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guardians-ofthe-lastyoungkilljoy · 2 months ago

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i know the end - vettel

(gif not mine @usersewis)

pairing: sebastian vettel x reader

summary: Sebastian came into your life in 2015 and left in 2020 - but you fell in love with him and he just wanted a championship.

themes/warnings: alcohol, ANGST, no use of y/n, description of a panic attack, unrequited love, waxing poetic about ferrari - can you tell they're my fav team, kimi mentioned, charles is here too !! THIS IS FICTION

wc: 3.6k

a/n: someone on tumblr said that ferrari is a haunted house with a picket fence and i have never stopped thinking about it since. i have also never stopped thinking about sebastian vettel - subcategory of seb thoughts is seb in ferrari. also still open to do requests - trying out this whole fic writing thing. will also need help with organising my blog if anyone is keen :)

read on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/60713827

Sebastian joined Ferrari in 2015. The team were ecstatic to have the four time world champion join their ranks, determined to bring Ferrari back to its former glory.

You were working on the strategy team, fairly new but established enough to be listened to on the rare occasion.

You met Seb in the pre-season at his factory introduction. He made his speech, charming the floor with his near perfect Italian. He popped into the strategy meeting room during his tour, a war room that had become home for you with its laptops and papers spread out. Sebastian was the perfect gentleman, shaking hands with everyone, though you thought he may have held on a bit longer with you.

The season started soon after, the entire garage working overtime. You were given the opportunity to accompany the team at races, rather than being stuck at Maranello.This is how you became Sebastian’s favourite strategist.

You’re not exactly sure when it happened. You made a good strategy call in Malaysia, a well timed pit stop in Hungary and by Singapore, the lion knew your coffee order from the Ferrari cafeteria, ensuring to always pass you some before a long meeting.

Falling for Sebastian was drawn out, comprised of lingering greeting hugs, good conversation at team dinners, long nights at the factory and searing glances across foreign nightclubs.

You didn’t realise it for a while, and you wouldn’t realise it until it was too late. The attention you received was perhaps just part of Seb’s charm, and he had the whole motorsport world wrapped around his infamous finger.

2016 brought on a winless year for Ferrari, both Kimi and Sebastian unable to make it to that crucial top step.

You found Seb at the back of the Ferrari motorhome after a particularly tough race, hiding between tyre stacks. You overheard his PR team scrambling to find him - you slipped out to the back unnoticed, knowing exactly where he was.

The tyre stacks were sort of a shared place for you and Sebastian, free from the prying eyes of the world. The only person who knew about it was Sebastian’s head mechanic, who accidentally stumbled upon you two sharing champagne after a podium last year.

I’ll be there soon. Sebastian recognised your footsteps before even looking up.

You sat down beside him, trying to find the words while he absentmindedly played with his water bottle.

I’m sorr-

I don’t want to hear it.

Sebastian had never snapped at you. You knew the strategy calls were bad today, resulting in an ill timed pitstop and Sebastian falling through the other. This Seb, this was completely foreign to you.

Seb stood and left, sparing no further glance at you. It was a punch to your gut. Did he blame you? Drivers were always temperamental, that you knew, but Sebastian had always been nothing but kind and mature with you.

Your body went into autopilot mode, packing up what you can before the team debrief.

Sebastian barely spared you a glance as everyone settled in for the debrief. Perhaps a sign that he calmed down during media duties, but you knew better than to play detective with another man’s emotions.

Strategy seemed to be the biggest issue to tackle with your boss taking the lead. You half listened, taking notes occasionally until he mentioned your name.

One of the plans you brought up in pre-race meetings was bold and daring. It was entertained, but ultimately shoved aside for what ended up happening during the race. However after witnessing what happened in the race, it would have gained the team some higher positions.

Ferrari is a team, one where we win and lose together. Every aspect is just as important as each other. Admitting mistakes and learning for them is how the team gets stronger.

The strategy admission had Sebastian sneaking glances at you for the rest of the meeting. You felt it, but you weren’t exactly ready to forgive yet.

You returned to your home in Maranello without so much as another word to Sebastian. You were, however, greeted by a bouquet of peonies on your dining table, along with a note from the man you were so desperately trying not to think about.

By 7PM the same day, you and Seb were sharing a blanket on the couch and watching a romcom, having devoured pizza and now working your way through a giant bag of chocolate wafers.

Unfortunately, Seb knew the way to your heart. As you tucked yourself into bed that night, you realised that you never shared a conversation with him about Sunday and an even scarier thought, you had forgiven him.

2017 saw you and Sebastian grow even closer. Movie nights at your apartment became the norm and Seb often took you to dinner on race weekends, despite your protests that the dinners were too fancy. He had to spoil his favourite strategist would always be his response.

Sebastian returned to the top step of Monaco that year, the Italian anthem blaring across the track along with a chorus of devoted Tifosi. He sneaked off after the celebrations, pulling you with him to the tyre stacks, champagne bottle on the other hand.

Seb passed you the bottle and you took a large sip, pushing down the thought that his lips were on it mere moments ago.

Are you coming to the afterparty?

Yes, but I don’t have anything to wear?

No party dress packed? Ye of little faith.

You rolled your eyes and shoved the bottle back into his hands. The endless banter and teasing simultaneously made you forget about your feelings for Seb but also made you fall harder for him.

Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. He kissed your cheek and walked away.

Cheek kisses weren’t new for Seb, having evolved from greeting hugs long ago. But “take care of it”? Well, he better not be doing what you were thinking.

You returned to your hotel room to a large black box on your bed, an extravagant red bow tied around it with a handwritten note, definitely scrawled on by a tipsy Seb.

