eyes shamelessly follow your movements in the small kitchen space. Lips settle into a soft smile as you get lost in thought while completing your task. Minutes pass before Bucky slinks up next to you, arms casually crossed over his chest and lower back leaned against the counter in a comfortable silence. You are elbow deep in suds, scrubbing clean the last of the dishes as you fulfill a previously established agreement: whoever cooks is excused from dish duty. Pushing the sink handle up with the top of your wrist, a steady stream begins to flow out the nozzle again. You quietly rinse the final dish, shake the excess water from it, and place it in the drying rack to your right. Bucky snags a clean towel and tosses it to you to dry your hands with. You offer a smile of gratitude as you make your way over to wipe down the island.

“So,” he draws out, “you wanna veg out with me today and watch some god-awful movies?” You don’t have to look up to see the knowing smile etched on his face and the inevitable wiggle of his brows as he tries to peak your interest.

A smile creeps onto your lips. Hunkering down on the couch with Bucky, surrounded by too many snacks and laughing at cheesy movies sounds like the perfect Saturday in all honesty. Movie binging sessions always led to getting real cozy with one another, though; his fingers absentmindedly smoothing through the ends of your hair and you snuggled up against him.

Your teeth bite into the plumpness of your bottom lip, mulling over his offer. You slowly pad over to the trashcan and shake crumbs out from the rag you had just wiped the counters down with, stalling to produce an answer.

The thought of turning down his offer sends a pang through you, chest hollow and yearning for your best friend. Lounging around together without a care, talking about everything and nothing, simply enjoying one another’s company--you’ve not gotten that type of quality time with one another in so long, and you miss it terribly. However, simultaneously, your heart aches deeply, yearning for Bucky. The kind of ache that blossoms from an unrequited love; debilitating and doubling over with loss of something that was never yours to begin with. It swallows you into empty, lonely nothing.

Movements slow and deliberate, you hang the towel on the oven handle with your back to Bucky. He must sense your hesitance and your stomach is sinking, decision already made.

You can’t.

Your heart cannot withstand enduring a day holed up on the couch with him, falling prey to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, you and Bucky could have more than friendship. Not while the freshly torn-open wounds of your heart are still exposed and weeping from the previous night. No, you needed time to yourself for healing; to regenerate and mend, to sew the tender and frayed pieces of yourself back together once more--a little less perfect each time, a little less whole. But no longer would you be in pieces, and sometimes that is as good as it can get.

You clear your throat, aware your silence has stretched on a bit too long. Body now facing him, you force your eyes to slowly crawl up the length of Bucky’s body until you finally meet his gaze. Lips gently tug up at the corners to offer him a small smile--anything to soften your decline of his offer--and shake your head. “Sorry, Buck, but I uh- I really need today to finish that project for work or Tony is going to have my ass.” That wasn’t exactly a lie.

That natural glow and energy to Bucky dims momentarily as his features falter--the curve of his smile begins to fall into a line; the crinkles in the corners of his eyes fade away; a little ridge forms between his brows that you fight to not smooth away with your thumb; the light dulls in those icy blues. Another beat later and Bucky snaps back, natural glow and energy seemingly intact. You blink, wondering if you had simply imagined his momentary disappointment.

Bucky pushes off the counter’s edge and saunters forward to lean across the island top on his elbows, that enticing sparkle in his eye and lilt in his tone in a sure attempt to get you to buckle, “Awwh, c’mon, doll. Please? When’s the last time we’ve made fun of bad movies together?”

You fidget with your hands and shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with yourself, desperately just wanting out of this situation and to seek the shelter your room was sure to provide. You offer a halfhearted shrug, a rueful smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to take a raincheck this time, Buck.”

The fall of his features cannot be mistaken this time, and guilt swirls low in your belly at the sight. He straightens his posture, gaze boring into you, uncertain, studying you. “Did I...do something?”

Words tumble from your mouth a little too quickly and you curse yourself for it, “No, not at all.” A tight smile back on your lips.

