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cuubism · 4 years ago

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23? Malec? Idk I like angst ☺️

it’s been five whole months. you wanted angst. i didn’t even write angst. i’m sorry anon, i’ve failed you.

23 – “Just tell me why you did it!” “Because I’m in love with you, okay?”

(ao3 link)

Hanging from the edge of a rogue interdimensional portal wasn’t exactly how Magnus preferred to spend his evenings, but alas it was where he found himself this night. The portal swirled below him, dragging him downwards to Lilith knew where, and try as he might Magnus could not seem to find the strength to pull himself out.

All he could do was hold on to the amorphous edge of the thing and try not to fall in any further.

He knew it was a mistake to help the Shadowhunters with a problem. Incompetent fools, the lot of them.

“Magnus!”

Magnus grit his teeth, scrambling desperately to pull himself out and only slipping further. As if this day wasn’t bad enough, his beautiful accursed Shadowhunter sort-of-ex-sort-of-almost-boyfriend was here. Magnus had been trying and failing to get his heart to forget him, though it wasn’t exactly easy when Alec insisted on continually inserting himself into Magnus’s life.

“Magnus!”

“I’m a little busy here—” Magnus tried to bite, but lost his train of thought as a particularly strong current in the portal yanked on him and he almost lost his grip.

Alec skidded to his knees beside him, reaching out a hand. His eyes looked wild. There was a smear of ichor across his forehead and a bloody tear in the shoulder of his jacket. “Grab on to my hand!”

Curse him for being so pretty and wonderful and concerned and fucking impossible. After the first few promising evenings spent together, Alec had seemingly changed his mind about them, and subsequently made his disinterest in Magnus quite clear. He was probably only saving him now so the Institute would get to keep their most stupidly helpful Warlock.

Now if only Magnus’s foolish heart could get the message that he wasn’t wanted.

Feeling suddenly quite petty, and quite angry, though he was in no position to be either, Magnus leaned back and away from Alec’s hand, snarling, “I don’t need your help.”

“You can yell at me later, just let me pull you up!”

“I can do it my—”

His handhold gave out.

Suddenly Magnus found himself tumbling, the world spinning and swirling around him like he was falling down a drain. His heart lurched into his throat, but it lasted only a moment before he was splashing down, quite literally, into the center of an enormous lake.

He burst up through the surface, choking and spluttering, treading water with some difficulty as his clothes started weighing him down.

He looked around. It was completely dark, no lights anywhere to be seen, and the shore seemed quite far away.

Well. Wasn’t that just swell.

Magnus was just about ready to swear off ever even talking to Shadowhunters again when there was a yelp and a loud splash beside him, and a second later Alec’s head popped up out of the water.

Magnus could not believe what he was seeing. “Did you follow me in, or are you so incompetent you actually fell in yourself?”

“I followed you.” He said it so deadpan, totally ignoring Magnus’s jibe, that Magnus swallowed the rest of the rude words balanced on the back of his tongue.

“Why on earth—”

“I couldn’t let you just land in a dangerous place by yourself.”

Magnus pressed his lips together, looking away. “Can’t let the Institute’s pet Warlock get eaten by sharks, I suppose.”

“No, I— wait, are there sharks here?” Alec spun in a circle, looking around as if one might pop its head out of the water at any moment, and Magnus sighed.

“It’s a lake, Alexander.”

“Oh. Right.”

Magnus rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “If you’re quite finished being a self-sacrificing idiot, can we please get out of here?”

“Right. Yes. You know how?”

“It’s a simple portal.”

He reached out a hand and attempted to create said portal—

—and nothing happened.

Magnus snapped his fingers, again and again.

Nothing.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m out of magic.” Despair rose in Magnus’s throat as he tried, again and again, to reach his magic—only to find nothing. “All those demons—”

“Take mine.”

Magnus looked at him in disbelief. Alec reached out a hand.

“We’ve done it before, haven’t we?”

That was before you decided you didn’t want me, Magnus thought, but didn’t say.

Instead he took Alec’s hand, closing his eyes at the rush of power Alec pushed into him.

In less than a moment a portal was rushing over them and they were gone.

It spat them out in a heap on Magnus’s living room floor, a torrent of water cascading over them and into the expensive carpet before Magnus managed to shut the portal. Once he did, he flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing hard.

He could just make out the slowly-moving form of Alec beside him. “You still alive?”

Alec groaned, shifting onto his back next to Magnus. “I wish I wasn’t. Are your portals always so hectic?”

“Your portal, darling. That was your magic. My portals are elegant and smooth, like a trip down the coast on a luxury yacht.”

Alec groaned again. “Please don’t mention boats. Or water.”

Magnus giggled, and then he was full-on laughing—at Alec, at the situation, at himself. Oh, it was just like him to get in a near-death experience with the person he was trying to get over.

Alec grumbled and slowly turned on his side to face Magnus. “What’s so funny?”

Magnus turned on his side as well, and suddenly found himself much closer to Alec than he’d expected. They were almost nose-to-nose, their knees just about bumping. Magnus was very tempted to brush his wet hair out of his eyes, but restrained himself.

“Oh, just—” Magnus waved a hand— “Almost drowned on another world helping a man who hates me. And then saved by that man. It’s funny, the tragedy of my life, is all.”

Alec’s eyes went wide. “I don’t hate you!”

“Fine, fine,” Magnus conceded, “dislike, don’t care for, however you want to phrase it—”

Alec grabbed his wrist to still his movement. “Magnus, none of that is true.”

Magnus chuckled nervously and tried to pull his arm away, but Alec’s grip was firm. “It’s alright, Alec, I know there’s nothing between us anymore, you don’t have to pretend otherwise for my sake. It’s fine if you saved me because I’m useful to you. I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

“That’s not why.”

Magnus wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what came next in this conversation, but still he said, very quietly, “Then tell me why.”

For once, Alec didn’t look away as if he didn’t want Magnus to be able to read him. He just met Magnus’s gaze and said, like the very words meant his death, “Because I’m in love with you.”

If not for the sudden painful fluttering of his chest, Magnus might have burst out laughing. “What?”

Alec just held his gaze evenly, looking sort of resigned.

“Alec,” Magnus said, when he finally gained control of his heart, “you’re the one who ended it before it even had a chance to begin.”

“I know.” Alec rubbed at his eyes, seeming very tired. “I didn’t want to, but… everything was getting complicated. With my family, with the Clave—there were several points where I wasn’t sure I was even going to get through it with my name or my reputation or even my runes intact. I just—didn’t want you to get swept up in it.”

“You think I wasn’t aware of all that? I can make my own decisions!”

“I know, I just— I’m sorry. I was going to try to fix it, but by that point it seemed like you just hated me.”

“I never hated you,” Magnus said quietly. “I was angry with you, yes, for treating me like we were strangers. Disappointed, maybe. I never hated you.”

Alec sighed. “I was just trying to protect you.” He looked around at their positions on the floor, the puddle of water still surrounding them. “But instead I almost got you killed.”

He looked so forlorn about it that Magnus had to lay a hand on his cheek. “Come now. I’m more than capable of that on my own.” He tapped Alec’s forehead. “As are you, Mister ‘Jump into an Unknown Portal Headfirst.’”

“Fine, fine. Make fun of me as much as you want if it’ll make you feel better.” Magnus was gratified to see that he was smiling as he said it.

That smile burst open a bloom of hope in Magnus’s chest, hope that all the feelings he’d been squashing down weren’t actually misdirected or self-destructive. Hope that what they had once had might still be there, just needing some kindling.

“What do you say,” he began, “we get up off the floor, put on some dry clothes, and go for ‘we-almost-died-but-hooray-we-didn’t-die’ drinks?”

Alec’s smile widened until it lit up his whole face. “Really? You want that?”

“I do. Because, I hate to say it, but—” Magnus laid a hand over Alec’s heart, smiling when Alec wrapped his own over it—“I’ve been a little hopelessly in love with you, my dear.”

#malec #malec fic #my writing #it's not completely correct to the prompt #but i'm so proud of myself for finishing this 😅#ive been having such a hard time finishing fics recently its bumming me out #feels good to post something #Anonymous #Ask

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thequibblah · 3 years ago

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⭐

anon: omg hi I think I sent in a ~free choice~ directors cut a while back but if you can't think of anything you wanna talk about I would LOVE to hear more about the way you write the Snape/Lily relationship and and the way it breaks apart, and even specific scenes related to it because in this house we are Anti S/nily

i hope this person was you but if not HAHA i will take this opportunity to answer their prompt as a "free choice" if you don't mind!

so. good old.... severus. ahhh.

writing interactions between snape and lily is like, one of the most rewarding challenges of this fic. now.... pitchforks away, my lovelies.... it's such an interesting emotional space to explore on her end, to me. personally i've never had a friendship end over something big and irrevocable, so it's really brand-new water to tread.

what makes it even more fascinating is that because of the setup of CT — starting after the lake incident — snape is less a presence in her life and more an absence she's working around. if i can get boring and pretentious for a sec, this was something i worked on a lot in college creative writing classes — writing about a thing in the past by avoiding it, or touching upon it and flinching away, or approaching it sideways.

now. we none of us have the patience of serious literary fiction readers in our fic HAHAHHA so this is a lot more dialled-back (dialled-forward??). but that was basically the approach to begin with, with these two. and then it was a matter of exploring the trajectory of it — how when the wound is rawest, lily is actually most forgiving and generous towards him, as she's had less time and space away from him/their friendship, and is busy making excuses for him.

(aside: i didn't realise until actually confronted by it that so much of her attitude towards him comes from her attitude towards petunia, a relationship in which she got used to receiving barbs before she gave them back, but the blood tie keeps her from a clean break. with snape there's no blood relation, obviously, but there's a shared sense of history, of childhood, that kind of lives in the same part of lily's brain/heart. so... really, two people who loathe each other overlap quite significantly in lily's emotional landscape.)

re: lily's excuse-making — it doesn't help that the only person who pushes her on snape is james. (her friends all have learned to avoid the subject, as you do when your friend is friends with someone you don't like but you can't say anything until after they're finished, and then you're like omg thank GOD i hated them from the start!!! but of course in this case they couldn't go overboard with that sentiment, lest it come off as "you should've known better/we knew better and you didn't") thanks to the circumstances of the lake incident, some of those messy feelings towards snape are entangled in messy feelings towards james (early on in the story especially), so the resulting conflict is.... bad....

She half-stumbled backwards, as if she’d been slapped. “I don’t need you to remind me,” she hissed. To her embarrassment, tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. But if she’d thought that would make him back off, she was wrong. “Yeah, except you do need the reminder,” said James. “Because you don’t get it yet. He chose them. Not you.” Lily was shaking. “I believe in second chances,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level. “But you really, really test my faith, James.” And without waiting for him to answer, she stormed up the girls’ staircase, wiping at her cheeks.

bad.

lily's true blind spot is, of course, that she's more willing to forgive snape's missteps with her. and of course james has to go and point that out :/

“Let me put it this way. If Sni — if Snape were Mary’s friend and he’d said that to her, wouldn’t you tell Mary she ought to never speak to him again?” Lily shifted uneasily. “Well, sure, but I’ve known him since—” “—you were children, whatever. Say Mary did too. Would that change anything for her?”

so the first time lily is like wait actually fuck this!!! it's because he reminds her, in an argument, about how callous he can be — a callousness which i think she's never liked, but it's easier to forgive sharpness when it's your friend poking fun at people you don't like, and less easy when...

“Yes, do let’s talk about Potter,” she said, dangerously calm now. “Let’s talk about how your mate Mulciber used an Unforgivable Curse on him—” To her absolute shock, Severus scoffed. “It was three bloody seconds—” “Shut up,” Lily said, too stunned to think of something better to say. “Shut up, you don’t seriously think that — that because the two of you have a childish rivalry, he deserves torture?” “That’s not what I said,” he replied, looking mutinous. “I just meant, everyone’s acting like he’s some big survivor — always playing for attention—”

...well, when that.

best/worst impulses aside, lily knows that the true measure of someone is how they treat the people they dislike, not their friends, and in a sense his attitude towards james (and generally other people) in this scene makes her realise what she'd read as inconsideration or insensitivity is in fact...

"...You’re weak-willed and pathetic and you’re — you’re not a good person.”

...so there's that.

as anyone who's read lily's current petunia drama will know, she's got a bit of a problem with letting go. but after her mother's death (and the attached stick to your sister she's all you've got), she manages a weirdly good break from cokeworth — because a lot of her childhood was wrapped up in hogwarts, and in snape (whom she hasn't spent vacation time with in over a year at that point). with neither at hand, she hardly has time to process it/feel homesickness.

but note this, at the start of 7th year:

“Was last year nothing to you?” Her voice had sharpened. “I wasn’t freezing you out to punish you, Severus. I was treating you how I plan on treating you from now on.”

of course lily's just making a point here, but when i wrote that i was like wow she (and i lol) are kind of onto something — snape totally does think this is like, a temporary purgatory period after which she really will come around. and through months of her getting visibly closer to his nemesis, he holds onto that belief — despite what she says. (funnily enough, childhood rose-tinted glasses make them both see what they want to see in each other, in very different ways)

that's why when he hears her say what she says to una in that hogsmeade trip, he immediately comes to his own conclusions. that was another important, interesting thing for me — for other slytherins, "loose ends" are opportunities for cruelty, for punishment, to finish what they've started. (not so for regulus, who's grown up with sadism and is frankly repulsed by the idea of pain for a flimsy cause — best believe there was absolutely a point to him orchestrating an attack on the teacher getting close to his brother. but that's another story.)

not for severus either — his loose end, in his own mind, will always be lily. he senses that something's broken, but he has absolutely no self-awareness about what it is, and his extending an olive branch was more about her coming to his level than him going to hers (aka the way apologies ought to work). he realises, over a year out, that it's up to him to fix it, but it's too late — lily's quite moved on at that point, and her residual emotions towards him are indifference and pity.

if only snape had known to leave it there!

looping full circle back to the lake incident, then, the argument in 41 is once again very personal — but rather than him pushing her away, it's him trying to get her close again. and now, stressed about all the bs in the world but also with all the petunia-related learn-to-let-go stuff fresh in her mind, lily is absolutely in the right state of mind to recognise when she's wrongly judged someone. this calls for scorched earth, she realises, or she'll never be able to shake him and move on for good.

and so what started with severus telling her that she's special, that there's a place in a new world for her, ends sort of the same way.... and the break that began with his casual, almost unintentional cruelty, ends with her very deliberate cruelty. as a bonus, she's ready now to use the one thing he's always wielded like a shield in their arguments — james, how the marauders are, etc. etc. — against him, and genuinely mean it.

(she might regret that soon. but not the way you'd think!)

#i don't know if this is even an answer or me just talking #thedoctorsayswho #ask me #director's cuts

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years ago

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Hii!! Can you please do prompt #33?

Well, because you asked so nicely, Anon, of course!

33. Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous

Romance Novelish

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word count: 5540

Summary:

MJ's European vacation is a romance. Peter's is more like an episode of Jackass.

Brad talks too much and, unfortunately, he talks even more after MJ pulls out one of the novels she packed and raises it in front of her nose to dissuade further conversation. Apparently, the fact that the book has a bare-chested man and swooning, beribboned lady on the cover comes across as an invitation for comments from her seatmate. MJ glares at Brad. She’s tired of his attention. She wants to spend the rest of the flight living vicariously through this fictional woman about to get some Georgian D. If Brad will ever let her fucking get past the first chapter.

“Because it’s good,” she finally snaps, turning to face him when he continues to question why anyone with any self-respect would read a romance novel. “It’s wish-fulfillment. It’s not degrading, it’s empowering to read about a woman finding exactly… exactly what she…”

MJ trails off, attention snagged by Peter in the corner of her eye, several rows back. He’s getting up from his seat.

“…what she wants,” she continues distractedly, watching Peter twist to wriggle out towards the aisle. Even through his sweater, look at those shoulders. “…and, uh, going after it.”

Peter straightens up and slams his head into the overhead compartment. Wincing, she blinks and refocuses on Brad’s unconvinced expression.

“Ok,” he argues (she rolls her eyes), “but a woman going after what she wants shouldn’t be some fantasy. You’re not the timid type. You’d go after the guy in real life.”

MJ gives a small longing sigh and darts a look at Peter’s back as he heads for the bathroom.

“You’d think so,” she mumbles, disappointed in herself.

“The right guy,” Brad informs her emphatically, “wouldn’t make you wonder if he was interested. He’d make it obvious that he was into you and then you could just respond.” He shifts towards her, tone seeming to urge a confession. “He wouldn’t leave any room for doubt or misunderstanding. He’d give plenty of hints.”

His hand just brushes her knee and she shifts in her seat, away from him, whipping her novel back up in front of her face.

“Too bad he can’t take one,” she says and proceeds to ignore Brad until he stops talking to her.

An hour later, Peter trips up the aisle of the plane and knocks into the arm she had balanced on her armrest, propping her cheek up. He grabs her shoulder to straighten her before she can bang her head into anything. Heart hammering from more than the collision, MJ looks up at him. She sticks her finger between the pages and offers a shy smile.

“Hey,” he says. “So…”

He’s obviously nervous; MJ hears Brad make an impatient noise beside her and turns her back more fully towards him to concentrate on Peter. Peter, who’s lifting an arm and smoothing the back of his hair like he might’ve messed it up dozing against his seat’s headrest. MJ’s mind is back in the world of her book for a minute. The swell of Peter’s biceps. Her gaze slides down his body like butter on a hot cob of corn. The way his jeans hug his thighs. She swallows.

He swings his upper body abruptly to look at something and his raised elbow clocks a man who’s getting his carryon down in the ear.

“Oh shit,” Peter gasps, immediately apologizing and trying to help.

After the situation’s resolved―accepted as an accident―and Peter’s returning the man’s luggage to the compartment for him, he spins back to MJ and seems to lose his nerve. He gives her a weak laugh and scurries away. MJ slumps back into her seat.

Wearily, she holds her book before her eyes. The protagonist is in the middle of what MJ expects to be a futile attempt to resist her feelings for the hunk.

“‘Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous!’” she reads.

Her real-life love interest of choice isn’t exactly a historical bad boy of the is-that-a-dagger-concealed-in-your-breeches-or-are-you-just-happy-to-see-me variety, but dangerous? MJ sneaks a peek and witnesses Peter swipe a woman’s drink clear off her tray as he tries to maneuver his way to his middle seat. Yeah, you could say that being close to him is a hazard.

―

“MJ,” Betty asks in Venice, “are you sure? You could share with Ned and I.”