The box revealed a red dress, and on top of it, another small box. You opened it and out dangled a small necklace with a heart charm. Engraved on one side was the number 5. Sebastian.

Sebastian knocked on your door two hours later, dressed sharp and ready for the night ahead. He took you in, the dress he picked out was the perfect fit against your skin. There was however, one missing detail.

The necklace?

It’s a bit much, no?

Nonsense.

Sebastian walked into your room and spotted the necklace on the bed. He took it out of its pouch and motioned for you to stand in front of the mirror. He stood behind, putting the necklace on you. His fingers ghosted over your neck, raising the tiny hairs on your skin.

Team number 5.

Sebastian kissed the side of your head and his fingers trailed down your arm to grab your hand. You followed him out in a daze to the elevator.

The dim light of the elevator and Sebastian’s intoxicating cologne enveloping the cramped box. The elevator dinged, letting in more people. The sound woke you from whatever spell Sebastian cast. You counted down the floors until you had to leave the warmth of Sebastian’s side and his calloused hand around yours.

Ground floor. The air was clearer as you exited the bubble - reality. Because despite everything, Sebastian wasn’t yours. He is Ferrari’s. You are Ferrari’s. For now, sharing a home would be enough.

You never left Sebastian’s line of sight all night. Between partying with your girlfriends, sharing a drink with your boss and a few dances with Seb, the clarity in the haze of the club was Sebastian.

As the night began winding down, Sebastian approached you at a booth. He was holding a mystery drink and his pupils were blown wide. He began blabbering about something Kimi did, the Finn possibly to blame for Sebastian’s current state. You took one look at him and began arranging a cab back to the hotel.

You managed to drag a half asleep Sebastian back to his room. You sat him on the edge of the bed while you filled up a water bottle. You came back and found him spread eagle on the bed. At least he took his shoes off.

Goodnight Seb.

You were halfway out the room when you heard it.

I love you.

You froze. Looking back, you saw Seb snoring peacefully, hugging a pillow to his chest. No, he’s drunk and sleeping. It wasn’t for you. It could’ve been for his bed for all you cared for. It didn’t matter, despite your heart wishing it was for you.

2018 was another successful year for Ferrari. Sebastian came home with five wins that year, placing second in the drivers standings and Kimi in third. All in all, you were quite proud of the team’s efforts that year and you knew you could unlock more of that potential.

However, you could feel something bothering Sebastian. An itch that had been present all season. You had asked a few times, but Seb always insisted it was nothing. You knew Sebastian well enough by this point. You could read him, to an extent. But if he truly wanted to hide something, you would be helpless at getting it out.

Sebastian invited you to stay at his farm in Switzerland for a week during the winter break. You happily obliged, having not seen him since wrapping up in Abu dhabi. You could use the tranquillity of farm life for a bit.

Your days there were spent helping Sebastian with the animals. He taught you horse riding and you taught him baking. You let yourself get lost in that life, if just for a mere moment. Perhaps in some alternate universe, this was your home with him, that you weren’t only playing house for a week.

You and Sebastian were laying on the carpet in front of the fireplace, sharing a bowl of attempted smores. It was your last night there before you had to jet off back to Maranello to begin pre season work.

Seb got quiet, not exactly rare but it was different when something was on his mind.

Would you ever leave?

Leave where?

Ferrari.

No. Ferrari is home.

Sebastian hummed, adding nothing more but deciding to bite into another smore. A bit of chocolate dripped onto his chin. You chuckled and wiped it off with your thumb.

Besides, you don’t need to worry about that new French kid. You’re still my favourite, world champion.

Sebastian laughed, but you missed the melancholy in his eyes and the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Being a Tifosi came with many highs and lows - any balding Italian man can tell you that. It was felt even more within the team, especially for Sebastian this year.

2019 saw the meteoric rise of Charles Leclerc, the predestined. He cemented his place as not only the future of Ferrari itself, but of the sport as well.

Charles was full of energy and light. You grew fond of the kid and it was nice to have his company amidst the turmoil surrounding the team that year.

You went into that year determined to get Sebastian his championship he so desperately craved. You were instead met by cheating rumours, bad calls, power shifting and well, an increasingly frustrated Sebastian.

Sebastian who has been chasing that championship feeling for years. Sebastian who bleeds Ferrari red. Sebastian who is determined to bring the team back to the top. Sebastian, who is not quite yours, but you devoted your red heart to.

Perhaps that’s how you ended up in this position.

Sebastian pulled you into his driver’s room after a race. The habit has raised a few eyebrows from passing crew, but none have said a word.

Nothing ever happened anyways.

Seb would sit you on his couch and you’d listen. Listen as he rambled in a heinous mix of German, Italian and English. Listen as he let out his emotions after a race and all the lows he went through that weekend.

You’d bring up some of these points to relevant crew members. It would be worked on and by the following race, it would be better. But it was never enough for Sebastian.

You understood, he was supposed to bring Ferrari back, follow in the footsteps of his mentor and hero. It was an immense pressure and responsibility that has been carried for years. Now, the Italians have put their faith in his teammate, throwing him aside like an old toy.

It was draining for you too, being subjected to this almost every weekend. It wasn’t your burden to bear, but this was Sebastian. He is still Rosso Corsa, and you weren’t one to deny a cry for help.

Singapore rolled around, one of Sebastian’s favourites. He crossed the line in first place that night. You haven’t been so happy in months.

Sebastian found you at your desk after media duties. You were still on the adrenaline high, but the tiredness began seeping back into your bones. You knew you weren’t sleeping well, the stress of the season getting to you and your eyes looked darker than ever. For Ferrari, the pain was always worth it.

