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wizkiddx · 4 years ago

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work with me

this is for @worldoftom 'lolbrosgetsicktoo' challenge event thing - go check it out bcos lots of much better writers have got involved too✨! I'm v new to these things but I tried :) the prompt was: 'would you quit whining and just get in the bath' . (also look at me acc posting sort of regularly, who'd of thought?!?!)

warnings: sickness / fever (more dramatic than it needs to be) / LOTS of medical inaccuracies

summary: when tom doesn't take advice and ends up very ill, very far from home, there's one person whose stuck dealing with it

“Please Tom… I need you to work with me!”

It wasn’t his fault he was being a complete nightmare, though your patience was wearing off somewhat.

For context, you were in Morocco, where he had been filming part of his next film, which only made trying to take care of him that bit harder.

Everyone got ill sometimes. It wasn’t his fault.

That was the mantra ringing through your head, even if you had a more challenging time believing it. Tom wasn’t stupid, as much as he liked to joke about it. HOWEVER, what he was less good at was heeding warnings. He was a white boy in Morrocco; the health and safety briefing had literally been aimed at him. Had he taken the advice not to eat any dodgy looking meats at the market?

Of course not; that’d be boring.

Everyone else was fine. You’d all sampled Morroccos culture without giving yourselves the worst case of food poisoning you’d ever witnessed. But not Tom - possibly one of the only ‘indispensable’ people on the set. If you, or one of the minor characters, or even the director, had got ill - the show could continue.

When you’d been rudely awoken by your phone going off, you’d known instantly. It was as if you’d told him not to take a bite out of the weird burger once you were away from the eager view of the street vendor. Sure enough, with bleary eyes, you hissed at the brightness of the phone screen before seeing ‘Tom H’ on the screen.

“Y/n?” His voice was croaky, but just from the single call of your name, it was clear he was feeling sorry for himself.

“Are you okay? It’s late T.”

“Um I… can you come over? You…you might need the key I’m - um- in the bathroom.”

As his stylist, it technically wasn’t part of your job description to also be mother when he was sick, but (unfortunately for you) after the 3 years working side by side with him - you were also friends.

Which you were almost regretting by the second time rinsing the toilet bowl clean after he’d evacuated what seemed to be the majority of his vital organs into it. Honestly, it was impressive how he managed to keep going.

That had been at around 4 in the morning- the doctor had been called at 8, coinciding beautifully with his 5th toilet extravaganza. Once the doctor had confirmed your original, if completely unqualified, diagnosis of food poisoning - you hadn’t been able to bite your tongue. Perhaps an ‘i told you so’ might’ve slipped past your lips, but Tom was a bit too out of it to argue back.

You’d been given firm advice from the doctor - he said little sips of water, rest and control his temperature. It all had seen pretty simple - though the action? Not so much.

It wasn’t his fault, yet Tom was not super compliant. You and Harry had both been taking turns in practically forcing him to take sips of water, having to turn off ‘modern family’ till he did. The blackmail had put you both in his bad book.

Honestly, thank the lord Harry was here too. You’d woken him up at seven, begging for help and since then, you’d tagged teamed. While one was looking after Tom, the other was phoning the director, the doctor, and the crew to inform them of the current situation.

Again, of all people. Why’d it have to be Tom?

Mainly because you knew how mortifying he found this. He didn’t like people fussing over him, never had. He liked to work hard, liked to make people happy - definitely didn’t like to feel a burden. Perhaps what made him feel ten times worse was that he knew he was inconveniencing the whole production team massively.

And yes, as you’d unhelpfully reminded him, it was ‘his fault’.

The lavish hotel room, big bathroom and pretty efficient AC still didn’t manage to mask the pungent in-the-back-of-your-throat smell from the bathroom. At the doctor’s advice, who had been a little concerned at Toms fever, Harry had cranked the AC on high. It had forced you to steal one of Tom’s big hoodies and a pair of joggers- you hadn’t left his room since he first called you, still wearing your tiny pyjama shorts and an old tee.

“Please turn the air con off.” His little voice whined from where he was lying, huddled up under the covers. Perched on the other side of the double bed, but over the covers with your laptop on his lap, you could actually feel him shivering with the chills. It felt like you were torturing the poor boy.

“T you know I can’t. It’ll make your fever worse.” The way he looked up at you, like a little Labrador that you were refusing to pet, actually pained your heart.

Okay, so yes it was his fault, but you weren’t mad, you just felt so awful for him.

“Please I’ll- I’ll pay you more.” His voice was hoarse; though he denied a sore throat, it sounded like the constant sickness was burning his windpipe.

“Tommm” you pouted, sticking your bottom lip out “I don’t want your money, want you to get better.”

Apparently giving up, brown eyes shot you the filthiest look in disappointment, rolling to face away from you. You thought he was giving you the silent treatment in a huff, but instead, he was praying on the weaker one.

“Harry, I’ll buy you that set of golf clubs-“

“NO!” You had to interrupt before Harry would say yes - because from the way his younger brother shot up from the arm chair, he was about to. Scowling eyes slowly focused back on you in annoyance, making you huff - shutting the laptop and kneeling on the bed to face him. After pressing the back of your palm to his forehead, which was scorching hot, you sighed. “I know you feel shitty and I’m so so sorry but I’m trying to make you better. So shut up, drink this and go to sleep!”

Like a child scorned, you received another death glare however, then he complied, taking a sip of the water you offered before lying back - huddling even tighter.

And it had been relatively peaceful for a few hours; Tom seemed to be getting some sleep - even if he was tossing and turning. Eventually, a prescription that the doctor had requested worked its way through the system, Harry getting a text to say he could go pick it up. The nearest pharmacy was probably a 30 minute drive from the hotel, so he left as soon as.

This left you alone with Tom, where the situation only descended into more chaos.

Almost as soon as Harry had left, Tom had stirred with a grunt. All it took was one look at his face for you to know. Both of you leapt up and flew into the toilet, Tom once again getting very familiar with the Moroccan toilet bowl.

This time though, when he had leant backwards, he’d sort of lost control and flopped most the way - you catching him before he could hit his head on the tiled floor.

“Woah, easy there!” It wasn’t like he’d passed out, but the look in his eye as he slumped into your lap… he wasn’t all there either. “Hey Tom… you with me? Tom?”

Lazily he blinked up at you, not really replying except for groans of half-formed words.

Deciding this had all got a bit direr, you almost sprinted back into the room, grabbing your phone and returning. He was still on the floor, his thumb and first finger pressing into each eye - groaning again.

“Hey Tom? I’m gonna call the doctor you need anything?” He whined in response, stopping only when you stroked his sweaty hair back, most of your attention on dialling the correct number.

The solution he’d given wasn’t pretty: Tom’s fever was too high hence why he was all woozy and groany. Until the doctor could get over with the stronger medications, you needed to lower his temperature in other ways or take him to hospital. He’d absolutely hate hospital, but the other choice? Boy, was he not going to like it either.

Ignoring Tom’s croaked question of what you were doing, you busied yourself switching on the bath taps. You let the water run until it was the right (very mild) temperate, then turned back to Tom, who’d managed to work himself up to sit against the sink unit.

“The doctor says you need it.” His brain was foggy, his mind was slow but your tone told him enough to know something was wrong with the bath. “Just take your clothes off and then I’ll help you-“

“Absolutely fucking not.” Good. He was still with it enough to argue.

“I am just as uncomfortable as you are Tom, but we both know you can’t stand up without fainting, so you are going to need my help.”

“Y/n!”

“Keep your boxers on and it’s just like a fitting! I’ve seen you have those before!”

It was clear as day just how emasculated he felt, especially because he knew you were right. Sitting up at this current moment was a push; there was no way he was getting in the bath without some help. Defeatedly he nodded, but gave you a piercing look to turn around before he started wiggling himself out of the flannel pyjama trousers and light cotton t-shirt. Most confusingly, he still felt freezing cold, yet he had long since learned not to argue with you - especially when your justification came from the advice of a doctor.

Your cue to turn around came in the form of an extra angry-sounding grunt- the look you got when you did wasn’t much better either. It was a weird contrast, though, having someone who physically appeared so indestructible (a superhero for crying out loud); to have been absolutely beaten to a pulp by a few mouth fulls of weird meat. You had seen his bare torso before, although it still wasn’t something easy to get used to - making you clench your teeth together just slightly. A very welcome view.

Perhaps you looked just a little too long at the man who was technically your boss, hunched angrily on the floor in nothing but his calvins - another grunt shaking you out of it. By now, the bath was almost full and you hurried to shut off the water, feeling your cheeks heat up as you cursed silently to yourself.

“Okay come on, gimme your arm.” Begrudgingly Tom followed your request, slinging his arm heavily over your shoulder as you crouched beside him. As strong as he looked, you knew right now he felt powerlessly weak - all that muscle was just going to be almost dead weight.

Now it was your turn to grunt and groan as you pulled Tom up to stand, him focusing on blinking away the headrush he got.

“Come on T work with me here.” Getting him to the side of the bath wasn’t too difficult, the issue came when he stepped with one foot into the bath and yelped, instantly withdrawing as if it was a literal ice bath.

The sudden movement had you both losing balance, ending with Tom sitting on the edge of the bath and you leaning over him, in between his legs, and slapping your hand on the wall opposite purely so you both didn’t end up in the bath.

“Tom!”

“It’s like ice water!”

“Its lukewarm like the doctor said!”

“It is not its from the fucking arctic!”

“Oh for god sake!” Exasperated, you paced up and down the bathroom shaking your head at his ridiculousness. This was ALL. HIS. FAULT.

You came back to him with an ultimatum.

“It’s this or the doctor said I had to drag your ass to hospital.”

“Nooooooo.” The 25 year old seemed to convert into a whiny three year old again.

“Those are the two options. So will you PLEASE quit complaining and get in the bath.”

Keeping up the toddler persona, Tom huffed but reluctantly nodded in agreement - you had come up trumps. It didn’t stop him yelping when you helped to lower him in. His breath was shaky, as a response to the ‘cold’, but he was firming it. At least when you felt his forehead after a couple of minutes, it certainly seemed as though the fever was starting to ease off .

“You can go if you want.” His voice was murmured and as you looked up at him, he did his very best to avoid your gaze.

“Not a chance, if you drown on my watch, Nikki will never forgive me.” At the very least he seemed to appreciate your joke, scoffing a little with a small nod. “If you don’t want me here I get it. As soon as Harry’s back, I’ll swap with him.”

“No! It’s not that its… I’m just an ass when I’m ill.”

“A self aware ass, though.” Again he chuckled a little, as you folded your arms on the edge of the porcelain tub, resting your head lying to one side. “You had me pretty scared there for a moment, you know?”

He nodded a little, creating a wave of ripples in the water which you watched to avoid his gaze - which you knew was tracing all your features inquisitively.

“Hey it’s in the job description, always a bit dramatic... I’m sorry though I should never of called you- don’t know why I didn’t just get Harry.” In response you tutted, taking a moment to lean up and push his sweaty curls back a bit.

Just because you could, it was allowed in this moment.

“’m glad you did.”

“Yeh me too” He sighed, eyes fluttering shut in the easy silence of the bathroom. You kept a vigilant eye on him for the next 20 minutes, checking the temperature of his forehead using the back of your hand, whilst he seemed to finally get a bit of proper restbite, appearing like the worst had passed. You had no idea what was taking Harry so long; in fact it was the doctor that arrived first- who you ran to let in (not wanting to leave Tom asleep in the bath one bit).

Whilst the doctor did all his checks, taking his temperature properly this time, satisfied that it was much more manageable. He still wanted to set him up with some oral rehydration rescue packs to get his hydration status a bit better and give some anti-sickness tablets and antipyretics.

Having actually been getting some rest before all the prodding and poking, Tom was back to being a grumbling dick - now not wanting to leave the bath (the irony was real - making you roll your eyes). Once again, he appeared embarrassed to have you see him like this, so you left the doctor to help him get out and changed- instead going down to reception to get a fresh set of sheets, as he’d done a pretty impressive job of sweating through the old ones.

Even if tired and grumpy, when Tom exited the bathroom, he looked much better - he was walking himself without the doctor’s help. Which honestly was such a relief because when he had passed out on you, you genuinely were terrified. Thankfully the doctor stayed for the next 20 or so minutes, which was just when Harry returned with a bag of medications - which were now wholly redundant, given the doctor had already supplied everything.

“What happened?” Harry asked you in a hushed voice, whilst Tom was distracted with getting his medications. Recounting the story of Tom pretty much passing out, Harry grimaced for you, then launching over to give you a tight hug.

“Are you okay?” That was a novel idea, you hadn’t really thought about yourself at all - but honestly, you were a bit shaken, having been running on adrenalin for most of the night.

“I-uhm… yeh I think so… just-just was a bit scared, I guess? Felt bad too because he didn’t want me there but-“

“I can promise you Y/n, he did want you there. Just probably embarrassed he wasn’t all manly and that…” With a nod, you smiled softly at the frizzy-haired boy.

Whilst working with Tom, it also meant getting pretty close to his younger brother. The two Hollands were almost attached at the hip, which you were very much okay with.

It was weird though... your relationships were completely different. Harry was just your brother, through and through. He wound you up like a sibling but also knew you as if he had your whole life. With Tom… it wasn’t that. Arguably, you were closer to Tom, but on a different level. It was more exciting, more nerve-wracking and heartwarming all at the same time. Honestly, you couldn’t get your head around it properly.

“Hey, you’re probably shattered. Why don’t you go back to your room and get some sleep? I got it in here.” You knew Hary was trying to offer something nice, and now all the excitement had worn off, you were unbelievably shattered. But you didn’t like the idea of not being there, as a just in case.

“Uhm, I think I might just stay, you know?” And he did, with a deliberate, knowing smile, he nodded.

He knew you were worried. He knew Tom had really really scared you. He also knew how much you cared about his brother.

Just like how Harry knew Tom wanted you there, even if he felt embarrassed. Well, anyone would- when you are passing out half-naked in front of the one person that really matters.

It was just at this point that the doctor was done, giving Harry instructions about the rest of the day, when you made a beeline for the bed. Tom was propped up against the headboard, still with a pale sullen look and tired eyes, but a bit less clammy and more human. He cracked a smile as you crawled up onto the other side of the bed, kneeling next to him.

“How’re you doin’?”

“All drugged up, just feel fucking exhausted.” Instinctively you reached up to feel his forehead, really appreciating the fact it felt almost normal.

“Join the club mate, I had a 5am wake up call too.” You almost whispered, intending to make Tom laugh, but instead only getting a pout.

“I am sorry, a-are you going to go back to your room?”

“Nah” Tom’s eyes didn’t light up, except the fact that they very much did. “Can’t trust you not to get into trouble while I’m gone Holland.”

“Thanks.” He laughed weakly before shimmying down on the bed, so he was much more comfortable. “And thankyou, I-I’m sorry I’m a dickhead and made your life-“

“Shut up Tom!” Laughing, you lightly slapped his arm, also leaning down on the bed, so you were lying facing him. “You’re all feverish; go to sleep before you say something stupid.”

There was a long pause, Tom just gazing deep into your eyes, because he was pretty sure what he was thinking was nothing to do with the dodgy unidentified meat he’d had the evening before.

“What... like asking you out?”

…..