Bucky’s gaze steadily follows as you move closer to the archway leading out of the kitchen and further away from him. “Yea, okay.” He clears his throat and throws a thumb in the direction of the living room. “I’ll uh- I’ll be out here watching movies if you change your mind.”

You nod before taking the final step out of the kitchen. Your feet carry you across the small apartment to the safety of your bedroom, resting your back against the door once it’s securely closed. A physical representation of the feeling of separation between you and Bucky at that moment. A long, shaky breath dispels from deep within your lungs. With a soft thump, your head lolls back against the wood of the door and your eyes fall shut.

As wrong as it feels, this is the right thing to do for you. At least that is what you’ll keep telling yourself.

***

The week passes by uneventfully and you go about your days as normal as possible. The work project Tony expected from you was very real and served as a sufficient distraction from the awkward dance your personal life was turning into. Interactions with Bucky have been sparse, which has only deepened the growing sense of separation and distance between the two of you. His gaze lingers on you longer whenever you emerge from the sanctuary of your room to retrieve some type of sustenance or to leave for errands or work. You feel it, his gaze, burning into your back and simmering through your veins while you lousily attempt to be inconspicuous; feel the unasked questions that hang thickly in the air around you.

Did I do something wrong?

Are you okay?

Are we okay?

It’s heavy. Not as heavy as the guilt sinking in your gut, though. Hurting him or making him feel bad isn’t your intention. You just needed some space, a little time. Thought maybe that was the answer, the magic remedy to the perpetual pinning rooted deep in your chest, thorny vines entwined tightly and intricately around every major artery, snaking down into your bones.

Time heals everything--isn’t that what they always say? Maybe it’s a bunch of bullshit.

Because you sure as hell don’t feel healed.

The rumble of heavy glass drags across the wood shelf of a cabinet as you strain to pull down a bottle of bourbon. If anything, time be damned, the smooth burn of a good liquor and the blanket of numbness it so graciously provides to cozy up in never fails to do the trick. For a little while at least.

A small grunt sounds in the back of your throat as both feet securely plant to the floor again, large bottle in hand. Success. Retrieving a drinking glass proves to be a much easier task. Fingers deftly uncap the bottle and you pour two fingers worth of the amber liquid into your glass, hastily tossing it back a moment later. The burn is familiar, comforting. Something to focus your attention on. Without a thought, the glass is replenished.

Chest expands as you drag in a deep breath, eyes drifting close momentarily, before air rushes out past your lips. If only you could push the sadness out just as easily. Glass and bottle in hand, you trudge towards the living room, not bothering to flip on any of the lighting fixtures strategically placed around your living space. Lamps you and Bucky dedicated an entire afternoon one weekend picking out together. He had insisted on taking you shopping to find trinkets and whatever other overlooked treasures waiting to be discovered, as he had proclaimed, to decorate your newly shared apartment with. He wanted to ensure it felt like your place, too.

Why does he always have to be so good?

You drop unceremoniously to the couch with a long sigh, practically tortured, entirely pathetic. The bottle clanks as it meets the coffee table, still within reach. You bring the drinking glass to your lips and swallow down a generous glup, pondering why you even bothered with a glass to begin with.

Living with Bucky wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Though, you weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting. Loving a best friend who only views you as just that--a best friend--is exhausting, excruciating, maddening.

To cut that part of your heart out and be free of everything that has weighed you down, placed unintentional strains on your friendship with Bucky over the last several months; to no longer have words of admittance and truth die on your tongue, far too scared to express them, leaving behind bitter taste… how freeing that could be.

But you are a coward. Too scared to share your feelings with Bucky. The glass finds its way to your lips once more and you drain it of its contents. You reach for the bottle on the coffee table, movements beginning to feel a little lighter and your face a bit flushed--both tell signs of the bourbon coursing through you.

Amber liquid splashes into the glass, sloshing against the edges; trapped--just like you felt in this less than ideal situation.