Come out tonight.

Seb, I feel dead.

And the race winner is personally inviting you.

You could never resist him, which is how you have an extremely plastered Seb on your arm as you walk back to the hotel. Apparently being part of Team 5 also meant babysitting when he’s had one too many.

I LOVE FERRARI! I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE! FORZA FERRARI!

Sempre.

May 2020. F1 was still on the break. The only place you went was your home in Maranello and occasionally the factory. You hadn’t seen Sebastian in months and to be honest, you haven’t heard from him as much as you wanted to.

Then, the announcement. Sebastian Vettel to leave Ferrari by the end of the 2020 season.

It came as a shock to you. Seb’s contract was up for renewal, you knew that. But he never said anything about leaving, at least, not to your face. And to find out from Instagram, rather than from the man himself, that was a whole other issue.

You left several messages on Seb’s number over the next week, all remained unanswered. You knew he was a bit of a recluse sometimes, preferring quiet company over the glitz and glamour other drivers seemed to surround themselves with. Ignoring you however, that was unheard of.

You asked some of Seb’s mechanics, but none have heard from him. You even asked Charles, but all he received was a polite thank you message.

After a while, you gave up on contacting him. You knew better than to beg for a man’s attention, even Sebastian’s. It broke your heart to walk away, but you had to keep pushing and Ferrari needed to keep pushing.

Red Bull Ring, Austria. The first race back was a much quieter environment than what you’ve been used to. Despite wanting to stay in Maranello, mainly to stay safe but also to avoid a certain German, your boss wanted you at the races. Who were you to deny the call of the Prancing Horse.

You ignored him all weekend, refusing to make eye contact or be in his general presence at all. It was perhaps a bit petty, but you deserved to be after the last two months.

Charles placed P2, a great result from the team for the first race back. You chatted to him at your desk after the race. Charles was a young man that had raw talent, immense passion and was wise beyond his years. You were lucky to call him a friend.

Mid conversation, Charles glanced behind you. You knew exactly who was standing there, but he could wait his turn.

You finished up with Charles, giving him a hug before he left.

You stared at Seb standing awkwardly in the doorway. He shifted on his feet, for once not knowing what to say to you.

Please say something.

I have nothing to say to you. You’re the one who went radio silent for months.

I’m sorry.

You shook your head and looked away, not wanting him to see how much this affected you.

I didn’t know how to tell you.

Seb moved closer, stepping into your space. He reached out a shaky hand to yours. You gripped his, you couldn’t help it. A silent sob escaped your body.

Come with me.

You whipped around, searching his pleading eyes.

Come with me. To Aston Martin.

His other hand came up to the side of your head, cupping your cheeks and wiping away the tears on your cheek.

Come with me. I need you.

His hand brushed down the side of your neck, fingers finding the necklace he gifted all those years ago.

Team 5. That’s our home. Please.

Sebastian fiddled with the charm. He found the engraved 5 turned around, no longer facing outward like how you’ve always worn it.

You took Sebastian’s hand and pressed a tender kiss to it.

Ferrari is my home. I can’t come with you.

You dropped his hand and looked anywhere else but him. You couldn’t bear to see the tears welling in his eyes.

Please leave.

Sebastian walked out, hesitating at the door. He took a last look at you and left.

You let the cries come out. Every emotion you’ve kept the last few years came out in a tidal wave.

You felt an arm wrapping around your shoulders, recognising Charles’ hand. He helped you to the floor and let you lean against him.

I’m sorry.

You requested to be transferred to Maranello for the rest of the season, citing health concerns. The team was sad to see you go, many of them enjoying your company on long race weekends.

You only saw Sebastian in passing for the rest of the year, heard about him from mechanics, through strategy feedback and once from Charles. He knew not to press, but you didn’t miss the occasional flicker of sympathy from his eyes.

Sebastian came by the factory after the season ended, a formal goodbye to Ferrari. There was food and drinks passed around and some quick speeches made.

Sebastian was the last to come forward.

It has been my dream to race for the Scuderia since I was a boy. Here I stand now, as a Ferrari driver for six incredible seasons. It still feels like cloud nine everytime I get to walk into this beautiful place and be greeted by the passion from every single one of you. I thank you all for the hard work you’ve put in all these years.

Sebastian took a breath, as if hesitating on what to say next. You found yourself waiting, a small part of you hoping for him to say something, anything that would allow you to forgive him.

I want to say a special thank you to those who have been by my side. You know who you are. I know I haven’t always made it easy, and I am sorry for that. But I am eternally grateful for you.

Sebastian’s eyes found yours in the crowd. You found yourself fiddling with the necklace for comfort, forcing your eyes to hold back tears.

Thank you all. Forza Ferrari sempre.

The crowd erupted in cheers, applauding Seb as he made his way back into the crowd.

Your ears were ringing, vision blurry and the swell of the crowd was suddenly too much. Your feet relief on instinct, turning you around and leading you towards the exit.

A hand found your arm as you reached the lobby. Charles. The youngster took one look at you and said something about a car and to wait. Your body curled into a ball as you heaved.

This was it. Sebastian was leaving. Leaving Ferrari and the home you built in it, with him. And neither of you could muster the courage for a proper goodbye. What an irony, Ferrari who creates heroes and legends but two of their best and brightest are cowards with each other.

A sleek black Ferrari pulled up to the front. The rumble of the engine was enough to push yourself to stand and stumble your way to Charles who had opened the door for you.