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so stupid.”

~~~~im really not sure how I feel about this one, let me know what you thought ;) ~~~~

tagging: @lovehollandy12 @hallecarey1 @crossyourpeter@hollandfanficlove

#tomholland #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland x y/n #hurt comfort #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #harry holland

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swinging-stars-from-satellites · 3 years ago

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idk how many people would even want to see this BUT i wanna yell about Leela and Brax so here's a list of all their scenes togethr/scenes pertainng to them that i can recall (pLEASE add on if i missed anything/ you have any additional thoughts!! i could talk about these two all day!)

right off the bat in Weapon of Choice when Leela is on the outskirts of the Citadel and Brax goes to bring her back (which is interesting in and of itself, bc usually i would imagine a chancellery guard would go do that so what made Brax decide to instead??), Leela kinda goes off at him bc she's hurting and instead of trying to actually explain what's going on Brax doesn't even try to argue he just says "we need you" which is great bc Leela has that instinctive desire to be needed and to help people and he's speaking right to that -- also as far as we know, this is Leela and Brax's first actual meeting in canon? it's implied that they know of each other, which makes sense, but it doesn't seem like they've ever directly interacted before: Brax seems almost slightly uncertain, and Leela is combative, but when he's gentle with her she's actually quite receptive

the literal next scene after that, where the OT4 is all in one room for the first time (they still kinda hate each other at this point but still !!!). Narvin explaining Gryben and being a real jerk about it and Leela (understandibly!) questions if Gryben is a prison world, and Brax (who to this point has been mostly quiet as Narvin and Romana brief Leela) jumps in to both clarify Narvin's previous xenophobic statements while also maintaining the inherent questionable/negative connotations

(btw it's actually pretty important to note that Romana self-edits herself a lot when talking to Leela, especially in the earlier seasons; you can actually hear her revising the things she says to put it in terms that she thinks Leela will better understand. and i mean she does it out of genuine consideration for her friend associate but it often comes across as varying levels of patronizing. Narvin also obviously "dumbs things down" when dealing with Leela early on, but like... Brax never does that on any level. the only difference i can tell in how he addresses Leela vs how he talks to anybody else is that he seems much more kind with her than almost anyone else???)

their conversation about the Matrix in The Inquiry: this is REALLY important (and if you've ever talked to me on ao3 i've probably gone off to you about it lol) because it's layered. they're talking about the Matrix but they're also not because in answering Leela's question Brax is making a very thinly veiled allegory (which he outright states a minute later) to Time Lord society/politicians/most importantly HIMSELF -- he's actually strangely open about his morals/beliefs in this scene and i'm living for it tbh -- and i find it very interesting that even though he does directly explain what he means ("how do you know all this?" / "because i am a politician.") he also leaves it for Leela to work out the implications. like it's a very nuanced conversation bc there's double meaning in it and most people on Gallifrey seem to think that Leela is tone-deaf and can't pick up on that stuff (even Romana sometimes oversimplifies things to her) but Brax totally just lets her take from it what she will bc he believes her intelligent enough to understand. he doesn't think her any lesser because she's human.

ALSO on a secondary note to the above: the fact that Leela has a question/needed clarification (sorry, haven't listened to this in a while i forget how it actually happened) and actively sought out Brax to talk to about it?? like she knows Romana better she could have gone to her but i feel like Leela kinda imprinted on Brax and someone she can go to for help if she needs it; maybe it's partly bc she knows he's under marginally less pressure than Romana is but also the truth of the matter is that Brax was the most genuinely helpful person to her in the previous stories and that probably means a lot to her (esp. bc he acts like the essence of everything she hates about Gallifrey but he doesn't treat her the way she would expect from that). btw this topic is gonna come up again in a hot minute

that part where Brax gives her that information that might help her re: the Andred thing, even though he really probably shouldn't have done that -- it kinda makes me think about what he must have been like with Theta tbh???

actually this is mostly my own conjecture but there's some neat stuff in Spirit bc during the *waves hand vaguely* bodyswap dream sequence thing, Romana is very "!!!! Brax can help us !!!" which is tecnically Leela brain talking, so like there's the implications of the stuff i've said above about Leela having this idea of Brax where she knows he's someone she can go to for help

can u tell i'm soft for them

Leela sounding really sad/distracted when she talks about how Brax isn't there YES i'm grasping at straws but a lot of this relationship really is conveyed through the voice acting bc of how little direct focus there is on the characters. there's actually several scenes in Mindbomb where she mentions him and she outright says that she misses him during her discussion with Matthias

that implied scene with them in Mindbomb!! i have a Lot of thoughts about that!!! it's all conjecture and fanfic fodder!!! but the reason i mention this is because it seems pretty meta that out of the whole Gally Gang, it's Leela who first sees Brax when he comes back to Gallifrey and in turn she's the first person (besides Matthias, i guess) that he sees upon his return?? idk i just feel like that's somehow a meaningful detail??? also her reaction of utter shock after spending the entire episode missing him and how worked up she is when she tries to tell Romana, like I desperately need to know what happened in this missing scene MR RICHARDS PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED

Leela insisting on going with Brax when Pandora starts hurting him and their whole conversation there is just. so good. like they're both just so soft and then when Darkel comes in Leela instantly goes into protective mode. like they just have such an open relationship bc Brax doesn't even try to be all pretentious with her, like he doesn't even try to keep up any facades when he's with her he's just very genuine and it really says a lot about both of them -- Leela is so good at seeing people, like getting down to the core of who people are and what makes them them (which is why she's good for Romana, btw, bc Romana has a lot of identity issues) and Brax is so tangled up in who he presents himself as that he barely knows who he actually is anymore but Leela can see that and she makes it so he can truly be himself and he doesn't have to hide. also she's so gentle with him when they talk about Pandora, she's very caring and empathetic and wants to make sure he's okay and i am WEAK

it's been a hot while since i listened to Panacea but I think i remember Brax being really soft with Leela when he first brings the gang to the Axis, like just sounding really glad to see her

ok other than the fact that Brax is lowkey relatable in Reborn (daydreaming fanfic about yourself/people you know? simping for Mary Tamm Romana? yeah mood, my man) there's that scene where they're first appraoching the Citadel on the alt!Gallifrey and it seems like none of them, and Brax specifically, have seen it from the outside in a good long while bc he's very in awe and he tells Leela that he wishes she could see it and he sounds sO hEcKiNg sOFT oh my word-

and once again with Leela thinking of Brax as someone she trusts for help: in Dissassembled when everything is going to crap she straight-up says that she wants to go find Brax bc he'll know what to do/be able to help

at the beginning of Annihilation when Romana is depressed and questioning if Brax truly was her friend and Leela INSTANTLY, NO HESITATION assures her that he was; i lost where i had her exact lines written down but she actually kinda goes off to make sure Romana gets the point

literally forcing myself to talk about this bc it makes my brain stall out but like,,, the Brax Hound in Annihilation,,, Leela being like "goodbye, Braxiatel... again" she sounds so sad and like UGH i always kinda forget how sad it actually is for them to lose Brax in Dissassembled bc like, it was so sudden and they didn't get to say goodbye and Leela is always losing people and i have many many feels about this scene and how all that emotion is made very clear in how they each respond to the Hound (might make a separate post abt this later if anyone is interested ::eyes::)

Enemy Lines is utter bullcrap about these two and I will never stop being salty about how they not only sidelined the very good, very subtle friendship they had in s1-4, but they??? made Leela acutally not trust Brax??? when literally this entire time she's been the one person who probably genuinely trusts him the most?? what the heck, David

I haven't heard TW3 or 4 yet but i'm assuming there's nothing worthwhile in those with regards to this duo (correct me if i'm wrong tho lol, i would love to be mistaken in this assumption)

TL;DR Leela and Brax mututally imprinted on each other and have probably the most open and healthy relationship within the OT4 and it is an absolute CRIME that nobody besides Gary Russell and Justin Richards cared enough to actually build on it in canon

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Grand Gestures

Request: A request for my love, George Weasley! Post-war (Fred is alive obvs) and all is good and well, and they've been ignoring their feelings for one another for so long and now, because George almost lost Fred and he's tired of ignoring how he feels so he shows up where she works, and just says he's in love with her and is fed up with waiting for them to pull their heads out of their asses! Extra fluff please?? You're the best Millie 💛💛💛 - @dreamer821

A/N: JJ! Thank you so much for requesting, and for trusting me with your idea! I truly hope I’ve done it justice! This is a load of fluff - just some good old fluff, because why shouldn't George get that? I’m also 12 followers away from 1000 followers!!!!! which is insane!!! I have a big celebration planned so let's get there! As always, I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Warnings: mentions of war and some swearing BUT THE FLUFF IS SO CUTE.

Word count: 2.2k

The Daily Prophet had a reputation within the wizarding world; it was known globally for its hard-hitting expos on the highest wizards in power across the globe. It had been particularly damning towards Albus Dumbledore upon his fall from grace with the rise of the Dark Lord yet backtracked on their view of the Headmaster upon his death.

You had started work at the publication six months after completing your eighth year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Second Wizarding War had disturbed your final year of education. But the defeat of the Dark Lord allowed you to go back to Hogwarts to receive your NEWTs.

The war had taken so much from you; you had lost friends and family members through the Battle of Hogwarts. Memories of the events were burned into your brain; they couldn’t be avoided in the late hours of the night when your tears would fall silently down your face.

However, whilst the war had taken so much from you, it had brought you closer to your oldest friend George Weasley.

Growing up in the next village from Ottery St. Catchpole, the Weasley family were the closest wizarding family to yours other than the Diggory’s. You spent most weekends at The Burrow being spoiled rotten by Molly Weasley. Your parents worked so often; they felt awful for leaving you so much but as you grew older, you reassured them that you really didn’t mind spending time with the Weasley family.

The more time you spent at The Burrow; the more attached you grew to the twins. Being the same age as them, you fell into an easy friendship with them – playing pranks on their elder brothers, practicing Quidditch in the meadow behind their home. The friendship with the twins was something you treasured, and it followed you to Hogwarts where you were sorted into the same house.

Fred and George shouted the loudest when the Sorting Hat cried out Gryffindor after being placed on your head. Your grin matched theirs when you sat down across from them at the table. Charlie patting your shoulder in celebration as you sat next to him.

Your time at Hogwarts was defined by three things; your academic skills, the rising tension about the rebirth of the Dark Lord, and your love for George Weasley.

You consistently came at the top of your class in every subject; spending hours in the library, working on essays and revising topics you could recite like the back of your hand. George lost count how many times he had dragged you out of the library after curfew; after you had promised him just one more hour of studying.

Falling in love with George Weasley was the next natural step in your relationship. Your heart started to race every time he smiled in your direction; feeling your face heat slightly at any attention he gave you. Your skin felt overheated each time he would grab your hand out of the blue; knocking the breath out of you when he did.

Every day you told yourself you’d tell him; you’d confess what you had felt for so long.

Then the war came.

----------

Upon seeing him alive, standing in the Great Hall, covered in dust but his eyes still the brown you had come to love, you had thrown yourself into his arms.

He met you halfway; his arms wrapping tightly around you as he kept you pressed against.

“I thought…” You trail off, tears falling down your face.

George hushes you, “Not in a million years, love.”

You sniffle, your hands patting him down, checking for injuries. “Love, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

You nod rapidly, “I’m okay, not hurt, I just have some cuts and bruises.”

Something in George’s chest relaxes at that; relief flows through his body when your confirm that you’re okay. Through the entire battle, his mind was occupied with you – panicking over where you were and what was happening. Dread pooled in his stomach at the thought of you hurt.

He didn’t want the day to end without him having the chance to tell you how he feels about you.

But when he saw you running through the Great Hall to get to him; he wanted to tell you – wanted to tell you everything, but his mouth couldn’t find the words. So he settles for burying his face in your hair, inhaling the scent he had come to associate with love.

--------

It had been a year since the war ended, since Voldemort’s defeat and yet you hadn’t taken the chance that had been offered so many times.

When you joined him on his walks; the sun shining, his eyes brighter than the week before. There was a chance then to tell him.

When you found him in the kitchen in the Burrow at midnight, making enough hot chocolate for two because he knew you’d join him. In the silence, there was a chance then.

The war had brought you closer together; you started staying at the Burrow more. Molly only too happy to let you stay if it meant that George was starting to sleep through the night without waking from the nightmares of Fred’s near death experience. It had truly scarred George; the moment when he found him unconscious had been the darkest minutes of his life – he felt he had no direction; as if the very reason for his being on earth had been taken away. It had taken time for George to feel like he could let Fred out of his sight.

Chance after chance had presented itself to you, but you wanted to be in a place where you worried about your own mental health as well as his.

The war had been devastating, and whilst it had brought the two of you closer together, it had destroyed part of you that needed time to heal.

You were happy to be his shoulder to cry on when his thoughts got to be too much. For now, you were content with the walks and the midnight hot chocolates.

----------

George had had enough. He couldn’t keep his feelings from you any longer; he was close to combusting from what he felt for you.

Groaning, he lets his head fall onto the kitchen table. Fred laughs at the sight, “Still pining are we, Georgie?”

“I just don’t know how to say it, Freddie.”

“How about something grand?”

“What do you mean?”

“Put on a show, George! We’re the Weasley twins, we’ve never done anything that wasn’t a spectacle.”

George lifts his head from the table, “You’re right but what should I do?”

A smirk breaks out across his twin’s face. Fred has had this planned since he realised the romantic feelings between the two of you and the absolute obliviousness of the both of you.

--------

George fixes his patterned tie in a shop window across the road from the offices. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead but it soon flops back over. He let it grow out after the war and hadn’t had the time to get it cut since. He takes a deep breath, smiling at himself in the window. He can do this, he tells himself.

The doors to the Daily Prophet are never closed; instead, running on revolving doors that journalists and photographers constantly run in and out of. George wonders mindlessly whether any of them get dizzy from running in and out all day, chasing leads and capturing photos.

He shrugs to himself, stepping into the road. His heart is in his mouth with every step he takes towards the doors. His hands shake slightly as he enters the seemingly plain office building, but his breath is always taken away by the ornateness of it once entered. It’s disguised as a simple red brick building for muggles, to keep them off the scent of witches and wizards, but entering the foyer to the building, George wonders if he’ll ever enter a place as grandly decorated.

As he stands in the lift, giving the number of your floor to the lift operator, his voice breaks. He blushes at the sound of it before repeating himself, clearing his throat first.

The lift goes too fast for his liking; the butterflies in his stomach turning into a full blown riot when the doors open to the familiar floor. He had brought you lunch here a thousand times, if not more. Eating at your desk as you worked on another story and George occupied himself by watching you work.

Thinking back on it, George wonders if you’ve realised that he’s in love with you and you haven’t said anything as to not let him down.

He shakes his head clear of that thought, getting off the elevator. He won’t talk himself out of this; not now, not when he has come this close and listened to Fred’s every word.

Your desk is situated to the back of the room; next to the large window that covers the expanse of the wall. It provides a beautiful view of muggle London, but George would argue that the most beautiful view in all of London is you. You’ve pushed your hair back from your face as you shuffle papers on your desk; you huff as a piece of hair falls into your eyes. You’ve rolled the sleeves of your blouse up, exposing the tattoo on your right forearm that you got in memoriam for the family you had lost in the war. It was one of George’s favourite things about you; you were happy to move on, to start living your life again, but you would not forget.

A large smile breaks over your face at the sight of George in your office. He visited so often but you were never bothered by the man you had fallen in love with as a teenager.

“George,” You call, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He waves his hand in a nonchalant manner, “Oh… nothing, I was just in the neighbourhood.”

You glare playfully at the red-headed man, “I don’t believe you for one second, Weasley.”

George gasps, placing a hand on his heart, “You hurt me, (Y/N).”

“Oh hush,” You grin, “How can I help you today, George?”

George takes a deep breath, preparing himself, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“I’m all ears. Anything for you, Georgie.”

He smiles at you softly; overcome with what he feels for you. He’s never loved anyone like this; he’s had crushes in the past but that’s all they were – simple, childish crushes. But this; this is it for him. You’re it for him; if he could propose marriage to you here and now, he would because he knows with every single fibre of his being that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

George swings himself up onto the desk in front of yours; he pauses for a second to see if the desk will take his weight. He smiles satisfied when the desk doesn’t collapse under him – that would definitely ruin his plans for what he has to say.

“What are you doing?” You shout, your hands reaching to pull him down.

George bends at the knee, lowering himself to be closer to your level, “I’m making a grand gesture, love.”

You frown up at him, taking a step closer in case he falls, “You’re what?”

“I’m making a grand gesture, are you ready?”

You look at him with a puzzled expression on your face, but curiosity burns through you. “As I’ll ever be. Show me your grand gesture, George.”

George stands to his full height, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes a deep breath.

Now or never.

“I love you!” George shouts, arms spread as wide as his smiles as he balances precariously on your neighbour’s desk.

You hold a piece of paper to your face to hide the large grin growing across your face at the sight of the man you had loved since you were a teenager declare his feelings for you in such a grand gesture.

Your shoulders shake from the effort of keeping your laughter repressed. This had Fred written all over it, but you knew that George would happily go along with it. It had the Weasley twins written all over it even if it wasn’t one of them declaring their love for you.

“What do you say, love? Do you love me back?” He asks, eyebrows raised, waiting for your answer.

You stay silent for a minute; making him wait. Eileen at the desk to the left of yours throws a ball of paper at your head, “Honey, if you don’t tell him you love him, I will.”

You start to laugh, “Yes, Georgie. I love you too.”

Relief washes over him; making his legs feel like jelly as he jumps down from the desk. The smile doesn’t leave his face once – not as he pulls you in, not as he tilts your face, and not as he finally, after so so long, presses his lips to yours.

“I’ve waited so long to tell you and so long to kiss you,” George whispers when he pulls away.

“I think I’ve waited just as long as you have,” You quip.

“Grand gestures, aye?”

You laugh, kissing him again. It’s a while before you reply, but when you do you’re whispering, “Thank Merlin for grand gestures.”

********

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @obsessedwithrandomthings @harrypotter289 @dreamer821 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @the-hufflefluffwriter @figlia--della--luna @bforbroadway @idont-knowrn @summer-writes @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood

George Weasley taglist: @susceptible-but-siriusexual

#george weasley x reader #george weasley #George Weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley reader insert #george weasley x y/n #george weasley imagine #george weasley fluff #george x reader #george fluff #declarations of love #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x reader #harry potter fanfic

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joonie-beanie · 4 years ago