And she gets this gushy look on her face that would make MJ say no even if she’d been considering trying to squeeze into the two-seater gondola with the brand-new couple.

“Nah, I’ll be alright with Parker.”

She sounds more certain than she feels and Betty gives her a doubtful look.

“Are you sure? Peter? In a narrow little boat? On water?”

“Yep. What could go wrong?”

It’s a joke because every one of Betty’s words hints at the possible pitfalls. Still, MJ knows a chance for romance when she sees one. The two of them, thigh-to-thigh in a gondola, gliding down the canal with no one and nothing to interrupt them? Ideal. Being alone with him (minus one gondolier) long enough for a gondola ride might give her time to form the words to say… well, she’s not sure what yet. But she’ll form them! The sway of the water beneath them and the centuries-old architecture to either side will inspire her. Not to mention her crush’s proximity. He already said yes when she asked if he might want to go together. Of course, MJ phrased it like she just needed someone to split the cost (something this touristy does not come cheap), but hopefully he’ll see past her practicality and directly into her heart.

“You’re right,” Betty says. She smiles. “I’m sure everything will be just fi―”

The girls turn and jump in reaction to Ned grabbing the back of Peter’s hoodie right before he can tumble off the dock and into the canal. MJ and Betty exchange a look.

“Will you hold my backpack?”

“Mhmm.” Betty waits while MJ tucks her romance novel inside and zips the bag shut. “Good luck,” she offers.

“Thanks.”

Once they’re actually on the water, MJ feels better. The way the gondolier propels them smoothly down the canal is very relaxing. She turns her face up, grateful for the kiss of the sun after all those hours on the plane. It’s also easier to look up and squint than it is to look sideways and meet Peter’s eye. Every time she does, they glance quickly away from each other.

“Maybe we should take a picture,” Peter suggests out of nowhere. MJ looks at him.

“Definitely. To commemorate the trip.”

“Right.”

He gives her a quick flick of a smile, brown eyes so close when they’re facing each other like this. There are more freckles springing up across his nose the longer they’re out in the sun. MJ wants to find a way for them to stay out all afternoon.

“I can take it,” she offers. He nods eagerly and she opens the camera on her phone, raising her arm to get a good angle.

“Um, should I…?”

Peter shifts on the seat. His legs press more surely against hers and he cranes his head forward awkwardly.

“No,” MJ instructs. “Get closer.”

She only watches him on the phone screen, but her breaths grow shallow as she sees him stare at the side of her face, then move his face right next to hers.

“Closer,” she urges.

His arm comes around her, touching the seat on the far side of her before he cautiously decides to hold her waist.

“Closer.” It’s a whisper.

His cheek rests gently against hers and MJ holds her breath.

“Look at the camera,” he says softly, though when she turns her head just a little, he’s not. He’s looking at her.

A speedboat zips past causing sudden choppy waves and Peter reacts instantly. He leaps into a rigid, defensive posture and something goes flying out of his hand or from up his sleeve. MJ doesn’t have a chance to figure out what it was or ask him about it because Peter yanks his arm back. Simultaneously, the gondolier’s oar goes sailing over their heads and, like a person with a broken leg who has their crutch kicked out from under their armpit, the gondolier topples over the side of the boat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, flinging herself forward to grab the edge of the gondola, trying to see into the murky, churning water.

MJ misses the moment Peter jumps, but she feels his sweatshirt land in her lap and hears the splash. She slides across the bench to check the water on the other side, where he must have dived in. What should she do? What can she do? There are people on land stopping to look. She stares back in a panic, floating alone in the gondola.

“Help!” she calls to them, but rather than trust any of them to react, she starts to text Mr. Harrington, phone shaking in her hand. Their teacher gave everyone his number for emergencies and she doesn’t know what it’ll do to the poor guy for her to use it, but there’s no other choice…

Until Peter and the gondolier break the surface. Now MJ’s yelling at them.

“Why did you do that? What the hell, Parker?”

Thankfully, he ignores her panic (she’ll be embarrassed about it later) and holds the side of the gondola still while water runs into his eyes and the gondolier flops back on board, muttering in curt Italian. Peter paddles around the boat to retrieve the oar, now cracked in half. The gondolier accepts it with a nod.

“Aren’t you getting in?” MJ demands when the vessel begins to move and Peter’s still treading water.

“We were almost back to where we started,” he points out. “I’ll just swim it.”

She turns away from him and puts her hand to her forehead, somewhere between relieved and fuming. Her other hand unconsciously grips the sweatshirt in her lap. Once they’ve docked, MJ angrily passes the sweatshirt off to Ned and takes her backpack back from Betty.

“What happened?” they’re asking her, and MJ’s opening her mouth to explain the entire thing, about how Peter Parker is not only dangerous but an idiot, truthfully crushed that this moment slipped away from the two of them, when she glances towards the dock. Instead of speaking, her mouth just drops open further.

It’s like goddamn slow-motion.

He plants his hands on the weathered wood and hauls himself out of the water, plaid shirt plastered to his body. All the air leaves MJ’s chest as Peter shakes his head then slicks his wet hair back. Jesus Christ, she could swear she sees every drop of water cascading down his face and over the curve of his jaw. Light glints off the surface of the canal behind him and he walks, looking directly at her. Without breaking eye contact, she snatches the sweatshirt from Ned’s hands.

“Um, here,” she says, offering it to a sopping-wet Peter. This is better than the books.

“Thanks, MJ. At least that’s dry.”

MJ gives him a pathetically awed smile at the self-deprecating humour and has trouble letting go of the hoodie for a second, sorta hoping he’ll tug the whole thing forward and she’ll end up pressed to his chest. Yes, the front of her clothes will get wet, and yes, he smells like the canal, but she can overlook those things. Haul me against you, she thinks intently. Show me what it feels like to be a woman ruled by nothing but her passions in the embrace of your strong arms.

“Dammit!” Peter yelps, one eye clamped shut when he pulls the sweatshirt away from his now-dry face. “I wiped my face with the zipper!”

She could die. She could honestly just fucking die here. After Ned and Betty find a different gondola to rent, Peter goes back to the hotel for dry clothes and she wanders alone. Not far, just enough to find a bench where she sits and retrieves her novel from her backpack. God, right when she thought she and Peter were getting somewhere, that speedboat! The oar somehow jerked from the gondolier’s hands! Reality is bullshit. MJ cups her chin in her hand and turns the page.

―

They’re on the bus to Prague and MJ’s grateful for the stretch of time where she’s not expected to explore or listen to guided tours that tell her buildings that are clearly haunted aren’t, and other questionable facts. Do they even know how many people have been murdered in Venice? Neither does she, but the city had a very murdery vibe that she loved and would’ve appreciated hearing more about. And they call this an educational school trip. Ha.

She’s using this time to read. Read and observe. She’s on her third romance novel now. She only packed five, but if she gets through them all before they fly home from Paris, she’ll just start the first one again. They really aren’t tedious. Especially when she has material right in front of her eyes to project the characters onto. Peter pokes his head around the side of his seat and his gaze meets hers. Everything inside her flutters as though ruffled by an internal breeze. He gives her a sideways little smile that shows his teeth. Ravish me, MJ thinks, ducking back behind her open book to hide the way her face is lighting up like a flare.

She should just go talk to him. It would be thoughtful, a nice gesture, since his best friend is totally consumed with cozying up to Betty where they’re sitting together. Not having Ned to constantly hang out with has gotta be rough on Peter. Instead of barricading the seat beside her with her feet to ward off Brad, MJ could sit next to him. Soothe his loneliness.

“Do it,” she mutters to herself. “Get up.”

Pulse surging, MJ sets her novel aside and grips the back of the seat in front of hers to pull herself to her feet. There’s no need to be nervous. She and Peter… they have chemistry. There’s something there, just waiting to be realized if she can be brave enough to make a move. She ignores Brad, who looks up excitedly when she passes his seat. Brad’s fine, but she’d like him better if he didn’t feel like that towards her. Not when she feels like this towards someone else.

Peter’s at the front of the bus as they zoom down winding roads that hug steep cliffs. The scenery’s all gorgeous, she’s sure. She just can’t take her eyes off him. Confidence, MJ thinks to herself, trying to channel the heroine in her current read. That woman has three different men metaphorically eating out of the palm of her hand. MJ could do that. MJ has that power. This is just one sixteen-year-old on whom she happens to have a very large crush. She holds her head high and strides forward.

And in some quick struggle with Flash, Peter knocks the other boy out cold.

MJ freezes as Peter jolts back in evident surprise at his own action. He really shouldn’t be able to get into that amount of trouble while they’re all stuck on this bus. It just isn’t probable. She turns and slinks back to her seat before he can notice that his latest attack of awkwardness (and the ensuing collateral damage) had an audience. Rather than sit there trying to figure out how Peter incapacitated Flash with such a swift, soundless hit, MJ half-reads and half-daydreams. Her fantasies are full of his body slanting over hers for a completely different reason than to check her vitals after an accidental punch in the face.

―

There’s a hush in the theatre, still a long time before the opera will begin. Sound feels low to MJ, as though it’s billowing along the floor like smoke, everything dampened and expectant. Peter wavers and stops in the aisle. They’re going to sit together. Or, they were.

“What is it?” she asks.

He huffs an uncertain laugh.

“Just don’t really feel like watching an opera, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” she agrees. Opera is about passion―lust, betrayal, wild consequences from the actions that heightened emotions lead to. It’s a lot like her romance novels, so, actually, opera appeals to her, but she’s not so sure about her ability to sit quietly and watch all of those things unfold on the stage while Peter’s seated next to her, the sleeve of his jacket rubbing against her arm.

“You do?” He seems surprised to find she’s on his side. Maybe he was worried about disappointing her.

MJ nods and offers a quick smile.

“You wanna… get out of here?” Peter looks at her warily after floating the suggestion. Her smile broadens.

“Yes.”

“Ok.” He glances back towards the row packed with their classmates. “As long as nobody sees us leave, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Harrington won’t notice. I told him Brad has a phobia of any kind of representational work, so he’s pretty focused on trying to comfort him.”

“And Brad?”

“Brad has no idea what’s going on.”

If her smirk is a touch vengeful, Peter doesn’t have any words of judgement for her. They walk together to the exit. She’s smiling hard towards the floor and has the feeling he is too. When the door catches the back of Peter’s jacket and shuts on it, MJ holds it open to free him, shrugging off his thanks. What’s a minor wardrobe mishap here or there? Tear this dress off me, she thinks as they step out into the night. They’re just a couple of teenagers, unchaperoned in a foreign city after dark. She isn’t scared as she walks next to Peter. Nothing could feel safer. In the historical novels she likes, there’s often a charming French gentleman or a dashing Spanish rogue, but this boy from home suits her just fine, with the smile never totally leaving his lips and the level of his head slightly below hers. MJ shivers and allows Peter to help her into her jean jacket. Sure, it’s the air bringing goosebumps to her arms.

They hold hands out of necessity, trying not to be separated in the crowd. Though it’s warmer while they’re moving with this teaming river of festivalgoers, she’s glad to be wearing her jacket. Strangers graze it, but only Peter is permitted to touch her bare skin. Their fingers aren’t locked or anything and still his hand clamped around hers is enough to make her feel electrifyingly possessed. Look! she wants to tell these strangers. I’m with him! Being taken in a firm hold is not, for her, mutually exclusive from consensual physical contact. When it’s a yes, MJ prefers an unambiguous yes; when touch is granted, she isn’t averse to rough neediness. Of course, this is all based on theory, not personal experience, on the way heat crawls up her neck and behind her ears when she reads a passage where a heroine is hastened to a secret place by her lover before being pushed against the wall, arms pinned, as the man looses her front-fastening gown with his teeth.

With a quick sideways glance, she presses herself a little closer to Peter and feels his fingers flex around her hand in response. She longs for a love affair abroad. What’s apparently more realistic―because this is what happens―is that she and Peter are too shy to continue holding hands when they escape the throng. That it’s too loud to hear each other talking and the requirement of tipping their mouths towards each others’ ears to be heard goes from sensual to annoying disappointingly fast. After they decide to go back to the theatre and pretend to have exited just ahead of the rest of their class, MJ thinks Peter’s changed his mind. He comes lurching into her space. Is he going to kiss her?! No, he catches himself and shouts that somebody bumped into him. Then he apologizes. Dammit, there’s nothing more she would’ve wanted from this night than for Peter’s momentum to drive them stumbling into some tidy alley off the main thoroughfare! She could’ve threaded her fingers desperately into his hair while they kissed, let him feel her up a little. MJ communicates in gestures that it’s no problem and they’re both too jumpy to hold hands as they weave upstream through the people.

After this failure of courage on both their parts, she doesn’t expect Peter to show up at the door of her hotel room later that night. She’s lying on her stomach, reading, when she hears the knock.

The sound of the revelers is still there, but in the distance. The streets they tread are quiet and full of all the ambiance of cobblestones and yellow lamplight. They could almost be back in time. Run away with me, is MJ’s silly thought. She doesn’t really want the trouble that would cause―depleting their euros, the worry of their families, rebooking flights, probably killing Mr. Harrington with the stress of it all―just the idea of being alone with him, of buying the two of them more time. In her head, she bats at the idea of her and Peter, in love and on the run from anyone who’d try to stop them, like a child whacking at a piñata. No hope of splitting it open.

Still, she is alone with him and his profile’s never looked so nice as it does cut out against the velvety dark of Prague’s sky. Peter seems nervous, again. He gets that way with her. Would it reassure him if she hinted in the subtlest way possible that the only time the words ‘making love’ don’t cause her stomach to turn is when she applies them to her and him? Is she the only one set on fire by the possibilities of the darkness? MJ wants to see their shadows intertwine.

She guesses at what he needs for her to say, suppressing the flowing verbal pornography of what she wants to say. It’s obvious that he’s trying to reveal his secret identity. The gondola mishap, the instinctual way he navigated them through all those people earlier―there are multiple examples from this trip that she added to her accumulated observations of him back home to come to the conclusion that Peter is Spider-Man.

But her assertion surprises him. He hooks his shoe on a cobblestone and goes sprawling. MJ frowns down.

“Why didn’t you catch yourself?” she asks. It doesn’t come out sounding very sympathetic, but she’s scientific right now, studying him as his alter ego.

Peter shoves himself up from the ground and dusts his hands off on his jeans. MJ hopes his palms aren’t scraped up.

“I always seem to have a little trouble with my senses when I’m around you,” he says with a bashful smile.

At first, she’s insulted. Is he blaming her for his clumsiness? After all the time she’s devoted to constructing fantasies revolving around him in tight trousers, tall boots, and torn-open shirts! Then, she gets it.

“You do?”

“Definitely,” Peter admits. “Everything else sorta blurs out and I can only focus on where you are. Where your body is in relation to mine. Totally lose track of my surroundings.”

He says the last sentence while dropping his gaze to her lips, which she swiftly licks in preparation. MJ’s ready for her first kiss… which never comes because Peter’s phone goes off. He answers, since it’s his best friend calling, then informs her that Mr. Harrington’s looking for them and Ned can only stall and make up wild excuses for so long. There’s no time to do anything but race back to the hotel, the atmosphere that was so much like it is in her books diminishing with every step. As she trudges to her room, feeling restless and left hanging, Brad pops out of his. Says he was worried about her. That he would’ve been happy to go with her if she’d only let him know. Mentions how he wouldn’t have gotten lost the way Parker obviously did…

“What were you even doing with him?” Brad asks as she fiddles with her key card. “Trying to stop him from wandering into traffic?”

MJ whips her head around to glare at him.

“Trying to prove you right.”

She gets inside and closes the door on him so she won’t have to elaborate, remind him of what he told her on the plane. That she’s the kind of person who’d go after the guy. Well, she isn’t. She didn’t go after Peter. She blew it. In the morning, they’re flying to Paris, and then home two days later. There won’t be semi-private gondolas or chances to steal away from the rest of their group while they’re watching an opera. MJ really believed this would be the vacation where she transformed into the kind of person she’d want to read about in a book. She’d better stick to reading because she’s not even close.

―

Paris is in a heatwave. Some of her classmates appear to be disenchanted by the fact that they’re too hot and uncomfortable to strut down the boulevards like models on a catwalk as the pastel buildings of picture-perfect arrondissements rear around them. They’re feeling too limp to be chic, but MJ is thriving. She eats hearty sandwiches of crusty bread and layered meats and cheeses and ties her t-shirt up around her waist like a crop top when sweat rolls down her spine. She feels like a better-fed working-class woman of the 18th century. Give her a Louis XVI to drag from his bed in this epicenter of revolutions. In the story she imagines for herself now, her bosom doesn’t heave from the breathlessness of stolen moments with a paramour but from the exertion of storming the Place de la Concorde for justice and the disruption of a diseased social contract.

Group activities and being worn out by the sun by dinnertime prevent MJ from really talking to Peter. Also, he keeps giving her these looks, which she attributes to her stating that he’s Spider-Man and then the two of them never discussing it further. They can’t, in front of their friends and Mr. Harrington. She thinks maybe they will when the Louvre swallows them for a whole afternoon, but the shuffling feet of visitors make the words clog in her throat. Her new persona doesn’t follow her inside; central air extinguishes the fire of the woman she is in the streets. Instead, she studies the fold and flow of painted fabrics, yearning to drape herself across Peter’s body the way Da Vinci swathed Mary in blue.

MJ wakes up to oppressive humidity on the final morning. It feels cool enough in the hotel, but her skin grows damp in the fifteen minutes between toweling off from her shower and sitting down in the breakfast room. Mr. Harrington appears to be at the end of his rope partly because, as he notifies them, Mr. Dell’s apparently sleeping in until they have to leave for the airport. The rest of his stress is just from existing, MJ guesses. He’s too paralyzed by anxiety to even think about accompanying his students on an excursion. Fortunately, enough of them are interested in going up the Eiffel Tower―until now, they’ve only seen it from the ground―that Mr. Harrington permits them to leave in a pack. They nod awkwardly when he gives an intense directive for them to ‘protect each other out there’ as though they’re embarking on a journey across a minefield.

She’s kind of surprised at how quickly their group breaks apart. Some of her classmates, like Flash, clearly had no intention of doing anything but skipping off to freedom, but come on. Doesn’t anybody want to examine the Eiffel Tower for traces of mind-control technology? The only one MJ’s glad to see go is Brad, though he shoots her a look like, Aren’t you tempted to follow me? She is not. When Peter sticks to her side, promising to stay with her all the way to the very top (frazzled by his sudden closeness, she pedantically informs him that they don’t let people up that high), her heart seems to shudder and glisten like the lightshow that illuminates the Tower at night. Betty and Ned are coming too, but they’re lost in their own little world, swinging their clasped hands between them and stopping to make Peter take pictures of them in cute poses as they make their way to their destination.