You turned, taking a look at the building. Ferrari is always going to be home, but the people in it give it meaning. Sebastian left, and your sun set, but it will rise again soon.

You were at the door and hesitated for the briefest moment. That was enough for Sebastian to come running into the lobby.

You stood in the moonlight with windswept hair and teary eyes. From the distance, Sebastian could just make out the glimmer of the necklace he gave you all those years ago and the most important thought - you were still the most beautiful woman he ever got the chance to know.

He loved you. Loves you. It was real all along, not some drunken stupor that he convinced himself it was all those years ago, hiding because it would be easier than to let himself fall.

He understood. You were always by his side, and he was too late to notice it, much less be grateful for it. You can't forgive him now, and he’s caused too much harm. It would be selfish of him to keep you tethered.

He needs to let you go.

Sebastian nodded at you from his frozen place in the lobby. This is the end. You touched your hand to your heart, where your necklace fell. In another life.

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel angst #f1 angst #charles leclerc #kimi raikkonen #ferrari

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helloliriels · 1 month ago

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HELLOLIRIELS WRAPPED 2024

🎁 36 VIEWS OF LONDON :: a FTH gift for @thegildedbee

A patchwork image of John & Sherlock’s London, as seen through their eyes. This is Plot Without Plot (which I'm told is 'the good stuff'). 😎😋📸 Meant to be taken in bite-size chunks. It is a fully finished fic. I hope you enjoy!

💝 PRETTY in (a Frankly Alarming Shade of) PINK &

🎁 NEVER TRUST TO GENERAL IMPRESSIONS [COVER ART] :: two FTH gifts for @thetimemoves

a.k.a. Never Judge A Book By Its Cover (unless its cover is smexy) 😉 my second FTH gift for their gorgeous fic of the same title!!

💌 THE REMEMBER ME MAN by helloliriels - (WIP) a continuation of Remember Me {Though Poppies Grow series} ongoing series

🎄 CHOOSE YOUR OWN JUMPER :: (WIP) Experiment at Baskerville. A new fanfic adventure awaits in this holiday special!

🐝 God Save the Queen :: Sussex & bees never looked so dangerous

🐝 Protect the Hive :: A beekeeper has two rules ...

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💎 Liri's Treasure Chest :: Hoarding treasure from WoW like a dragon, and decided to start making art of my favourite pieces.

✍️ Better Luck Next Time :: (WIP) Mike had meant it in a kindly way ... but John was in no mood for platitudes.

🏆 New Achievement Unlocked! :: a series of bloggable cheevos.

🎭 MAY IS FOR LIMERICKS :: 20+ limericks full of johnlocked angst. Welcome to limerick hell. Inspired by Calaisreno's may prompts!

Found Fandom (Found Family)

Cardiac Arrest

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I (May) Have Miscalculated

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Forgiven?

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✍️ Open Your Eyes :: FFF#249

🏆 HELLO AWARD SEASON 2024 :: Hey, if Oscar can do it ... we're gonna have a Wilde time!!!

🏆And the award goes to ... Arwamachine

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When You're In 🌍 Fandom Spaces

📜 One Thousand and One (Words on the Tip of My Tongue) :: a poem. John is processing his grief.

✍️ A Johnlocker Walks into Heaven :: insane wish fulfillment

🎭 S4 Goes Wrong! :: The Goes Wrong Show takes over BBC's Sherlock for the 4th season with disastrous results!

Celebrating 167 Works & 375,000 words on AO3! 🎉

2023 | 2022 | 2021 | 2020 | HELLO POETRY | HELLO PODFICS

@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @calaisreno @sarahthecoat @khorazir @iwlyanmw @raina-at @chriscalledmesweetie @7-percent @safedistancefrombeingsmart @kettykika78 @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @whatnext2020 @londonlock @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @a-victorian-girl @naefelldaurk @impalaparkedat221b @dragonnan @loki-lock @gaylilsherlock @inevitably-johnlocked @elwinglyre @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @jawnn-watson @holmesianlove @sgam76 @janetm74 @ninasnakie @peanitbear @safedistancefrombeingsmart @discordantwords @bluebellofbakerstreet @john-smiths-jawline @topsyturvy-turtely @gregorovitch-adler @lololollywrites @solarmama-plantsareneat @blogstandbygo @justanobsessedpan

#helloliriels #2024 masterlist #bbc sherlock #johnlock #i am sherlocked #join me!

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beyondspaceandstars · 9 months ago

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Date Night

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: slight frustration but mainly fluff Summary: Nothing seemed to go right with your date night plans... A/N: This is an older one shot (from 2020, omg) that I published on ao3 but never on here! (At least, I hope I didn't! I can't find it if I did, haha) so I edited it a bit and decided to release it into the wild here. it's really short and simple but I think it's sweet :)

You wanted one nice night in with your fiancé. Just one. A simple dinner with a fresh, home-cooked meal, couple glasses of wine, some shitty romantic comedy, all follow by bedtime at 10 p.m. It was all you wanted. It should've been so simple.

But your dream was crumbling to pieces as the minutes, the seconds, went on.

It started with Bucky calling to say he was running a bit late and wouldn’t be home until later than expected. You wanted to scream and remind him that you’d had this date night planned for weeks but you, luckily, kept your cool and just asked him to come home safely. This was just one little fluke, you could manage that.