Text

Helping Hands

Pairing: Barbatos x Reader

Word Count: 5,526

Preview: The royal butler decides to pay you a visit when he hears that your back is acting up.

However, when he offers to give you a massage, things get a little out of hand.

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter is also being posted on 7/10/2020 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

Obviously, you’re not as close to the residents of the Demon King’s Palace, or the other exchange students, as you are with the demon brothers. That’s to be expected, considering you literally live with the seven demons, and are pretty much around them at all times.

However, your relationships with the others are far from distant.

In fact, for the last two months, Diavolo and Barbatos have been inviting you over for tea every Sunday evening.

At first, you’d found it a bit strange to partake in a tea party so late in the day, and on a Sunday no less, but you’ve grown quite fond of your quiet evenings with the Devildom Prince and his faithful butler. Usually conversation is pleasant. Diavolo loves to ask you about your experiences in the human world, and never gets enough of your stories—even if it’s just you retelling simple parts of your day.

It has also been a good opportunity to get to know Diavolo and Barbatos more. Diavolo is very forthcoming with any information you’d like to know, but still tends to have this…front about him. Like he’s willing to let you in, but just not too deep. After all, he is the ruler of the Devildom, so you don’t blame him for keeping certain things to himself.

Barbatos…also feels like a puzzle, but a puzzle that with time, he will gladly let you put together. In the past month, you’ve managed to learn an array of information about him—his favorite foods, what he likes to drink, what he does when he’s not tending to Diavolo, etc.

Apparently, he enjoys baking, reading, and taking long, hot baths. He’s always formal out of habit, but ever so slowly has begun to shed such formality with you—making little remarks that would have seemed out of character in the past, but are becoming much more frequent nowadays.

In fact, last week when you’d showed up exhausted, he’d quipped about whether you were having any “late nights” with the brothers. The twinkle in his eye had confirmed that yes, he was implying it in a sexual manner, and Diavolo’s full belly laugh when he’d seen the shock and embarrassment on your face had echoed throughout the entire castle.

So, least to say, you and Barbatos are starting to get along quite well.

Unfortunately…you’re not sure that you’ll be able to make your weekly tea tonight—on account of the fact that you can barely walk.

Hand pressed against your lower back, you openly groan in pain as you press to your feet. You need to get to your DDD to let the two know of your predicament, but of course you’d managed to leave your phone on the other side of the room.

With your body curved at a horribly awkward angle, you stagger your way across the wooden floor. You think the source of your problem is a kink in your neck, that is throwing your entire body out of alignment, but you can’t say for sure considering everything hurts.

Sighing, you unlock your DDD and open up the messaging app. You click into your chat with the royals.

You: Hi there. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it tonight. I’m not feeling too well…

It only takes a few seconds before Diavolo responds.

Diavolo: I was actually just about to text you. Something quite urgent came up, so I’m unavailable this evening.

Diavolo: Also, I’m so sorry to hear you’re not feeling well! Please, be sure to get rest and take care of yourself!

Smiling at his kind words, you respond with your gratitude. A moment later, you see ellipses pop up at the bottom of the chat, but they soon disappear. No message comes through, and you frown a little. However, after another few seconds, you receive a new notification.

A text from Barbatos, but outside of the group chat the two of you share with Diavolo.

Barbatos: May I ask what’s the matter? I was intending to still invite you over for tea since I enjoy your company regardless.

Barbatos: If you’re ill, however, I’d like to know if there’s anything I can do to help.

You’d be lying if you said a small part of you didn’t swoon at his concern, and the declaration of the fact that he enjoys having you around.

You: I have a kink in my back, and it’s honestly affecting my ability to do…anything, at the moment. I would have loved to have tea with you, though.

Barbatos responds right away.

Barbatos: If it’s alright with you, I’d be more than happy to bring the tea to you instead. Lord Diavolo has already departed for the evening, and I have nothing else to do.

Barbatos: Plus, I’ve heard that I’m a pretty skilled masseuse, as well. I may be able to assist with your current ailment.

Your heart flutters a bit at the idea of letting Barbatos massage you, since you’ve yet to be physical with the butler beyond hugs, but you can’t deny how appealing a massage sounds right about now. Your muscles are oh so sore, and at this point, you should be accepting any type of help you can get.

You: I don’t want to impose, but that sounds wonderful…

Barbatos: Think nothing of it. I will be over shortly. Do not feel the need to come and greet me, I shall ask Lucifer to guide me to your room.

You text back your confirmation before stumbling back to your bed—rolling onto the messy sheets with a pained hiss as you wait for Barbatos to arrive.

Only 20 or so minutes later, you hear the sound of knuckles wrapping against your bedroom door.

“Y/N?” It’s Lucifer’s voice. “Barbatos is here to see you.”

“Come in,” you call, knowing full well that you probably look a mess—laying belly down on your mattress with one leg hiked high, and one arm hanging low. It’s the comfiest position you could find, though.

Lucifer turns the knob and steps into the room first, a frown tugging at his lips when he notes how you’re positioned on your bed. Barbatos follows him in, worry in his eyes as well, but he still manages to smile.

“My, you weren’t kidding when you mentioned having a kink in your back.”

“I think death is approaching,” you respond, overly dramatic, and your words have both Barbatos and Lucifer chuckling.

“I shall leave you two to enjoy your tea. Please contact me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Lucifer.”

With that, the Avatar of Pride makes his way from your room—closing the door behind him. Now, it’s just you and Barbatos.

“I think the tea may have to wait,” he comments, moving to set the basket he’d brought with him on the table at the far side of your room. You note that it’s woven wood—practically a picnic basket, and smile a little. How cute.

Forgetting about your pain for a moment, you watch as the butler opens the basket up and reaches inside. You expect him to produce some tea cups, or saucers, but instead he pulls out what looks to be a bottle of oil.

Realization strikes you, and your cheeks begin to heat up.

“You know, Barbatos, you really don’t need to give me a massage…,” you tell him quietly, mumbling the words as you watch him begin to roll up his sleeves. He’s dressed more casually than usual—his overcoat and tie nowhere to be found. Instead, he’s simply donning his green button up shirt, and a pair of black slacks.

It’s…a good look on him. Especially with the sleeves folded neatly up to his elbows. And when he slowly plucks off his white gloves, revealing fingernails painted the same color as the highlights in his hair, you feel your heart skip a beat.

“It’s clear that you’re in desperate need of one, and I already reassured you that you’re not imposing,” he tells you, making his way to your side with the bottle of oil in his hands. Per usual, there’s a pleasant smile on his face as he surveys you.

You hope that you’re not blushing brightly enough for him to notice.

“It’s just that…I’ve never had a massage before, so…,” you trail off, and it’s not a lie. Massages have always seemed like a luxury to you, so you’ve never gone out of your way to get one, despite how much you’ve heard about their wonders.

“Ah,” Barbatos hums, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Well, we can always stop if it has an adverse effect on the situation. And I of course want you to feel comfortable.”

His words put your mind at ease. He’s always so kind, no matter who he’s talking to, or who is watching.

“So…how do we…start?” you ask, feeling far too awkward. You already have a suspicion that you know what he’s going to say, and yet—

“Are you mobile enough to take your shirt off?”

Ah, yep, there it is.

If there was any hope of hiding your blush before, there’s certainly none now. And yes, you’re aware that Barbatos is only offering to do this because you’re friends, and because you’re in pain. There should be no reason to be embarrassed by the situation, and yet you are.

You take a second to try and calm your mind.

“I…I think I can--,” you eventually say, attempting to sit up. However, as soon as you place your palms on the mattress and try to push yourself up, a bolt of pain shoots straight down your spine, and a high-pitched cry falls from your lips.

Barbatos’ hand is immediately on your back—a gesture of comfort. The warmth from his palm soaks through your t-shirt, and a small part of you wishes that he’d make a point of touching you more often.

“Well, I will take that as a resounding no.”

There’s a perplexed frown on his face as he looks at you—his worry deepening by the second.

“Can you lift your arms, at the very least?”

You grunt, miraculously managing to lift both of your arms above your head. Barbatos breathes a laugh, the position a little amusing. You’re beginning to look like a horrible contortionist.

“Would you be opposed to me undressing you?” Your brain short circuits for a moment. “Since you were able to lift your arms, it’s likely the easiest option at this point.”

“Sure,” you respond without hesitation. You’re desperately trying to keep your wits about you, and yet, you can’t help the way your body jolts when you feel Barbatos’ fingers grip the hem of your shirt.

He pauses for a moment.

“Did I startle you?”

“No…,” you grumble, causing him to laugh. He drags his hands upwards—the t-shirt slowly peeling up your back. When he gets near your breasts, you manage to inch your body off the mattress so it doesn’t get…well, caught.

Of course, as Barbatos pulls the fabric past your chest, you also realize that you hadn’t bothered to put on a bra today—entirely due to the fact that 1. Your body was too stiff to attempt even putting one on, and 2. Bras suck.

So now here you are—Barbatos finally ridding you of your shirt—which means you’re entirely bare from the waist up. Oh, and the only thing saving you from being completely naked in front of the royal butler is the pair of shorts you’re wearing, which suddenly feel far too short, and far too tight for comfort.

“Are you alright?” he questions. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, and you feel goosebumps rise on your flesh. You’re so used to the sensation of his soft gloves, that the skin on skin contact is making you react in ways you hadn’t expected…

“I’m okay,” you respond, nodding a little. You move your arms so they’re folded beneath your cheek, and you carefully turn your head—facing yourself away from Barbatos. The last thing you want is him seeing how red you’ve become.

“If so, then I’ll begin,” he says. You hear him pop open the cap on the bottle, and you take a quiet breath—trying to prepare yourself. “If you ever feel uncomfortable, please let me know.”

“Will do, Barb.”

You mumble the words without thinking, and it takes your brain a second to realize what you’ve said.

“I-I mean--,” your words cut off, breath hitching as Barbatos grips your sides. He moves his hands gently against your back, spreading the oil on his palms across your soft skin.

“Barb?” he echoes, chuckling to himself. “That’s a first.”

“I--,” you shiver as he continues rubbing his hands up and down your spine. Apparently, you’re much more sensitive to touch than you’d realized. Just great. “—just…I mean. Slip of the tongue?”

“You may call me “Barb” if you so wish,” he responds, and you can hear the amusement lining his tone. The demon drags his hands back up to your shoulders, his thumbs kneading at the tense muscles near your neck, and whine leaves your lips.

“Good or bad?” he questions, and as another shiver rakes up your spine, you realize just how fucked you are. Your body, of course, aches beneath the surface, but your skin is just so sensitive. It takes all of your willpower to keep from writhing against the sheets as he continues his ministrations—rubbing circles between your shoulder blades.

“Um…a little of both?”

He hums considerately at your comment, his eyes surveying you closely. Even as you attempt to stifle the instinctive reactions of your body, there’s a subtle twitch of your muscles—a small intake of breath, or a flex of your toes.

When he reaches your mid-back—his fingers curling around your sides as he presses his thumbs into the muscles near your spine—he hears you gasp. Your body stiffens, fingers digging into the sheets near your head. Barbatos debates stopping, but…he gets the feeling that you’re not in pain.

As the thought occurs to him, a little bit of heat rise to his face. Until now, he hadn’t thought twice about your current position, or the fact that he’s touching you so intimately, but…

Barbatos swallows, yet his hands continue on their journey down the length of your back. He works slowly, doing his best to thoroughly rub every inch of skin—hoping to soothe the tight muscles that lay beneath. Perhaps if he focuses on the task at hand, he’ll forget about the little whines that spill from your lips, or the way your body shivers beneath his fingers.

As Barbatos faces his own dilemma, you find yourself rapidly descending into insanity. Each second that ticks by with the demon butler’s hands roaming your body has tendrils of heat snaking through your limbs. As much as you attempt to ignore the way his touches are making you feel, it’s nearly impossible.

Quicker than you had expected, you feel arousal beginning to pool between your legs. You’d hadn’t intended to get turned on by the massage, but here you are—desperately trying to smother the array of embarrassing sounds that have built in your chest.

However, the instant Barbatos’ hands move to your lower back—thumbs pressing into the muscles near your spine—your lips part.

“Fuck,” you moan, your body curving into the mattress. Your toes curl, knees bending as your calves lift from the sheets.

Barbatos’ hands still. You go stiff, all of the blood in your body rushing to your face.

“I…Barbatos, I am so sorry, I—”

“I’ve never witnessed anyone react to a massage so…vocally,” he says, picking his words carefully. His fingers coast up your sides, once against making you shiver, and you bite your lip to keep from gasping when you feel his hair tickle your cheek.

“Would you prefer if I stopped now?” The words are whispered into your ear. You can feel his hot breath on your skin—the curl of his fingers around your ribcage as he holds you—and your heartbeat quickens.

“I…I don’t want you to stop,” you respond honestly, voice quiet. “But I’m not sure I can stop myself either…”

“I never could have imagined that you would be so affected by a simple massage,” he chuckles, his fingers giving you a little squeeze as he leans back, retaking his standing position beside you. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I didn’t realize I would be either…I don’t blame you if you want to stop.”

“As long as you’re alright, I would like to keep going,” he informs you, his palms coasting down either side of your spine until his grip is once again settled near the sensitive spot on your tailbone. You keen as his hands cup either side of your ass, thumbs working into the tense muscles at the center of your back.

“Hah…,” your fingers once again grip the sheets. Now that Barbatos has addressed your reactions to his touches, you feel a bit more playful. “Are you actually enjoying my reactions?”

He chuckles. “Would it be inappropriate if I said yes?”

The gears in your head grind to a halt. Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips. That’s not what you had expected.

“…Really?”

“Perhaps it is a bit disgraceful for me to admit, but…,” his movements still, his fingers flexing and giving your ass the lightest of squeezes. “…I would very much enjoy it if we could continue.”

You’re surprised to hear such words from him, but you��d be lying if you said they didn’t excite you.

You nod your consent. “Go ahead.”

Barbatos reaches for the bottle of oil at his feet, pouring a little more into his hands. You jolt when his palms encase one of your thighs—his touch dragging down your leg until he gets to your ankle. He then repeats the action on your other leg, a smile tugging at his lips as he notes your body’s instinctual response to his touches.

However, he doesn’t make comment. Instead, he focuses on working at the muscles in your thighs—his thumbs carving a path down the center of the supple flesh. As he does so, you become acutely aware of how close his fingers are to your clothed womanhood.

The realization causes more wetness to pool between your legs, and you bite your lip, wondering exactly how much longer you’ll be able to withstand the massage before you finally crack.

You want to say that your current affliction is entirely your fault—that it’s solely a product of your oversensitive body’s reaction to the massage—but you know it’s not. Barbatos is obviously getting something out of this situation as well, and that something definitely bridges beyond the pride of being a good masseuse.

Your toes curl as he works at the muscles in your calves—a sigh heavy with need passing through your parted lips.

You want him to touch you more. Where you’re aching to be touched.

“Barb--,” you start, mentally preparing yourself for the embarrassing question you’re about to ask, but you never get there. Barbatos presses his fingers into the back of your knee, and a moan tears from your throat.

The butler pauses, his gaze turning to your face. Until now, you’ve spent the massage facing away from him, but when he glances up, he finds that you’re returning his stare. Your entire face is red, bottom lip tugged between your teeth as a clear sign of your embarrassment. However, he can tell by the look in your eyes—your pupils blown wide—that you’re aroused.

His heart thumps painfully against his ribs.

“Barb, I--,” you don’t know what to say, entirely out of sorts. You’re ashamed, and horny, and a part of you wants to run away, but another part wants him to continue forever.

“Y/N,” he drags you out of your inner turmoil by speaking your name. One of his hands reaches forward, cupping your cheek. He leans in, your faces mere inches apart, and you finally notice the blush on his cheeks. It’s subtle, but there.

His gaze falls to your lips.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you breathe immediately, and he closes the gap without second thought.

The kiss is tender—a little hesitant, but full of need, and not just from you. Sighing pleasantly, you mold your lips with his once more, and then again, but before you can turn the kisses into a full out make out session, you feel Barbatos’ palm on your ass.

His hand moves downward, sneaking between your snug thighs. When he presses his digits against your clothed sex, you can’t help the lewd gasp that leaves you. Your hips instinctively grind against him, seeking more friction, and you feel him smile.

“Shall I stop?” he whispers.

“No, don’t,” you shake your head, and Barbatos leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. He’s pleased to hear those words.

Sitting back, Barbatos surveys you—watching you closely as he drags two of his fingers down the seam of your shorts. He hadn’t noticed before, but your arousal is already soaked into the dark fabric—a clear sign that you’d been enjoying his touches up until now.

When he finds that special bundle of nerves, drawing out another quiet cry falling from your lips, he chuckles. You bury your head in your folded arms, hips rocking back against his fingers.

“Ah, shit,” you breathe, unable to help yourself. You’re already so stupidly pent up from the massage—even him touching you through your shorts feels delicious. And Barbatos can’t help but get hard at the sight of you—your almost naked body curving against the mattress as you lift your hips and rock your pussy back and forth on his digits.

Reaching his free hand down, the demon butler gently squeezes your ass, relishing the little moan it draws from you. He helplessly craves to hear more of your sounds.

His fingers leave your clit, but before you can think to whine at the lost, you feel his digits curl around the crotch of your shorts. You freeze, heart hammering against your ribs, but don’t indicate for him to stop. While you’re nervous, you want this.

And Barbatos makes note of your reaction, giving you a few ample seconds to express any discontent. However, you do not, and so the butler tugs your shorts to the side, revealing your womanhood. You bite your lip, wriggling as his other hand slips beneath your shorts—once again taking hold of your ass without the fabric barrier.

As he holds you steady, two of his digits once more slide between your slick folds, gathering your arousal. You expect him to go back to rubbing your clit, but instead he curls his fingers into your pussy, and a gasp falls from your lips.

“Oh, fuck, Barb.” You groan. Your fingers take hold of the bed sheets, lip tugging between your teeth as you feel him experimentally pump his fingers in and out of you—stretching out your wet walls.

He moves slowly—testing the waters, and you clench around him—enjoying the girth of his fingers. Barbatos can’t take his eyes off of you.

“Is this alright?” he questions, curling his digits. The action has you moaning, and you nod your head.

“More, please.”

Barbatos breathes out through his nose at that, a little amused at the sound of your need.

Kneeling against the edge of the mattress to get a better angle, Barbatos begins picking up his pace. His fingers curl against your walls, and he smiles when he finds your sensitive spot—a surprised gasp escaping you. Immediately your stomach is curving into the mattress—hips pressing back as you attempt to take him deeper.

Barbatos gives your ass a squeeze, eyes sparkling. He debates asking if you’re feeling good, but he already knows the answer.

With his finger still fucking into you—your hips now rocking back ever so slightly to meet him—Barbatos moves his other hand between your legs. His thumb rests against your clit, drawing languid circles, and your breath catches.

“Fuck,” you bite the word out, muscles tensing. The demon butler feels your pussy clench around his fingers—orgasm quickly rising to the surface.

“Barb, please,” you whine, tugging at the sheets. Your heart is racing, breathless pants falling from your lips. Always one to please, Barbatos is more than happy to oblige. He presses against your clit harder, rubbing quicker, and in less than a minute, you’re coming undone for him.

Moan slipping past your lips, you tumble into your orgasm. Your pussy contracts around his still moving fingers, waves of pleasure rolling throughout your body. The butler doesn’t pull his digits from inside of you until he sees your body go slack against the sheets.

“You’re certainly one hell of a masseuse,” you mumble once you’ve regained your bearings, causing him to chuckle.

“I can assure you most of my clients don’t end up with my fingers inside of them.”

“No?” you question, a playful post-orgasm glow on your face as you turn to look at him. He smiles fondly at the sight of your pleasantly flushed cheeks.