On the way up the Eiffel Tower, MJ hardly breathes. It’s the heat, or it’s Peter there beside her, smiling whenever she catches his eye. Or it’s some kind of copycat impulse because he hardly seems to be breathing either, hands in his pockets and chewing his lip in her peripheral vision. Miraculously, on the platform, there’s air. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a breeze, but it feels like air is moving around her instead of her pushing thickly through it as she has been the past two days. She feels exposed, as though at the prow of a ship. She pictures herself captured by pirates only to become their leader after seducing and bamboozling their captain, whose hands prove to be as callused as his words are callous when they have their way with each other in his shabby quarters.

Ned and Betty hurry along the walkway in search of the ideal backdrop for the series of selfies they’re about to take. While MJ’s watching them go, Peter grabs her hand. The action’s not like it was on the swarming streets of Prague; his hold is gentle, cradling her hand as though to cushion a jewel. Speaking of…

“I got this for you,” he says, drawing a chain from his pocket with his free hand. A chipped black pendant, glass by how it shines in the morning light, twists slowly before her eyes. “In Venice.”

“You got that for me?”

“Yeah. It got beaten up a little in my luggage. I’m s―”

“It’s perfect. I love it,” she assures him quickly. Tentatively, she lifts a hand to finger the smooth petals. “I can’t believe you got this for me.”

“I thought you’d like it. Black―”

“Dahlia,” MJ finishes for him. His hair’s curling in the humidity and she just wants to take his face between her hands and give him a kiss. They stare at each other a moment and she thinks, finally, maybe, will he? Will she?

“Here,” Peter offers. “I can put it on you, if you want.”

She smiles and nods, turning to present him with her back and gathering her hair up away from her neck. His hands come around in front and she tries to watch them without lowering her chin too much. Trying to be steady for him. Either it’s taking him a while to fasten the finnicky catch or he’s as appreciative of their nearness as she is because she can feel the warmth of his hands resting against the nape of her neck. Just wrap your arms around me, she thinks. Seize my hips as I swoon against your solid chest. Spider-Man should be a lover as well as a fighter. Eventually, his hands drop and she steels herself to face him.

Taking a deep breath, MJ says, “Tell me how it looks.”

She’s still turning as Peter takes a step back (presumably to assess the way she looks wearing the necklace), bumps into the guardrail, and overreacts so aggressively that he goes vaulting over it.

“PETER!” she screams, springing forward.

When she looks over the side, he’s hanging there with his fist closed around some kind of stretchy, sticky thread. His webs. Peter gives her a sheepish smile and she sighs in relief that the dork didn’t just plummet to his death.

“Looks great,” he says. MJ rolls her eyes.

“Just get up here so I can kiss you.”

He grins.

But other people on the platform are reacting, exclaiming, turning their cameras and phones towards the guy hanging by what probably looks like a rope from a distance. And maybe the two of them, Peter and MJ―a team, a unit, a couple―could’ve played it off that way if he didn’t decide to swing back and forth to gather momentum and then flip up to land beside her. There are gasps and other noises of surprise.

“What are you going to do?” she demands, trying to block him from view as well as she can.

He gives her a determined look.

“I know the first thing,” Peter says, then grips the back of her neck as he kisses her, suddenly suave, suddenly sure, and suddenly she’s the one who can’t trust her own damn legs, going wobbly beneath her as she presses back into the kiss. His mouth responds urgently and his stability counteracts her shakiness to keep her on her feet.

When he breaks the kiss, MJ tilts her head and immediately goes after another one. Hey, they’re in the City of Love. She’s gonna get her romance.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

#my writing #this is a funny one #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

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savnofilter · 5 years ago

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dom author-chan i would like to request Aizawa x reader where reader was originally with Tensei Iida but due to his accident with the hero killer he was paralyzed so Reader end up talking about her problems to Aizawa and he end up tying her down with his binding scarf and giving her some real deep rough pounding 🤭.

Aizawa x Reader

warnings: rough sex, inappropriate usage of aizawa’s scarf, suspicion, possessive behaviour, sexual tension, marking, orgasm denial.

a/n: i lo and behold aizawa smut. thank you anon!

@lady-bakuhoe @lord-explosion-baku @dee-madwriter @fairyglitter-h

“Thank you for having me…” You say with a sweet smile, bending over in your seat to obtain the tea that was just brought to you. Aizawa’s eyes trail to the more than generous view of your cleavage. His eyes trail back up to your face as you sit back in your seat.

“Any time. Is there anything you wanted to talk about in particular?” He asks, taking a sip of his own tea. He watches your sweet smile laced lightly with a salacious tint to it.

“Just wanted to talk to one of my friends.” You say matter-of-factly. He squints his eyes just a bit then relaxes, taking a sip from his tea again.

“We both know I’m not the most “friendly” person you’re acquainted with. Hizashi, Nemuri…” He lists and watches as you tilt your head to the side slightly, sweet smile still on your face.

“Is that what you’d call us, Shouta?” You breath out, locking eyes with the tired male in front of you. “How is Tenya? Is he holding up? I’m worried about him these days.”

“You could’ve asked him yourself, you’re pretty close.” Aizawa answers, watching your movements carefully.

“Well you see with the incident, I haven’t been able to reach out to Tensei. In more ways than one.” You mumble the last part, taking your turn to squint your eyes at him.

“Why do you say that?” He bounces back immediately. You brush your hair back, carefully placing your tea cup on the table.

“You see after the Hosu incident, we haven’t been able to be intimate.” You explain. You take his silence to continue. “I was just wondering if you’d want to take his place, Shouta.” You conclude, looking at his suspecting stature that seemed to be strained.

“You’re treading dangerous waters here, (Y/N).” He warns.

“But I’m swimming freely,” You lean forward, placing your elbow on your crossed knee, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. You were aware of how fast Aizawa was in your school days but how fast he crosses over to you had you out of breath. He had you pinned to the couch, the distant crash of expensive tea set knocked over. You grin, trying to struggle under grip to no avail. “You’re strong, just like i remembered.” You urge trying to get him straight to fucking him you into the couch to sooth your pleasures. His eyes burn down at you, a low growl escaping his lips before he smashes his lips against your yous.

Your chest flutters at the strength, throat being constricted at the tight scarp being wrapped and your neck. Your eyes melted at the sight that even without using quirk, his eyes seemed to glow. Your arms were held above your head by his hand while the other one kept a tight grip on the scarf. His mouth molded perfectly with yours and you didn’t have any time to breathe.

You were panting already as he pulled away, mouth just oh-so close to yours. You yelped at him letting go your hands and his scarf loosening its hold on your neck. Aizawa was quick to wrap your wrists together before swiftly picking you up bridal style to his bedroom. He tossed you on the bed, your dress ridding up revealing the little skimpy underwear awaited beneath your already dangerously thin dress. Aizawa raised a brow at your choice, ignoring your blushing face as he lifts the fabric higher seeing your lacy thong. You move to close your legs making him let out a tch of disappointment, using both his hands to spread them apart.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asks, tilting his head in mock confusion as he spread them wider. Your legs twitch at the stretch, Aizawa’s eyes being drawn to the small noticeable spot on your panties. He didn’t feel to give your plump thighs a squish, almost overwhelmed by the feel of your thighs. He wraps his scarf to the headboard one time before he can get the chance to forget, enjoying your whimpers of protest to let your hands be free. “You don’t make orders around here, kitten.” Aizawa ripped your panties from you eliciting a gasp from you. A low growl rumbled in his throat, watching as you waited for him.

“God Shouta fuck me please!” You whined. He grunts before letting go of your thighs leaving you to groan at the feeling of blood rushing to recover the skin where you know were going to leave marks before.

“You think you can give orders kitten?” He asks, moving to take off his clothes slowly teasing you. First went his shirt, leaving his wife-beater to show off his impressive muscles that you missed to touch. You liked your lips seeing him ease off his pants, showing his aching member that was begging to be let out. You watched with great interest as he got between your legs, wrapping your legs around his waist. He watched down at you as he adjusts his tip at your opening, the other gripping your cheeks puckering your lips.

“If I fuck you right now, then you’re all mine kitten. Think you can handle that?” He asks, putting his tip in then pulling it out repeatedly. You whimper nodding your head making him shake his. “Use your words.” This time before he was about to enter he just stayed pressed against your lips awaiting you to answer him. His strong grip tightens making your groan in pain.

“Yes!” You practically yell out. His grip immediately loosens as he rubs it as a silent apology. He eases in his girth, watching as it slowly disappears into your tight cunt. You let out a low cuss as he starts rocking into you. He lets his head fall back for a second, enjoying, relishing, savouring the feel of you wrapped around him. It had been so damn long that fuck he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t until long that he was harshly thrusting into you, the sharp sting of his hips hitting against yours making you hiss.

Aizawa let go of your jaw leaving another possible mark that would appear on your body later that you’d knew, you would have to cover up. His lazy smirk makes its way onto his face as he watches the hand prints from your jaw form and thighs.

“Would you like some more kitten? The way your squeezing me is telling me you like it a lot...” He trails off, giving a sharp rut to emphasize when you yell out and nodding your head. He leans down to capture your lips in a kiss again, this time forgiving. Your heart hammered as he kept up his momentum, wishing hard that you could run your hands through his hair.

He pulls away from your lips, looking at your own hazy eyes as he moves to untie your wrists until he hears the door open and shut accompanied by an excited greeting. Your heart sinks as you realize it was Yamada and he was making his way towards Aizawa’s room fast. Aizawa smirks as he somewhat begrudgingly moves out and away from you. He tucks himself back in place, pulling on his pants. Your frown trying to tug at the restraints.

“You can’t just leave me here!” You hissed at him, face flushed and embarrassed. He chuckles resting his hand on the back of his making way to the door and looking back at you.

“Oh yeah? Be a good girl and sit tight kitten.”

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha aizawa shouta #bnha aizawa #mha aizawa #mha shouta #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa imagine

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a-vamp-and-a-half · 5 years ago

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Anon Jim: this will no doubt get his attention on me *smiles looking at the map* thank you, this is were we split up but I hope this works out for both of us, wish me luck as I tread dangerous waters doing this *walks off following the directions of the map till they get to the room, standing in front of it muttering to themselves just enough to where if Dark was listening in he would hear* so this is The DA's room being prepared *trying to see if there is any way to peek inside the room*

You peek under the door.

No Dark.

You try the handle.

The room is locked.

You think for a moment, and then grin. With the confidence of Markiplier himself, you run straight into the door.

You pass right through, and pump your fists in success.

The room is completely unlike Doc’s or any of the others that you’ve seen. The walls are painted a pleasant dark blue as opposed to the white of the other empty ones. There’s a antique desk, perfectly polished and pristine. Clearly, it’s been well cared for. The chair at the desk is also antique, in the same state of near perfection.

There an chair by the bed, of course, but this one is much more plush, and like most of the rest of the furniture, it’s antique. It’s a deep purple color, and when you brush you hand over it, the fabric on the cushions is soft to the touch.

There’s another one, matching, by the window.

There’s fine drapes over the window, a respectable gray color, perfect for blocking out sunlight. The other rooms have store-bought, but these look handmade.

There’s carpet in the room, dark red. You feel a little sick looking at it, knowing it’s likely that color to hide bloodstains. It’s also high-quality, soft and springy beneath your feet.

The bed is the same, antique and beautiful. Not fancy or ornate, exactly. But very nice. Something that would take years of saving to afford. The bedding on it is in good condition, but not new. No, it has the soft feel of having been slept on for years, the slight fading of many washes done.

The rest of the rooms were nice, of course, but very... plain, and modern, and...

You can’t put your finger on exactly how to describe this room. It’s like stepping into an old hotel, the kind that are fancy and expensive and make you feel like you’ll be kicked out at any moment, but at the same time it feels very... homely.

It’s a chilling energy. The traces of The DA’s old life, laid out before you, re-purposed, now just... waiting. Waiting for their return.

You feel like you’re invading their privacy.

#Vampire AU #Half vamp!DA #Markiplier

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kenneth-omega · 6 years ago

Text

Flowers & Thigh-Riding **Gwilym Lee**

A/N: oof this was a good one, I have a big ass thigh kink and I mean, HAVE YOU SEEN GWILYM LEE'S THIGHS?!?!?! Thank you to the anon for sending this one in!!! 💕

10. “were you just touching yourself?” ‘yeah, what are you gonna do about it?’

16. “the only way you are gonna get off is on my thigh.”

20. “take off your clothes, but leave the heels on.”

Word count: +1.8k

((Also this gif is me when I think of Gwil and d e m t h i g h s))

□■□■□■□■□

-you'd had a pretty hard day at work. the office was in a frenzy all day as the CEO of the company was paying a visit to your branch. your manager had given you a pretty sharp talking to when you'd arrived, his tone awfully condescending towards you.

-you're mood had been horrible for the rest of the day, the inspection not helping with the stress.

-as soon as you'd got back to yours and Gwil's house, you'd thrown your bag down and gone straight to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of red wine.

-Gwil wouldn't be home for a while, and as much as you liked the idea of Gwil helping you relieve yourself of the pent-up frustration, you just couldn't wait.

-stalking into the bathroom, your heels clicking on the tiles, you began to twist the taps on the bath, popping the plug in so that it would start to fill.

-you gently placed your glass on the side as you began squirting in bubble bath and some muscle soak stuff to help with your aches.

-happy that you'd eventually get to relax, you took another large sip from your glass, relishing in the deep taste.

-"sorry baby." you mutter to yourself, thinking of Gwilym as you begin to unbutton your shirt, running your hands down the valley of your breasts.

-you give a soft moan as one hand dips into the cup of your bra, fingers brushing against your already hard nipple.

-you don't hear your front door open and shut, the sound of someone else entering your home.

-Gwil quietly shuts the door, hoping not to alert you to his presence, knowing you won't expect him back this early.

-he managed to leave the meeting with his agent half an hour earlier, giving him chance to grab a nice little bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine for you both.

-he can't hear you moving around in the kitchen, and he can see the couch is vacant, so that must mean you're either in the bedroom or bathroom.

-making his way up the stairs, treading quietly on the slightly creaking floorboards, he spots the golden glow peeking out under the bathroom door.

-there's the sound of water running, and Gwil can tell you're obviously planning on getting a bath, something you only do when you're stressed.

-as his hand reaches up to knock on the door, hoping not to startle you too much, he hears a sound on the other side that makes him halt.

-a soft, pitchy moan.

-it was unmistakably you, he would recognise those kinds of sounds coming from you in a heartbeat.

-turning the handle, he pushed the door open without hesitation, wondering what he would find on the other side.

-you spin around at the sound of the door creaking, jumping half a mile. your hands, which you had been using to touch yourself, fly to rest at your sides.

-Gwil is stood in the doorway, flowers in hand and an inquisitive look on his face. you must look incredibly guilty, your face burning hot as he takes in the scene before him.

-he doesn't fail to notice the way your unbuttoned blouse has slipped off your shoulders. how your skirt is ruffled and part of it has gotten caught in the waistband of your underwear, unbeknownst to you.

-"hi sweetheart." Gwil greets you with a smile, stepping into the room. you watch as his eyes inspect your body, lingering on your unbuttoned top.

-"w-what are you doing home early?" you ask him, hands clasping together as you watch him place a little bunch of wrapped flowers in the sink, obviously meant for you.

-"managed to get off early," he tells you nonchalantly, placing his hands on your bare bare shoulders.

-you lean into his touch, savouring the warmth that radiates from his touch.

-"well I'm glad you're home, I was just getting a bath. had a long day, need to get rid of all this stress." you laugh, Gwil chuckling along with you.

-"was that all you were doing, baby?" his tone is gentle, but you can feel how the question lingers in the air.

-"I don't know what you mean." you shake your head, trying to ignore Gwil's hands that are now pushing your blouse further off your body.

-Gwil raises an eyebrow, "that's funny," he begins, "because I could hear your moans from the other side of this door."

-your top is now pooled on the bathroom tiles, leaving your torso exposed.

-"were you just touching yourself?" he purrs, nibbling on his bottom lip.

-you've been caught red-handed, and you know there's no point in trying to deny it.

-"yeah," you tell him, your hands slipping up his body, travelling up to hook them around his neck. "what are you gonna do about it, sweetie?"

-"nothing."

-you have to blink once, twice, and then a third time, unsure if you heard him correctly.

-"what?"

-"I'm not going to do anything." Gwil tells you, matter-of-factly, moving past you to sit on the edge of the bathtub. he extends a hand out to you, his palm flat and outstretched.

-"baby, be a good girl for me?"

-you can't help the wetness and heat pool between your legs as he calls for you affectionately.

-"what do you want me to do?" you ask as you walk towards him obediently.

-Gwil slips a hand up the back of your leg, the rough, slightly calloused pads of his fingers rubbing against your skin.

-"take off your clothes," he growls, his voice dipping low and, thick with lust.

-you begin to do so, obeying his command without a second thought. you start to kick off your heels, that is until Gwil stops you with a hand on your waist.

-"but leave the heels on, for me baby." Gwil asks you, biting his lip as you gracefully slip the heels back on. "good girl." he hums in response.

-you reach round to unzip your skirt, letting it fall down around your ankles. Gwil watches your every move as your unclasp your bra and shrug it off.

-in just your heels and underwear, you twirl for Gwil, giggling when he slaps your ass playfully.

-"come here, sit on my leg." he asks you, beckoning for you to back up and seat yourself in his lap, where you can see his growing erection pressing through his trousers.

-"what do I do now?" you ask him as you sit with your back pressed against his chest, a leg spread over either side of his right thigh.

-Gwil moans softly as your ass presses against his crotch, rubbing his hard dick. "ride me, princess." he sighs, hands resting on your hips as he slowly starts to move your wet pussy against his leg. "because the only way you're gonna get off, is on my thigh."

-you let your head fall back at the feeling of the friction on your aching clit.

"fuck--" you gasp, a hand slipping up to run your fingers through his hair.

-Gwil's fingers trace up the side of your ribs, until he reaches your breasts, his hands cupping them, greedily squeezing and rubbing his palm over your nipples.

-"come on, sweet girl. fuck yourself on my thigh, that's it." Gwil coaxes you, watching from over your shoulder as you grind your hips, gaining the friction you so desperately crave.

-you can feel your slick pussy begging for more, but Gwil isn't going to give you anything else but teasing kisses and the occasional roll of his own hips against your ass.