You knock back the entire contents of the glass once more, eyes tightly squeezed shut and a small grimace in your features. Tongue heavy, darts out across your bottom lip to catch a stray droplet and then you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand for good measure. Thoughts are clearing and fuzzing at the edges all at once, and your body pricks with the slightest tingles just beneath the skin’s surface.

Eyes flicker around the dim room that is littered with evidence of your friendship with Bucky. Pictures decorate the walls and bookshelf, some with just the two of you, others with your friends and families. Always side-by-side in each, nonetheless. Head lolling to the side, your gaze settles on the empty cushion next to you. Well, not so much anymore.

A heavy breath heaves through your nose and your eyes avert from the reminder that you are sitting alone--by your own doing--drinking away your sorrows, which is not doing the trick this time around. What a fabulous Friday night.

You groan internally before reaching for the bottle once more. Topaz liquid pours and swirls into the glass and for a second you get lost in the motion of it, your brain desperately grabbing on to anything in its inebriated state that could pull your thoughts back to Bucky and the pretty gold flecks that mix in with the deep azure blue of his eyes when sunlight hits them just right.

You slump back against the couch with your glass in hand, idly wondering what Bucky was doing at the moment. Drinking himself, sure, but surrounded by the laughter of friends and too loud music, the smell of stale smoke, and whatever else a bar inhabits. You could be there, too, enjoying a night out with friends. God knows you could use it instead of sulking around at home, drowning in lonely solitude and whatever liquor that happens to be sitting closest on the shelf. Your nose wrinkles at the thought, sounding like a sad drunk.

Your head falls back to rest against the plush cushion and eyes drift close as a finger slowly traces the rim of the glass in your hand. Quiet solitude--albeit lonely and a beacon for all unwanted thoughts of Bucky and the many reasons you can’t have him--is better than witnessing first-hand Bucky on the prowl.

Muffled voices, laughter and the clanking of keys down the hall outside your front door pull you from your thoughts. Your stomach plummets immediately, a rush of nausea and nerves shooting through you. Mind foggy with alcohol slows your reflexive thinking; you take too long deciding if you should take cover in the safety of your bedroom before whatever awaits on the other side of the front door comes barreling in.

Keys clank against the door and the metallic shifting within the lock tells you it's too late, and suddenly tinny giggles fill the room, piercing through the comfort bubble of your home. Muscles seize up with an intermixing of tension and dread while your skin pricks from the direct proximity of Bucky and the giddy blonde hanging off his arm.

A crease of concern is pinched between Bucky’s eyebrows when he notices you slumped on the couch, only the soft glow of the bulbed lights strung above the balcony coming in through the sliding glass door illuminates the room. Your fingers are wrapped around a glass that rests against your leg. Bucky's eyes travel from the glass to the bottle of bourbon sitting on the coffee table in front of you and quirks a brow in question.

You faintly hear Bucky murmur something to his lay of the night before ushering her down the short hall, towards his bedroom you presume.

A moment later, the couch dips next to you under Bucky's weight.

“Doll, you okay?” His voice hesitant, laced with evident concern.

Shoulders lift to a noncommittal half-shrug and you mumble an “I’m fine” before raising the glass to your lips. The burn of the liquid down your throat gives you something to focus on rather than the man next to you and how fucking good he smells or the warmth radiating from his close proximity.

Bucky says your name pointedly. The man knows you far too well for your own good, able to easily parse through your flimsy attempt at reassurance. So desperately, time after time, you've tried to feed yourself that same lie, that you're fine.

But you aren’t fine, and saying so never convinced you to believe it. So how did you expect Bucky to?

“Clearly you’re not fine,” he says as his eyes fall to the nearly empty glass in your hand. He reaches out slowly and gingerly pulls the glass from your grasp. After placing it onto the coffee table he settles back next to you. “C’mon, talk to me.”

You nod your head towards the hall. “She's waiting,” barely able to bite back the bitterness in your tone.