“No,” he reassures, eyes creasing as he seats himself on the mattress beside you. For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other, a sense of peace settling over the two of you. Then, your gaze falls to his lap. The tent against his slacks is quite obvious.

Noting where your eyes have strayed, Barbatos has the humility to blush.

“I apologize for my…reaction,” he quickly excuses himself, glancing away. “I assure you I didn’t intend to take advantage of you.”

Instead of responding, you press onto your hands and knees and turn to face him. With your face dangerously close to his crotch, you bat your eyelashes up at him innocently.

“If you don’t mind, I’d be perfectly alright with helping you in return, Barbatos.”

The butler looks shocked at the offer, but after a few seconds, he lifts a hand and gently cards it through your hair—a soft look of hunger in his eyes.

“Only if you wish.”

Smiling, you immediately prop onto your elbows—knees folding on the bed beneath you—and reach out to fiddle with his pants. Within seconds, you’ve managed to free his length. Your hand immediately wraps around the base of his shaft, and Barbatos closes his eyes at the sensation, taking a deep breath.

You smile at his pleased reaction, your mouth moving to press a kiss against his slit before you stick out your tongue and roll it around the head of his cock. And when you take him into your mouth—your hand still fisted around the lower half of his length, stroking languidly—his breath catches. The fingers in your hair grip a bit tighter.

You giggle around his cock.

“Good?” you question, pulling off. Your hand moves in bolder strokes against him, making up for the absence of your mouth as you turn to stare up at the demon. There’s a blush dusting his cheeks.

“I believe you’re asking a question you already know the answer to,” he responds, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You smile cheekily at his words, fingers tightening ever-so-slightly around his length. You see his jaw clench.

“Good.”

Turning, you once more take the tip of his cock between your lips. You focus yourself on pleasing Barbatos—alternating between trailing your tongue against him, and sucking him into your mouth. The combination of your hand pumping his shaft, and your mouth concentrating on his head is quite honestly devastating, and within minutes the demon butler finds himself nearing his release.

“Y/N,” he warns, his voice slightly strained. He gives your roots a little tug, and you release him from your mouth with an audible pop. You’re seriously going to drive him crazy.

“Yes?” you question, your hand continuing to stroke him. You feel his cock jump in your grip.

“Stay like this,” he says, keeping his hold on your hair. You take that as a sign to get him off with just your hand, and you don’t complain. If that’s his preference, then you’re more than happy to go with it.

Aware of his impending orgasm, you simply continue your ministrations—your fist pumping his shaft until he finally reaches his breaking point. With a shaky breath, Barbatos spills his seed into your hand. His chest rises and falls quickly as you pump him through his orgasm without missing a beat.

You only stop when he’s milked dry—his length beginning to go soft in your grasp.

“Is that fair payment for the massage?” you ask, looking up at him with a smile. He loosens his grip on your hair—his hand moving to cup your cheek as he stares at you. You can see the post-orgasm satisfaction swimming in his green eyes.

“No payment was required,” he tells you honestly. “But yes, that was very much enjoyable.”

A warm feeling of contentment settling in your chest, you move to sit up, but pause when you realize that you’re still topless. Eyes going wide, you cross your arms over your chest, face heating up, and Barbatos chuckles.

“After all we’ve experienced together tonight, you’re suddenly coy about me seeing your breasts?”

“You hush,” you tell him, swinging your legs off the side of the bed. You reach down to fetch your discarded t-shirt, and when you stand straight, an arm wraps around your waist from behind.

“You’re covered in oil, so I would suggest showering,” Barbatos tells you, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. The contact is only for a brief moment—his touch disappearing as he separates himself, taking a step back—and yet your heart flutters. “I’ll prepare the tea while you clean up.”

“Okay…,” you agree, glancing over your shoulder at him. He’s smiling pleasantly, looking far too put together for someone that just came a minute before. There’s not a hair out of place on his head—or even a stain on his trousers.

How unfair.

Turning, you head into your bathroom to rinse off, and Barbatos immediately busies himself with readying your beverages for the evening.

By the time you return from your shower—t-shirt back in place, and a towel atop your damp hair, the room is set up for a tea party. Barbatos is seated on one side of the table, casually surveying a book that you’d left on your desk. One you’d borrowed from Satan.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking up so much of your evening,” he says when he spots you, setting down the reading material.

“Not at all,” you say, moving to join him. Despite the newly shared intimacy between the two of you, the atmosphere feels comfortable, and you’re grateful for that.

Standing, Barbatos pours you both a cup of tea, and things fall into place as usual. You spend a long while chatting—catching up on events of the previous week, and talking about whatever topics cross your mind. By the time the snacks are gone, and the tea has gone cold, it’s quite late.

“I apologize for staying until such an hour,” he says as you help him clean the table. The screen of your DDD indicates that it’s already past 11. You shake your head.

“Seriously, Barb, it’s no big deal. I lost track of time too.”

He can’t help but chuckle at your nickname for him. It’s a nickname that will be solely reserved for you to say.

“Still, it is a school night. I’d best not stay any longer, or I fear Lucifer will have my head.”

“Well, I can’t exactly disagree with that,” you respond with a laugh, holding your arms in front of you. Your eyes trail on him as he finishes packing the basket he’d arrived with. He then picks it up, and starts for your door. You quietly follow after him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask, although you already know you will. Of course you will—Barbatos is always at RAD during the week.

Nonetheless, the demon butler smiles at you.

“Yes, I look forward to seeing you.”

With that, he grasps the doorknob and pulls your door open. However, he makes it only one step into the hall before he pauses, turning back to face you.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You blink. “Hmm?”

“If you’d ever like another massage, please don’t hesitate to let me know. It seems to have worked wonders for you.”

A playful grin pulls at his lips, and he’s gone before you are able to fully digest his words. It takes you a good few seconds to realize what he means—your eyes looking down at yourself, and registering that you’re standing and walking without a sliver of pain.

“Ah!” you say, shocked, and you swear you hear him laugh from up the hall.

#om!#obey me #barbatos #barbatos fic #barbatos smut #om! smut #obey me smut #obey me fic #om! fic

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tatooedlaura-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Max 2.0

post-Max. Because the car is the best place to deal with crises of being and pseudo-bad grammar ...

Our Moment Chapter 1: Five Words (post-Leonard Betts) Chapter 2: Sidebar Nonsense (post-Memento Mori) Chapter 3: Interim (floating somewhere around Unrequited) Chapter 4: Max 2.0 (post-Tempus Fugit/Max)

@today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

Out of her bed and halfway down the hall before she opened her eyes, she stopped by the couch, realizing she had no idea why she was out of bed. Vague notions of her gun crossed her mind but then she heard a knock. Wavering for another moment or two in full-on sleep mode, she shook her head lightly, tried to pry her eyes open, then regretted it, eyelids stuck together, burning, dry; another knock.

She wondering in passing how long he’d been out there but finally summoning the brain power to move her legs again, she made it to the door. Peering out at him through the peephole, she yawned, then unlocked the door, pulling it open, squinting at the glaring hall light, “you okay?”

Now, he’d known she would probably be asleep, had to be asleep given it was nearly 1am, but that didn’t stop him from being surprised by her pillow-creased face and unfocused eyes, “yeah, um, I’m now realizing this was stupid. You’re asleep. I should be asleep. I’m sorry.” Not turning away, however, hoping if he stood there long enough, she’d invite him in, “I’m sorry.”

Scully knew him like no other and stepping aside, “come on in.”

He did, leaving shoes and coat on, standing, filling, overwhelming the area he stood in, doorframe small behind him, “thanks.” Folding arms, not in that annoyed way of hers but in the ‘I’m trying to hold in a yawn so I will stupidly think that crossing them will keep it from rising to the surface’. It did not work and Mulder sighed, apologizing again, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I just … I can’t stop thinking about Max and the plane and just … he was me, Scully, and that’s bothering me more than I thought it would.”

“Would you like some tea?”

Reaching out, he touched her hand, the one not tucked under her elbow, proceeding to play with her knuckles, the hem of her sleeve, twisting the thermal fabric between his fingers, “I was actually wondering if maybe you’d like to go for a drive with me?”

It had been over a month since their Tennessee drive but the memories were clear and nodding, she gave him a small smile before extracting herself from his fingers, “just let me go grab a coat.” Disappearing, then reappearing quickly, she had one of his zipped sweatshirts over her shoulders, thick socks firmly in place and feet shoved in soled slippers, “ready.”

“Do you steal all my clothes?”

“Only the good ones.”

Soon in the car, they were off, quiet between them broken a minute later, “your car’s clean.”

“It happens.”

“Not often.”

Shrugging, he turned right, then left, the left again, the city night passing by them in an unnoticed blur. He seemed to have a destination in mind and asking if he did, Mulder told her, “no. I just want to get out of the city and I know this is the fastest way.”

“Understood.”

Because it was late and dark and she was tired and loose-limbed, she folded her legs under, folded hands in her lap.

She baited the hook to see if he’d bite.

He did, his hand sliding across the center irritation of a console, fingers wedging once again in the fold between bended knee and adjacent thigh. He knew she’d done it on purpose.

Neither cared.

The connection made them both feel better and Mulder, squeezing her leg lightly, “sorry I don’t have a moonroof for you.”

“It’s cloudy anyways and there’s no moon, so I’ll forgive you this time.”

“Thanks.”

She gave it awhile, the pair of them well out of the city lights, darkness prevailing before, “you’re not like Max. I mean, you are, but not in the ways you’re dwelling on.”

“But I am like him.”

“We’re all Max in our own ways. I mean, we have passions and hopes and problems and dreams but some of us fixate on them to the point where it’s their only hope, their only passion and it becomes their biggest problem.”

He moved to pull his hand away but she grabbed it, holding tight, as he spoke, “I am the poster boy now that he’s gone, Scully. I am Max 2.0.”

Twisting, she refolded her legs so they both vee’d in his direction, able to look at him better that way, turn to see him easier. Putting his hand back between her knees, she moved to hold his lower arm, firmly, trying to get her point across with words as well as tactile pressure, “if you were anything like Max, obsession-wise, I’d be long gone. You have passion, Mulder, he had fixation. There’s a vast difference.”

“Not that vast.”

“There is in my mind. Max wouldn’t be here right now, taking a midnight drive with his … partner,” that was an odd hesitation she wasn’t expecting, “he’d be in his trailer, trying to decode the conspiracies of the universe.”

“The Gunmen are probably doing that as we speak.”

“But Langley also cooks a mean prime rib, Byers plays Majhong on Friday nights with a group of semi-normal people, Frohike crochets blankets for the Veterans Hospital and has a 22-year old penpal in Denmark. These people have other interests. From what we saw and heard about Max, while he was a very nice man, he didn’t do any of that.”

“You know about the crocheting?”

“Have you seen the granny-square afghan on my couch? The one you like to snuggle with when you’re tired and don’t want to drive home? That’s Frohike’s handiwork from last Christmas.”

Suddenly, the world didn’t seem quite so down on him after all but he still felt something he couldn’t shake. Ignoring that, however, for the moment, he scoffed, “he’s never made me a blanket, that yarn-wielding bastard.”

“I’ll drop a hint next time I see him.” Feeling the tension leaving him slowly, Scully began moving her left hand up his arm, around the back, to lightly rub the underside of his bicep, other hand splayed around his wrist. It was an unconscious thing at first, then, noticing it, she decided she liked it and stayed. “Do you think there’s any hot chocolate out here in the sticks?”

Looking at the houses still visible from the road they were on, more spaced apart than a few minutes ago but still numerous, “you’ve been living in the city too long if you think this is the sticks.”

“You call it the city; I call it a severe lack of 24-hour dining possibilities with hot chocolate necessities.”

“You’re wordy today. Did you snack on a dictionary before going to bed?”

“Is that your polite way of telling me to quit mouthing off?”

And now her mouth was foremost on his mind.

Dammit.

“I have M&Ms in the glove compartment. Is that a good enough compromise?”

Retrieving the candy post-haste, she popped one in her mouth, then offered him one, “sugar?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Both chewing, Scully returned to her previous position, “peanut. I approve.”

Continuing on, they covered all kinds of light subjects, music, family, things they visited often but both always enjoyed, especially hearing about the antics of Scully’s extended family, brothers, cousin, bevy of nieces and nephews. After one exuberant story about Sam, second oldest of the bunch, Mulder wiped his eyes, tears of laughter blurring his vision, “how did you land all these people? I mean, you have the cast of some off-beat comedy show and I’ve got my mother.”

He hadn’t meant to bring the atmosphere down and Scully didn’t want to keep it there but she had to tell him, in words he apparently didn’t hear the first seven times she told him, “you realize my mother has adopted you right? I mean, there may not be paperwork but there’s pie. Also, just to let you know, do you remember when you were asking me about my mom’s dentist appointment, about her infected tooth last week?”

“Yeah?”

“I had no idea she was having any issues but I pretended to know because, good Lord, Mulder, you knew about it and I didn’t.” Giving him that look that made his smile return, “does that tell you anything about the level of your acceptance into my family?”

“I mean,” looking almost sheepish, “she called to talk to you and I answered and we just …”

Patting his shoulder, “it’s okay, Mulder. My mother can love you more than me occasionally. I don’t mind.”

His eyebrow went up, about to bring down the grammar hammer on her, hard, “you love me? I had no idea. When did this happen? Was it after I introduced you to the Conundrum or, ooh, I bet is was around the time you were trapped with me in Alaska. That tiny room? Checking for murderous prehistoric alien worms?”

Total confusion all over her face, “What?”

“You said occasionally, your mother loved me more than you. So, I deduce that you love me most of the time and now I’m trying to figure out when that all started.”

Fuck.

Oh, hell, why not just play along?

“I’m pretty sure it was when you were about to head into the hospital with Modell: looking up at me with that camera on your head, Kevlar all tight, panicked look in your eye.”

Wait … was she humoring him? He was treading into the unknown now, not sure if he should keep going, “um … what?”

Her laughter bounced around the interior of the car, a happy sound, a light sound he hadn’t heard in awhile, “nervous, Mr. Mulder?”

Smiling himself finally, “just … left-field line drive came in a little faster than I expected.”

“Are we back to baseball again?”

He was going to crash the car in the next two minutes if this kept up, “I think we should just drive in silence for a minute. My brain did something and just … give me a minute.”

Fuck again.

She was pretty sure with one joke, two follow-ups and a mention of baseball, she’d quite possibly changed the course of their relationship in ways she had no understanding of. Silence nerve-wracking, she fumbled for words, “I’m just glad the two of you get along so well. It’ll make things easier.”

She’d never felt atmosphere shift like it did in that moment, the air hardening between them. Mulder looked at her, any trace of humor gone from his face, “make what easier?”

“If … if something happens to me. I’ll feel better knowing … you’d … have each other, I guess.”

Mulder steered roughly to the left, blew through a stop sign, then pulled them into a large, dark parking lot, a high school if Scully read the sign correctly as Mulder raced past. Hitting the breaks, he threw the car into park, got out and slammed the door, leaving Scully stunned. She hadn’t meant to make it sound as harsh as it did and sighing, she opened her own door, zipping up her sweatshirt as she did so. He’d turned the headlights off so the only light was from a parking lot fluorescents fifteen feet away. Coming around the front of the car, she tugged on his arm, “hey, look at me, please?”

“Have you given up already?”

With a genuine scoff in his direction, “I don’t give up on anything. What the hell kind of question is that?”

“You said when something happens to you.”

“No, I said if.” Taking him by the arms, she turned him around until his back was to the car, “will you sit down?”

“Why?”

“So I can look at you, and not up your nose, when I talk.”

He conceded, sitting down on the bumper, “nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Yes, I know.” Coming in closer, she forced her way between his knees, “but I learned from you to plan for all eventualities. I have a prepacked suitcase for when you ring my doorbell at 5am telling me we leave in 20 minutes. I have $500 cash in my purse and another $500 in my carry-on for emergencies …”

“Bail money for me?”

“Some of it, yes.” Continuing, “I now prepare for all things, even if there isn’t a chance in hell they’re going to happen. You forced me to learn that and I have and that’s all my comment was. I will be fine,” moving her palms to his face, thinning fingers, delicate steel hands against his cheeks, covering his ears as she tilted his head up to look at her, “but I feel better knowing mom has you and you have mom. You became friends with her while I was missing. I haven’t been forcing you together to create some superficial bond to make my never going to happen, non-impending doom easier to accept. She invites you for pie. You arrive and eat pie. You go home with leftover pie. I have nothing to do with that but I’m glad it happens.”

By now, his hands were on her wrists, eyes glued to her, closing as she leaned in, mirroring that accursed hospital hallway not that long ago. Once her forehead touched his, she whispered, “you are not Max. You have so many people here who love you and need you and you have so much to offer them back and you do. That’s the difference between you and Max. He searched for himself. You search for me, Mulder. You search,” kissing his forehead, then quickly his mouth, “for me.”

Then she wrapped her arms around him and felt his go around her waist. Hugging him tightly, she let the world disappear, sinking against him, warm, solid, against her.

“Who knew this much angst could come from a misplaced modifier?”

“We know now. Never let it happen again.”

With a chuckle, he shifted his head, talking into her shoulder, “Modell? Really?”

She just hugged him tighter, staying quiet against him as he held her close.

&&&&&&&&&&

They may have stayed like that for two minutes. It may have been ten. Regardless, eventually, Scully had to whisper into Mulder’s neck, where her mouth had landed earlier when she turned her head, “Mulder?”

Just as quietly, “yeah?”

“Can you take me home to bed, please?”

“Should I comment on the structure of that sentence as well or just be quiet?”

Giving another kiss to his neck, she pushed back off of him, sly grin, “just take me home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

&&&&&&&&

After a quiet goodnight/good morning at her bedroom door, he wandered to the living room, taking up residence on her couch, 3am sleepy as his head hit the spare pillow and his mind was finally calm.

#My writing #post-max #MulderNScully #Frohike's Granny squares #Byers Mahjong #Mulder's pie #Maggie Scully #xfiles #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #txf fanfic #cancer arc

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enbysiriusblack · 4 years ago

Text

I keep posting non marauder content and I apologise (no i dont, you just have to deal with it)

BUT HERE GO, THE CONTENT YOU ACTUALLY WANT FROM ME (probably)

A lil Jily story of angst and fluff kind of:

(its not lil,, its pretty darn long)

tw. brief physical violence and stalking

Lily hated the summer holidays. Her sister always complaining about her return, her parents struggle with keeping Petunia calm while still spending time with Lily, and Severus' change of character once they were back in the muggle town.

But this summer, she had more to worry about. Severus still hadn't left her alone after their fall out. He had started waiting for her in the library, following her in between classes, and and watching her hanging out with her friends at Hogsmeade.

And now without her friends and the separate common rooms in the way, it would be even harder to avoid him and she was worried for her own safety.

So as she stepped off the train, said goodbye to her friends and walked towards her family. She was miserable.

And as the days of summer ticked by, Lily had locked herself in her bedroom. Not wanting to go downstairs in order to avoid the endless arguments and shouting of Petunia, and not wanting to go outside to avoid Severus stalking her and pleading with her to forgive him.

But after a few weeks, her parents urged her to get some sunlight and got her to go to the shop round the corner to grab a few things.

Carrying 2 bags, filled with milk, bread, toilet roll, laundry detergent, the daily newspaper, and a litre bottle of fanta; Lily left the shop. Only to spot Severus a few feet away, and hurriedly following her.

She started walking faster towards her house, but only a few metres a way from home, a hand sharply attached itself to her shoulder.

"Lily!! I'm trying to talk to you!!" He yelled.

Lily shook her shoulder, flinging his hand off it and back to his person.

"I've told you a million times!! Leave me alone!!" She yelled back.

"But I'm in love with you" he said, stepping forwards and about to touch her cheek.

She took a step back and scoffed, "you can't love someone while hating who they are"

"It's not your fault who you're born as, it doesn't matter to me. It's like a curse being put on you, but you can still overcome it. The dark Lord himself is a half blood like me! But we know we're better than that, we just have to overcome that set back." He replied, stepping closer and closer to Lily.