-"oh--god, you're absolutely soaking." Gwil groans hotly, his warm breath tickling your neck as he notices the damp, dark patch growing on his trousers from your wet cunt.

-"all for you, baby." you whine, grinding hard against his leg, wanting more, wishing for more contact. your clit is throbbing, waves of pleasure hitting you with every roll of the hips.

-Gwil removes one of his hands from your breast, reaching down to your panties.

-"let's get these out of the way." he murmurs, pushing the cloth to the side so that your soaked pussy can have unrestrained friction.

-you're making such a mess of his trousers but he doesn't care, the sight of your juices all over his leg is too hot to worry about such trivial things.

-"that's it pretty girl, use me to cum, I know you want to." Gwil encourages you, watching your hips as they start to move again, your sensitive bud getting all the friction you desired.

-"Gwil--" you moan, unable to keep his name from tumbling out, knowing your impending orgasm is close.

-he laps it up, promising you with more fun later if you do as he asks and cum all over his thigh.

-"you were going to touch yourself without me, weren't you, naughty girl?" Gwil purrs in your ear, nipping your earlobe afterwards. you rut your hips especially hard at that, a hot, strangled cry escaping from your throat.

-"y-yes, baby." you choke out, each thrust of your hips becoming more frantic.

-"you're so bad--I bet you were thinking about my cock too. am I right?"

-Gwil's voice has become dangerously low and almost animalistic. it turns you on so much, and you forget to answer him.

-a hand reaches up to wrap around your throat.

-"answer me, sweetheart. I want to know if you were lusting after my hard cock. did you think of me fucking you like a little slut? how did I make you feel?" Gwil growls in your ear.

-"oh yes I did--I'm so close now," you pant, body growing heavy as your orgasm creeps further up your body, about to hit it's climax.

-"you cum then, baby girl. show me how good this makes you feel, and then maybe I'll fuck you later." Gwil proceeds to encourage you, bringing you to your orgasm and continuing to rock your hips as you scream his name, dragging out your pleasure for you.

-"so good for me, you look so beautiful." he sighs, kissing along your shoulder as you recover, your body leaning into his.

-after a few moments of rest, Gwil leans over and twists the taps of the bath, stopping the water from continuing.

-the bath has had plenty of time to fill up and is now near overflowing, but you couldn't care less about a bath now.

-"come on sweetheart, let's get you in." Gwil slowly brings you up to stand, pushing your panties down your legs and helping you out of the heels as you're still rather wobbly.

-"will you join me?" you ask him, slowly testing the water out with a foot.

-it's a lovely temperature.

-Gwil helps you lower yourself into the bath, your body disappearing under the heaps of bubbles and foam.

-"of course I will." Gwil assures you, planting a kiss on your forehead. there's a large dark patch on his leg from where you pleasured yourself, and you find your cheeks growing hotter.

-he picks up the abandoned flowers. "just let me go put these in a vase." he adds, giving you a playful wink as he leaves the bathroom.

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knowingoverseer · 5 years ago

Text

==> Callie: Dive

It hadn't actually taken you very long to reach the Loch, just a little more forest travel, but once you had gotten there you ran into a slight problem.

Well, it’s not like you hadn't anticipated this. To actually explore it’s depths and see what you could find, well.... that would require going in. Which was fine for Elsa. But not exactly you or Oz. Still, you had ways around that, seeing as your Sword still acted in place of your wands. A grey spell could turn things around for a bit... but.... Oz, Oz didn’t want to even attempt swimming, even if it could be made so he magically breaths. So, instead you three had walked along a road running length of it’s edge until about a mile or so you ran into a Bed and Breakfast sitting just a little ways in from the water’s edge. The trip over had been a bit nerve wracking, you’d found more Angel Stars surrounding the Loch than anywhere else up till this point, so you put up a void spell as soon as you three made it into the building. That should keep Oz safe while you and Elsa went out exploring. With that out of the way, you make your way back out to the water’s edge, Starmie in tow. Your heart beat was a little fluttery, you weren't really sure what to expect and you just felt... very nervous. Maybe you should wait till tomorrow? The sun was starting to set, so it would be darker than if you wait.... You take a deep breath and shake your head, trying to clear it. No, no waiting. You could check the lake out again tomorrow if you didn’t find anything tonight but you.... you wanted to do this. You unsheathe the Cosmic Deringer from your back, gripping it’s handle tightly. It responds by releasing your armor from the silver star adornment on it’s hilt, this time along with your Visor and Ear Guards. For a moment, you realize you don’t really remember ever having had this part of your armor before being stuck on this timeline, much like your cape, but you can’t really puzzle over that right now. Speaking of cape, you did not bring it out along with your armor. You figured that would be.... unwise, underwater. Your moon boots as well were missing for the moment, still wearing an old pair of sneakers you’d found early on in your adventure. Releasing your breath, you say with as much confidence as you can, “magic non-anon, for the evening yoU find yoUrself to take a mUch more violet bloodhUe, and all the physical traits associated.” The sword starts to glow, silver rather than it’s usual lime green, and you tap it gently against your forehead. As silly as you felt, you knew it was working. There was a tingly feeling spreading down your body, cold and strange, and your next couple of breaths felt wrong as your body changed. The sides of your neck, as well as your sides in general felt sore, more so than they had already been, and the left side of your neck didn’t stop feeling sore either. Reaching up, you can feel the place where gills have formed, but the scars on your neck also seem to have brought damage to them as well. Well.... fuck. Fuck Jarvis. It shouldn’t be too big an issue though, or at least you hoped it wouldn’t. You also note the purple-grey webbing between your fingers. And reaching up, you feel face fins just past where your cheek swirls lay. It was admittedly a bit awkward with your visor on. You even pull at your hair to find it a striking black colour. “so, how do i look?” You put your sword back into it’s sheath, and hold your arms out, letting Elsa asses you. Their gem glowed in a multitude of colours, and they gave a solid “HIYA!” in confirmation. You had no idea what it meant, but you took their word for it. Curiously, you hold your hands out in front of you once more, letting your space powers move some stones around on the shore. Despite the purple hue your freckles were now taking, they still shown a brilliant lime green while your space powers were active. And judging from the gleam you were seeing against the inside of the visor, so too were your cheeks and eyes. Or maybe that was just the visor’s green colouration. It was impossible to tell at the moment. “alright, well, let’s head in shall we?” You start to head out toward the water, getting about waist deep before Elsa joined you at your side. The sun was setting and the water honestly looked gorgeous with the light and colours of the sky reflecting off it. Elsa made an alien sort of beeping noise, something you associated with hesitation, and you held one of their arms. “we’ll be fine. alright, coUnt of three okay? yoU can coUnt.” The Starmie was swimming now, just barely treading water, and you had grabbed onto them with both hands, letting yourself be pulled out into deeper water. Normally you’d find footing against their back when they’re ferrying you over water, but since you’d be diving, you just let them pull. Their gem glowed brightly once, twice, then on the third bright glow they dove down deep, and you held your breath. The rich colours of the surface gave way to a darker, more muted landscape below, as bubbles rushed passed your face. Eventually you take in your first breath, and it hurts, much like it has any other time you’d been gifted gills and used them. You know coming back above the surface and taking your first gasp of air is going to hurt too. Unfortunately, you do note your breathing quality, while it does even out after the first few breaths, is far from perfect. Your underarmor is blocking the gills on your side, not making them unusable but hindering them at the very least, and only one side of your neck is in proper working condition. It wasn’t going to prevent you from exploring, but it did make your breathing quite a bit harder than it should be. If you were down here too long, you’d likely get very lightheaded, or at least that’s what you logic out. Elsa’s Illumination kicks in as you go down a bit deeper, the rainbow light shining forward like a beacon or a headlight, showing you both where you’re going. Which near the shore was great... But as you headed toward the center, and kept diving deeper and deeper, you were becoming aware of something a bit.... troubling. You still couldn’t see squat, it was just too deep. Too dark. And while you can probably stand a lot more pressure than a human might in Violet Blooded troll form, you really don’t know the limits of that. Or your Starmie’s limits for that matter. Still going deeper, you realize it’s a little strange, there weren't any heartless in the water. You have to imagine whatever lies within is driving the weaker water based heartless far far away. There’s still fish, however. It’s roughly twenty minutes before Elsa just sort of coasts along where you were, not quite wanting to go deeper than the two of you already had. It was hard to tell just how far down you were, but easy to tell you still had much much more to go. You weren't wrong about getting lightheaded either, forty minutes in and you pull at Elsa signalling for her to return upward. You’re probably pretty far from that bed and breakfast, but you needed the chance to breath easy for a bit. As you both started swimming back toward the surface, a sound envelops you both from below. It’s a low, bellowing sound that honestly scares the shit out of you, but it’s weirdly muffled, like there’s not just miles of water but layers of sediment and rock between you as well, but whatever it is, if that were the case, was HUGE. You’re starting to remember hearing something similar, if very very far off in the distance, as you had made your way closer. You assumed then it had to be the sound of the Titan, if there was one. Then, through the monstrously melodic wailing comes a more harsh yet scared cry, and it was getting closer! Out of the dark depths not one, but two large dinosaur like creatures came swimming up, desperately attempting to get out of the danger zone. It was hard to tell their coloration, just that one was lighter and smaller than the other, and they payed very little attention to you as they made their way up to the surface. You and Elsa quickly followed after.

#action!post #drabble /#long post /#(There will be more in a bit but I need to stop for the moment.))

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sailorshadzter · 5 years ago

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hello so it’s the person who requested jealous!jon and I love what you wrote! I never mind some angst! however... since you mentioned having another idea for jealous prompt, I’d love to read it if you still wanna write it :)

whew this took me forever to get to, sorry anon!

i think it was a huge miss for season 8 to have not even mentioned the thought of sansa and tyrion getting married again. i think it would have solved (in dany’s mind) the “problem” with sansa + it would hopefully keep her loyal to her side through marriage. not to mention it would keep winterfell in her grasp through tyrion being her hand. ALSO all of the fucking angst it would have caused for jon / sansa??? AHHH. i could write soo many drabbles on that, haha.

so i hope you enjoy this !

send me prompts

After several minutes of searching for her, Jon gives up and instead seeks out Lord Royce. The older man is seated in the library, scrolls scattered in front of him, and he only looks up at the sound of Jon's footsteps. "Your grace.... Ah, my lord," he says as he rises to his feet, uncertain of the way to greet this young man now before him. Once his king, now a lord? He would have preferred to call him King, if anyone happened to ask for his opinion.

Jon waves the man back into his chair as he approaches the table he sits at. This man had stood by Sansa all these long weeks since he'd left for Dragonstone and it had become apparent to him that he was almost always at her side. "Have you seen my sister?" He asks, though the term seems strange to use now, considering what he knows. Though Jon knows no one else knows yet and he must navigate his world with this secret hanging over his head. "I have been looking everywhere for her, but I keep coming up empty."

Lord Royce offers him a small smile before he nods. "She told me she was going to speak with Lord Tyrion, I saw them strolling the gardens only moments ago," he had glanced out the window in the main hall just before arriving in the library, where sure enough he had seen the Lady of Winterfell walking alongside the Lannister imp among the frozen gardens. What was once a beautiful array of flowers was now frozen and dead. He notices how Jon's face darkens, hardens, but he keeps his comments to himself. Lord Royce would never dream of speaking his mind about the relationship between his Lady and his Lord, though certainly they were closer than most siblings seemed to be. He has always attributed it to what they have gone through together, to what Jon saved Sansa from. Besides, her happiness was all that mattered to him in truth. Lord Royce had grown to care for the young woman as his own and so long as she was happy in life, he was as well.

"Thank you," Jon says before he nods, turning on his heel and slipping back into the hall. With Tyrion, he wonders, unable to stop the wave of jealousy that rushes through him. He made his way down the hall and out the double doors into the courtyard, making his way around back towards where the once luscious gardens stood. Sure enough, as he grew closer, Jon could catch sight of her vivid red hair as she slowly made her way down the snow covered pathway, Tyrion beside her. Jon is remembering Daenerys' words to him only the night before. Lady Stark and my Hand Tyrion were once married, you know. Jon had known. I have given it some thought and to secure a better alliance between the North and my crown, I would like to have the marriage reinstated. When he had returned to his rooms that night, he had upended the table in frustration.

The pair is approaching him then and Jon can't help but to appreciate the beauty that is Sansa; with her fire kissed hair and icy blue eyes, she is such a stark contrast to the dragon queen that it melts his heart. "Jon," she breathes as they come closer, her smile radiant as she tilts her head to the side, blue eyes finding his. Her cheeks are twin blooms of color, as if she had been laughing alongside the Lannister, and he seethes with jealousy. He cannot bare the thought of her on another man's arm, of her courting a man that was not him in their very own home. Beside her, Tyrion has reached up to place hand to her elbow, as if he is already courting her for marriage. And as if he feels his sharp gaze upon the touch, Tyrion rescinds his grip and steps aside, excusing himself from the pair and leaving them to stand there at the garden's entrance.

"I am surprised to see you with him," Jon says the moment the imp is out of earshot and though Sansa's eyes narrow slightly, her lips retain their smile.

"Is it not what I am supposed to do, befriend our enemy?" She asks and Jon knows they tread dangerous waters here. He knows he should be honest with her, that everything he's done up until now has been for her... And yet, he knows now is not yet the right time. "He was speaking of marriage." She says this as if she means to disarm him with the info, but when his face does not change, hers falls. "Ah, so she has already spoken to you of it." She says softly, moving as if she means to push past him, though Jon grabs her arm to keep her there. "I suppose you have already given her permission to marry me off as she sees fit," she hisses, her gaze sharp, her words sharper.

"I won't allow it," he says gruffly, shaking his head. "I won't allow you to marry him. No matter who orders it, I won't allow you to marry anyone you do not wish to." In truth, he writhes with jealousy, thinking of another man in her bed, another man on her arm. It went beyond brotherly protection, it went beyond anything he has ever felt in all of his life.

Her breath catches in her throat at his words, his hand yet to fall from where it gently grips her arm. "Thank you," is all she can finally say, her face softening, the anger rushing from her in a single sigh. "Won't your queen be angry with you for defying her?" Jon feels a prickle of worry, not for himself, but for her. Sansa will only be yet another pawn in Daenerys' game and she will be angry if she cannot use her as she sees fit. But when it came to Sansa... He would not budge. He would not allow for her to be unhappy. Not for anyone. "It sounds like she's quite adamant about rekindling our marriage." Such a wedding would indeed be beneficial to the dragon queen.

"She will strengthen her alliance with us another way," Jon says, opening his mouth to continue when she interrupts him.

"By marrying you?" The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. She's reminded of their conversation from a few nights before, when she had asked him if he had given her the North because he loved her. His answer had been deflective, an answer that had left her with far more questions.

"I will not marry her," he responds quietly, voicing the thought that had long been inside of his brain, long before he knew the truth of his birth. Her eyes widen slightly and her lips curve with a new sort of smile, though she does not speak. A moment like this, with a hairsbreadth of space between them, with his hand still lingering upon his arm... He longed for them. Any moment with her was one he would commit to memory, to hold with him all his days. "It's cold, we should go inside." He means to take his hand from her then, but she smiles and instead takes a hold of his arm, as if they were courtiers in a royal court, as if they were beyond a pair of siblings.

Neither of them would yet tell the other how worried they had been over the other's potential marriage, nor how it had felt like a weight raised from their shoulders to learn neither would marry elsewhere. Perhaps someday they would have the chance to speak of it, but for now, they would live with the relief in their own hearts.

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nancywheelxr · 5 years ago

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Hey :) would you be able to write sanvers + angst prompts 4+5? Maybe along the lines of Maggie working on opening up to Alex after their conversation in 2x17, but struggling sometimes. Could be more hurt/comfort than all out angst. Thank you :)

Okay, I had to rewatch their scener from this episode, so bear with me here, anon.

“it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“what’s the point?”

“So we’re good,” Alex asks and it’s only a half-question. Because look, she knows they’re fine, she just wants to know if they’re fine about this. “Right?”

Maggie stiffens slightly on the couch, and her smile is frozen when she turns back to Alex. “What do you mean?”

“About you not talking to me,” she explains slowly, feeling as if she’s treading dangerous waters. Maybe they’re not quite good on this. “And how no one is running away if we’re honest with each other.”

“Right, that, yes, of course,” Maggie backtracks quickly, smile thawing just as quickly, “we’re good.”

She turns back to the movie but Alex is no longer paying attention, too busy trying to figure out the glimpse of something flickering between Maggie’s easy smiles. Then, she remembers what she just said about honesty and stops. “Are you sure?” She asks instead, “because this won’t work if we don’t really mean it.” A couple beats go by before she clears her throat. “Maggie?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she waves Alex off, curling up further into the cushions, but pauses the movie. “It’s just– what’s the point, you know? I mean, my past, every shitty thing that happened– it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“That’s not what I mean, though,” Alex softens, pulling Maggie against her chest and pressing a kiss to her hair, “I love you. And I want to know all of you– the good and the bad.”

Now, the smile on Maggie’s face is wavering and tentative, and Alex kisses her slowly, chest unraveling under Maggie’s hands. “Fair warning,” Maggie says quietly, “there’s a lot of bad. Sure you can handle that, Danvers?”

“That a challenge, Sawyer?” Alex smiles, relaxes back in the couch, and unpauses the movie.

Yeah, they’re gonna be just fine.

#look an ask #sanvers #alex danvers #maggie sawyer #supergirl fic #sanvers tag

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rosezure · 7 years ago

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Captured Pt.1

Anon requested: I would like to request a one-shot where the reader newly joins the avengers post AOU under the alias of Tigress and has the same skill sets as Natasha. Her and Steve are teamed up and they don’t get along at all. They argue all the time about how something should be done. The whole team easily likes her. She and Steve get sent on a mission where they have to be a married couple (alias of Chris Evans and Sonia Evans). In a dangerous situation they realize they love each other. (“you” POV pls)

I wasn’t sure what you meant by a “you” kind of POV so I hope I didn’t mess up or something. Also, I got so carried away with the story I thought it got to long and divided it into two parts. Enjoy! Sorry if it’s too long.

Summary: You’re the Avengers’ newest member and you all get along splendidly. Except for a certain blonde haired Captain. Steve Rogers, a.k.a Captain America, seems to hate you. But does he?

Warnings: Language, torture, blood and gore in general, mentions of death perhaps.

(Y/N) Your name

(Y/N/N) Your nickname

(Y/L/N) Your last name

(h/c) Hair color

(e/c) Eye color

(f/c) Favorite color

____________________________________________________________

“I can’t believe you, Rogers! You can’t seriously be calling me out over that!” You yelled, your face red with anger. Steve returned the glare you were giving him. This would be your third fight that day.