So, you started the meal later than you had originally planned. You just really wanted everything to be ready and on the table for when Bucky got home. He deserved that and it should be manageable, right? You could still have a nice dinner together but the movie might have to be skipped.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until you got to cooking the main entree: steak. You hadn’t always been the best at cooking much above pasta but hours of watching cooking shows and a couple of YouTube videos gave you just a little bit of confidence... But confidence doesn't always equal skill and next thing you knew, the steaks were burnt. Completely charred and horrendously burnt. Smoke filled the kitchen and the smell was overwhelming. Both pieces of meat were well past saving and it made you wanna rip out your hair. You didn’t even know how it got to this point. The mashed potatoes needed your attention for one second and it all went to hell.

The only thing you could successfully salvage were the side dishes which consisted of a salad and mashed potatoes. But even those had turned out slightly wrong. Your salad was somehow bitter and the mashed potatoes were runny. Although, yes, they were both edible… But it just wasn’t right.

Nothing was right.

You groaned as you tried fanning out the smoke from the kitchen, praying the smoke alarm wouldn’t go off. It was literally the last thing you needed on top of how everything else was going tonight.

You threw the burnt steaks into the trash and filled the greasy, darkened pan with hot water for it to soak in the sink. Scrubbing that was just gonna be the perfect ending, you thought as you ran your hands down your face in frustration.

You scourged through your pantry, praying you had something to replace the meal as quick as possible when you heard the front door open and shut. You stood at the pantry, staring angrily at your dry goods. You felt a presence creep up behind you and your eyes began to water. You didn’t want to turn around.

"Doll?" Bucky muttered, confusion evident in his voice.

"Hi, honey," You replied, trying to fight back any tears. "How was the mission?"

"Um, fine." He said. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

You sighed and closed the pantry door. You turned to face him, folding your arms around yourself in the process, trying to find some comfort. You couldn't help but feel a bit ashamed. A night you had been looking forward to seemed completely ridiculous now. You bit your lip, still trying to fight back the tears as best as you could but it was turning out to be useless.

Bucky’s eyes filled with concern when he saw the state you were in. He reached out and caressed your cheek. The metal of his hand contrasted pleasantly with your warmth. It was a familiar comfort you leaned into. He fully welcomed you in and wrapped his arms firmly around your shoulders. You buried your face into his chest as you wept.

Bucky was silent as you let your emotions finally run through you. He learned that was the best way for you to eventually calm down so he never seemed to mind just holding you when you were upset — so long as it made you feel better.

When you seemed to be slightly settling down, he broke the silence. "Can you tell me what’s wrong?"

You pulled yourself out of his grasp and let your eyes meet his. "I ruined date night."

Your fiancé’s expression morphed into shock. Without saying anything, you knew he completely forgot about the date night. You didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset.

"Date night… Oh, crap, I..."

"Don’t even worry about it," You sighed and walked over to sit at the kitchen island. The area still reeked of burnt meat which just made you wish you were in bed and finished with the day.

"No, honey, I didn’t mean to I just got caught up-," Bucky fumbled over his words as he raced to follow you.

"Seriously, can we forget about it?" You pleaded as tears threatened to come back. "I ruined it all anyways."

Bucky sighed. "What do you mean?"

You sniffled as you averted your eyes to the counter top. You traced the marble pattern as you spoke, "I burnt the steaks. Like completely black, charcoal, killed-the-cow-again burnt. Then the mashed potatoes were too creamy and the salad turned out bitter, however the hell that can happen-,"

"Doll…" Bucky cut you off when he saw you begin to ramble. You looked up at him, actually thankful that he cut you off this one time. You could take a breath.

"I just wanted to make a nice meal for you. Like a real meal. Meat, potatoes, the whole nine-yards," you explained. "But I couldn’t do it. I couldn't do something so simple. Are you sure you wanna marry me?"

He let out a low laugh at your question. "Honey, I’d still wanna marry you even if the only thing you could make was cereal."

You sniffled but managed a smile, feeling a bit better at his stance on the situation. He didn't appear to be upset and you were so grateful for that.

"Look," Bucky began, "how about we reschedule date night? I’ll mark it on every calendar and we’ll cook together, okay? Does that sound better? It'll be a real date."

Your heart warmed at the suggestion. You reached out and took his hands in yours. He gladly accepted the gesture as his eyes wandered over you, looking for some sign of approval.

"That sounds perfect," you replied, your voice getting caught in your throat. Tears were making a comeback but this time, it was happy crying. Your whole body warmed with love for your fiancé and you couldn’t get enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky fic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #marvel fic #marvel one shot #marvel fanfiction #mcu fic #writing*

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anncanta · 29 days ago

Text

Savior

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Dracula, Zoe Van Helsing, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Zoe Van Helsing, Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Mature

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @moremoveslessannouncements-blog

Read on AO3

Or read below

‘Doctor Helsing.’

‘You're not surprised.’

‘Why would I be?’

Dracula stepped aside, let her pass, and Zoe entered.

‘Are you bored being alone?’

‘Rather, I indulge in thoughts.’

Zoe took a few steps, looking around.

‘A tall building, stands alone, no churches nearby’ She turned to him. ‘You're easy to find.’

‘I'm not hiding.’

She nodded.

It had been two weeks since they had last met. Zoe chuckled to herself. She had never believed in the power of ‘special’ meetings, turning points, or fateful events. Scientists believe in cause and effect. And yet it was after Dracula had appeared, the same evening he had left Harker's Center. She had written her resignation letter – and, despite Kate's protests, said goodbye without looking back.

Was Dracula the reason she had quit? Was it bitterness and irritation, a vague sense of being used, or simply that she was fed up with... everything?

Zoe glanced at Dracula. She wished she had that kind of nonchalance, even if it was feigned. Her eyes slid over his slightly disheveled hair, his shirt, casually unbuttoned and apparently buttoned again, his rumpled, elegant trousers. He had clearly just arrived.