A loud crack sounded and blood ran down Snape's nose. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the blood pouring out. Her grocery bags fell to the floor.

"Being muggleborn is not a setback to overcome. Don't ever come near me again" she replied, before picking up her bags and heading back to her house without looking back once more.

The next morning, she looked out her window to see Snape standing outside, holding a bouquet of lilies.

She shut her blinds and hid in her room. As the days ticked by, she never left the house and Snape stood there hour after hour, bringing different assortments of gifts to compensate his inability to actually care about her.

She decided she had to leave for the rest of the holiday. But Mary was visiting family outside the country, Marlene and Dorcas were in Italy together to celebrate their anniversary. Then she remembered Remus was at home.

She owled Remus straight away and got a reply from him fairly quickly, accepting her request of staying at his till the holidays had ended.

So the next morning she packed her things, said goodbye to her mum, and drove with her dad to the train station around 7 am, before Snape arrived at the house.

It was a long, confusing train journey to Wales. But once she got there after hours on different trains, she spotted Remus and his mum sitting outside one of the station cafes.

Remus looked up as she walked towards them, and he moved over a piece of chocolate cake and his cup of tea to make more room for her on the small metal table.

Lily grabbed a seat from an empty table nearby and sat it down. Hope passed a menu over to Lily and she ordered a cup of tea and a a hot sausage roll. The three of them ate and drank before getting to Hope's yellow volkswagen van to get back to the Lupin cottage.

Once they got to the cottage, Hope showed Lily around the house and brought her stuff to Remus' bedroom.

"We don't have any spare rooms I'm afraid so I hope you don't mind sharing with Remus?" Hope asked her.

"No it's fine thank you" she replied.

"Alright, oh also I need to get some more herbs and plants for my stocks so I was going to go foraging tomorrow, would you two like to join me?"

Remus looked towards Lily to see her thoughts, she nodded at him in acceptance.

"Yeah we would" Remus said.

Hope lifted her hand to affectionately stroke Remus' curls before leaving the room.

The next day the Lupin's and Lily set out to the forest, Lyall deciding to join them as it was his day off work. All four were carrying small handmade baskets, Lyalls was full of picnic food for lunchtime, while the other's were empty for foraging.

Remus and Lily went ahead in a different direction, agreeing to meet up at the usual spot at lunch time.

As Remus and Lily went through the woods, Remus sometimes picking up certain plants and flowers and putting them in his basket, while Lily (not knowing much about foraging or what Hope needed) only picked flowers she liked and had decided to make a nice bouquet for Hope with them.

The two chatted as they walked, talking about what topics they're studying in their classes next year, about Snape, about their what they had been up to for the last few weeks.

Once they got back to the house, Remus started writing a letter to James and Sirius, who had run away to James' a few weeks ago. While Lily and Hope were downstairs talking, after Lily had given her the bouquet.

Around an hour later, all four were sitting on the lounge for dinner, the bouquet was placed on the middle of the wooden table as a centre piece inside a tall mug with a picture of Phil Bennett on.

After dinner, Lily and Remus went out. There wasn't much to do in the small village in the evening so they ended up in the middle of someone's field. The two sat on the hill for a few hours, stargazing and mindlessly talking about whatever came to mind.

The days went by, with Lily staying at Remus' place. The duo found themselves spending most of their time in a small bookshop cafe and walking through the woods, Remus smoking his weed and Lily sometimes Lily would take a hit but she wasn't as fond of it as Remus was.

With only a week and a half till school started again, Remus and Lily planned to go to hogsmeade together tomorrow.

But midday, two figures appeared walking towards the Lupin cottage just as Remus and Lily got back from their walk in the woods.

As the got closer to the two, they saw it was James and Sirius.

Remus dropped his joint to the floor and ran to the two standing by the door to his home.

He wrapped his arms around Sirius, but felt them freeze up at the touch. So Remus moved to stop the hug, but at that withdrawal, Sirius wrapped his own arms around Remus tightly with no sign of letting go.

The two stood there for a few minutes, wrapped in an embrace while Lily and James stood awkwardly nearby them.

"... hi" James said, waving at Lily, but since they were near each other, Lily had to move backwards to avoid getting hit by his hand.

James quickly withdrew his hand, and stepped back. He looked down at his hand for a few seconds, before bringing it up again and saluting Lily.

As he was half way through saluting her, he realised what he was doing and quickly brought it straight down to his side, and froze at Lily with unblinking eyes like a deer stuck in headlights.

She started laughing, affectively ending the hug between Remus and Sirius, who turned to look between Lily and James.

At that moment, Hope came inside, calling Lily for something and waved in greeting to James and Sirius.

After Lily had walked into the house, James grinned widely.

"She laughed at me!! She thinks I'm funny!"

"She was laughing AT you, cause she thinks you're a wanker" Remus corrected.

Sirius grinned slightly at the retort and grabbed Remus' hand.

Remus looked to Sirius and James realised Sirius would talk to Remus and Remus could help Sirius, even just slightly.

"I'll go see if Hope needs some more help" James said before turning to the cottage and giving Remus and Sirius some time alone.

Inside the cottage, James and Lily were setting up cutlery around the table and helping Hope with the dinner.

James noticed the flowers in the mug, "wow, these look really nice Hope, my mum keeps trying to make some nice flower arrangements for around the house but she's not very good at it. I made this red and gold one, go gryffindor!! for her birthday a few weeks ago but it was no where near as good as this one!!"

Hope came out of the kitchen carrying a saucepan of curry.

"Oh no honey, I didn't make that, that was all thanks to Lily" she said coming round the table and softly touching Lily's arm in gratitude.

"Oh" James said, freezing again as he stared back at Lily. "Its.. um.. its really good.. I like the uhh,, its good."

Lily raised an eyebrow at him, "thank you?"

James nodded, and tapped the table, trying to think of something else to say.

His eyes glanced over the the window, spotting Remus and Sirius sitting on the edge of the woods on a small bench, still talking and holding each others hand.

"I should probably go get them for dinner" he said, about to get out of his seat.

Hope waved her hand absentmindedly, "oh leave them its fine, the lovebirds can eat later"

A few minutes later, Lyall came back from work and sat at the table with them.

The four ate in fairly comfortable silence, sometimes having small conversations.

The next day they went to Hogsmeade.

Sirius waringly looking out for any of their family members as they walked around doing their shopping. Remus stood by xyr side the whole time, with James and Lily awkwardly leading the group together.

Peter found them a few hours later, he was shopping with zir mum but stayed with his friends for a while.

In Flourish and Blotts, Sirius and Remus seemed to have disappeared together in a fiction section, bonding over their mutual love of books packed with monsters and adventures and swordsmen.

Lily gazed at books on the shelf closest to her, sometimes bringing one up to her eye line and reading the blurb before putting it back on the shelf again.

James stood there with Peter, who he was very glad of, Peter acting as a distraction of the awkward silence between Lily and James.

So as Peter rambled about how he's so glad ze doesn't have to do potions anymore, James took his mind of trying to impress Lily and put his focus on listening to Peter.

However in the next moment, Peter made a very tactical decision of engaging Lily into the conversation.

"So Lily, I'm guessing you're still taking Potions this year?" Peter asked.

Lily turned around, one hand still lightly touching one of the books on the shelf.

"Yeah, but it sucks that none of my friends are taking it. I tried to get Remus to change his mind and take it for weeks.. and then he blew up half the kitchen trying to make pasta sauce and realised my efforts were futile."

James laughed, "thats Remus, alright"

Lily looked over at him, contemplating. Before nodding her head and smiling slightly as she turned back to the bookshelf.

After around five minutes, Peter chiped up.

"Oh!! James is taking Potions still aren't you? You said you're dad really wanted you to get a Potion Newt. You two can hang out in class"

James sent Peter a 'what the hell' glare before Lily nodded again and clearly said the words,

"I guess we could, its better than the chance of getting stuck with Sev- Snape for the rest of the year... are you any good?"

James froze, "um.. yeah, yeah.. well no, not really to be honest"

Lily smiled again, "thats fine, I'm hood enough for the both of us"

She took a book off the shelf and kept it in her arms for the first time. And then walked back to James and Peter.

"If I'm helping you in Potions though, you've gotta help me with transfiguration."

She lifted up the book in her arms to show the cover, the transfiguration book they needed this year.

"I skimmed this a little, and it barely made any sense at all."

James lifted a hand to his hair, ruffling it up on a nervous habit.

"Minnie gave me a group of younger years to tutor last year, maybe you could come to those? .. not that I think you're as dumb as first and second years, far from it, you're one of the smartest people I know. But I just mean that a lot of our topics this year our ones that we did in first and second year but with more context and more advanced. So I thought that if you revised the basics then the more advanced parts would make more sense to you.. if you wanted?"

"Yeah that sounds great" she said, before moving to another bookshelf and flicking through it.

The rest of the day, the two of them talked and talked. And back at Remus' cottage Lily walked up to him before he had to leave with Sirius.

"Today was fun, friends?" She asked.

James nodded, "friends"

As him and Sirius left, Sirius hit his shoulder.

"What were you and Lily talking about? Declaring your undying love for her?"

James shook his head, "We're just friends, I need to just... move on i guess, friends is as best as it'll get. And its enough for me."

#marauders era #james potter #lily evans #anti snape #marauders #jily #anti snily #harry potter #harry potter fandom #tw physical violence #tw stalking #finally posting this #ive been writing it for a couple of days but im finally done #woo!!!

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iesnoth · 4 years ago

Text

Tumblr’s becoming my place to process life, because it’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m inconveniencing others or forcing my problems on them.

If you don’t read, that’s cool. Lord knows we don’t need more negativity in our lives right now.

But if you do read, I hope my inner hurricane helps you somehow. Like, feeling like human trash is more bearable if it makes someone else feel better, you know? And I’ve felt like human trash for a hot minute. And it’s super annoying, because I know I shouldn’t feel this way. No one has treated me bad or anything. But maybe some of my introvert peeps can relate to this cycle of shame and loneliness I’m trapped in.

It starts with being lonely. We all are, it’s a pandemic where we have to stay away from others. The longer I’m alone, though, the more depressed I become. In the beginning I’d ask to hang out with one of my two friends, but then I became self-conscious about only asking those two people. I didn’t want to become co-dependent. I didn’t want to burden them. So I stopped asking. And they haven’t talked to me since, which I take to mean they were around me as a favor to me, not because I was fun to be around. Which as a kid who was bullied, is a big point for me. I hate when people hang out with me out of obligation.

I’ve always wanted a life-long friendship where the other person and I constantly talk to and love each other, but I’ve never had that. Maybe those relationships are a lot more rare than I thought. Or maybe it’s just me. I has to be my fault, I am the common denominator in all my relationships.

I’ve tried to be better, but the more I try the more I’m confused what it means to be a good friend. Friendship isn’t serving others to get favors in return, but if I serve them in expectation of attention, isn’t that the same? On the other hand, if my close friends needed me, I would cross states, I would give money, blood, anything. But they never tell me when they’re hurting. Am I that unreliable? Maybe, but it’s more likely they don’t want to burden others, either.

Why do we hold ourselves to high standards but not our friends? Why do I withhold my problems, but want others to tell me theirs? I’m not saying this to insinuate we shouldn’t listen to others’ problems. I’m saying we should be kinder to ourselves. We’re social creatures, and that’s good, but we can put social interaction on a pedestal, and that’s-- not great.

The idol of social prowess is a big reason I’m so miserable right now. Part of my brain measures my worth as a human by how many social engagements I have during a certain period of time, or how well-liked I am. The first I can’t judge for quality, and the second I’ll never know, so I’m under constant stress.

For me personally, a lot of this depression also comes from a loss of self. I feel so lost right now, and I know the solution. The solution is to spend more time with Jesus Christ, who knows all my flaws and still loves me. But right now I realize how much I don’t deserve that love, and so it hurts to be in it. He doesn’t want me to feel that way, like any person wouldn’t want a loved one to feel that way, but I still avoid him, have been for a while. Instead, I look for belonging in people who don’t text back, in art that’s never good enough, in media that doesn’t satisfy. I need to go back, to accept His help in working through my flaws, and to enjoy His constant presence more than a human’s fickle approval.

Also, we need to normalize talking to others about problems. Not just “my SO is sick” or “I’m feeling down” problems, but “I’m a pathological liar” or “I can’t stop eating my emotions” problems, the ones we feel embarrassed about, that we’re afraid will make others think less of us, but that we need support in more than anything. Everyone has vices they struggle with, and we shouldn’t pretend that we don’t, because hiding them only enforces the imposter syndrome so many people feel. It fuels the lie of “I deserve this” when bad things happen.

I’ve been thinking that a lot lately. I’m a bad friend so I deserve not to have any. But not only is it untrue that I don’t have friends, it’s untrue that my flaw of selfishness makes it OK for others to treat me badly. If Jesus knows every thought I’ve ever had, every sin I have and will do, and still loves me, then my friends can still love me if I don’t text them for a couple weeks. I can still love them even though they haven’t texted me.

This post was therapeutic to write. I broke down and cried at about the sixth paragraph, and by the end I’m hopeful. Even if all my worst fears are true and my friends never talk to me again, it’ll be OK. Even if somehow it’s all my fault, I can grow. This present time does not define me, and guilt is not a tool for change.

#personal #spiritual #hot take?#take what i say with a grain of salt #it's not applicable to all situations

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thegreymoon · 5 years ago

Note

arthur please for how hot is that character!

First of all, big sorry to the two anons whose asks were*eaten* because apparently, my drafts can’t handle the hotness of ArthurPendragon 🔥🔥🔥

So, here goes my third attempt at this impossible taskbecause, seriously, how do you even quantify pure sunshine on the hotnessscale? IT IS IMPOSSIBLE!! 😭😭😭

|☀️🔥☀️ HE IS THE SUN☀️🔥☀️|

The funny thing about Arthur Pendragon is that I’ve been aware ofthis show since the beginning, it was always somewhere in the background of myother fandom activity, people were going into meltdowns over him, and Iremember seeing stills and promo pics and going… “Eh.” All I saw was some genericpretty boy with blond hair and blue eyes that didn’t even look that great fromsome angles, so I was not particularly inspired to pick up the show with anygreat haste.

*Yes, my stupidity was infinite and I will be atoning for it for along time to come, now that I too am finally in the Merlin hell!*

The point is, even though I was vaguely aware of this show foryears before I actually sat down to watch it, nothing, and I mean *nothing*prepared me for Bradley James in character. He had me in the first scene, the manliterally shines, like, he has an actual halo and everything! Plus, hisvoice, and the way he moves and emotes, I was gone for him the minute I first saw himin motion!

I couldn’t find any good images of him from that first scene,everything is such low resolution and they do not do him justice, but here aresome others where his sunshine personified:

But like I said before, he is the most beautiful for me in motion,preferably when riding horses:

Of course, Bradley James is, beyond a doubt a spectacularlybeautiful man, but I think that the appeal of Arthur Pendragon is not so muchhow he looks, but that he’s so damn lovable,even when he’s at his worst, and that takes some serious skill and charisma topull off. He is such a pretty little evil, some of my favourite Arthur scenesare when he is positively glowing with this cheerful malice, like in that firstscene, because his face takes on this almost angelic quality. These are myfavourites, but of course, the show is full of them:

He is, in his own words, the“full package”, probably not in the same way that he meant, but thecharacter of Arthur is so layered and so multifaceted! I mean, this man:

Is the same as this man:

He’s so ridiculous and regal at the same time! I feel that Bradleydoes not get enough credit for how versatile he is, we all focus on Colin (anddon’t get me wrong, Colin is out-of-this-world-perfect), but this is the sameman, in the very same scene:

There are times he’s so vulnerable, it hurts:

And others where we see him come through as a veritable killing machineand remember why he is remembered as the greatest warrior in Britain (Merlinhelped out a lot, but still):

Then there are scenes where he’s all contemplative and almostwise:

Of course, he is also cute:

And adorable:

And pretty:

And goddamn gorgeous:

I mean, even in his final hours, he looked like this:

HE HAD NO BUSINESS LOOKING THIS PRETTY MINUTES AWAY FROM DYING, I MEAN BRADLEY, W.T.F 😭😭😭

But let’s not forget LORD MERCY, beause lbr, that is his natural state! Seriously, thank you Bradley and whoever greenlit all thefanservice in this chaste and wholesome ~family show~, because your audience very much appreciated all your slutty, sluttyshirts:

Thank you, sir, for not shaving your chest and giving us the many shirtless moments, they were truly appreciated for the masterpieces they were:

Anyway, I’m going to stop my out-of-control fangirling now because it’s just not possible to express this man’s hotness in stills and promo pics! Nothing but putting all his scenes from the entire damn show on some kind of loop could possibly do him justice, and Tumblr already thinks I’m ridiculous and has eaten two whole attempts at making this post. Arthur Pendragon is simply too hot to handle!!

☀️ 🔥 ☀️ ☀️ 🔥 ☀️ ☀️ 🔥 ☀️ ☀️ 🔥 ☀️ ☀️ 🔥 ☀️

#how hot is that character #arthur #merlin #bradley james #Anonymous

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

Text

Heart in My Hand (15x18 “Despair” coda, Dean-centric, Destiel. post-that scene)

(ao3 link)

He was right there.

Cas was telling Dean everything he ever wanted to hear since meeting the angel of the Lord... only each and every word of his confession stabbed at Dean's heart. Because once he finished, there's no more time for them. For him. For any chance of happiness - all that taken away by the Empty. And now he has to carry on.

He tries. Stands, gets in his car and drives where Sam tells him. When he meets with the others, though...

Dean spots them easily, only two people left on the planet besides himself. Standing in the middle of the street, waiting. He rolls to a stop near some crashed truck and an abandoned bag of groceries that spills out the top. Egg yolks oozing into a small puddle, mixing with freely leaking juice burning bright against dark asphalt. Visible even from where he sits inside his car.

With Sam and Jack advancing, Dean crams the rest of his emotions down. Puts on a brave face. What he sees in his rearview isn’t anything like that. Trembling lips. Red, blotchy skin. Wide eyes that look more haunted than an average, Midwestern home. It’s better than how he appeared earlier. And since they’re already here, he must move on. Steeling himself, he exits his car.

“Dean,” Jack starts, glancing from him to his empty car, “Where’s Cas?”

Dean fails, again. “Cas…” He croaks, words blocked by the boulder that wedged into his throat once that black portal of despair vanished. Water traces familiar pathways down his cheeks, Dean steadying himself on his open door. Hisses panicked breaths through clenched teeth. “Cas, he…”

“Oh.” Sam stumbles backwards, news dealing its own damage. Jack stares at Dean, jaw hanging limply. Gaze wet from threatening tears. “Was it…” his brother coughs, regaining his footing, “was it Billie?”

He shakes his head, still not ready to speak. Voice abandoning him like… well.

“Chuck?” Jack asks, inching closer. “Did Chuck make him crumble, too?”

Dean nearly forgot. Chuck… if only. His anger would have a target, instead of hanging around him as if it were a fog. Miasma thick he cannot see past a never-ending reel of those few, long minutes. Cas’s parting message replaying ad nauseum. “No,” he manages, staring at Baby’s roof. “No, he – he sacrificed… to take out… to save…” Gasping, Dean lolls his head upwards. Staring up at an empty sky, sending what’s left of his sentence into the heavens.

Someone approaches, lays a hand on his elbow. There because it hovered over Dean’s shoulder and chose a different path. Dean felt how close it came to fitting over his angel’s mark. Heard a sharp intake of breath after they noticed it, confirming Dean’s suspicion. “Dean,” Sam says – of course it’d be him. He recognizes his little brother’s voice. Especially when he forces confidence through his tone. It lacks, however, as an undercurrent of worry threaded through it. “Dean,” he continues, “what happened?”

First, he searches for Jack. The younger boy leans across from Dean, waiting. Curious. Heartbroken. “He,” Dean whispers, knees buckling under him, “Billie was out for blood and – and we couldn’t stop her on our own. So Cas, he…” Sam’s grip tightens on his elbow, adds another supportive touch to Dean’s armpit. Keeps him standing. Dean thanks Sam by letting his hands stay. “We were dead to rights. So Cas… let himself be happy.”