“I am. What you did back there was completely unnecessary, (Y/N).” He retorted, crossing his arms across his stone hard chest. You were discussing how you had attacked a superior Hydra agent in order to get him to cooperate. You scoffed.

“Do you really think he was going to come peacefully? I had to knock him out! Otherwise, he could have tried taking down one of us.” You gritted out. Steve rolled his eyes

“We would have handled him easily.” He snapped. You threw your hands up in disbelief.

“He had a bomb strapped to him. A. Fucking. BOMB!” You yelled, getting extremely close to the super soldier. Steve felt his breath hitch at your proximity.

“We. Would. Have. Handled. It.” This time he gritted out, clenching his jaw and focusing his baby blues on your flaming (e/c) ones.

“Really?” You scoffed once again, rolling your eyes. “Oh and since we’re on the topic of unnecessary and dangerous decisions, why don’t we discuss what you were doing in the control room with a hard drive connected to their main computer?” You challenged, placing your hands on your hips. Steve froze.

“That’s none of your damn business.” He snapped. You cocked an eyebrow, genuinely surprised that the Captain America was keeping secrets from his own team.

“Keeping secrets now, are we?” You spat, narrowing your eyes. Steve glared. He hadn’t counted on you being so persistent. But of course he should have expected that from you. You were as good as Natasha, if not better, when it came to detecting a lie.

“I’m not keeping secrets. I was collecting valuable intel for Stark to analyze. I would have told you earlier, but you were busy killing people.” He said, his voice harsher and colder than he intended. You visibly tensed.

Steve winced, knowing he had hit a nerve. You had joined the Avengers to do good, to redeem yourself for the things you had done as a mercenary. He knew you were just trying to do your job in the cleanest way possible, and yet he had to go and pour salt on your wounds.

You power walked towards him, stopping mere inches from his face. Your nostrils flared in anger, your face was becoming hot and tears were threatening to leak. But you’d be damned if you let him see you cry.

“Like hell you would.” You muttered in a dangerous tone. Abruptly stepping away form the infuriating man, you sped off towards your room.

Today’s mission couldn’t have been more complicated. It was a simple raid and destroy mission involving another Hydra base, or so you thought. Steve had other plans. He seemed to have an agenda of his own, searching through as many of the facility’s date base and hard files as he could.

Of course, that didn’t got unnoticed by you. But by the time you had reached him to inform you needed to evacuate because the mission had gone south, it was too late. Agents were attacking the team and you had to act fast. Your methods were still a little unorthodox, though, so by the end you were surrounded by dead or unconscious bodies.

You both fought over that, too obviously.

You needed a long bath to relax, and not just because of the mission.

You didn’t know why you bothered arguing with Steve. Yes, he was infuriating and self righteous and arrogant. But you weren’t one to get easily fired up. You were just as good as Natasha, meaning practically nothing and no one could get a reaction out of you. Except for Steve Rogers, of course.

Steve watched your retreating figure with longing. He wanted to hug you, kiss you even and apologize for being such a jerk. But he couldn’t. You didn’t feel the same way, that much was obvious by how many times you both fought. You clearly hated him.

And he couldn’t get close to you, not when he was still looking for any leads on his long lost friend, Bucky Barnes, best known as the Winter Soldier. If his findings were any proof, treading those dangerous waters was close to suicidal, and he didn’t want to drag you into that. So he pushed you away the best he could, hoping that he was keeping you safe that way. Even if he knew you were more than capable of handling yourself.

“Cap, I found something.” Sam Wilson announced, walking into the debriefing room he was still in after you had left. Steve nodded, following Sam out.

“What have you got for me?” He asked, stepping inside one of the base’s research laboratories. Natasha Romanoff turned around in her seat and smirked.

“We may have found one of the bases Bucky was kept by one of his handlers a while back. It’s just outside of Berlin, which is weird considering it’s supposed to be a secret facility. But you can never be sure with Hydra.” She informed, tapping a few buttons on the screens before a picture of an abandoned factory popped up.

“What’s the catch?” Steve asked, narrowing his eyes.

“They holding an auction for the building and its contents in two days. It’s a fancy event, probably a gala. You won’t be able to go alone, they’ll be suspicious. And I can’t go with you because I have to leave in four hours for an undercover operation with Wanda.” Natasha said, already hacking the events guest list to obtain the invites.

“You know what that means, right?” Sam asked, smirking slightly and crossing his arms over his chest. Steve sighed defeatedly, letting his head hang.

“I know…” He replied, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

“Good luck, Cap.” Sam pats his shoulder before leaving the room to head down to the gym.

“You could just tell her how you feel, it would make things less… Frustrating.” Natasha smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Does anyone else know about it?” Steve asked exasperated, referring to his not-so-subtle feelings towards you.

“Everyone knows. Everyone but (Y/N), that is.” Natasha winks before heading out as well. Steve is left to his own thoughts.

You’re his only chance at succeeding in this mission. But he doesn’t want you there, it could be dangerous and risky. He couldn’t forgive himself if something happened to you. And, saying he did ask you to accompany him in this mission, he couldn’t let you know the real reason behind the mission. If you knew too much you could get hurt, or worse. But he had no other option. No one else to rely on.

Sighing, Steve had made his decision. He walked out, closing the door behind him ever so slowly. He looked up, praying to whatever god there was that things would go smoothly.

“You want me to what?!” You exclaimed, looking between Natasha and Steve. They had just informed you that you were assigned to an undercover mission with none other than Steve himself.

“We want your help with an undercover mission.” Steve repeated, feeling slightly agitated at your reaction. You furrowed your eyebrows.

“And why can’t Nat go?” You asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“I have a mission I have to leave for in a couple of hours with Wanda. Cap has to go with someone otherwise the operation is at risk.” Natasha explained, smirking in amusement at your frustration.

“And why can’t Sam go with him? You know, as entrepreneur friends or something?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because this is Hydra. They are not morons. The story wouldn’t be as believable. Besides, if Steve and I were to go as a couple, those homophobic little shits would have a heart attack.” Sam answered, not looking up from the books he was reading on the couch in front of you. You nodded, mulling the idea over in your head.

“So let me get this straight: You want me to pretend to be his wife so we can infiltrate a high profile gala event and supposedly scan the building that’s going up for auction for possible intel?” You repeated the plan, making sure you hadn’t overheard or misheard any of the details while eyeing Steve with rosy cheeks.

The idea alone of pretending to be his wife made you all sorts of nervous. And you hated that. You were almost always in control of your emotions, and having just one person scramble them because of a hypothetical situation is unnerving.

“Exactly.” Steve answered a little too quickly. Natasha pressed her lips together to avoid laughing at how obvious Steve was being. You gave him a questioning look before turning back to Nat.

“Okay, fine. What is our story? Our names?”

“He’s Chris Evans and you’re Sonia Evans. He’s a millionaire looking to expand his corporation to Germany. You two met in London during one of his conferences three years ago and have been married for two months. That means you’re still on the honeymoon phase.” Nat smirked, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. You blushed and bit down on your lip, avoiding Steve’s gaze at all costs.

“Right. Two months into our marriage. I’m Sonia Evans. Met in London during a conference. What’s my personality?” You listed off, memorizing the information.

“Make something up. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” Natasha winked before leaving the living area to go and look for Wanda. You slowly turned around to Steve.

“So I guess we’re married then…” You said awkwardly. You heard a snort and turned to see Sam trying to contain his laughter.

“Got something you’d like to say, bird boy?” You challenged, narrowing your eyes and placing your hands on your hips.

“Not at all, Tigress.” He smirked knowingly at you, using your code name. You had been given it because of the razor sharp blades you had on your gloves and your feline like style of fighting.

“Good. I’ll be in my room packing up. Since it’s a gala I’ll probably have to wear something formal, right?” You said, turning your attention back to Steve only to find him staring at you intently.

“Right.” He replied in a monotone, causing you to scoff and stomp off. He could at least pretend to not be so bothered by the circumstances of the mission.

Three hours later, you were ready to be shipped off. You had a large suitcase where you had packed what you liked to call your mission costume. It also had a secret internal compartment containing your equipment, including your suit, weapons and other important devices you’d need to complete the mission.

You and Steve boarded the private jet provided for the cover you guys had. It was a luxurious one, as well, making you slightly uncomfortable. Thankfully, no one said a word during the whole 8 hour flight which made the situation a bit more bearable. Not that you minded being sent on an assignment with Steve, it’s just that not one of them had ever ended with the both of you not arguing.

A/N: Yeah, so this got super long so Part 2 is here and I hope you’re enjoying it so far! Thanks for requesting!

#marvel avengers #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst

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texandviolence · 4 years ago

Text

What Makes a Life Significant

William James

IN my previous talk, 'On a Certain Blindness,' I tried to make you feel how soaked and shot-through life is with values and meanings which we fail to realize because of our external and insensible point of view. The meanings are there for the others, but they are not there for us. There lies more than a mere interest of curious speculation in understanding this. It has the most tremendous practical importance. I wish that I could convince you of it as I feel it myself. It is the basis of all our tolerance, social, religious, and political. The forgetting of it lies at the root of every stupid and sanguinary mistake that rulers over subject-peoples make. The first thing to learn in intercourse with others is non-interference with their own peculiar ways of being happy, provided those ways do not assume to interfere by violence with ours. No one has insight into all the ideals. No one should presume to judge them off-hand. The pretension to dogmatize about them in each other is the root of most human injustices and cruelties, and the trait in human character most likely to make the angels weep.

Every Jack sees in his own particular Jill charms and perfections to the enchantment of which we stolid onlookers are stone-cold. And which has the superior view of the absolute truth, he or we? Which has the more vital insight into the nature of Jill's existence, as a fact? Is he in excess, being in this matter a maniac? or are we in defect, being victims of a pathological anæsthesia as regards Jill's magical importance? Surely the latter; surely to Jack are the profounder truths revealed; surely poor Jill's palpitating little life-throbs are among the wonders of creation, are worthy of this sympathetic interest; and it is to our shame that the rest of us cannot feel like Jack. For Jack realizes Jill concretely, and we do not. He struggles toward a union with her inner life, divining her feelings, anticipating her desires, understanding her limits as manfully as he can, and yet inadequately, too; for he is also afflicted with some blindness, even here. Whilst we, dead clods that we are, do not even seek after these things, but are contented that that portion of eternal fact named Jill should be for us as if it were not. Jill, who knows her inner life, knows that Jack's way of taking it— so importantly—is the true and serious way; and she responds to the truth in him by taking him truly and seriously, too. May the ancient blindness never wrap its clouds about either of them again! Where would any of us be, were there no one willing to know us as we really are or ready to repay us for our insight by making recognizant return? We ought, all of us, to realize each other in this intense, pathetic, and important way.

If you say that this is absurd, and that we cannot be in love with everyone at once, I merely point out to you that, as a matter of fact, certain persons do exist with an enormous capacity for friendship and for taking delight in other people's lives; and 'that such persons know more of truth than if their hearts were not so big. The vice of ordinary Jack and Jill affection is not its intensity, but its exclusions and its jealousies. Leave those out, and you see that the ideal I am holding up before you, however impracticable to-day, yet contains nothing intrinsically absurd.

We have unquestionably a great cloud-bank of ancestral blindness weighing down upon us, only transiently riven here and there by fitful revelations of the truth. It is vain to hope for this state of things to alter much. Our inner secrets must remain for the most part impenetrable by others, for beings as essentially practical as we are necessarily short of sight. But, if we cannot gain much positive insight into one another, cannot we at least use our sense of our own blindness to make us more cautious in going over the dark places? Cannot we escape some of those hideous ancestral intolerances; and cruelties, and positive reversals of the truth?

For the remainder of this hour I invite you to seek with me some principle to make our tolerance less chaotic. And, as I began my previous lecture by a personal reminiscence, I am going to ask your indulgence for a similar bit of egotism now.

A few summers ago I spent a happy week at the famous Assembly Grounds on the borders of Chautauqua Lake. The moment one treads that sacred enclosure, one feels one's self in an atmosphere of success. Sobriety and industry, intelligence and goodness, orderliness and ideality, prosperity and cheerfulness, pervade the air. It is a serious and studious picnic on a gigantic scale. Here you have a town of many thousands of inhabitants, beautifully laid out in the forest and drained, and equipped with means for satisfying all the necessary lower and most of the superfluous higher wants of man. You have a first-class college in full blast. You have magnificent music-a chorus of seven hundred voices, with possibly the most perfect open-air auditorium in the world. You have every sort of athletic exercise from sailing, rowing, swimming, bicycling, to the ball-field and the more artificial doings which the gymnasium affords. You have kindergartens and model secondary schools. You have general religious services and special club-houses for the several sects. You have perpetually running soda-water fountains, and daily popular lectures by distinguished men. You have the best of company, and yet no effort. You have no zymotic diseases, no poverty, no drunkenness, no crime, no police. You have culture, you have kindness, you have cheapness, you have equality, you have the best fruits of what mankind has fought and bled and striven for under the name of civilization for centuries. You have, in short, a foretaste of what human society might be, were it all in the light, with no suffering and no dark corners.

I went in curiosity for a day. I stayed for a week, held spell-bound by the charm and ease of everything, by the middle-class paradise, without a sin, without a victim, without a blot, without a tear.

And yet what was my own astonishment, on emerging into the dark and wicked world again, to catch myself quite unexpectedly and involuntarily saying: "Ouf! what a relief! Now for something primordial and savage, even though it were as bad as an Armenian massacre, to set the balance straight again. This order is too tame, this culture too second-rate, this goodness too uninspiring. This human drama without a villain or a pang; this community so refined that ice-cream soda-water is the utmost offering it can make to the brute animal in man; this city simmering in the tepid lakeside sun; this atrocious harmlessness of all things,-I cannot abide with them. Let me take my chances again in the big outside worldly wilderness with all its sins and sufferings. There are the heights and depths, the precipices and the steep ideals, the gleams of the awful and the infinite; and there is more hope and help a thousand times than in this dead level and quintessence of every mediocrity."

Such was the sudden right-about-face performed for me by my lawless fancy! There had been spread before me the realization—on a small, sample scale of course—of all the ideals for which our civilization has been striving: security, intelligence, humanity, and order; and here was the instinctive hostile reaction, not of the natural man, but of a so-called cultivated man upon such a Utopia. There seemed thus to be a self-contradiction and paradox somewhere, which I, as a professor drawing a full salary, was in duty bound to unravel and explain, if I could.

So I meditated. And, first of all, I asked myself what the thing was that was so lacking in this Sabbatical city, and the lack of which kept one forever falling short of the higher sort of contentment. And I soon recognized that it was the element that gives to the wicked outer world all its moral style, expressiveness and picturesqueness,—the element of precipitousness, so to call it, of strength and strenuousness, intensity and danger. What excites and interests the looker-on at life, what the romances and the statues celebrate and the grim civic monuments remind us of, is the everlasting battle of the powers of light with those of darkness; with heroism, reduced to its bare chance, yet ever and anon snatching victory from the jaws of death. But in this unspeakable Chautauqua there was no potentiality of death in sight anywhere, and no point of the compass visible from which danger might possibly appear. The ideal was so completely victorious already that no sign of any previous battle remained, the place just resting on its oars. But what our human emotions seem to require is the sight of the struggle going on. The moment the fruits are being merely eaten, things become ignoble. Sweat and effort, human nature strained to its uttermost and on the rack, yet getting through alive, and then turning its back on its success to pursue another more rare and arduous still-this is the sort of thing the presence of which inspires us, and the reality of which it seems to be the function of all the higher forms of literature and fine art to bring home to us and suggest. At Chautauqua there were no racks, even in the place's historical museum; and no sweat, except possibly the gentle moisture on the brow of some lecturer, or on the sides of some player in the ball-field.

Such absence of human nature in extremis anywhere seemed, then, a sufficient explanation for Chautauqua's flatness and lack of zest.

But was not this a paradox well calculated to fill one with dismay? It looks indeed, thought 1, as if the romantic idealists with their pessimism about our civilization were, after all, quite right. An irremediable flatness is coming over the world. Bourgeoisie and mediocrity, church sociables and teachers' conventions, are taking the place of the old heights and depths and romantic chiaroscuro. And, to get human life in its wild intensity, we must in future turn more and more away from the actual, and forget it, if we can, in the romancer's or the poet's pages. The whole world, delightful and sinful as it may still appear for a moment to one just escaped from the Chautauquan enclosure, is nevertheless obeying more and more just those ideals that are sure to make of it in the end a mere Chautauqua Assembly on an enormous scale. Was im Gesang soll leben muss im Leben untergehn. Even now, in our own country, correctness, fairness, and compromise for every small advantage are crowding out all other qualities. The higher heroisms and the old rare flavors are passing out of life.*

With these thoughts in my mind, I was speeding with the train toward Buffalo, when, near that city, the sight of a workman doing something on the dizzy edge of a sky-scaling iron construction brought me to my senses very suddenly. And now I perceived, by a flash of insight, that I had been steeping myself in pure ancestral blindness, and looking at life with the eyes of a remote spectator. Wishing for heroism and the spectacle of human nature on the rack, I had never noticed the great fields of heroism lying round about me, I had failed to see it present and alive. I could only think of it as dead and embalmed, labelled and costumed, as it is in the pages of romance. And yet there it was before me in the daily lives of the laboring classes. Not in clanging fights and desperate marches only is heroism to be looked for, but on every railway bridge and fire-proof building that is going up to-day. On freight-trains, on the decks of vessels, in cattleyards and mines, on lumber-rafts, among the firemen and the policemen, the demand for courage is incessant; and the supply never fails. There, every day of the year somewhere, is human nature in extremis for you. And wherever a scythe, an axe, a pick, or a shovel is wielded, you have it sweating and aching and with its powers of patient endurance racked to the utmost under the length of hours of the strain.

As I awoke to all this unidealized heroic life around me, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes; and a wave of sympathy greater than anything I had ever before felt with the common life of common men began to fill my soul. It began to seem as if virtue with horny hands and dirty skin were the only virtue genuine and vital enough to take account of. Every other virtue poses; none is absolutely unconscious and simple, and unexpectant of decoration or recognition, like this. These are our soldiers, thought I., these our sustainers, these the very parents of our life.