Dracula bowed his head.

‘You don't look like the type to visit at night.’

Zoe smiled and turned away. She walked around the long table, approaching the penthouse window.

‘You said it yourself. Childless, loveless, friendless, keeping myself apart from this world, I'm empty, alone.’ She turned. ‘But that also means I can do what I want.’

Dracula walked up to her.

‘You came here.’

Zoe shrugged.

‘I wanted to have some fun.’

They looked at each other for a minute.

‘Is that what I think?’ Dracula asked.

Zoe shrugged again.

‘I couldn't find anyone better.’

Dracula looked at her with admiration.

‘Zoe Helsing, did you choose me thinking any hole's a goal?’

She didn't have time to answer. Finding herself lifted and pressed against the window glass, Zoe thought for a moment that it would all be over. But the man's palm under her T-shirt had other plans. Running over her sensitive skin, it moved up, stopping between her breasts. Covering the left one, it froze, as if listening to her heart. The fingers grabbed the nipple, squeezing almost to the point of pain.

Zoe held her breath.

‘Doctor Helsing,’ Dracula said, looking up at her. ‘This is going to be a long night.’

With these words, he lifted her T-shirt with his other hand and pressed his lips to her right breast.

Zoe arched her back and closed her eyes. For a moment, she imagined what she looked like – disheveled, open, spread out before him. Understandable, finally visible. For some reason, this was important.

She wanted to go further. Deeper, where those hands and lips would extract everything she was afraid to admit to herself.

Further, harder, further. No need to take off her jeans. She barely understood whether she was speaking to herself or out loud. One of his palms under her shoulder blades, the other on her waist, down, down. Tight and damp, there, in the core, and not enough... yes, more. No... tenderness... Let me splash it out... like this.

She woke up when she realized that she was lying on the table, and her bare buttocks were cool on the smooth marble. Opening her eyes, she looked at Dracula. He looked as crazy as she did. Just as blind. Drunk. Disheveled. Jacket and shirt untouched, trousers unbuttoned and lowered. Zoe raised an eyebrow.

‘Maybe we should move to the bed?’

Dracula shook his head.

‘Here.’

She grinned and wrapped her legs around his waist.

This time she knew for sure that she wasn't speaking – he was simply doing what she wanted. Because he could hear her heartbeat, feel her blood, feel the same. Don't stand on ceremony with me, act like I don't matter, like it's not me, like it's just you and what you want. Like I'm here for you...

‘...Yes!’

When her last screams died down, Zoe felt his hand on her cheek. She smiled a tired smile – she didn't even have the strength to open her eyes. For several long minutes, she just lay there, listening to her breathing, and then she felt Dracula carefully lifting her and carrying her somewhere. Through the fog that filled her mind, she heard his footsteps, then the door creaked, and Zoe sank onto the bed.

She thought it was funny that he was pulling her clothes off – now. She laughed, stood up, tried to help him, but her hands wouldn't obey. Her body was still shaking slightly. Dracula stopped her and, leaving her naked at last, covered her with a blanket.

‘Sleep, Zoe Van Helsing,’ he said and left.

***

The penthouse kitchen adjoined the living room, a nook with a high-tech worktop and sink.

Dracula stood with his back to her, fiddling with some nickel-plated designer gadget, humming softly to himself. The kitchen smelled of coffee.

‘It would be foolish to lose sight of the head of the center created to capture you,’ Zoe said, pulling her housecoat tighter around her chest.

‘You mean the one who managed to keep me in this center for about three hours?’ Dracula asked, turning around. He was holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Good morning, Dr. Helsing,’ he added, handing her the cup.

‘Good morning.’ Zoe took the cup and made a sip. The coffee was delicious.

‘How did you sleep?’

Zoe shrugged vaguely. She was in no mood for small talk. The evening's ardor had passed, but it left no shame or awkwardness behind. She took another sip from her cup.

‘I didn't know you could…’ she said, pointing to the cup. ‘Oh, of course. The Turks.’

‘The Turks?’ Dracula frowned. ‘Oh. No, no, no. I didn't learn how to make coffee from the Turks. Believe me, the Italians left them behind long ago.’

Zoe nodded. They spent a few minutes in silence. Zoe drank coffee, Dracula opened the fridge and took out a dark red transparent bag.

‘What do you want, Dracula?’ Zoe asked, watching him open the bag and fill a glass with blood.

‘I want to take you from behind, and the sooner the better,’ Dracula said. He leaned over and threw the empty bag into the trash can.

Zoe finished her coffee in one gulp and put the cup on the table.

‘But that's not why you came.’ Dracula licked his lips and pushed the glass away. He walked around the narrow kitchen table and stood in front of her. ‘We had a great time, but that's not why you came.’

‘How do you know?’

Instead of answering, Dracula turned and left. He returned a few minutes later with Zoe's bag in his hands.

‘Get it,’ he said, handing her the bag.

The vial with the word ‘Dracula’ written on it was at the very bottom, in the back pocket.

‘You wanted to know what I meant when I said about the secret of the blood.’

Zoe looked up from the vial in her hand, startled.

‘I won't drink it.’

‘Do you think it's a trap?’

Zoe was silent. She looked at the vial again. The dark red blood inside looked completely harmless.

Why was it so hard?

Zoe quickly uncorked the vial, brought it to her lips, and drained it to the bottom.

…Zoe stood in the dungeon. In the dimly lit room, she noticed two tables: a stone one by the wall and a wooden one in the center. Both tables were covered with stacks of books, with bottles of some kind of medicine wedged between them. Zoe recognized a pickled bat and a frog.