Jack’s muttered curse resolves a lingering question, whether he knew. Doubly confirmed since Jack draws further attention to himself, slamming his fist on Baby’s roof. Dean doesn’t raise his usual objections. “The Empty,” he says.

“The Empty?” Sam glances between Jack and Dean, “What would… why would the Empty be there? When Cas is happy – what are you talking about?”

“A deal Sammy,” Dean says. Louder, rougher. Shattering the eerie silence of this deserted city scape. “He made a deal with that damned thing, his life for… for…”

“For mine.” Jack tilts his head, brows drawn in such a mirror of his father Dean nearly collapses where he stood. He remains strong. “When I was in Heaven, after I… I died, the first time.” Sighing, he stretches towards them. Extending an empty palm in a gesture of regret. “I’m… I’m so sorry –“

“No.” Dean slides his own hand, taking Jack’s. Squeezes it. Grounding himself further. “I don’t… it’s not your fault. Cas made the deal. He – he’s made his choice. It’s… if he had the chance to go back, he’d still do it. Again and again. That’s who he is.” Dean hiccups, face cracking as his mouth stretches wide, gracing the others with a rueful smile. “Putting everyone’s needs before himself even if it… even if it meant he could never…” He shudders, Cas’s peaceful expression when the Empty struck frozen in his mind. “Too good, Cas was – he was too good –“

“Dean, Dean!” Sam tore Dean away from Jack and Baby, carrying him off to sit on the sidewalk’s curb. Bent him, head between knees, helping him work past growing hysterics. Jack followed them, hovering. Shadow blocking the sun from shining above, casting him in darkness. Thinking this makes Dean spiral further. “Breathe Dean, just breathe.”

It’s stupid. Dean wastes valuable time, their world crumbling all around them. And what is he doing? Crying. Making Sam and Jack comfort him because Dean lost the shovel he usually buries his feelings with. Empty probably taking that, too. It’s stupid. Maddening. Also, completely unavoidable.

Dean wondered if, one day, he might shatter so completely gathering those pieces might prove impossible. He has his answer, at the worst possible moment.

Soon he calms, and Dean can lift his head without flashing back there.

“Dean…” Sam starts, cautiously. Treating Dean too carefully given how far into this war they’re in. “Dean, Cas’s deal… the Empty wanted him happy?” Nodding, Dean waits for the next question. Dreading it. “What… what did he do?”

Sam hadn’t broken down, when they found Eileen’s duffel – and her phone. Recovered best he could and shouldered his pain. Allowed those seconds of grief, then used it as fuel. Whereas Dean drags his suffering into eternity. Mourns his best friend, and their lost potential. A stolen future. Years spent in denial. If he’d taken a chance earlier… at some point. “Cas,” Dean sighs, “he let himself… he confessed…” Explaining it was too difficult, but Sam needed to know. Jack, too. “He loved me, Sam.” Laughing, Dean wipes at his eyes. “He loved me, after all I – he still… he loved me, and that killed him.” Whispering, he repeats, “He loved me.”

Sam’s features shifted, journeying from shock to a pitying understanding. Rubs comfortingly at his back, sighing. “Loving you was what made him happiest?”

“Yeah… it was, it was so simple…” Dean uncurls, teetering, flirting with the idea of lying on his back. He and Jack trade a fleeting glance, Dean checking his reaction. Not surprised in the slightest. Kid’s too damned insightful. “Just admitting it was enough and… and you know what he said? He said he… Cas believed it was something he could never have?” His chest tightens, and Dean scoffs. “I don’t… how could that be – how could loving me be, I’m… how can I be Cas’s happiness? Out of all he could have had, and what he wanted was me – what I… what I thought I could never have.”

“Don’t say that Dean,” Sam admonishes, “you are worthy of having love.”

Shrugging, Dean turns from his and Jack’s heavy stares. Looks at the pooling egg yolk again; focuses on that spreading mess. “Cas said about as much, before the Empty… had this whole speech that I – it felt like I was being peeled away. Called me out for… it all feels so meaningless. Is that what it felt like, with Eileen? Being with someone who can see through you and make all this big stuff seem – well, seem not so big anymore?” Sam agrees, as much. “There we were Billie hot on our heels. Waiting for death, and he spits out the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I almost forgot what was going on. It was just him and me… him seeing – seeing me. And you know what I did? Not a goddamn thing…”

“Dean…”

“I could barely speak, I – I was so scared,” Dean admits, “if you’d’ve been there Sam, the look of – look of finality that was there, alongside the love, and peace, and happiness. I always wanted to hear him say that, couldn’t predict him saying all of that… I would’ve traded it if it meant he’d stay. And I can – I get to have him in the only way we could. But he made up his mind, like with Jack. Took Billie down, and him, too. Leaving me there – alone – that it… when I finally said it back, I was too late.”

They echoed. Hung in the air. Mingled with Cas’s blood on his sleeve and the fresh tears pouring out of him. Shook Dean down to the very core of his being, barely hearing it past the low pitch of static filling his ears. Dean thought those words innumerably before, imagined different scenarios, played pretend in the comfort of his room where no one can see.

No one ever will, now.

“I…” Dean tries saying his truth. It doesn’t want to come out. He continues regardless, “I miss him, Sam. Why do we do this? Hurt everyone we’ve ever cared about? Hell, the whole world’s collateral damage because of us!” Exhausted, Dean gives in. Falls fully off the cliff, lying on the sidewalk. Arms spread beside him while he watches endless blue.

Sam squeezes his knee, “I miss her too. I miss them all.” He stands, adding another shadow. Jack’s advancing, too. Blanketing Dean in a strange temperature. Not cold, still there’s an absence of warmth he notes. “But it’s not on us. It’s Chuck. Always has been…”

“Then is this it?” Dean asks, “One last play, even if it kills us? Even if it can’t bring everyone back?”

“At least we died fighting, then.”

Dean cannot argue with this. He doesn’t feel too inclined to move yet. “For them,” he says, closing his eyes. “This isn’t about us, anymore. It’s about all of them. The world… our family… Eileen and – and Cas.”

Their shadows move. He senses them leave, sunlight returning. Bringing with it more memories. Of how it felt first hearing Cas say it. A natural glow that lit from within. Snuffed in Cas’s next breath, as Billie’s fist pounded on the door, and when the bitterness of Cas’s declaration hit his tastebuds. Dean grasps for that feeling, basking under the sun. Pretends it’s Cas giving him that gorgeous, soul-shattering smile. Encouraging him into his final battle. Telling him it’ll be over soon, he’ll be done, and that he loves him.

He loves him. He loves him. He loves him.

“I love you Cas.”

Dean will rise. Gather what little he, Sam, and Jack have and rush at Chuck until there truly is nothing left. Of this world. Or of them. But that’s later.

Right now, Dean dreams of his losses. Apologizes, one by one, faces blurring together as he starts counting strangers his mind saved for no purpose other than to make him carry more crosses. Never his, though.

Cas’s face shines uninterrupted, clearly, like the sun. There even as everything else fades. In the safety of his mind, where the Empty can’t steal him. In the safety of his heart, that Chuck can’t control. In his hands, wearing Cas’s blood like a badge of honor and pride.

And love.

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #15x18 despair #dean winchester #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #spn coda #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel coda #deancas coda #sam winchester #jack kline #castiel

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thewokewordsmith · 5 years ago

Photo

Zuko and Katara are refugees and war orphans who have been trained by the White Lotus since childhood to hone their bending skills to assassinate the Fire Navy’s highest ranking members.

I originally made this gifset for Zutara month but a lot of people in the notes were asking for a fanfic and I finally got around to writing it. It’s a one shot for now but I might eventually turn it into a multi chapter fic. Anyway please enjoy.

If you summed up my life until this point it would be. Travel light. Move quick. Create distance. It’s a way of life when your an assassin. Nothing left behind. Nothing to tie you to the scene of the crime. Leave no trace of your ever having been there. Leave no trace of your existence. Make it quick. Make it clean. Flee the scene.

That’s what they used to sing to us when we were little. They made a game out of the killing. Turned it into a song. A nursery rhyme so that our young minds could grasp the concept of killing. I don’t feel bad for being an assassin. I’m doing what needs to be done to end the war. Some say it’s hopeless to still fight after the Avatar was killed by Fire Lord Ozai’s daughter Azula, but I say fighting is better than giving up. People always think things are impossible until someone does the impossible. When it comes to ending this war I don’t believe in can’t. There’s just can’t right now. We can’t defeat Ozai right now, but we will.

Working at night has always been to my advantage, but my partner Zuko has never let it be to his disadvantage. His firebending is as deadly at night as it is during the daytime, and if ever it wasn't his dao swords more than make up for the discrepancy. The White Lotus masters pick our partners by watching the way all of us played together as children. To us it seemed like a regular playtime innocent enough, but there's nothing innocent about being one of the White Lotus' orphans, and it was really a test; a compatibility test to see what assassin we paired best with. Not only did they see how well we played together but they also watched how we fought with each other.

Zuko and I have always had our share of fights but we always resolved them. We don't let things fester we knock down, drag out, and make up. I guess that's one of the reasons the masters put us together. I don't know all of the reasons why the two of us were paired and I've never felt the need to ask. Zuko and I just work. We are both opposites and equals an unmovable object and an unstoppable force.

“We should be reaching Whaletail island in about fifteen minutes.” Zuko calls out.

“Who’s the mark?” I ask.

“Lieutenant Shimizu.”

I don’t need to study the photo of Lieutenant Shimizu I’ve got his face memorized already. I always remember their face even if I don’t remember their names. I don’t like calling the marks by their name. The killing is easier if I only think of them as marks.

“Five more minutes.”

I flex the veins in my fingers and my arms preparing myself to bloodbend as Zuko slips his Blue Spirit mask over his face. Our sky bison, Appa, dips low over the water. The members of the white lotus told us that Appa once belonged to the Avatar and I don’t doubt it because who else beside an airbender would have a sky bison? Some people say the Avatar isn’t dead. I’ve heard rumors that he’s in hiding and just waiting for the right moment to come back and save the world. I can’t waste my time with rumors and what ifs. I want a life beyond killing, running, and hiding. The only way to do that is to end this war, and I will by any means necessary.

The lieutenant’s ship comes upon us quickly. Bile rises up in my throat forcing me to clamp my lips shut tight and fight against the hot sick feeling but I hold back the urge to wretch. I always get an intense sick feeling before a kill. For a moment my skin is clammy but I whisk the sweat away with my bending to prevent chills. I’ve got to be totally focused. Zuko and I have planned this down to every last detail, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the killing.

“We can't fly in directly to the outpost we'll have to find somewhere to land Appa and then make our way from there.”

“How many are stationed at the outpost?”

“Less than ten.” Zuko replies. “It's strictly no take downs unless anyone sees us then we have no choice but to take them out.”

“I know the drill besides they never see us coming. That's what makes us assassins.”

I remember my first kill and the shocked look on the mark's face as my ice crystal pierced his heart. It slipped into him so easily, and even though the mark didn't know me he looked so betrayed. His eyes stayed on me until he fell to the floor. There wasn't any blood it all seemed too neat to be a killing. Murder was supposed to be messy and hard but my first time had been neither of those things.

“Is he really dead, Zuko?”

“Come on Katara we don’t have time.”

“But he-.”

“Come on! Make it quick. Make it clean. Leave the scene.” Zuko reminded me as he pulled me out of the room by the sleeve of my cloak, but I couldn't take my eyes off of the man lying in the floor. He was dead. I really did it. I killed someone.

We were out of the building before anyone even noticed that the general was dead and I couldn't believe how easy it was. Surely they won’t be all easy I thought. They weren't. There has been more than one mark that's put up a good fight. I've got the scars to prove it but the outcome is always the same. They die and Zuko and I live on to kill again and again; enough to amass a body count. I've seen the look of death on so many people's faces but I never can forget my first. To this day that surprise look of betrayal haunts me.

“We can land over there.” Zuko points to a small island a few yards away and I guide Appa towards it. We leap off the back of Appa before he touches down to the ground.

“We're going to have to sail our way over.”

“I'm on it.” I bend out a piece of ice big enough and thick enough to carry Zuko and I over to the Fire Navy's communication outpost. The floating block of ice cuts through the water like a knife through flesh. When we get close enough to the out post I create a wave big enough to lift us up to the tower. For a moment it's like the two of us are flying, and how I wish that we could. I wish that the two of us could fly away from this all, but as it stands there is no running away there's only fighting and surviving in a world that's ruled by fire.

The outpost is made of metal that is old and rusted from years upon years of being left to bare the brunt of the assault from it's natural enemy the salty sea water, and surely it creeks and groans but as we climb the stairs to the top floor there is no sound. Zuko and I spent years mastering Gōsutomōshon. Ghost motion. The art of moving without being heard.

The guards are just starting up their rounds, and as we reach the top floor we stay out of their line of sight and they remain oblivious to our presence. We wait until they head in the opposite direction before making our way through the open door that will lead us to Lieutenant Shimizu. There is no one in the corridors no sounds save for the sea.

In the moments before a kill I become a different person. I wash away all traces of my off duty self and wholly become an assassin. Ice water pumps through my veins and I know longer know mercy or pity. You cannot bargain your way out of the fate at hand; not when my own hands are already stained with too much blood to turn back now.

“This is it. The lieutenant's room.” Zuko informs me.

“Not for long.”

I force the door open with a surge of water that pushes the solid metal door back on it's hinges. It alerts the lieutenant and before we can even step into his room he's bending at us. It doesn't do him any good. Zuko deflects his fire blast until I step into the room behind him to end things.

“Wh-who are you?” The lieutenant ask.

“The last thing you'll ever see.” Zuko answers.

I hate it when they talk. I don't want to know what they sound like I just want them dead. “Shatter!” I cry out and clap my hands together.

Zuko jumps on the spot. “Damn it, Katara you’re supposed to warn me before you do that!” Zuko snaps as the body lands directly in front of him with a loud thud of dead weight.

“Me saying shatter was your warning. Besides it's the quickest and most humane way I know to kill someone.”

“Humane? Freezing all of someone’s blood vessels and then shattering them into a million pieces is about a brutal death as you can get.”

“I’m sure they feel a lot less pain this way as opposed to boiling their blood.”

Zuko sucks on his teeth. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.”

We leave the same way we came in. By the time the other soldiers discover their lieutenant's body we'll be long gone. As Appa flies us back to our camp we are silent. I've never asked Zuko what he's thinking about after a kill and he's never asked me. There is no need to; we are both thinking about the same thing. A life where we are not killers. We are thinking about a time when all of this bloody effort will pay off and we'll see the end of the war. It has to end someday. It has to. The hope that the war will one day end is the only thing that gives me the strength to keep killing. Above all else I believe that we will win; I just pray to Yue that we win this war before Zuko and I lose the war between good and evil that is being waged within us.

#Zutara #Zuko #Katara #avatar the last airbender #zutara month #assassins #fanfiction #the woke wordsmith

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i-dont-want-your-hysteria · 4 years ago

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Curiosity Cursed the Leppard

(This is a stupid little idea I wrote 2 years ago- one of my first Leppard fics that I actually executed. Normally I try to be as historically accurate as humanly possible, but I’m a teeny bit lazy with this one. I didn’t edit much when it came to proofreading this. I posted this on ao3 and rockfic 2 years ago once it was done, so if you recognize it, thanks for reading it so long ago!)

Words: 3,406 Characters: Phil, Steve, Rick, Sav, Joe, Peter Mensch Setting: March 1983, beginning of the Billy Squier tour Summary: The baby Pyro Leppards are sick of sitting back and doing what they’re told. To spite their dearest band manager, they need to- as Steve once put it- “break up the monotony”. Unfortunately, their curiosity comes with some minor consequences...

------

March 1983, somewhere in Europe

“Look at this over here!” Phil called back into the hotel room from the balcony, “Swimming pool!”

Steve trotted out to the balcony and joined his Terror Twin at the railing. Down in the small yard of the hotel was an in-ground pool with a few lawn chairs and a diving board. It was nothing extravagant, but it was a pleasant sight no less.

“That’d be really nice, if it were a bit hotter out,” Steve leaned on the railing of the balcony. When he spoke, the fog of his breath was visible.

The Leppards were about to begin their tour as the opening act for Billy Squier. They had about a week before any of the shows actually started, though. With all this extra time and no plans, there really seemed to be no telling what they could get themselves into before they had a show. Since it was the first day of their down time, curiosity seemed inevitable.

“It’s still early in the morning, it’ll get warmer,” Phil encouraged, “Don’t know about you, but I’d take the chance!”

Steve hung his head, looking directly down from where they stood, “I think you’ve forgotten what season it is, mate.”

“It won’t make a difference if it’s winter or summer,” Rick appeared in the doorway, joining in on the conversation, “I heard the pool’s heated, anyways. They haven’t turned it on for the day yet.”

Phil’s head popped up and he cooed, “Ooh, even better; we can pop in for a hot swim after our runnin’ around today.”

“Don’t even think about it!” Peter Mensch echoed from the inside, “Heated pool or not, it’s only 34 Fahrenheit outside right now, and you boys can’t risk getting sick! Besides, you probably won’t even have time to swim after all that we’ve gotta do today.”

Sav appeared next to Peter, holding a few of his luggage bags, “Oh, it’s not that much to do; it’s mostly just the dinner with Bill!”

Peter had to object, “Maybe it mostly is the dinner with Bill, but it can still take forever. All I’m saying is, don’t take the chance; we’ve got stuff to do.”

And with that, he exited the one large hotel room the Leppards all had to share.

“All this ‘stuff’ he’s claiming we have to do is just the same old story,” Joe muttered to Sav, also carrying luggage, “He says its ‘super important’ and we’ve ‘got to be there’, but we just end up taggin along with him for the ride and he does all the work.”

“It’s like we’re his pets or something,” Rick flew past the two of them and jumped face-first onto one of the beds.

“Or his children,” Sav commented, “Either way, he thinks he needs leashes on us.”

Phil suddenly called back into the room over his shoulder, “I say we spite him.”

Steve yelled back in the same manner, even though he was answering to Phil right next to him, “Ditto.”

“But how?” Joe inquired to the men on the balcony, putting luggage on the bed right next to Rick, “You two are the experts of spite.”

Phil simply motioned his arm out towards the yard of their hotel with a formal demeanor, “Let’s go for a quick swim; it’s the perfect opportunity!"

Steve nodded in approval of Phil’s proposal, and silence fell between the band for a sudden and brief moment.

“Count me in,” Rick muttered into a pillow, which made it sound more like gibberish. He sat himself up and stared at Joe and Sav, awaiting a response to support the future actions of the rest of the band, “What about you two?”

Sav and Joe looked at each other and shrugged.

“I’m alright with it, ‘long as we do it later,” Joe expressed his agreement as he looked out to the Terror Twins on the balcony, smirking, “Can’t spite him too early in the day.”

“Yeah, I say we do it later when it’s not freezing outside,” Sav suggested, “Spitin’ him doesn’t mean we have to freeze our arses off.”

***

When leaving for their day activities about an hour later, the five band members gazed in awe at the steam coming off of the pool water. As they walked on by, a woman with long dark hair and pale skin was in the pool.

“Ooh, can’t wait for that later,” Phil cooed.

“Can’t wait for what?” Steve asked him while they both stared outside, “The pool, or the girl?”

Phil casually joked, “Ah, I’ll flip a coin.”

“Okay,” Joe whispered to the rest of the band as they fell behind Peter a little more, “After we get back, we hide out in our room and wait until he’s gone.”

Sav added onto their plan, “And hiding time is prep time. We get changed, we check to see if anyone’s around the pool, all that jazz.”

“Sounds like the most exciting thing we’re gonna do all day,” Rick commented as they strode along into their “busy” day, “Don’t know how long I’ll be able to last through all of this useless shit we’ve gotta do.”

“It’ll all be worth it,” Phil assured them, “We’ve just gotta wait... and Lord knows for how long.”

***

They ended up waiting until about 7pm that night before they got back to the hotel. It was strange, because once they did get back, Peter said that he was going to simply leave them for the night. At the time they found out, the Leppards reacted normally, talking about being cooped up with the telly for the night or getting a good drink or two in. They all knew Peter had to run back out and do other manager-type things, but they didn’t know when he was leaving.

While they were waiting for him to leave, they all hastily got changed into swim trunks and fished out towels from the bathroom and kept peeking around to see whether the man of the hour still remained close by.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Phil said at one point, “We’ve been waiting 11 bloody minutes!”