“And she can continue to wait. You're more important, doll.” He shifts closer and the smell of him overwhelms your senses--notes of vanilla and cedar, and a hint of whiskey on his breath.

Bucky’s thumb softly drags over the warm skin atop your hand. Slowly--against your better judgement--your eyes begin to slide shut, heavy with the exhaustion of putting on a facade for so long, of trying to convince yourself that being just friends wasn't slowly chipping away at you; sleep deprived from the nights heartache disguised itself as insomnia. His gentle touches lure you into a false sense of comfort. Just for a moment it's you and him.

A soft sigh escapes your lips and you revel in the quiet shared between the two of you. You miss this, miss him. You’re nearly lost in the illusion of it all before sounds of someone fumbling around in the next room--Bucky's room--rips you back to the present, your eyes snapping open at the whiny muffled call of his name.

Bucky senses the shift in you but doesn’t react quick enough, your hand already snatched from him before he can grab on to you. In a blur you are on your feet, putting the coffee table between the two of you. You ignore his outstretched hand and take a few seconds to steady yourself, to wade through the fuzzy haze of your head. The bourbon coursing through you had the room turning and you feeling overly warm... maybe the latter had less to do with the amber liquid and more so with the fact that the man you were in love with has a woman waiting in his room who wasn't you.

The thought is pushed away with a subtle shake of the head, your nails dragging across your scalp as you rack a hand through your hair. You vaguely register your name being called after you, Bucky’s voice sounding dejected. But your heart hurt and you were dejected, and you needed this moment to just feel it, to let the ache consume you and seep deep. There was no more energy left in you to fight it tonight, and maybe if you didn't you would have enough strength come tomorrow morning to shove all back down and secure it shut with a soft smile.

So, even though every inch of your body screams with each step you take down the hall, further away from Bucky sounding so sad--instincts wanting to kick in and be the consoling best friend once more--your fingers numbly push open your bedroom door and then close again behind you.

Peeling back the comforter, you ease into bed, body heavy and not feeling like your own. The warmth of the liquor sloshes low in your belly and your eyes ache as you curl onto your side and stare at nothing.

Muffled sounds through the door fill the quiet. You can’t make out the words being exchanged and you don't try to. Hot tears, one after another, silently roll down the slope of your nose and side of your face into the cotton of your pillow. You let out a shaky breath at the sound of a door latching. Fingers curled in the soft blanket, you pull it tighter and burrow further into the plush materials encasing you, seeking out whatever comfort you can latch onto.

The apartment falls quiet save for soft sniffles. A few moments pass before a light knock sounds against your bedroom door and it creaks open. The gentle call of your name cuts through the silence. The sound of Bucky’s voice, low and gentle, inexplicably causes your nose to burn with a fresh wave of tears threatening to fall at any moment. Your lower lip wobbles with barely contained emotion, and you sink your teeth into it in an attempt to steady yourself; ease your heart.

Feet pad softly to the side of the bed, and the mattress groans at the shift in weight as Bucky eases in next to you.

His weight and warmth simultaneously ground you and throw your emotions into overdrive. He is here; chose to be with you over whatever plans awaited him in his bedroom. Gratitude and love awash you, seeping into the deep cracks of your wounded heart. When you most need your best friend he is here, and you are so grateful. A soft whimper slips out despite your efforts and a choked cry escapes your trembling lips.

“Oh, doll.” Bucky’s voice is one of a broken man, heart clenching at the sight of you. He gathers you up in his arms and holds on tightly, a silent promise to never let go. Sobs rack through your chest--the kind that make it hard to breathe--while the soft cotton of his tee crumples under the white-knuckle grip of your fist and hot salty tears soak between your fingers into his shirt.