Leaning over so as not to hit her head on the low stone arch, Zoe walked forward. A man in dark trousers and a white shirt stood in the middle of the room with his back to her. Dracula. A woman in a nun's robe froze in front of him.

Suddenly the woman looked away from Dracula and looked straight at Zoe.

It was like looking into a mirror. Strange, unfamiliar. Alive. Zoe had seen these features many times, she knew them. As if possessed by the same thought, the woman opened her eyes wide.

Feeling sick, Zoe grabbed her head and slowly sank to the floor.

***

‘I saw her,’ she was shaking. Dracula was sitting next to her and silently looking at her. ‘I saw Agatha Van Helsing,’ Zoe raised her hand to her face and pushed her hair off her forehead. She threw the empty test tube away with irritation. ‘I saw her, Dracula.’

She still felt sick. The room was swimming before her eyes.

Reaching out for Dracula, Zoe leaned on his arm and stood up from the sofa they were sitting on, but immediately sank back down.

‘What was that?’ Zoe asked.

Something inside her was wrong. As if it had split in two, opened up, revealing something hidden, new, like in those pictures where the images are visible only in defocus. And at the same time, it felt as if she had finally found something important.

‘Dracula, what the hell –’

‘You'll be part of me. You will travel to a new world in my veins.’

Now she knew what he meant. More than that, she remembered. And that could only mean one thing.

‘You bastard,’ Zoe said quietly. ‘You brought her with you. Like on a flash drive. And now you've downloaded her into me.’

Dracula smiled.

‘It's not that simple. But now we can talk about it.’

He stood up from the couch and looked over his shoulder.

‘Coffee?’

***

‘Dracula,’ Zoe said, putting down her almost empty cup. ‘I don't believe in reincarnation. Maybe blood is lives, maybe it's stories, like Agatha said, like you always say. But I'm not her.’

Zoe looked at Dracula almost with regret.

‘Agatha is dead.’

‘What is death?’ Dracula grinned.

‘I'm sorry?’

Dracula picked up the glass he was holding.

‘Young man, twenty-six or twenty-eight, tall, thin, blond. Graduated with honors from college, majored in finance. Dropped out in his second year, made a career as a jazz musician in the Bronx. Recently returned, plays in an orchestra. Married, two kids. Happy.’

He ran his finger along the rim of the glass. He looked at Zoe.

‘I know all that about him,’ he said, in response to her confused look. ‘What I don't know is whether he's alive or not.’

‘Dracula –’

‘Agatha is dead, that's a fact,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘What I'm trying to explain to you…’ Dracula fell silent. ‘That DNA and time…’

‘Wait,’ Zoe said suddenly.

She stood up.

‘If it's as you say... If you're convinced she's dead. Then why…’ She paused. ‘That night in Whitby... You couldn't possibly believe…’

‘I didn't.’

Zoe nodded. The sudden realization struck her as so obvious.

‘You slept at the bottom of the sea for a hundred years. Your box may have drifted away. In fact, you came up in a completely random place. What were the chances that she would be waiting for you there?’

Dracula smiled.

‘Helsings.’ He became serious. ‘That's what made me wary. Even if Agatha had become a vampire, we don't have the gift of foresight. She wouldn't have been able to find me.’

Zoe thought about it.

‘So it was a trap.’

‘Exactly.’

She paused, considering what she had heard.

‘DNA,’ Dracula said.

She shuddered and stared at him.

‘After I left your center,’ Dracula smiled, ‘I dropped in for a quick visit to St. Bartholomew's. They have an institute for genetic research. Renfield told me about it.’

Zoe rubbed her forehead tiredly.

‘All the experts are alive.’

She snorted incredulously.

‘And even the service staff.’

Dracula paused.

‘What bothered me,’ he said finally, ‘was that you were so much like her and that I could learn so little about you.’

Zoe sat down at the table and crossed her arms.

‘What you call DNA,’ Dracula said slowly. ‘It's not exactly a data bank or a specific record. Rather, I would say it's like a single thread on which individual lives are strung, like beads.’

He looked at Zoe.

‘From the point of view of that thread, time doesn't exist. It's you and me, Jonathan, Sokolov, and Agatha, all together. Like in my blood. That context is unchangeable, independent of historical situations and physical bodies. Blood is the perfect material, it contains information about who we are, who we were, and who we can be.’

Zoe looked at him in amazement.

‘All it needs is a vessel.’

For the second time that day, the room spun around her. Zoe gripped the table with white knuckles.

A few long seconds passed before she heard Dracula's worried voice through the roaring in her ears. Zoe looked up.

‘I didn't speak until I was five,’ she whispered. ‘Power outage... my mother went into labor late at night, during a snowstorm. They couldn't revive me right away. The doctors said I was lucky.’ She closed and opened her eyes.

It needed a vessel.

‘I'm just a vessel. I was born... empty.’

All her life she had been haunted by this strange feeling – as if she were a black-and-white photograph, a matrix, a negative. Zoe was smart and very strong. Hard-working, inquisitive, and stubborn. But for as long as she could remember, she couldn't find what made her different from others. In her teens, this especially tormented her. All her peers rebelled, tried to stand out. And she was…

She had no special hobbies, no preferences. She even started painting her nails black because that's what her friends did.

Loveless, childless, friendless. You keep yourself apart.

‘Zoe!’

Dracula's voice barely broke through the panic that had gripped her in a vice.

‘That's not what I meant,’ he spoke very softly. He stood up and came over. ‘Life is not a constructor, not glue, not a form. It does not seek emptiness. But sometimes,’ he chose his words, ‘it is difficult to say where someone's Self begins and ends.’