“So?” Steve walked out of the bathroom in swim trunks, “It’s just 11 minutes. We weren’t expecting him to leave right away.”

Phil put on a pair of jeans over his own trunks, threw on a shirt, and made his way to the door of their room, “Well I’m impatient, and it’d be nice to know where this little plan of ours stands at the moment. We gotta look to see if he’s gone yet.”

“Be careful out there, solider,” Joe joked, strolling into the room with a bath towel.

***

Phil slipped out of the room and into the empty hallway silently. He walked towards the end that had Peter’s room, when Peter himself suddenly turned the corner in front of him, making him jump.

“Oh- Peter!” he awkwardly greeted him, “Hello, there!”

“Long time no see,” Peter greeted him back, not taking a second to stop walking. Phil, however, needed that stolen second.

He turned around to look at Peter and tried not to sound rushed when he asked, “Hey- uh, where are you headin’ off to right now?”

“Just to the arena where next week’s first show is,” he began, “Then I’m off to another meeting with Bill’s managers, then I’ve got to meet up with Mutt for a phone call to-”

“Oof,” Phil interrupted hastily as if it were bad news to him, and kept walking along, “That’s a lot, that’s tough. Hope you get it all done, bye!”

He suddenly turned and walked in the opposite direction, waving farewell. It prompted Peter to wave back (confusedly). Once their paths had crossed for good, and Phil turned a corner, he slowly peeked back around the corner to see if his target had completely gone. Once he saw the man in question enter the lift, the guitarist made his way back to the band’s room with a smug grin on his face.

It was go time.

***

“He’s been gone longer than I thought he’d be,” Steve commented as he gazed through the peep-hole of their door after only about three minutes of Phil’s absence. The other three were close by him, awaiting any news from their foot solider.

Joe pitched in, “Maybe he had to hide?”

Rick suggested, “Maybe he got in trouble?”

Sav countered, “And what would he get in trouble for so quickly?”

“Oh, he’s coming!” Steve whispered excitedly as the four of them back away from the door, leaving room for Phil to open it. When he did, he came in quickly, shut it behind him and exchanged a pleased look with the rest of the band.

They all waited in anticipation for a quick moment before Phil announced, “Our plan is a go, lads! He’s gone!”

The other four clapped and cheered briefly before each heading in a different direction to get their towels and shoes.

“What took you so long?” Steve asked him with a laugh, “I thought you were just snoopin’ around, weren’t you?”

“Well,” Phil shrugged, walking over to a bed where his towel lay, “I had to hide for a bit to watch him leave because I accidentally ran into him, and I also asked that lovely girl we saw in the pool earlier to join us...”

The older guitarist exchanged a smirk with the rest of his band, and they all suddenly looked excited. Whenever they hung out with girls, it tended to get wild (and almost certainly meant that one of them would get lucky).

“And?” Rick anxiously inquired, speaking for the whole band.

The smirk left Phil’s face instantly, and his voice dropped to a tone of disappointment, “She said she had to go meet up with friends.”

A collective chorus of “aww”s and “dammit”s subtly filled the room, but they all headed out the door and down to the pool no less. They passed the front desk along the way when-

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” the fairly young American man at the desk called out to them as they walked on by. They stopped in their tracks and faced him, trying to cover up their bare chests with their towels. Their turning around was a good enough answer to the man's question.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve just gotten a report that the heater in the pool has stopped working. We’ll have maintenance around in the morning to fix it,” he informed them. The band all sighed and moaned in defeat. Their one rebellious act on this boring day was cancelled.

“Can’t we still go in?” Steve asked him, resulting in a slap on the arm from Sav.

“It’s freezing out, and you wanna go swimming in an unheated pool?”

Steve shrugged, trying to prove a point, “Well if it hasn’t been broken long, the pool’s probably still heated a bit, right?”

“If you all wanna go in, you’re more than welcome,” the man at the desk offered, “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Right, thank you, sir,” Phil smiled, turning with the rest of the band towards the exit to the outdoor patio where the pool was. They didn't care about temperature at this point; they had a goal. Right about now Joe would normally be the one to turn them onto the right path, but he knew that they all had their minds set on the same path. He knew they weren’t just gonna stop.

“We’re all mad, we really are,” he mused excitedly to them, “Old man Peter’s gonna have our heads if he finds us right now.”

Rick tied his towel around his neck like a cape and laughed, “If he finds us, but we know he won’t!”

They all giggled like children as they walked outside to patio where the illuminated in ground pool resided, their breaths now visible. The freezing air of the evening enveloped them immediately, causing them to pull their towels around them tighter. After a moment, though, they all tossed their towels onto the chairs nearby, embracing the brisk temperature.

“Little chilly,” Sav stated as they kept walking towards the pool. When they got there, Steve kicked off his shoes and dipped his toes in right away.

“Little heated,” Steve said back as he felt the water with his foot.

“Little jump!” Phil threw his towel behind him and suddenly jumped into the pool, splashing the others in the process. They all gasped and started laughing at the guitarist’s perfect entry.

Rick pointed at the water where Phil was, “Okay, he’s mad!”

Phil came back up, wiped his eyes and told them, “It’s actually quite nice! Just come right in!”

“Well someone’s gotta go first!” Joe proclaimed, “And it’s not gonna be me!”

A quick pause between the remaining four ensued. It was broken when Sav suddenly yelled for a split second and fell forward into the pool. Joe, Phil, and Rick all turned and looked at Steve, who had just been standing behind Sav (and was now giggling).

“Oops,” he sarcastically snickered before jumping in after Sav and swimming as far away from the bassist as possible. Rick and Joe both broke down in laughs and wheezes, along with Phil in the pool.

Sav resurfaced with a curtain of wet hair over his eyes and called out to no one in particular, “Where the fuck is he?! Steve!”

“Over here!” Steve playfully called out from the middle of the pool, far away from where Sav currently was. Sav scooped his hair out of his face, located Steve a few yards away, and dove after him.

"Okay, okay, who's next? Me or you?" Joe said to the drummer.

"Actually," Rick proposed immediately after the inquiry, "I've got an idea for both of us."

***

“Okay, ready?” Rick asked Joe, who was standing on the side of the pool opposite himself.

“Ready,” came the response.

“One...” Rick counted.

“Two...” Joe continued.

“Three!” they both shouted as they began to run. Once they both reached the edge of the pool, they jumped simultaneously and just as clumsily as one another. For the second that they were both in the air, they managed to high five each other perfectly with a quick scream before plummeting into the slightly heated water. The three other band members that were already in the water applauded them at their success with enthusiastic claps and laughs. When Rick and Joe resurfaced, they were immensely pleased with their accomplishment, celebrating it with a proper high five. And thus, the private (but still forbidden) pool party had begun.

The next two hours housed a wide variety of spontaneous activities. These happenings ranged from cannonball competitions, to genuine conversation, and to reenactments of live shows (but played underwater, of course). The band’s wading in the water went unnoticed by the hotel staff the whole time it commenced, just as the cold temperature outside went unnoticed by the band themselves. Once the pre-provided heat had worn off into nothing but steam, the band's energy began to wind down slowly as well.

"Man," Phil remarked at one point when they were all still swimming, "Who knew that swimmin' for a bit could make your throat hurt."

"We've all been yelling too much, you know what that does to your voice," Joe told him knowingly (after all, he was the singer), “You know what happens when your energy gets up.”

“I feel like we’ve just played a show,” the drummer pulled himself up onto the edge of the pool and stretched both of him arms, feeling how sore they now were.

Sav, on the other hand, kept his shoulders underwater in order to provide some protection from the bite in the air. His hair was also acting like a scarf to the back of his neck to retain some of his body heat.

His jaw chattered when he spoke, “Is-sn’t anyone g-gonna mention how cold it is n-now?”

“He’s r-right,” Steve supported Sav, floating right next to him in the exact same manner, “It’s gotten a l-lot colder...”

“Guess it’s time we all called it a night, then,” Joe pulled himself out of the pool and quickly wrapped himself in a towel, now visibly shivering as well. The four other men followed his lead as the water on the ends of their hair slowly began to chill to a freezing temperature. In a few minutes, they were all heading back to their room, smushed together in the hopes of heating up even a little bit.

"Can't wait to get me some nice, hot tea," Rick rubbed his towel back and forth around him, "Now my throat's killin' me."

“Blimey, can you believe how cold it is in here?” Phil asked his friends once they were back inside the hotel (even though the heaters were most certainly running). They all nodded and murmured in collective agreement at the remark.

The man at the front desk had heard this interaction, and sighed as he continued to fan himself with a folder, sweating in the excessive heat of the hotel.

***

“You guys are all idiots, you know,” Peter stated bluntly to the band members the next morning.

They were all grumpily moaning in front of him on the beds and couch, far from being ready for any sort of activity. They were also all as sick as dogs; each of them running a fever, each of them huddled up under several blankets, and each of their noses acting all kinds of crazy.

“I can’t believe you guys would go swimming in an unheated pool when it’s 39 fucking degrees outside, and think that you wouldn’t get sick- especially when you know we’re at the beginning of a tour!”

“Hey now, Peter,“ Joe croaked sassily from under the covers, his beloved voice now destroyed, “We’ve still got a whole week before any shows.”

“Besides,” Phil added nasily, “Aren’t you happy we’re learning our lesson?”

“You got me there,” the manager pointed at him, “I shouldn’t be surprised; I don’t know why I am, but lucky for you dumbasses, you just got yourselves out of today’s activities.”

Soft sighs of “yes” swept over the hotel room as Peter covered his eyes with his hand in disappointment.

“No, not yes!” he couldn’t help but chuckle with a hint of anger, “You're still very sick! Now you boys have to get better, and fast! The fact that you’re sick doesn’t take away the fact that we’re on tour!”

“We’ll try to get better soon, we promise,” Sav whined before sneezing loudly, then holding his head in discomfort, "Ughh... I hope so..."

“We’re real sorry, Peter,” Steve pouted and made a fake but sleepy apology, “But we’re actually gonna need you to get some medicine for us, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The manager sighed at the innocent request and gave in, “Yeah, yeah, I can do that. Maybe it’s actually a good thing you’re all sick; now you don’t wanna run off into trouble.”

Sav mumbled to Joe next to him, “Told you he wants to put us on leashes.”

Peter spoke up, “What was that?”

“Nothing!”

“And for god’s sake, guys,” the oldest man in the room began to make his way over to the heater, “Would it kill you turn down the heat in here?”

“Yes, it would kill us!!” came five disgruntled objections, making the manager freeze in his current action and back away from the heater with both of his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright, I guess I’ll see you guys in a few. Is there anything else you want me to get?”

“Tea,” was all Rick needed to say.

“Gotcha,” Peter confirmed with the young drummer before quitting the Leppards’ room. A bit of quietness took place right afterwards, just to make sure that Old Man Peter didn’t come running back in to see if they were faking the band-wide illness.

“So what do you think?” Joe asked his four other friends, “Worth it?”

There was another brief silence before Phil answered, “Yeah. Definitely worth it.”

“Same here.”

“Agreed.”

“It was delightful.”

Low, evil, chuckles made their way around the room and faded away. The band members then laid in silence and stared up at the ceiling, now uncertain of what to do next in their unexpected down time.

“So...” Phil proposed to them, “First one to break their fever wins?”

Steve immediately turned his head to answer for the entire band, "You’re on.”

The end

#def leppard #def leppard fanfic #phil collen #steve clark #rick allen #peter mensch #rick savage #joe elliott #i was inspired to write this after nightswimming with a bunch of friends #I think this is the only leppard fic i've ever written that wasn't an x reader good god #original content #and no this isn't my take on how they all got the flu in belgium on the pyro tour

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scammydoesstuff · 3 years ago

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So let's talk Resident Evil 8 DLC…

I know I don’t really dip my toe into the RE tag, like…at all (except to post some sub-par fanart), but I had a brilliant idea last night that would not only make Capcom so much money but it’d really give the fans what they’re looking for in the DLC.

So, like, we all definitely want more Lady D since she was in so little of the game — we want more Lords in general, frankly, but I know a lot of folks are focused on her for…reasons. Many of us (myself included) want to team up with Daddy Heisenberg to take down Miranda. And many of us would probably just want a pacifist run version where you don’t kill anybody, save for the zombies (since…they’re…already dead, so does it really count?) and Miranda (since she’s pretty much irredeemable) because we love our Lords and killing them didn’t feel satisfying because they didn’t do much to warrant it.

But I submit to you, dear Capcom, that I have the perfect DLC idea that I’ve not seen a lot of people bring up yet (there's been, like one, I just saw in the tags, but otherwise, not a lot towards this yet).

Capcom…

Make a Dating Sim.

Let me explain:

Alright, so you’ll recall that, for RE7, Capcom gave us a DLC where you play as Mia, taking down moldy bois to bring Jack food for his 55th birthday party — appropriately titled ‘Jack’s 55th Birthday’. All fine and good. Everybody was wearing party hats and your guns shot confetti and everything was just so delightful. It was a silly FPS that was just meant to be a fun distraction to give you a good belly laugh after the horrors you’ve endured from the main game. At least as far as I can tell. It’s not like there’s heavy lore or anything here, unlike the others in that DLC pack. It's literally just for funsies.

But I think we all know that RE8 requires something…different. Something that’ll be a real people-pleaser and with so much replay-ability that they’ll be satisfied till RE 9.

And a Dating Sim is that something…I'd also recommend making a ‘mature audiences only’ version that would require payment. I know the game's already rated M for mature, but this 'adults only' version isn't for violence if ya know what I mean.

Think about it. The players of this game find out they can date their favorite Lord? Already you’d have a ton of people lining up to get that DLC — particularly if that part is free. Just getting to date the Lords — or other characters from the game, for that matter. I'm just focusing on the Lords cuz…well, you know why — would be a great foot in the door. People wanna dote on their faves and give them all the affection they can handle (and then some) and just live out their soft fantasies for a hot minute.

But then…The players finding out that they can also fuck their favorite Lord (for a nominal fee) a la Huniepop?

That shit would sell like hotcakes. I’m talking ‘money; hand over fist’. The Lady D and Heisenberg simps alone would be clamoring for that shit, not to mention the Donna fans and Moreau lovers who would love to see those two get some more attention since they were so horribly overlooked in the main game and didn't have near enough focus.

And furthermore! Getting to fuck the Lords as Ethan Winters? All the shippers will have their moment in the sun and bask in their ship gracing their eyes in licensed content. Or hell! Maybe they can fuck Ethan Winters too? I dunno! The Duke? Damn straight! Chris Redfield? Who wouldn’t want a piece of that? Miranda? …Eh…if you hate yourself, I guess…but sure! Any other character from the Resident Evil canon just kinda thrown in there for shits & giggles? That’s your call, my friend! You do you!

But the fact stands; a dating sim is the perfect way to keep people coming back to play again and again. Would it be a lot of effort? Yeah, prolly. I dunno what all goes into making a dating sim, but I imagine it can get complicated with the various dialogue trees and such and that’s a lot for my square brain to wrap around. But hey! It’s a small price to pay for rakin’ in dat dough, am I right?

As for the visuals? I can’t decide what’s funnier? Going ham on the dating sim aesthetic with all the glitter and softness that’d make those characters anime af, or sticking with a horror look — where they look the same as in the main game (though drawn instead of mo-capped, maybe?), but still in a visual novel format (think Doki Doki Literature Club, but they look how they do in the main game, so not super-cutesy/romanticized.) Either way, it’d be hilarious to see these characters in that kinda format, but I think most of us can agree that it’d somehow fit too.

For more silliness? Take a page out of Hatoful Boyfriend’s book and not only let us date the Lords, but let us change their onscreen sprites/avatars(/whatever you’d call them). Don't know what I'm referring to? Well, in Hatoful’s case, the onscreen characters could either be beautiful anime boys…or pigeons.

Photo-realistic pigeons.

I think y'all know where I'm going with this.

That's right! Give us the option between the Lords as we see them in-game or their puppet versions from the Japanese commercials.

Your move, Capcom. I think we both know this is the correct path. Make it happen so you can sit back and watch the money pour in.

P.S. Since I know Capcom won’t do anything near this fun (and also because…I doubt they'd be able to do some of this, like the more risqué stuff), if someone knows how to make a dating sim, please take this idea and run with it. It'd be a lo of fun and I’ve never needed something so badly in my life.

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 4 years ago

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for the quiet night in ask: how did Grima make his way into your heart? And why do you ship him with Eomer? I've been meaning to inquire about this for long hehe (also I love your theme! think this is the first time I see it)

I am so sorry, you’re getting an ESSAY.

I’ve been wanting to talk about my Grima feels FOR SO LONG.

HE SNAKED HIS WAY INTO MY HEART.

Um, tl;dr I have a soft spot for the bad guys who clearly have a complicated history with those they are opposing and I think Eomer/Grima have a fun opposites-attract dynamic and I love a good redemption story.

I don’t touch on literacy and Grima in this because that’s strictly the films and it’s worthy of it’s own post entirely.

I’m trying to think best how to break this all out, because it gets a bit long and rambly. I’m using both book and films for this, as a note. Since I tend to mash up different aspects of those Grima’s in my head, give the guy some eyebrows, and call it a day.

So, first off, his history. Now, we don’t really have anything to go on in canon here. All we know, in both book and film, is that Grima “was once a man of Rohan” (ROTK). In the book, Gandalf says: “This here, is a snake. To slay it [Grima] would be just. But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and it did you service in its fashion.”

Grima evidently has served Rohan for some years at this point. We know that Theoden’s enchantment/possession began three years prior to TTT. In the books there is no possession. Theoden’s enchantment relies on the powers of words and their suggestions. Something Tolkien was well aware of carrying great weight and import in Anglo-Saxon culture. You tell a man he is old and infirm, he will become old and infirm.

I understand why Jackson went the possession route - explaining Anglo-Saxon engagement with galdorcraeft/witchcraft and the power of words etc. and how that influenced the development of Rohan in the span of like 7 minutes of screen time wasn’t happening. Possession works for the same purpose, but in a language the modern audience is familiar with - especially in visual mediums. Grima is circa 40 when TTT happens, same age as Boromir for reference. So, let’s say he’s been an advisor for 10/12 years at this point. He has therefore been a good servant of the king longer than he’s been a traitor.

Hence, the outreach. And, in Brad Dourif’s wonderful acting, Grima’s clear desire to go home to his king. In the book it’s more subtle. Grima chucks the palantir out the window at Orthanc and it’s stated that he wasn’t sure who he was aiming for, Saruman or Gandalf, because he couldn’t decide who he hated more.

Honestly? Legit. I would also hate the guy who reduced me to “it” pronouns. But maybe that’s my gender identity stuff playing up ;)

(Granted, in the full quote Gandalf reverts back to “he”, for context. And I’ve said this before, in another post, that it makes sense for Gandalf and as a writer, I agree with Tolkien’s decisions for that scene.)

Now, for some speculation. Not that I haven’t spilled a tonne already. MORE SPECULATION. This time bringing you long term effects of bullying and never having loving relationships modelled for you! Because LOTR, at the end of the day, is all about trauma and how maybe not to deal with it.

So - motives.

We know Saruman’s motives. Indeed, he tells them to us in FOTRK: “[to] have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see” and to achieve “the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things that we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak or idle friends.”

Great. Super straight forward. And from the man’s own mouth.

Grima’s though, always come to us second hand. In the books it’s Gandalf telling us (Gandalf can mind read, so yes, maybe he is accurate). In the films, it’s Eomer guestimating.

But Grima never actually tells us, himself, what his motives are.

(a quick aside: if some dude is shoving me up against a pole and threatening me, and I hear someone walking by, of course I’m going to look over at them and it by no means indicates my desire to shag that person. Now, of course, we know from other scenes this is the case. I’m just saying. It’s natural to look over at the person walking by while you’re being jumped by the Third Marshal of the Mark who is twice your size. anyway.)

So what are his driving forces for treason? What made him go to this point of no return then keep going even when people offered him a way back.