Many years ago, when in Vienna, I had had a similar feeling of awe and reverence in looking at the peasant women, in from the country on their business at the market for the day. Old hags many of them were, dried and brown and wrinkled, kerchiefed and short-petticoated, with thick wool stockings on their bony shanks, stumping through the glittering thoroughfares, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent on duty, envying nothing, humble-hearted, remote;—and yet at bottom, when you came to think of it, bearing the whole fabric of the splendors and corruptions of that city on their laborious backs. For where would any of it have been without their unremitting, unrewarded labor in the fields? And so with us: not to our generals and poets, I thought, but to the Italian and Hungarian laborers in the Subway, rather, ought the monuments of gratitude and reverence of a city like Boston to be reared.

If any of you have been readers of Tolstoï, you will see that I passed into a vein of feeling similar to his, with its abhorrence of all that conventionally passes for distinguished, and its exclusive deification of the bravery, patience, kindliness, and dumbness of the unconscious natural man.

Where now is our Tolstoï, I said, to bring the truth of all this home to our American bosoms, fill us with a better insight, and wean us away from that spurious literary romanticism on which our wretched culture-as it calls itself-is fed? Divinity lies all about us, and culture is too bide-bound to even suspect the fact. Could a Howells or a Kipling be enlisted in this mission? or are they still too deep in the ancestral blindness, and not humane enough for the inner joy and meaning of the laborer's existence to be really revealed? Must we wait for some one born and bred and living as a laborer himself, but who, by grace of Heaven, shall also find a literary voice?

And there I rested on that day, with a sense of widening of vision, and with what it is surely fair to call an increase of religious insight into life. In God's eyes the differences of social position, of intellect, of culture, of cleanliness, of dress, which different men exhibit? and all the other rarities and exceptions on which they so fantastically pin their pride, must be so small as practically quite to vanish; and all that should remain is the common fact that here we are, a countless multitude of vessels of life, each of us pent in to peculiar difficulties, with which we must severally struggle by using whatever of fortitude and goodness we can summon up. The exercise of the courage, patience, and kindness, must be the significant portion of the whole business; and the distinctions of position can only be a manner of diversifying the phenomenal surface upon which these underground virtues may manifest their effects. At this rate, the deepest human life is everywhere, is eternal. And, if any human attributes exist only in particular individuals, they must belong to the mere trapping and decoration of the surface-show.

Thus are men's lives levelled up as well as levelled down,—levelled up in their common inner meaning, levelled down in their outer gloriousness and show. Yet always, we must confess, this levelling insight tends to be obscured again; and always the ancestral blindness returns and wraps us up, so that we end once more by thinking that creation can be for no other purpose than to develop remarkable situations and conventional distinctions and merits. And then always some new leveller in the shape of a religious prophet has to arise—the Buddha, the Christ, or some Saint Francis, some Rousseau or Tolstoï—to redispel our blindness. Yet, little by little, there comes some stable gain; for the world does get more humane, and the religion of democracy tends toward permanent increase.

This, as I said, became for a time my conviction, and gave me great content. I have put the matter into the form of a personal reminiscence, so that I might lead you into it more directly and completely, and so save time. But now I am going to discuss the rest of it with you in a more impersonal way.

Tolstoï's levelling philosophy began long before be bad the crisis of melancholy commemorated in that wonderful document of his entitled 'My Confession,' which led the way to his more specifically religious works. In his masterpiece 'War and Peace,'—assuredly the greatest of human novels,—the rôle of the spiritual hero is given to a poor little soldier named Karataïeff, so helpful, so cheerful, and so devout that, in spite of his ignorance and filthiness, the sight of him opens the heavens, which have been closed, to the mind of the principal character of the book; and his example evidently is meant by Tolstoï to let God into the world again for the reader. Poor little Karataïeff is taken prisoner by the French; and, when too exhausted by hardship and fever to march, is shot as other prisoners were in the famous retreat from Moscow. The last view one gets of him is his little figure leaning against a white birch-tree, and uncomplainingly awaiting the end.

"The more," writes Tolstoï in the work 'My Confession,' "the more I examined the life of these laboring folks, the more persuaded I became that they veritably have faith, and get from it alone the sense and the possibility of life. . . . Contrariwise to those of our own class, who protest against destiny and grow indignant at its rigor, these people receive maladies and misfortunes without revolt, without opposition, and with a firm and tranquil confidence that all had to be like that, could not be otherwise, and that it is all right so. . . . The more we live by our intellect, the less we understand the meaning of life. We see only a cruel jest in suffering and death, whereas these people live, suffer, and draw near to death with tranquillity, and oftener than not with joy. . . . There are enormous multitudes of them happy with the most perfect happiness, although deprived of what for us is the sole of good of life. Those who understand life's meaning, and know how to live and die thus, are to be counted not by twos, threes, tens, but by hundreds, thousands, millions. They labor quietly, endure privations and pains, live and die, and throughout everything see the good without seeing the vanity. I had to love these people. The more I entered into their life, the more I loved them; and the more it became possible for me to live, too. It came about not only that the life of our society, of the learned and of the rich, disgusted me-more than that, it lost all semblance of meaning in my eyes. All our actions, our deliberations, our sciences, our arts, all appeared to me with a new significance. I understood that these things might be charming pastimes, but that one need seek in them no depth, whereas the life of the hardworking populace, of that multitude of human beings who really contribute to existence, appeared to me in its true light. I understood that there veritably is life, that the meaning which life there receives is the truth; and I accepted it."**

In a similar way does Stevenson appeal to our piety toward the elemental virtue of mankind.

"What a wonderful thing," he writes,*** "is this Man! How surprising are his attributes! Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so many hardships, savagely surrounded, savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow-lives,—who should have blamed him, had be been of a piece with his destiny and a being merely barbarous? . . . [Yet] it matters not where we look, under what climate we observe him, in what stage of society, in what depth of ignorance, burdened with what erroneous morality; in ships at sea, a man inured to hardship and vile pleasures, his brightest hope a fiddle in a tavern, and a bedizened trull who sells herself to rob him, and be, for all that, simple, innocent, cheerful, kindly like a child, constant to toil, brave to drown, for others; . . . in the slums of cities, moving among indifferent millions to mechanical employments, without hope of change in the future, with scarce a pleasure in the present, and yet true to his virtues, honest up to his lights, kind to his neighbors, tempted perhaps in vain by the bright gin-palace, . . . often repaying the world's scorn with service, often standing firm upon a scruple; . . . everywhere some virtue cherished or affected, everywhere some decency of thought and courage, everywhere the ensign of man's ineffectual goodness,—ah! if I could show you this! If I could show you these men and women all the world over, in every stage of history, under every abuse of error, under every circumstance of failure, without hope, without help, without thanks, still obscurely fighting the lost fight of virtue, still clinging to some rag of honor, the poor jewel of their souls."

All this is as true as it is splendid, and terribly do we need our Tolstoïs and Stevensons to keep our sense for it alive. Yet you remember the Irishman who, when asked, "Is not one man as good as another?" replied, "Yes; and a great deal better, too!" Similarly (it seems to me) does Tolstoï overcorrect our social prejudices, when he makes his love of the peasant so exclusive, and hardens his heart toward the educated man as absolutely as he does. Grant that at Chautauqua there was little moral effort, little sweat or muscular strain in view. Still, deep down in the souls of the participants we may be sure that something of the sort was hid, some inner stress, some vital virtue not found wanting when required. And, after all, the question recurs, and forces itself upon us, Is it so certain that the surroundings and circumstances of the virtue do make so little difference in the importance of the result? Is the functional utility, the worth to the universe of a certain definite amount of courage, kindliness, and patience, no greater if the possessor of these virtues is in an educated situation, working out far-reaching tasks, than if he be an illiterate nobody, hewing wood and drawing water, just to keep himself alive? Tolstoï's philosophy, deeply enlightening though it certainly is, remains a false abstraction. It savors too much of that Oriental pessimism and nihilism of his, which declares the whole phenomenal world and its facts and their distinctions to be a cunning fraud.

A mere bare fraud is just what our Western common sense will never believe the phenomenal world to be. It admits fully that the inner joys and virtues are the essential part of life's business, but it is sure that some positive part is also played by the adjuncts of the show. If it is idiotic in romanticism to recognize the heroic only when it sees it labelled and dressed-up in books, it is really just as idiotic to see it only in the dirty boots and sweaty shirt of some one in the fields. It is with us really under every disguise: at Chautauqua; here in your college; in the stock-yards and on the freight-trains; and in the czar of Russia's court. But, instinctively, we make a combination of two things in judging the total significance of a human being. We feel it to be some sort of a product (if such a product only could be calculated) of his inner virtue and his outer place,—neither singly taken, but both conjoined. If the outer differences had no meaning for life, why indeed should all this immense variety of them exist? They must be significant elements of the world as well.

Just test Tolstoï's deification of the mere manual laborer by the facts. This is what Mr. Walter Wyckoff, after working as an unskilled laborer in the demolition of some buildings at West Point, writes of the spiritual condition of the class of men to which he temporarily chose to belong:—

"The salient features of our condition are plain enough. We are grown men, and are without a trade. In the labor-market we stand ready to sell to the highest bidder our mere muscular strength for so many hours each day. We are thus in the lowest grade of labor. And, selling our muscular strength in the open market for what it will bring, we sell it under peculiar conditions. It is all the capital that we have. We have no reserve means of subsistence, and cannot, therefore, stand off for a 'reserve price.' We sell under the necessity of satisfying imminent hunger. Broadly speaking, we must sell our labor or starve; and, as hunger is a matter of a few hours, and we have no other way of meeting this need, we must sell at once for what the market offers for our labor.

"Our employer is buying labor in a dear market, and be will certainly get from us as much work as he can at the price. The gang-boss is secured for this purpose, and thoroughly does he know his business. He has sole command of us. He never saw us before, and he will discharge us all when the debris is cleared away. In the mean time he must get from us, if he can, the utmost of physical labor which we, individually and collectively, are capable of. If be should drive some of us to exhaustion, and we should not be able to continue at work, he would not be the loser; for the market would soon supply him with others to take our places.

"We are ignorant men, but so much we clearly see,—that we have sold our labor where we could sell it dearest, and our employer has bought it where be could buy it cheapest. He has paid high, and be must get all the labor that he can; and, by a strong instinct which possesses us, we shall part with as little as we can. From work like ours there seems to us to have been eliminated every element which constitutes the nobility of labor. We feel no personal pride in its progress, and no community of interest with our employer. There is none of the joy of responsibility, none of the sense of achievement, only the dull monotony of grinding toil, with the longing for the signal to quit work, and for our wages at the end.

"And being what we are, the dregs of the labor-market, and having no certainty of permanent employment, and no organization among ourselves, we must expect to work under the watchful eye of a gang-boss, and be driven, like the wage-slaves that we are, through our tasks.

"All this is to tell us, in effect, that our lives are hard, barren, hopeless lives."

And such bard, barren, hopeless lives, surely, are not lives in which one ought to be willing permanently to remain. And why is this so? Is it because they are so dirty? Well, Nansen grew a great deal dirtier on his polar expedition; and we think none the worse of his life for that. Is it the insensibility? Our soldiers have to grow vastly more insensible, and we extol them to the skies. Is it the poverty? Poverty has been reckoned the crowning beauty of many a heroic career. Is it the slavery to a task, the loss of finer pleasures? Such slavery and loss are of the very essence of the higher fortitude, and are always counted to its credit,-read the records of missionary devotion all over the world. It is not any one of these things, then, taken by itself,-no, nor all of them together,-that make such a life undesirable. A man might in truth live like an unskilled laborer, and do the work of one, and yet count as one of the noblest of God's creatures. Quite possibly there were some such persons in the gang that our author describes; but the current of their souls ran underground; and he was too steeped in the ancestral blindness to discern it.

If there were any such morally exceptional individuals, however, what made them different from the rest? It can only have been this,—that their souls worked and endured in obedience to some inner ideal, while their comrades were not actuated by anything worthy of that name. These ideals of other lives are among those secrets that we can almost never penetrate, although something about the man may often tell us when they are there. In Mr. Wyckoff's own case we know exactly what the self-imposed ideal was. Partly he had stumped himself, as the boys say, to carry through a strenuous achievement; but mainly he wished to enlarge his sympathetic insight into fellow-lives. For this his sweat and toil acquire a certain heroic significance, and make us accord to him exceptional esteem. But it is easy to imagine his fellows with various other ideals. To say nothing of wives and babies, one may have been a convert of the Salvation Army, and bad a nightingale singing of expiation and forgiveness in his heart all the while be labored. Or there might have been an apostle like Tolstoï himself, or his compatriot Bondaïeff, in the gang, voluntarily embracing labor as their religious mission. Class-loyalty was undoubtedly an ideal with many. And who knows how much of that higher manliness of poverty, of which Phillips Brooks has spoken so penetratingly, was or was not present in that gang?

"A rugged, barren land," says Phillips Brooks, "is poverty to live in,—a land where I am thankful very often if I can get a berry or a root to cat. But living in it really, letting it bear witness to me of itself, not dishonoring it all the time by judging it after the standard of the other lands, gradually there come out its qualities. Behold! no land like this barren and naked land of poverty could show the moral geology of the world. See how the hard ribs . . . stand out strong and solid. No life like poverty could so get one to the heart of things and make men know their meaning, could so let us feel life and the world with all the soft cushions stripped off and thrown away. . . . Poverty makes men come very near each other,, and recognize each other's human hearts; and poverty, highest and best of all, demands and cries out for faith in God. . . . I know how superficial and unfeeling, how like mere mockery, words in praise of poverty may seem. . . . But I am sure that the poor man's dignity and freedom, his self-respect and energy, depend upon his cordial knowledge that his poverty is a true region and kind of life, with its own chances of character, its own springs of happiness and revelations of God. Let him resist the characterlessness which often goes with being poor. Let him insist on respecting the condition where he lives. Let him learn to love it, so that by and by, [if] he grows rich, he shall go out of the low door of the old familiar poverty with a true pang of regret, and with a true honor for the narrow home in which he has lived so long."****

The barrenness and ignobleness of the more usual laborer's life consist in the fact that it is moved by no such ideal inner springs. The backache, the long hours, the danger, are patiently endured-for what? To gain a quid of tobacco, a glass of beer, a cup of coffee, a meal, and a bed, and to begin again the next day and shirk as much as one can. This really is why we raise no monument to the laborers in the Subway, even though they be out conscripts, and even though after a fashion our city is indeed based upon their patient hearts and enduring backs and shoulders. And this is why we do raise monuments to our soldiers, whose outward conditions were even brutaller still. The soldiers are supposed to have followed an ideal, and the laborers are supposed to have followed none.

You see, my friends, how the plot now thickens; and how strangely the complexities of this wonderful human nature of ours begin to develop under our hands. We have seen the blindness and deadness to each other which are our natural inheritance; and, in spite of them, ,ve have been led to acknowledge an inner meaning which passeth show, and which may be present in the lives of others where we least descry it. And now we are led to say that such inner meaning can be complete and valid for us also, only when the inner joy, courage, and endurance are joined with an ideal.

But what, exactly, do we mean by an ideal? Can we give no definite account of such a word?

To a certain extent we can. An ideal, for instance, must be something intellectually conceived, something of which we are not unconscious, if we 'have it; and it must carry with it that sort of outlook, uplift, and brightness that go with all intellectual facts. Secondly, there must be novelty in an ideal,-novelty at least for him whom the ideal grasps. Sodden routine is incompatible with ideality, although what is sodden routine for one person may be ideal novelty for another. This shows that there is nothing absolutely ideal: ideals are relative to the lives that entertain them. To keep out of the gutter is for us here no part of consciousness at all, yet for many of our brethren it is the most legitimately engrossing of ideals.

Now, taken nakedly, abstractly, and immediately, you see that mere ideals are the cheapest things in life. Everybody has them in some shape or other, personal or general, sound or mistaken, low or high; and the most worthless sentimentalists and dreamers, drunkards, shirks and verse-makers, who never show a grain of effort, courage, or endurance, possibly have them on the most copious scale. Education, enlarging as it does our horizon and perspective, is a means of multiplying our ideals, of bringing new ones into view. And your college professor, with a starched shirt and spectacles, would, if a stock of ideals were all alone by itself enough to render a life significant, be the most absolutely and deeply significant of men. Tolstoï would be completely blind in despising him for a prig, a pedant and a parody; and all our new insight into the divinity of muscular labor would be altogether off the track of truth.

But such consequences as this, you instinctively feel, are erroneous. The more ideals a man has, the more contemptible, on the whole, do you continue to deem him, if the matter ends there for him, and if none of the laboring man's virtues are called into action on his part,—no courage shown, no privations undergone, no dirt or scars contracted in the attempt to get them realized. It is quite obvious that something more than the mere possession of ideals is required to make a life significant in any sense that claims the spectator's admiration. Inner joy, to be sure, it may have, with its ideals; but that is its own private sentimental matter. To extort from us, outsiders as we are, with our own ideals to look after, the tribute of our grudging recognition, it must back its ideal visions with what the laborers have, the sterner stuff of manly virtue; it must multiply their sentimental surface by the dimension of the active will, if we are to have depth, if we are to have anything cubical and solid in the way of character.

The significance of a human life for communicable and publicly recognizable purposes is thus the offspring of a marriage of two different parents, either of whom alone is barren. The ideals taken by themselves give no reality, the virtues by themselves no novelty. And let the orientalists and pessimists say what they will, the thing of deepest—or, at any rate, of comparatively deepest—significance in life does seem to be its character of progress, or that strange union of reality with ideal novelty which it continues from one moment to another to present. To recognize ideal novelty is the task of what we call intelligence. Not every one's intelligence can tell which novelties are ideal. For many the ideal thing will always seem to cling still to the older more familiar good. In this case character, though not significant' totally, may be still significant pathetically. So, if we are to choose which is the more essential factor of human character, the fighting virtue or the intellectual breadth, we must side with Tolstoï, and choose that simple faithfulness to his light or darkness which any common unintellectual man can show.

But, with all this beating and tacking on my part, I fear you take me to be reaching a confused result. I seem to be just taking things up and dropping them again. First I took up Chautauqua, and dropped that; then Tolstoï and the heroism of common toil, and dropped them; finally, I took up ideals, and seem now almost dropping those. But please observe in what sense it is that I drop them. It is when they pretend singly to redeem life from insignificance. Culture and refinement all alone are not enough to do so. Ideal aspirations are not enough, when uncombined with pluck and will. But neither are pluck and will, dogged endurance and insensibility to danger enough, when taken all alone. There must be some sort of fusion, some chemical combination among these principles, for a life objectively and thoroughly significant to result.