Bucky presses a kiss to your head, murmuring into your hair, “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He rubs slow, soothing circles into your back. Your whole body shakes beneath his touch as it works to dispel everything you’ve kept pent up inside--pain, heartache, guilt, self-doubt. No longer having the energy to put up a fight, you allow it to happen--let the facade of fine crumble and fall apart in a heaping weepy mess--because Bucky’s arms are warm, strong, and wrapped tightly around you and he’s whispering that he’s got you, that everything will be okay, over and over again. A mantra of a promise that things will be better than in this moment, and maybe they will.

***

You drag in a breath, eyes flickering against the pale light of dawn peeking through the slit of curtains that were not quite pulled all the way shut the night before. There is a dull throbbing in your head and behind your eyes. You groan inward, regretting the decision to drown your sorrows in bourbon and nuzzle closer into the solid warmth in front of you. The familiar mingling mixture of vanilla and cedar infiltrates and seeps deep within your chest, luring you back to the surface of consciousness and away from the depths of dreamless sleep.

Bucky senses your stirring and pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of your face. His eyes are tired and swimming with concern as they flicker across your face. Your gaze falls to his chest as embarrassment over last night’s episode begins to creep up within you, unable to look him in the eyes. Blood rushes to your cheeks while fingers fidget with the cotton of his shirt and teeth worry at your lower lip. Your tongue feels thick, unsure of what to say. Aching eyes fall shut, heavy, puffy, and red rimmed, you’re sure.

“Hey…” Bucky gently ghosts a thumb across your cheekbone. He ducks his head a little to catch your gaze and your eyes slowly lift to meet his. “What happened?” The timbre of his voice low as he speaks softly, “What had you so upset?”

Earnest concern for you is evident in his tone, etched into his features--it makes your chest tighten. You’re shocked when a fresh wave of unshed tears sting at the back of your eyes, certain you had cried yourself dry through the night. Blinking tears back to clear your vision, you softly shake your head. The facade fractured and exhausting to maintain, you couldn’t do it anymore, energy depleted.

“I- I couldn’t do it anymore,” you finally said, vocalizing your thoughts.

Bucky shifts closer if that’s even possible and his intense gaze that bores through you makes you nervous, like you’re being watched closely under a microscope. His eyebrow twitches in a way that tells you he still doesn’t understand. “Do what anymore?” he breathes out, kind eyes searching yours.

You don't realize a tear has slipped free until Bucky’s thumb drags softly against your cheek to wipe it away. His lips curve downward into a frown and the worry lines in his face prominent, sorrowful. Silence looms between you as he patiently waits for your answer.

A shaky breath is dragged in through parted lips as you work up the nerve to speak the words that have been dying on the tip of your tongue for months now. “I couldn’t watch you bring home another girl… listen to you be--” You swallow hard against the lump in your throat and shake your head, “I just couldn’t do it again.”

Bucky’s brows scrunch together in confusion as he parses through your words. Your name is a gentle utterance from his lips and your watery gaze lifts to meet his once more. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek again and wipes away hot tears that have spilled over. “I don’t--” brows still knit together, he slowly shakes his head.

Burgeoning heartbeats thrum in your chest and pulse in your ears, hands clammy from nerves; your grip tightens around the soft cotton of his tee. “I love you, Bucky.” Your voice is soft, low with reservation of how he may react--but sure; so sure of your feelings for him. “I’m in love with you.”

Eyes widen and his mouth slackens with shock at your admittance, thumb stilling its soothing motion against your cheekbone. Breath is caught in your throat and you anxiously await for any type of response from him aside from the stunned, gaping look his features are contorted in. Your heart sinks further than you thought possible with the prolonged silence hanging heavy between you, and you begin to shift back away from Bucky, away from the creeping humiliation and rejection.

Bucky doesn’t allow for you to move away, his arm underneath you curling up to settle against your back and the other hand still gently cupping the side of your face. Dusky pink lips curl into a slow smile and eyes sparkle with rejuvenated light. Your heart is beating a mile a minute and you attempt to decipher Bucky’s response. Does he think this is a joke? Is the mere idea of you being in love with him that laughable?