It is important to note that his treason required him to forswear his oath to his liege lord. I don’t know how to convey what a big deal that would have been, in modern terms. But it would have been huge. Forswearing/reneging on oaths was a massive cultural taboo in Anglo-saxon [AS] England (and general, early medieval Europe).

And, as Rohan is based on AS England (I forget if Tolkien was cagey about this. He was sometimes a dumb shit and coy about things so was like “noooo it’s not STRICTLY AS England….but it’s clearly AS England with more horses and a light dusting of vikings and the Danelaw”), we can assume it carried as much weight for them as it did for the historical people.

(Indeed, it’s implied, if not directly stated, in the text what a big deal oath breaking is. Don’t say “oath breaking” too loud or the Silmarillion fandom will come out of the woodwork)

The big takeaway: BIG DEAL TO FORSWEAR YOUR OATH.

And he did it! Which is why I don’t buy the “it was because of Eowyn and like some nice jewels.” You don’t betray your country, you don’t forswear your oath to your king, simply because you’re hot on the king’s niece and Saruman might give you a raise.

And, as a liege man to Theoden, he was part of Theoden’s household so would have eaten, worked with, lived with everyone else in the household (Eomer, until he becomes Third Marshal; Eowyn; Hama; Theoden’s guards etc.)

So, you live with these people, eat with them, drink with them, spend all your time with them, for circa 10 years then you do a bunk and betray them? Something happened. I suspect it was years and years of things happening.

Overall, I think it to be a combination of things. As is usually the case for these sorts of crimes. In this case, a nice mix of fear, desperation, greed, resentment, anger and desire.

Fear/Desperation: So, to Grima’s mind the world is ending. Why wouldn’t he think this? Hell, even the Wisest and the Fairest (i.e. wizards & elves) think it’s ending. Why wouldn’t this poor bloke from some small country nearby to Mordor not think it an existential threat to an unimaginable degree?

Grima is sat here in Rohan looking at Mordor going "oh fuck" then who are the leaders left? Denethor (slightly bonkers) and Theoden (past his prime and lacklustre, like his father and grandfather).

This is not a man with a strong moral fiber. Or...any moral fiber, let’s be real. He does not have the fortitude to stick it out through hopeless situations. And it would have been hopeless to his eyes. And those around him (see: Eomer’s do not trust to hope… Sure Saruman was a problem, but he wasn’t just talking about the white wizard).

Gandalf’s plan, which none of these people were ever wholly aware of, was a goddamn Hail Mary pass and it worked. Barely, but it did. NO ONE had reason to believe it would, though. And those are people in the know. Not someone like Grima who has no fucking clue what Gandalf et al is up to. He sees Gandalf then like … Nazgul torture him on the planes of Rohan (Unfinished Tales). He sees Gandalf then bad things happen.

Lathspell indeed.

Greed & Desire: I don’t think I need to go into these ones too much. They’re pretty self explanatory. Grima and Black Phillip hung out and the goat asked Grima if he wanted to live deliciously and Grima, like any normal person, said: um, yes please? Also, Eowyn was around being badass, beautiful and untouchable.

Resentment/Anger: Alright, more probing in the dark. I suspect, for one reason or another (and these reasons would vary depending if you’re looking at books or movies), he was someone who was always treated as other/differently, teased, picked on, isolated, overlooked, doesn’t measure up to Rohan’s military ideal of masculinity. All of which creates an underlying resentment issue.

And nothing festers quite like resentment.

On top of that, I also suspect he was always told he was a snake/untrustworthy/not worthy etc. and if you're told something enough, and you don't have anything or anyone else telling you the opposite, there is a strong chance you become that thing.

It's a chicken and egg: the face you wear to the world tells the world how to treat you; the world tells you what you are and that is how you shape your face.

THEN you add in Saruman. Who is clearly, in the text, abusive. Which, if there were any inferiority/bullied etc. issues that are informing Grima’s actions, Saruman is just going to amplify it.

“You are a traitor because you’re a snake, and you’re a snake because you’re spineless, weak, nothing more than a creature that crawls on its stomach on the ground. Snakes are bad, evil things. Which is all you’ve ever been. Barely deserving of the good treatment I give you etc.” <-- all of which is basically a summary of what Saruman has been saying to him for a few years at this point (in the book, it’s only tangentially implied in the movies).

So Grima sort of morphed himself into what he believed himself to be, fuelled by that perversity resentment causes: Oh you think I’m a snake? I’ll be the best goddamn most poisonous snake you ever did see. Just watch me.

He is trapped in this situation. A hutch to trammel some wild thing in.

Which leads me to an interesting point that I think gets lost sometimes: Narratively, he and Eowyn are similar in what they are experiencing. Isolation, being overlooked, misunderstood/misrepresented, don't fit into societal roles and expectations etc. They just go in very different directions in how they respond to it.

I think that's why, in the film, it was smart to have her give pause and listen to him because what he's saying resonates. He is, in some ways, speaking as much for himself as her. But then, of course, he's also just trying to shit disturb and make mischief so of course, at the end of the day, any sympathy he is attempting to convey is laced with poison.

I do wonder, too, if he's the first person to see her fear and her frustrations and acknowledges them out loud. Which is powerful. To have someone see you. Damn shame it's Grima. Still, Eowyn (in the film) paused and listened for a reason.

A brief aside on my idle, ill founded thoughts on gender and Rohan:

One of the reasons I think Eowyn and Grima go in diverging directions, is that Eowyn is performing masculinity, in her society's accepted interpretation of it. Masculinity, in Middle Earth, is clearly the norm. And in Rohan, it’s a very particular iteration of military-focused masculinity that is idealized (you can bet, men who killed like 10 orcs were awarded places in court above Grima who served as advisor for like ten years but hasn’t killed an orc ever).

Eowyn’s desire to live/perform this more masculine ideal caters to the subconscious thing of “Masculinity is Natural Neutral Ideal” so of course you would want to be more like A Man. Whereas Grima is the opposite, not performing masculinity according to Rohan's accepted view of it.

And gods, in Anglo-Saxon culture (therefore, Rohan’s, most likely. I see no evidence to the contrary) is that a difficult position to find yourself in. Back in AS England, being called argr, unmanly, or to be accused of ergri, unmanliness, was one of the worst insults you could throw at a man (indeed, some laws said you could kill a man in retaliation for calling you such things). I would bet my shirt that people used such insults about Grima in this world. Which is all kinds of messed up.

Now, my interest in him is my general love for a good redemption arc for the most hopeless of characters. It’s why I struggle to call Boromir’s arc, when he’s written as living, a redemption arc. Because I don’t know he has much to redeem himself for. In his own mind, sure, yes, but externally? Not in my view, at least. He has things he’s done wrong and needs to make amends for. But that’s different from redemption.

Grima, on the other hand, is one whose walk-back from evil would be a full on redemption arc. And I like it because he’s not nice, he’s not pleasant. He will never be nice or pleasant or cheerful. But learning how to love and be a good person doesn’t require niceness.

Saruman could be plenty nice. Sauron could be plenty nice. Look what they turned out to be.

And in my writing, I do hope I’m treading that line between creating an understanding of who Grima is without Kylo-Ren-ing him. Or, woobiefying him, as the old parlance was. That’s the line I’m really aiming for. I want people to not hate him. I want them to understand him. Oh, still condemn him, still judge him, disagree with him, acknowledge and know he did bad things and isn’t a nice person. But the end game is to add some understanding and nuance.

Shades of grey.

Also I’m a sucker for challenging redemptions.

Why Eomer/Grima?

Because I am an agent of chaos.

More seriously, I was never overly taken with the Grima/Eowyn approach, personally, which is obviously popular (um...within the Grima world), and closer to canon. There are some beautifully written fics and art out there for the two of them, so if you’re into that. The creators in that nook of fandom are top notch.

I always liked the drastic opposite of Grima and Eomer. As I noted above, Grima and Eowyn are two sides of the same coin. Both bitter and resentful and trapped. And that’s a lot of fun to play with, and i get it. But for me, I love a good strong contrast of personalities in my pairings. (If that uh … isn’t readily apparent.)

I think both Eomer and Grima would have a lot to teach each other and in some really interesting ways that neither would expect. I can see both getting under each other’s skin in that way where you’re sort of always thinking about them.

Grima is also someone who has had very little love in his life (I suspect he wants it, he just doesn’t know how to give or receive it). Eomer is someone who has lost a lot of people (parents, quasi-uncle for a few years there. I think it’s why he’s so controlling over Eowyn. Didn’t want to lose her). And I think there’s something in there where they could help each other grow. But I’m a sucker for some beauty to be there, in the end. Some hope.

Mostly, though, I think it boils down to their dynamic and the angst potential. Eomer is this brash, forthright, fiery third marshal of the mark who may or may not think things through. Big of heart, dumb of ass. Then there’s Grima who is quiet and reserved, cynical, critical, always has a plan or five, gets by via his wits etc. Lots of fun potential there.

#LOTR #lord of the rings #the lord of the rings #grima wormtongue #rohan #eorlingas #LOTR meta #ask #reply #eomer

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barnesandco · 5 years ago

Text

Nikah: November

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None. Please let me know if otherwise.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. God, this is a big one. Thank you to everyone who reblogs and comments, you help me through life. I hope you enjoy this in return. Final chapter to be posted tomorrow.

After several weeks of lonely silence and painful longing, Bucky begins to feel that he might be okay. That he can be complete without the missing puzzle piece in the shape of her, the one that has left a vacant hollow inside his heart. Days became weeks, and weeks, eventually, will become years. Thanksgiving is a week away, but Christmas decorations have appeared in certain shop fronts, and these are the ones he lingers by the most, letting the warm haze of distraction take him. Sometimes, he'll allow himself a closer look inside, and this is one of those occasions.

It's a book café, homely and peaceful, fireplace roaring enough to drown out the sound of the singular barista calling out orders. He doesn't go to the counter, makes his way to the nearest bookshelf, inhaling the scent of oak and old paper because it is a different scent. One he does not know, or otherwise, does not remember and must relearn. Running his hands over the spines, he realizes this is a shelf of classic plays, and suppresses the bark of an ironic laugh at how every tree trunk in the forest of his life is marked with an arrow pointing him back to his wife. Will-o'-the-wisp, disappearing the closer he gets, the further he feels.

Deciding that a house of books will do him no good in forgetting a woman who is a literary scholar, he goes to the counter. Asks for a hot chocolate to go, and waits patiently as the young man makes his drink. Everything about this place is warm, defiant in a soft, gentle way. The cafe is nestled amongst a series of big brand coffeehouses and bookstores, the happy medium that refuses to bow to excess, perfectly content in its remarkable mediocrity. Again, much like his wife. He has to stop thinking of her like that - they're married in nothing but name. But that doesn't detract from the truth of his comparison.

He takes the to-go cup with steady hands, letting the heat seep into him like the comfort of her hand in his, and leaves the café. Maybe it's because he had begun to accept her absence in his life, or maybe it's because he's so lost in his own mind he forgets his surroundings, but he doesn't expect it when it happens. His foot has yet to land on the sidewalk when someone barrels into him like a cannon, dark hair and full force. The hot chocolate goes everywhere, on him, but mostly her, and it's only when the dust settles that he realizes that it's her. Sleek pantsuit under a winter coat, elegant outfit now dripping with not-so-hot cocoa, but it's definitely her.

He says "Oh, jeez-" at the same time as her "Bucky?" and he knows he must look an outright fool, gaping like she's grown another head but God. She shakes her hair, a droplet of hot chocolate spraying out, and tries to formulate a sentence. If Bucky hadn't been avoiding mirrors since the day she moved out, he'd recognize the longing in the sad curve of her mouth as his own.

"Wow," She says finally, letting out a chuckle, air pluming into clouds in the cold. "That was fun," and Bucky shakes the shock off his system, prays to God that he doesn't stutter, because this conversation might be his last with her.

"Oh Lord, doll, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," He says, eyebrows furrowing pleadingly. No longer caring how desperate he may look, he just wants another moment. One more minute.

"It's okay, Bucky, I should have watched where I was-"

"No, no, not your fault. My place is two blocks away. I have a change of clothes," He says, sentences firing like bullets and even he cringes internally at how imposing he must sound.

"No, I-" A nervous laugh this time, short and delivered with eyes pointed to their feet, and the cocoa pooling there. "I shouldn't, I don't want to bother-"

"Darlin’, you live a borough over and you're drippin' chocolate, thanks to me," He reminds her, gently conveying the urgency of the situation. Passers by are starting to slow down around them, and he's sure someone's bound to recognize him if no-one has already. She seems to realize the same thing, looking around at their surroundings.

"Are you sure?" She asks, her eyes pools of what Bucky can only call hopeful caution, an emotion that he this time does not fail to see reflected in himself. He nods with a smile, one that only falters when her hand grazes his on the way down to the subway.

The train ride goes quicker than he would prefer, and before he knows it, he is forced to remember that he hasn't dusted in a week just as he's opening the door. She walks in like the first man on the moon, like she's stepping onto sacred land that was never hers but she has every right to be on. A set of her clothes is folded in a corner of his dresser and he goes and gives it to her.

"Oh yeah, these were in the washing the day I left," She recalls, heading into the bathroom to change. He heads for the kitchen, putting the kettle on.

Has a second thought that he swats away like a fly before putting a Billie record on the record player. Doesn't know what he expects from this, and part of him wonders if anything will come of it, but his heart insists that it must. He can't make his mind up about it before she enters the kitchen, and it's déjà vu. Her, standing new as the day he met her, while he dances unsurely under the judgement he knows she will never offer.

Pulling out a chair, she sits, and Bucky notices the bags beneath her eyes. Another echo of him, a reflection. He pours the tea, and allows the scent of jasmine to infuse itself with the unspoken longing in the air. She sighs, inhaling the tea he saved. The one he drinks when he misses her and her warmth.

"I missed this," She says, and Bucky wonders again if she can read minds, because if not, their minds must know each other better than their hearts do.

"What, tea?" He jokes, trying to alleviate the tension. She laughs lightly, the sound playing along with Billie's music, the way it is meant to. Shaking her head, she answers demurely:

"Being quiet with someone else." Her eyes meet his before darting back down to the cup she's holding.

"How have you been?" She asks after half a second too long for the question to not sound awkward. How do you breathe side-by-side with someone for months without becoming intimately entwined with their well-being?

"Same as always. Missions, sleep, eat, more missions," He says, nonchalant, looking at a spot on the wall behind her shoulder.

"You still can't lie to me, Bucky. You should've left out the sleep part." She tilts her head, a curious bird on a window-sill, helpless to help the person calling for rescue on the inside. He doesn't let her.

"You're one to talk. Nightmares haven't stopped, have they?"

"Do they ever?" She asks sadly, and Bucky has to admit, he thought, for the few months that she was his pillow, that they did. Another dream shattered.

"No, not as far as I know." He responds, thinks about how every aspect of his life, conscious, and subconscious, is linked to her. Nothing feels complete, like his heart isn't the only thing missing a piece.

She had wanted to bring him to Pakistan. Had expressed a tentative desire to show him her origins, her home. Never had the chance, but he's here now.

Islamabad, bustling and busy and ever so loud, like nothing he's ever seen. New York is populous, of course, but this - the cars, the lights, the energy - it's all so different. And perhaps it's because of the air of the place, or maybe it's because he's somewhere holy, but he feels so full. Brimming with awe at the pillars towering in the mosque above him, except for the pocket of incurable sadness deep in his stomach.

He has spent a day in Islamabad, one full day, not able to spend a single second without thinking of the woman who's land he is wandering like a lost bird. Every sense of longing is multiplied exponentially here, and although it's beautiful, and he's trying his best to absorb the luxury of travelling, he knows he cannot enjoy it. Not without her, not like this.

"I went to Pakistan, you know," He tells her. Her eyes flick up, and she shields the surprise cleverly, but not quickly enough for him.

"When?"

"Last week, on a mission near the border. Human trafficking ring targeting Afghan refugees near the border. I decided to linger, went further south to the capital," He says, tracing the rim of his cup. His tea is still piping hot. "I didn't see the Badshahi Mosque but I went to Faisal Mosque."

"How was it?" She asks, and there she is. His wife, the woman he's spent so many sleepless nights for.

"Busy. Crowded, but peaceful, and it was so calm," He answers, biting back the last comment. The one that separates honesty from a half-truth. Isn't a half-truth also a half-lie?

"But?" She pries knowingly, and Bucky almost laughs.

"But it was like there was something missing," He admits, heart jackhammering a sharp beat into his sternum, and he doesn't want to see her response.

"I know what you mean," She replies, and he doesn't know what to do with that.

"Do you?"

"I've been going to the Smithsonian every week since we split up. You're everywhere but so far out of reach, and it doesn't make any sense." She says breathlessly, fingers leaving the cup to intertwine amongst themselves, twisting like their thoughts, their relationship. Bucky looks up.

"Baby, I-"

"I know, I'm complicating things, and I'm sorry, but seeing you again just unhinged me and I don't know what I'm doing. I never do, and I'm messing it up colossally, so I should go," She says in a hurry, and gets up to leave. Ignores the full cups of tea, their aching hearts, as she pulls on her shoes through eyes glinting with tears she cannot afford to shed.

"Wait," He protests.

"No, I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable. Thanks for this," She says, picking up the shopper he gave her to put her clothes in, stuffing her jacket into it as well.

"I think we're making a mistake," He tries. "Doll, I know this sounds nuts but I don't want to stay separated. I don't want this," He says, finally, and she drops the bag. Looks at him with tears and barely-there hope.

"Then what do you want, Bucky?" She asks, voice cracking at the end. Bucky knows he doesn't have the heart to back out now, and he'd curse himself for the rest of his miserable life if he did.

"You. I want you, doll, till' death do us part. You're the greatest happiness to ever happen to me." He steps forward, takes her hand. It trembles, shakes, and he squeezes it. She squeezes back, so he moves closer. They're nose-to-nose, and he counts her eyelashes. "And I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you 'bout that before, but I didn't think you felt the same." She laughs, actually laughs, the tears finally slipping down the slope of her cheeks, as she bends forward and her forehead nudges his chest. She looks at him teary-eyed, talks through the joy.

"For a super-spy, you're not as good at noticing things as you like to be," She says, and he blinks. Her smile spreads impossibly wider, blinding like sunshine, and tells him: "I love you, Bucky."

The world stops, on its axis, in its orbit, hell, he thinks he's having a heart attack, a physical stagger backwards at the words that his heart has known for longer than his mind. Actions speak louder than words, and she has been loving him with her whole body for as long as he has been blind to her compassion. Miscommunication is a tragedy; it deprived him of this feeling for so long, and now that they have gotten rid of it, he does not know what to do with its absence.

"Then why are you crying?" Is all he can say, reeling from the impact of her confession, raising a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing a tear down it.

"I just- I can't believe this is happening. They're tears of relief, Bucky," She laughs wetly, an absolute mess, but she's there, and it's real, and she loves him.

"Is that a yes?" He asks, and she lunges up to meet his starving lips. His arms come up to wrap around her waist like ivy vines around their support wall, and she is there. Rock solid and cotton soft, all her love and all her heat pouring into him like tea from a kettle. Her hands in his hair press, tangle, tug lightly and she murmurs against his mouth: "Yes." Another kiss, this one soft and long-suffering, heated and quiet and oh so sweet, jasmine on her lips and fire in her hands. "God, yes." A murmur, quiet and gentler than mistletoe erupting from snow-decked tree branches, as she settles against his chest, lips rasping together. She tastes of heaven and holy water, a storm in her own right.

"I love you, too," He says against her lips, and thinks: his heart is whole again.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @readerandcinephileingeneral @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @starnight-charmer @redhairedfeistynerd @geeksareunique @samingtonwilson @alyxkbrl @bucky-smiles @marvelrose

#ayesha writes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x desi!reader #desi!reader

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