Of course, this is a somewhat vague conclusion. But in a question of significance, of worth, like this, conclusions can never be precise. The answer of appreciation, of sentiment, is always a more or a less, a balance struck by sympathy, insight, and good will. But it is an answer, all the same ' a real conclusion. And, in the course of getting it, it seems to me that our eyes have been opened to many important things. Some of you are, perhaps, more livingly aware than you were an hour ago of the depths of worth that lie around you, hid in alien lives. And, when you -ask bow much sympathy you ought to bestow, although the amount is, truly enough, a matter of ideal on your own part, yet in this notion of the combination of ideals with active virtues you have a rough standard for shaping your decision. In any case, your imagination is extended. You divine in the world about you matter for a little more humility on your own part, and tolerance, reverence, and love for others; and you gain a certain inner joyfulness at the increased importance of our common life. Such joyfulness is a religious inspiration and an element of spiritual health, and worth more than large amounts of that sort of technical and accurate information which we professors are supposed to be able to impart.

To show the sort of thing I mean by these words, I will just make one brief practical illustration, and then close.

We are suffering to-day in America from what is called the labor-question; and., when you go out into the world, you will each and all of you be caught up in its perplexities. I use the brief term labor-question to cover all sorts of anarchistic discontents and socialistic projects, and the conservative resistances which they provoke. So far as this conflict is unhealthy and regrettable,—and I think it is so only to a limited extent,—the unhealthiness consists solely in the fact that one-half of our fellow countrymen remain entirely blind to the internal significance of the lives of the other half. They miss the joys and sorrows, they fail to feel the moral virtue, and they do not guess the presence of the intellectual ideals. They are at cross-purposes all along the line, regarding each other as they might regard a set of dangerously gesticulating automata, or, if they seek to get at the inner motivation, making the most horrible mistakes. Often all that the poor man can think of in the rich man is a cowardly greediness for safety, luxury, and effeminacy, and a boundless affectation. What he is, is not a human being, but a pocket-book, a bank-account. And a similar greediness, turned by disappointment into envy, is all that many rich men can see in the state of mind of the dissatisfied poor. And, if the rich man begins to do the sentimental act over the poor man, what senseless blunders does he make, pitying him for just those very duties and those very immunities which, rightly taken, are the condition of his most abiding and characteristic joys! Each, in short, ignores the fact that happiness and unhappiness and significance are a vital mystery; each pins them absolutely on some ridiculous feature of the external situation; and everybody remains outside of everybody else's sight.

Society has, with all this, undoubtedly got to pass toward some newer and better equilibrium, and the distribution of wealth has doubtless slowly got to change: such changes have always happened, and will happen to the end of time. But if, after all that I have said, any of you expect that they will make any genuine vital difference on a large scale, to the lives of our descendants, you will have missed the significance of my entire lecture. The solid meaning of life is always the same eternal thing,— the marriage, namely, of some unhabitual ideal, however special, with some fidelity, courage, and endurance; with some man 2 s or woman 's pains.—And, whatever or wherever life may be, there will always be the chance for that marriage to take place.

Fitz-James Stephen wrote many years ago words to this effect more eloquent than any I can speak: "The 'Great Eastern,' or some of her successors," he said, "will perhaps defy the roll of the Atlantic, and cross the seas without allowing their passengers to feel that they have left the firm land. The voyage from the cradle to the grave may come to be performed with similar facility. Progress and science may perhaps enable untold millions to live and die without a care, without a pang, without an anxiety. They will have a pleasant passage and plenty of brilliant conversation. They will wonder that men ever believed at all in clanging fights and blazing towns and sinking ships and praying bands; and, when they come to the end of their course, they will go their way, and the place thereof will know them no more. But it seems unlikely that they will have such a knowledge of the great ocean on which they sail, with its storms and wrecks, its currents and icebergs, its huge waves and mighty winds, as those who battled with it for years together in the little craft, which, if they had few other merits, brought those who navigated them full into the presence of time and eternity, their maker and themselves, and forced them to have some definite view of their relations to them and to each other."*****

In this solid and tridimensional sense, so to call it, those philosophers are right who contend that the world is a standing thing, with no progress, no real history. The changing conditions of history touch only the surface of the show. The altered equilibriums and redistributions only diversify our opportunities and open chances to us for new ideals. But, with each new ideal that comes into life, the chance for a life based on some old ideal will vanish; and he would needs be a presumptuous calculator who should with confidence say that the total sum of significances is positively and absolutely greater at any one epoch than at any other of the world.

I am speaking broadly, I know, and omitting to consider certain qualifications in which I myself believe. But one can only make one point in one lecture, and I shall be well content if I have brought my point home to you this evening in even a slight degree. There are compensations: and no outward changes of condition in life can keep the nightingale of its eternal meaning from singing in all sorts of different men's hearts. That is the main fact to remember. If we could not only admit it with our lips, but really and truly believe it, how our convulsive insistencies, how our antipathies and dreads of each other, would soften down! If the poor and the rich could look at each other in this way, sub specie æternatis, bow gentle would grow their disputes! what tolerance and good humor, what willingness to live and let live, would come into the world!

* This address was composed before the Cuban and Philippine wars. Such outbursts of the passion of mastery are, however, only episodes in a social process which in the long run seems everywhere heading toward the Chatauquan ideals.

**My Confession, X. (condensed).

***Across the Plains: "Pulvis et Umbra" (abridged).

****Sermons, 5th Series, New York, 1893, PP. 166, 167.

****** Essays by a Barrister, London, 1862, P. 318.

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sunflowerspectre · 5 years ago

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Backwash | Commission Piece

This is a commission piece for anon, who commissioned a sequel to The Backwaters.

Commission Info

Title: Backwash Summary: Five years after the Backwaters Incident, a reformed Bucky comes back to Shuri with the hopes that they can turn over a new leaf and start something new together. Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha!Bucky, Omega!Shuri, AU

A03 | Read the Backwaters on Tumblr | A03

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Trigger Warning - Miscarriage and heavy grief

Backwash | Chapter Three | Word Count: 5506

Shuri feels different when she returns to work - self conscious of the mark still on her neck and the lingering smell of an alpha that clings to her. Even as she walks, her body is tucked in, smaller, more uncertain than usual. She can feel the eyes that wander to her, the ones that linger on her neck. She spots a few curious looks and open, gaping mouths that have questions on their tongues. She dodges those people as much as she can. She doesn’t even think she could face Wanda - who has grown to be a very liberated omega with a warranted hatred for alphas.

But there is one specific redhead that she does need to face. She spots Nat in a nearby empty training space and slips in, immediately taking the chance given to her to speak to Nat in private. Bucky’s words about staying with Nat have lingered with her in a way that she feels she needs to address.

Nat slows down on the poor punching bag that she’s been using, sweat beading down her forehead as she acknowledges Shuri’s entrance. When Shuri doesn’t make a move to join her in training, instead opting to stand nearby with her arms crossed tightly to her chest, Nat’s lips thin as she realizes just why her friend has joined her. She stops, taking mercy on the swinging bag, and sits down at the nearby bench beside Shuri.

From the corner of her eyes, Nat can see the change in Shuri. She doesn’t meet Nat’s gaze, holding her head down somberly, arms still crossed as she leans against the wall beside the bench. She can spot the dark mark on Shuri’s exposed neck, the way that Shuri tries to tuck her head in a vain attempt to make it less noticable.

“He visited you, didn’t he,” Nat asks, her voice even as she starts to undo the wrappings on her hands.

Unless Shuri opts to settle this out in one of the training rings, she figures that she won’t be getting back to practice for now. Despite the way that her heart begins to pound at her chest, Nat’s expressions are neutral and don’t give away to her growing panic. It was one of the first things that she learned from Shuri.

“He did,” Shuri confirms, her voice softer and she looks up toward the ceiling with a tired sigh. “He had a lot to say.”

Nat leans back against the wall, glancing up toward Shuri who has yet to even look at her. She doesn’t blame her - not really. She isn’t even sure that Shuri wants to look at her, see her, even talk to her again after this. Talking to Bucky was a risk - a risk that she had to take, knowing in her heart the potential there was for him to become a good man again. Sending him to Shuri, however, was an even bigger risk - a risk that could have a high reward and a high loss potential. If it didn’t go well, she would lose Shuri. Possibly forever. If it did, there is potential for her to gain a sister-in-law of sorts. She still can’t tell which way it went.

“-And,” Nat presses gently, treading through dangerous waters, “Did you listen to what he had to say? Or did you just punch him and call it a night?”

She pauses briefly before continuing, “I wouldn’t blame you for telling him off and calling it… I wouldn’t blame you for doing the same to me either.”

Shuri had thought about it. She thought about storming in, cursing Nat for disclosing her location, for abusing her trust, for putting her in that situation in the first place. She can’t lie, it still hurts thinking about it. Thinking of Nat going behind her back like that. Talking to her cousin is one thing - something that a part of her would understand - but sending him directly to her, with no warning, no guarantee for safety or for it going well. But the angry fire in her chest has dwindled to that of a small, painful spark.

Frankly though, Shuri doesn’t really think that she has the energy in her to be that angry.

“If it didn’t go so well, I might’ve. But as of right now, he’s in the process of taking some of his bags to my apartment.”

Shuri snorts and glances toward Nat with tired eyes, “But that doesn’t get you off the hook. Nat - you gave my location out, you disclosed private information and you violated my trust by sending him over.”

Nat doesn’t argue, she doesn’t dispute the claims. She agrees with Shuri instead, nodding along solemnly as she prepares herself to face whatever punishment Shuri wants to dish out. It would be completely warranted and to be frank, despite the fact that it went well, she would deserve it. She can’t say anything that would excuse her disclosing Shuri’s location during such a private, intimate, and vulnerable time. Especially without warning.

Shuri slides down, taking a spot beside Nat on the bench. Up close, she looks older than Nat expected. Over the past few years, Nat had noticed the gray hairs that peak out at her hairline from the stress of the job or the creases forming at her eyes, but seeing her now, she looks even more exposed, softer, tired. She looks like a completely different person than the one that saved her.

“That hurts, you know,” Shuri starts, her voice soft and Nat can see the way that Shuri’s eyes begin to water. “But I’ve thought of you as my closest friend these past years, but you’ve been speaking to Bucky for a good while now. I don’t know if you talked to him while he was still in containment and if you did, what you discussed. So I just need to know one thing, Nat.”

She turns to look at her, meeting her gaze evenly with wide, wet eyes. Shuri absently dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand, her throat swelling as she tries to swallow down the onslaught of emotions.

“Was our friendship part of a scheme to get Bucky and I together? Were you a friend only because you wanted me to trust you - to trust him?”

The declaration is off-putting, taking Nat off guard enough that she sits there in silence a bit longer than she should have. Out of all the responses she had expected from Shuri - from curses to punches to the silent treatment - having Shuri break down in front of her, accusing her of being that manipulative isn’t one of the things that she had prepared for.

Nat is manipulative, she’s woman enough to admit it. She knows how to work people, how to achieve her goals. She knows what people see when they look at her and she uses it to her advantage. It started as a survival method when she was trapped with a man with anger issues that could lash out if she pushed too hard, but adapted into a habit that she’s since molded into one of her biggest assets as an agent.

But manipulating friends? Yes, she actually does that too, but only sometimes and usually accidentally on reflex. Always with the little things though. Never for something so big, never so intentionally for one of the one few people that she trusts and holds close to her heart. She never does it to hurt the people she cares about and while she cares about Bucky and Shuri, while she does want to see them have a chance together, she would never falsify a friendship with the woman who saved her from that backwater town.

“No,” Nat finally speaks up, her voice wavering with honesty as she wishes that she carried blunts to work. “It was never fake with you Shuri. A few other people, maybe, but you saved me from that town. You saved me and Wanda. We wouldn’t be here without you, we wouldn’t be safe if it weren’t you. Hell, who knows if we would even still be alive?”

“-I was your friend, first and his cousin, second.” Nat continues, “And as your friend I hated Bucky for a while too. Used to even hate him for leaving me with Bruce, for never sitting down and actually asking if I was happy. But he is my family and out of all our family, I always saw the most good in him and when he proved that he had the potential to be as good as I thought, to be a better man, I eventually saw the chance for him and you to give it a shot.”

“I wouldn’t have even thought about sending him your way if I didn’t know that you still thought about him,” Nat presses, “I know that you went to the cells after you heard about some of them leaving for rehab. I know that you went there looking for him. I saw that look on your face when you went in and the look on your face when you came out. As much as I think that you wanted him to still be there, to validate your hatred for him, you were relieved when you saw he wasn’t.”

Shuri can’t deny that, as much as she really wants to. She sighs and leans, resting her head on Nat’s shoulder. Nat leans into the contact, resting her own head against Shuri’s in response. Nat’s hand slithers around Shuri until it reaches her shoulder, rubbing comforting circles on her skin.

“I know the confusion you’re growing through.” Nat quietly admits, “Maybe it’s not exactly the same, but it was definitely similar. Sometimes I think about the what ifs. What if I had followed him to college and ignored everyone trying to stop me? What if I just went out to college by myself without him? Or what if we left and never returned to that fucking town? What if I visited him in the cells and he begged for mercy and forgiveness? What if he got out and we started a life together?”

“I go through a lot of what ifs,” Nat continues, “That all got answered when Bruce didn’t pass his psych exam and was labeled ineligible for rehab… But Bucky did pass and it’s time for you to at least get your answer on your what if.”

“I want to,” Shuri confesses, “I want to at least try, see what may happen. I know that I can hold my own if something goes wrong. I know that if he ever does anything shady then I’ll get the pleasure of slamming his jail cell myself. I want to see where this goes, see if I can trust him, and if he’s really changed. But I know that not everyone will like my decision.”

Everyone is vague, but they both know the most worrying prospect that would fit right into that sentence. The one person with the most hatred on alphas, who has worked to become one of the biggest rescue-relief agents for injured and abused omegas and betas. Wanda. Their liberated mutual friend whom they both love, but know her well enough that due to her own trauma and abuse, she would never fully understand the concept of anyone forgiving ant of the men from that town - even if it is Bucky.

“I’ll contain her,” Nat reassures, “I’ll make sure that she doesn’t find anything out by Bucky. In the meantime, you better do something about that mark on your neck if you don’t want an earful from her.”

Shuri’s lips turn into an amused smile, though the idea of Wanda chewing her out for letting an alpha claim her. I can’t imagine what her reaction may be if I showed up to work one day to announce that I’m pregnant. Shuri laughs a bit at the thought, but it dies off as a thread of terror shoots through her.

____________________________________

It’s been just over two months. A month of moving in, of learning each other in a mundane, normal way that they were robbed of before. A full month of tension while they learned how to compromise, what words are better left unsaid, what fights are better to walk away from, and sometimes, you don’t have to win - you just have to hold the other person close, apologize, and remember to not to do it again.

They’re doing well, Shuri likes to think. Well enough. They both have their moments, but they’re trying. As long as they’re trying - as long as he is putting in as much effort as she is, she will stay. She thinks that’s what love is sometimes - after the excitement dies down, after you settle in, love is a decision you make every time you wake up. It’s not all clouds and warm hearts. A part of love is work. Compromise. Doing something for their benefit instead of your own. Not expecting things in return, except for their own love and warm hands.

But they’re still in that awkward in-between stage of moving in together. The stage where it doesn’t feel like it’s her apartment anymore, but it doesn’t quite feel like its theirs either. Her stuff is still plastered everywhere - from the fancy furniture that holds her favorite blanket to security system to make an FBI agent nervous. She still has her favorite stuffed animals on a small shelf in the bedroom.

But she’s still working on getting used to finding men’s clothes left on the floor by the bed that had been discarded in the middle of a hot night. She used to dust on a regular basis, but she can see streaks on the windowsill from where the blinds have rubbed against the small window ledge. There are times where the grocery list has foods on it that she doesn’t recognize, but she is willing to at least try, but she’s still learning his favorite foods and how to incorporate them into her meal plans while he’s still learning that she prefers the left side of the bed and needs room to stretch out her legs.

It’s that adjustment, for the both of them, of learning how to live with someone else. She stayed with him in the town, for a while, but that was such a different circumstance that it doesn’t count. They stayed together in the cabin during her heat too - but that was passionate, love making full of a fire that could have burned them.

The fire is out now. They have to get used to the mundane. The everyday. The part that’s left out of every romance movie and is skipped over in every romantic book. The part that is the most real thing that every single person has to understand and go through if they’re in a relationship.

Just like every single relationship, when sex is involved and children are possible, there tends to be at least pregnancy scare. It depends on who you are, whether you’re the person who cries from happiness from two positive marks or the one who feels their heart rip from their chest as they sit in the bathroom in silence, hovered over the counter as they wait for the results. The one who screams or the one that throws up. The one that has to tell everyone, or the one that doesn’t want to tell anyone.

Shuri isn’t sure which one she is yet. The idea of being pregnant had always been a somewhat happy idea, but the idea of it and going through it are very different things. She doesn’t know how she feels about the idea of having children right now - she’s still employed, she’s in a somewhat stable but rocky relationship, and there’s a million other things that she didn’t expect to be or go through whenever she would have to pee on a stick.

She can’t even bring herself to move, sitting on the edge of the tub, pants pulled up after taking the test. She counts the seconds, her chest heaving as she can feel her stomach turn. She feels like her heart is being torn apart. Her foot taps against the tile floor impatiently, her hands clasps together under her chin as she rests her elbows on her knees. It takes everything that she has to finally glance at the test results.

Positive.

Odd. She thought that she would feel happier. Then, without warning, she promptly throws up into the tin.

_______________________________________

Bucky is thrilled when she tells him. He practically swoops her into his arms, grinning ear to ear, and then gently sets her down. When the words start flowing from his mouth, they don’t stop and she can’t bring herself to interrupt him. He doesn’t experience the same nerves that wreck through her veins or the stress that makes her head throb. He immediately starts talking about the possibility of them moving out, buying a house more suited for a family, going to see his folks to tell them the good news, the colors of a nursery.

He doesn’t say anything about the possibility of her not surviving the birth or the medical bills that this all would bring. She’s done the reading and he doesn’t ask her about how she’ll feel about possibly wearing adult diapers after giving birth. What will she do when she passes a blood clot the size of a baseball after passing a baby. The fact that she knows she will not look very pretty in any birthing videos or after-birth pictures. That during pregnancy her joints will swell, her feet will be huge. She’ll look like any moving truck that he wants to rent while not even asking her if she wants to move in the first place.

He is already talking about sending out cards to announce the pregnancy. He admits that he doesn’t know much about baby showers, but that his mom will and that she will absolutely be thrilled about planning it. He asks her if she’d be okay with his mom organizing the party and all she can do is dumbly nod as she sits down at the table, her eyes becoming more and more vacant as he drifts on and not everyone will be alright with them having a child before they’re properly married.