An incredulous chuckle, breathy and low, pulls you from your inner thoughts to see Bucky shaking his head. “Oh, doll…” Your heart swells with the unmistakable adoration in his eyes and it fills you with a warmth that allows you to take a steadying breath. Your heart dares to beat with newly ignited hope. Bucky’s eyes dance over your face as if he’s committing every detail of this moment to memory, deep azure eyes and honey gold flecks so pretty in the morning light. His hand smooths down your neck to allow his thumb to brush across your barely parted lips. “I’m in love with you.”

The onslaught of emotion burns through you, simultaneously overwhelming and absolutely wonderful. Tears well in your eyes once more but you can’t bring yourself to care because for once they’re happy tears; elation tears, even. Throat tight with so much you want to say, all you can manage is to choke out a wet laugh. A shaky hand reaches up and your fingers ghost over the dark scruff along his cheekbone and down his jaw. “You love me?”

Bucky’s grin is blinding as he nods ardently. His hand runs down the slope of your neck up to your shoulder, traveling across your extended arm to gently grasp your hand in his. Gingerly he places kisses against your fingertips, murmuring against them. “I love you.”

He shifts closer to you and the rustle of your crumpled bed sheets fills the room. You feel your heartbeat pick up and you’re sure he can feel it, too, with chests pressed so closely together. Bucky’s forehead rests against yours and his eyes fall shut momentarily.

“I’m so sorry,” voice barely above a whisper. You feel the slight shake of his head and he slowly trails a large hand up the column of your neck and rests beneath the jawline. He absentmindedly runs a thumb along the sensitive patch of skin just below your ear in a soothing caress. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t’ve--” his fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair. “I hurt you so many times… I just-- I didn’t think you felt the same, so I did--” he huffed an indignant sigh. “I was so stupid. Doll, I didn’t--”

You press your lips to his and he’s stunned only for a moment before his lips move gently against yours in response, all soft and pliant.

“I know,” you murmur against his lips, breaking the kiss. Hot breath fans across your skin sending a shiver straight down your spine. Fingers reach out to card through his sleep mussed locks. His scent, his warmth, his love--all encompassing and comforting--it has you on a dizzying high. Nose bumps against his and you tilt your head up to capture his lips once more.

Soft moans pass between lips and Bucky gently eases you onto your back and moves to hover over you, never breaking the kiss, bodies touching in more places than not; you keen at the weight of him pressed against you. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you eagerly part them to welcome him in, tongue dancing against yours, deepening the kiss. And god was it a good kiss--the best kiss. The kind that unfurls in your stomach and curls in your toes.

So much warmth floods through you, overflows and seeps into every broken crevice that’s splintered over the past months, beginning the mending of your dilapidated heart. Nourishing it with his touch, the press of his lips, his requited love. You can’t help but smile at the thought, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Bucky. He leans back to better look at you, putting his weight on the forearm settled next to your head. A giddy smile has taken over his features that mirrors the one on your own lips.

“What?” tone mirthful and light.

Your smile stretches wider, “All this time--” your head shakes in disbelief, “...we are idiots.”

Bucky breathes out a hearty chuckle and wraps his arms around you tightly as he falls back against the mattress, bringing you with him. “Well, as long as we’re idiots together.”

You hum in agreement as you curl against his chest with your face nuzzled into his neck, relishing in the scratch of his scruff on your soft skin. Long fingers run through the ends of your hair and mindlessly massage into your scalp, and your heart aches once more; such a beautiful, good ache at the familiarity of his touch, the safety and comfort it brings.

You revel in his closeness--to have him solid and warm and real beneath you; the newfound freedom you have to press your lips to his whenever you wish or to lazily run your fingers across flushed skin that peeks out from underneath his rumpled shirt and feel abdominal muscles flex beneath your touch. It’s a peculiar feeling, this freedom--to love and act on it without reservation; to love and be loved in full in return.

#MarvelfulxbabesWritingChallenge #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #roommate au #friends to lovers #Renxzs #my fic

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