“- ‘course we could always have a wedding before ya start to show,” Bucky proposes, “And I’ve got all that family wealth to support us. Enough to get a house and get us started. I’ll take care of you and the baby, pay for anything we may need. Maybe spend a bit on that wedding, but I don’t think we’ll be needing any big ol’ honeymoon or grand ol’ party. Not sure about what your work will think about you quitting your job with such a short notice though.”

Her head is spinning. She can already feel her ears ringing, but when he mentions weddings and quitting her job, she finds her voice. It comes out in a venomous fire that spews at him, spitting at him for giving her knot while knowing that she was in heat.

“Slow down, darling.” Bucky’s brows furrow as his stance becomes stiff, “I think you’re forgetting that someone begged me for my knot. Someone wanted this just as much as I did.”

“-I didn’t want this,” Shuri stresses, her words hissing through her teeth, “I’m not ready for a babe and I’m sure not ready for all that nonsense you’re spewing about us moving, having a wedding, buying a house! Quitting my job!”

Her venom makes him almost take a step back, but he plants his feet firmly on the ground and stands up tall and stiff. Shuri’s eyes are frantic, emotional, and are burning with a type of fire that he hasn’t seen from her in a while.

Bucky frowns deeply, “Pa always said that pregnancy makes women emotional, but is this really necessary, darling? We both knew this was going to happen eventually, sugar. You’re claimed, remember?”

Oh she remembers - her neck still itches from where he bit into her. She doesn’t regret that mark, not entirely, but she is regretting doing it so soon. Letting her heat drive her, tossing out logic through the nearest window and throwing herself onto him like a needy bitch.

“We may not be married yet, hell, we may not have really talked about weddings yet and I’ll give you a point for throwing that on you. But kids are bound to happen with you going to heat and me going through a rut. Kids are natural. Just like you quitting your job. It’s bound to happen at some point with us settling in together. Having a kid just seems like the perfect reason to finally do it though, don’t you think?”

Shuri’s anger eats away at her skin, her veins warming from her chest and igniting her clenched fists as she resists the urge to act. She used to be so good at hiding it - at acting calm under pressure, at holding in her emotions to spit out witty remarks and coy smiles. But she’s older. Her nerves are worn and stretched out - but her last one has finally snapped and it has acted like a spring, pole vaulting her forward at a momentum that she is struggling to slow down.

“No, I do not bloody think so. You made a promise you better uphold, you will not tell me what I will and won’t do. I will not quit work and I most certainly will not marry you just because I’m bloody pregnant!”

She wants to spew more curses at him but she bites her tongue and turns, heading out the apartment as she ignores his calls for her to come back. When she comes back, she decides to let him really know just how bad a silent treatment can be.

________________________________

(Trigger Warning - Miscarriage)

She still comes back home after work, makes him dinner and they eat it together in the thinly held together illusion of a family. He asks her how work was, if anything interesting happened, while poking at his plate with a frown. She tells him good and no. For every question he throws at her, she answers him curtly, if at all.

He tells her that the house needs some more cleaning one night and she dials a service for it with a petty aggression. When she burns his food, he doesn’t make a comment on it and eats it. On the days that she feels too nauseous to eat, he notices and brings her whatever takeout he knows that she likes. When she complains about the smell of pickles, she came out to find all the pickle jars in the trash.

They gradually start to sleep in the same room again. Bucky moves from his place on the couch - the place where she threw his pillow and her least favorite blanket, he had taken the message without complaint. It took a while before she allowed him to have his hand wrap around her waist while they slept.

When he whispers apologies into her ear with a roaming hand, she defies him. When he apologizes over breakfast, she accepts it and for a while, the tension that had build up in their little home had thinned enough to walk through, to speak through, and when it fades away, she can kiss him goodbye when he leaves for work and smile as she packs lunch for her own workday.

She tells him that she plans on quitting work eventually and he agrees that she should do it when she’s ready. But they started to talk about weddings, gradually, casually. What colors the nursery should be. Possible names. His parents start to send over baby clothes before she’s far along enough to know the gender. Nat even gave her the biggest hug that she’s ever had.

But she hasn’t begun to show yet. Not as much as she thought she would be, but she supposes everyone is different. What is her baby bump could pass off as some extra weight. It hides under flowy shirts, sweats and skirts. She’s not even 20 weeks along and the doctor tells her that her size is normal. A few more weeks and she would be able to feel the baby kick.

But then she spots. Lightly. A few drops that don’t worry her at first - she’s pregnant, a lot of weird things happen during pregnancy. But then the cramps come. Cramps that start to seize her muscles, holding onto her so tight that she feels like she is going to be ripped apart from the inside out.

She rushes to the restroom and she screams.

_______________________________________

The doctor’s office is quiet. Deafening. Despite the pristine white walls, Shuri feels dirty. Cold. Gross. She’s reminded of cold nights in abandoned buildings. When Fury sent her on missions that were dark and in caves that she had trouble navigating. Missions that sent her home covered in dust, ash, and blood.

It’s that feeling you have in the field. When you know that something bad has happened and you’re waiting for the aftermath. It’s the tension of waiting for the enemy to finally pop out and strike.

But when the enemy finally hits her, it’s a sharp knife that goes right through her heart. It leaves her speechless. Empty. Hurt. Surreal. Like she’s dreaming, that this is a twisted nightmare. A simulation. Alone.

She barely registers when the doctor is gone, when she’s left alone with Bucky whose hand is so tight on her shoulder that his knuckles are white. She feels like her heart has stopped. She isn’t sure if she even remembers how to breathe. She doesn’t even know that she’s crying until he finally reaches down and wipes them away. Once she realizes it, she can’t stop the flood gates that wash through her.

“I - I wasn’t -,” Shuri starts, unsure of how to explain the emotions cruising through her, the heartbreak of losing a baby that she knows she wasn’t ready for, but she was trying to get used to. “ - I didn’t want this to happen.”

Bucky knows - she was vocal on not being ready for a baby. He doesn’t think that she wanted any of this to happen, but he knows, deeply, that she wouldn’t stoop this low. That she would never endanger herself or their baby this way.

No one is ready for a baby, he had realized that when he had to start reading all the parenting books that Nat shoved his way. When he had started to worry about the little things that he missed like baby locks, but then finding something else he missed every time that he thought he had prepared for everything. Then he had started to wonder just how he was supposed to have ‘the talk’ with his son - and he was convinced it would be a boy and he realized that you can’t prepare for everything.

Just like they never prepared for this.

_______________________________________

Shuri quits work the day after their baby died. She tells Fury that she can’t come in that day or any day. He doesn’t argue and a part of her knows that he already knows everything about what happened. Fury has always had ears everywhere, always knew everything. She receives therapy pamphlets anonymously in the mail and she tells him thank you, but the brochures have started their own stack by the waffle maker.

Bucky tells her that it’s a good thing that she quit - that he is proud of her for wanting to put herself first, for taking some time off to be a good housewife. But the truth is, her quitting is selfish. She couldn’t go in and face everyone, she couldn’t even accept the wounds to heal enough for her to go work after a break. She knows that she couldn’t. She needs some time - time to process, time to grieve, and time to accept things.

She feels awful, her heart feels empty and hollow. She feels old and soft and spends too long in what would have been a nursery and can’t bring herself to clean up the paint cans that they had already opened. Her stomach never returns to the right shape, not in the way that pleases her and when his hand touches her stomach at night, she opts to spend the night on the couch herself. Sometimes she wakes up with her favorite blanket tucked in or she will wake up in the bed alone to find Bucky curled up on the sofa.

She never voices it to Bucky, but she thinks this is her fault. She can tell how heavy the weight on his shoulders are and can’t risk starting another fight when she barely even has the energy to do the everyday things that need to be done. But a part of her feels like maybe if she was happy if she saw the positive sign then it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe instead of fighting with her boyfriend, instead of spewing venom and cursing herself for getting pregnant, she should have rejoiced with him instead.

Bucky, for his part, lives up to his promises of taking care of her. As he works and pays off their rent, bills, and other necessities, he also is careful with her. Less stubborn. He holds her gently at night and whispers, in a half asleep daze, that they will get through this and it will be okay.

Through grieving heartaches, they have to break the news to everyone that they told. They realize this when one of his parents’ gifts arrive and Shuri spends a good twenty minutes weeping over the children's booties and bottles. But telling his parents is the hardest thing that Bucky ever has to do. Shuri can’t even begin to imagine how the conversation goes. When she explains that she didn’t even have a family to tell in the first place, she offers to be the one to break the news to Nat.

Telling Nat is one of the hardest things that Shuri has ever done. She stared down the barrels of shotguns, fought against enemies who wanted to gut her like a fish, and survived more than she probably should have. But telling the woman who can’t have children, the woman who was her best friend, who had been happier about the pregnancy than even she was, and had already dubbed herself an aunt that the child that didn’t even make it to this world yet is gone... Looking that woman in the eyes and telling her that she won’t be aunt - not now at least, maybe not for a while. It was one of the few times that Shuri saw Nat cry and Shuri came home that day with a tear-stained shirt and streaks rolling down her cheeks.

It’s a slow progress, but each night that Bucky comes home, he finds one more thing changed. The nursery slowly starts to shift into an office as the opened paint cans disappear. Bucky takes it upon himself to paint the walls back to their original color and silently, Shuri comes in and helps. He doesn’t ask her where everything went, he can’t bring himself too. He finds everything from the unopened cradle box to the clothes and bottles all shoved deep into the closet.

Then one night, they finally find their voice and the more that they talk, the more that their hearts mend.

“We never picked out a name,” Shuri muses quietly, stirring absently at a cup of coffee as she joins him on the couch, “We never found out the gender, but what would you have named them?”

Bucky isn’t sure if there’s a right or wrong answer so he goes for the honest one, carefully telling her that he always felt in his gut that it was going to be a boy. He planned on talking to her about naming him.

“Buchanan,” Shuri muses, repeating the name and mulling it over with a look in her eyes that he can’t quite read. “Buchanan.”

They do not talk about it again. They don’t have to. Putting a name to their child, to the one that they have been grieving over, a name that was a whisper when they cried, the one that Shuri had dug out from clots of blood to hold until Bucky found her. It puts a name to what they have been through, validating it in a way that they can’t explain. It makes it all real, but in a way that they can grasp.

It fills in a part of the void in their hearts that they were missing. Even though they know that the rest can never be filled in, even if they have another child. Buchanan will always be the slight tear in their lungs from when they wore out their voices through tears and Buchanan will always be that one spot in their hearts.

#marvel #alpha beta omega dynamics #alpha beta omega #omega #alpha #dynamics #shuri #bucky #miscarriage #tw: miscarriage #myworks #backwash

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vonseal · 7 years ago

Text

hitting (on) a merman

Minhyuk made a noise, a high-pitched squeak, and Sanha giggled.

alternatively, merman socky drabble for anon!

Minhyuk knew next to nothing about surfing, but he found a surfboard.

He knew surfboards weren't cheap. He had overheard as much from various beach-goers around town. He had heard them complaining about prices and even overtime can't pay for this one.

So when he came across an abandoned surfboard on the beach one morning, he decided he would be a good Samaritan and wait for the owner. Surely no one would just leave a surfboard out here when it cost so much, would they?

So he waited. And waited. And, finally, when the afternoon sun was high above him, roasting his skin to bits, he grabbed it and took it to his small apartment with him.

Fitting it through the door was difficult, and it garnered the attention of his roommate, Bin, who blinked up at it in amazement.

“Where the hell,” Bin started, “did you even earn the money to buy that.”

Minhyuk gasped as he finally set it up against the living room wall. “I didn't buy it. Do I look like the type to buy a surfboard?”

“Where did you steal it from, then?”

“Bin.” Minhyuk stared at him, exasperated. “Do I look like the type to steal a surfboard?”

“If you're asking me whether or not you seem like a criminal, then yes, you do.”

Bin was the worst roommate ever. Minhyuk only put up with him because Jinwoo had moved out a few months back – something about a certain Myungjun and a certain weird adoration he felt and Bin will be a great roommate for you instead of me!

Jinwoo probably wouldn't call him a criminal.

(But Jinwoo would lecture him on taking other peoples' goods. Maybe being called a criminal was better than having to sit for an hour or two, or until Jinwoo's voice ran out.)

“I didn't steal it. Someone left it on the beach. I'll put up flyers to see if they want to claim it again.”

“What's it going to say on the flyers? Found the lost surfboard, please call this number if you want to see him again?”

And it said just that. Because, honestly, Minhyuk wasn't creative and the idea was as good as any other idea he had in his mind.

(And he had zero ideas in his mind on how to display a found surfboard.)

Weeks went by, though, and no one called. Well, a few people did, but none of them could accurately describe the board's colors and designs, and Minhyuk wasn't going to give it away to just anybody. He would wait for the owner.

And while waiting for the owner, he would take it out to the ocean and ride on it.

Surfing had always looked difficult. He never understood how people could just stick a wooden board out on the waves and then stand up and go inside these said waves. It didn't make sense, even just from watching it, and Minhyuk soon learned that it didn't make sense doing it, either. He fell from his board before the waves even appeared, at least three times, and after yet another spill, he sputtered indignantly. So much for trying it out. He really ought to have just given it to a random surfer, because he didn't have space for something he hated to use.

But Minhyuk was not a quitter. He might have sucked at surfing, and he might have maybe sort of stolen the surfboard (though, in his defense, he definitely had a sign out of its whereabouts), but Minhyuk would not just give up on surfing so easily. He had never wanted to learn, and he still didn't exactly want to learn, but he had set out to do something with the board when he brought it to the beach, so he would see through with this new hobby of his.

It was just that he really, really sucked.

He practiced into the evening one night. The beach was abandoned after a few hours, and Minhyuk was utterly exhausted, and he was no closer to learning how to actually surf.

“One more time,” he mumbled to himself, looking around for new waves. “Once more and then I'll go home for the day.”

It took a minute or two for a wave to finally appear nearby, and Minhyuk got in his ready position, remembering what the article he read online said about surfing.

Of course, as he approached the wave and climbed up on his surfboard, he realized he actually didn't remember a single thing from the article. The wave crashed into him and, once again, Minhyuk fell off his board.

He swam to the surface rather quickly and began to bob in the water, looking around for his piece-of-junk surfboard (because it was probably the material or something that made it impossible to catch any waves like a real surfer – which was probably why the previous owner just abandoned it).

Oddly enough, he found it next to someone else, someone he was sure he hadn't seen either on the beach or out in the water. It was some kid with a cute face and small ears and a bright, blond hair. He looked as if he was pouting, too, rubbing at his forehead and frowning over at the surfboard.

“Hey!” Minhyuk called out, swimming over to him. The boy looked scared for a second, but then seemed to control his expression. “Do you want a free surfboard?”

“What?”

“A surfboard. You have your hands on it, so you can take it.”

As if he had just realized his hands were holding onto the board, the boy jerked them back quickly and cleared his throat. “I, uh, I don't really surf, so...so no thank you.”

Just as well. Minhyuk would save him the trouble of being eternally frustrated at a stupid surfboard. “Why are you out here, anyway? It's getting dark.”

“Why are you out here?” the boy countered.

“I was surfing. You said you don't surf, though, so what's your reasoning for being in the water?”

The boy frowned, cute, pouty lips turned down, and that's when Minhyuk noticed the bump on his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Minhyuk inched closer, and the boy blinked in surprise. “You have...you have a bruise or-”

“Your stupid surfboard hit me!” The boy pointed an accusing finger at the board. “I was just minding my own business and having fun and this thing came out of nowhere and smacked me right in the head!”

Minhyuk wanted to feel guilty. He truly wanted to feel guilty for accidentally hitting such a cute boy. However, it was difficult to feel anything but a slight infatuation for someone so utterly precious. “Ah...sorry about that. You shouldn't have been so far out here, though, with all the waves. It's dangerous! Especially when you saw me surfing. I can't control this dumb thing.”

“You're not a surfer, then.”

Minhyuk sighed and leaned up against his board, treading his feet in the water. “Nope. I'm not.”

All was quiet for a few seconds until the boy, too, leaned up against the board. “What's your name?” he whispered, as if trying to keep a secret from invisible people.

“Me? I'm Minhyuk. What about you?”

“Sanha!” The answer was bright and cheerful, accompanied by a large grin. “My name is Sanha!”

Sanha was adorable. Minhyuk wanted to look at Sanha for as long as possible, and so he returned Sanha's grin with his most charming smile and gestured back towards the shore. “How about we dry off and go grab some coffee? I'll pay, as an apology for my surfboard hurting you.”

Sanha cocked his head slightly. “What's coffee?” he asked.

Minhyuk had to take a second to process that question. Everyone knew what coffee was, didn't they? It was so common that even children were aware of the drink. “It's...it's coffee. You know, like...like Starbucks, and-”

“What's a star-buck?”

Things were getting weird now, and Minhyuk furrowed his eyebrows. “Where are you from?” Maybe it was some far off land where coffee wasn't common and Starbucks didn't exist. But, at his question, Sanha just gestured out to the great expanse of water.

“What does that mean?” Minhyuk questioned. “Where are you from?”

Sanha bit his lip down. “I'm not supposed to answer that. Not really.” But, before Minhyuk could say anything, he pushed himself up onto the surfboard. Minhyuk stared at his face still before his eyes trailed downwards, having caught a bright flash of colors-

Sanha had a fin.

Minhyuk drew in his breath quickly and hurriedly before stuffing a hand over his mouth. And, just as fast as Sanha had shown off his lack of legs, he was back in the water again, smiling sheepishly and continuing to bob up and down.

“But I'll answer it for you, because I like you.”

Minhyuk made a noise, a high-pitched squeak, and Sanha giggled.

“I like you a lot. Can you come out here and surf again tomorrow?”

Another noise was produced from Minhyuk's mouth. Sanha simply grinned and gave him a small wave. “So, um...I'll see you tomorrow, Minhyuk?”

And, just like that, he was gone, leaving Minhyuk alone in the water, holding onto the surfboard for support as he stared at the spot where Sanha had disappeared off to.

Sanha was a mermaid.

A merman, more specifically, probably. And while it was shocking and confusing and Minhyuk didn't even know mermaids (mermen) existed...

He wanted to come back still.

(Maybe surfing wouldn't be all that bad if he could hit (on) Sanha again.)

#my fanfic #tiny lil drabbles #socky #socky fanfic #socky fanfiction #astro fanfic #astro fanfiction #largely unedited i apologize

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