Suddenly he leaned over and took Zoe's face in his hands.

‘Why do you think that you missed Agatha, and not Agatha missed you?’

…

‘What troubles you, my child?’

Agatha raised her head, without unclasping her hands, clasped in prayer.

‘I have sinned, Mother. I have been carried away by the dark forces. I cannot be trusted.’

Mother Superior closed the door behind her and crossed the room. She paused at the table, littered with papers. She snorted, glancing at the jar with the pickled frog. In a few steps, she was next to Agatha and sat down at the table in front of her.

‘The dark forces are part of nature, – perhaps part of our own nature,’ she said. ‘It is natural for us to want to know this world. And to know ourselves.’

‘I have gone beyond knowledge,’ said Agatha. ‘Much further. I was proud and unrestrained. I... went to extremes. I wanted to find Him too much.’

‘You were looking for our Lord,’ there was understanding in the Mother Superior's voice.

Agatha shook her head.

‘I've gone too far. I've lost my way.’

‘Our Lord is the good shepherd. ‘Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?’* Mother Superior quoted. She reached out and stroked Agatha's clasped hands. ‘Do not lose faith, child.’

Agatha looked at the plump fingers clutching hers for a moment, then took her hands away and stood up.

‘There's a dead man in the monastery, Mother Superior,’ she said. ‘A creature of the night. The fishermen brought him. Because they know I understand such things. They know I'm interested in them. Sometimes lost sheep die in the mountains,’ she said bitterly. ‘And there's nothing you can do about it.’

The memory ended as abruptly as it had come.

‘Zoe, can you hear me?’

Agatha stared at Dracula, who was sitting next to her. He was holding her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes with concern.

The feeling of inner duality grew stronger. She was Zoe. She was Agatha. The nun. The woman who ran the Harker Center. The passenger of the Demeter. The scientist who was searching for Dracula. The nun. The vampire expert and the specialist in the field of dark forces.

‘It's a good thing we slept together,’ Agatha said absently.

They were sitting in the living room again. A spring breeze blew through the half-open doors onto the terrace.

‘Delightful,’ Dracula looked closer. ‘Are you… are you okay?’

‘It was long overdue,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I don't know what I was waiting for.’

‘Zoe!’ Dracula barked.

‘What's wrong?’

‘What's happening to you?’

‘What you wanted,’ Agatha was surprised. ‘I'm back. I was Zoe Van Helsing. A wonderful girl. It's strange.’ Agatha listened to herself. ‘She is still me. It is hard to explain. But now I understand all this stuff about DNA and genes –’

‘Zoe,’ Dracula called her.

She fell silent.

Dracula suddenly smiled.

‘You were always only yourself. Don't doubt it.’

Agatha chuckled.

‘Expert opinion.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘Now I understand not only about DNA. How did Zoe find you? Why, of all the staff, was she sent to ‘meet’ you on the shore? Who was really looking for you?’

‘Welcome back,’ Dracula grinned. And added in response to her irritated look: ‘I am sure that you, as well as I, understand that all these questions come down to one thing.’ He looked at Agatha. ‘Who finances the Harker Center?’

***

‘I used that money for good.’

‘Agatha, I'm not going to judge you,’ said Dracula. ‘God knows, I'm the last one who would. But we need to know’ he paused ‘who arranged this whole fucking rock concert.’

‘Language,’ said Agatha tiredly.

Dracula snorted.

‘Or you'll deprive me of my treat?’

‘Dog-eat-dog world.’

She closed her eyes.

‘You have to understand,’ she began, ‘things were going terribly at the Harker Center. Zoe… I applied to a bunch of organizations, wrote grants. They all turned me down. Mina's fund was running low, and I didn't know… It didn't seem fair to just close… The Center was their life's work,’ she finished quietly. ‘How could I?’

‘What did they offer you?’

‘Provision. Full funding for all research.’

‘And what in return?’

Agatha was silent.

‘Their representative said we might be asked to go back to a few old projects,’ she finally said.

‘Look for Demeter, for example.’

She nodded.

Dracula thought for a long time.

‘Something doesn't add up here.’ He stood up. He said to Agatha, who was looking at him in surprise: ‘In these strange times, people don't believe in vampires. Stupid movies and books don't count. The Center could have been an excellent cover for illegal experiments, drug production, biological weapons. But they,’ Dracula looked at Agatha, ‘remembered an old fairy tale and brought it to light. Besides, how did they know the ship's route? You said that a sailor and a cook were saved. They could tell this story for the rest of their lives, but they hardly managed to write it down. There must be someone else.’

He walked back and forth across the room.

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘What do you mean –’

‘You must have made arrangements with someone,’ Dracula said impatiently. ‘Who was it?’

Agatha frowned.

‘I don't know. Some clerk. Middle-aged, short. Small eyes, round cheeks. Spoke with a German accent. Stuttered, I think… Dracula?’

Dracula froze. Turned slowly.

‘A German accent, are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said cautiously.

Dracula approached her.

‘One learns to keep a tidy slaughterhouse,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Of course, he knew where to find me.’

***

‘How could you turn a sailor?’ Agatha screamed.

‘Most of my victims die!’ Dracula screamed back. ‘And those who don't die are no better than zombies. You've seen them,’ he said, suddenly calm.

He sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

‘No, I haven't,’ Agatha said.

‘Then you've seen others,’ Dracula responded. ‘In Budapest, in the cemetery. They're all the same.’ He shook his head. ‘That's why Jonathan was so important. He was a treasure.’ Dracula paused. ‘And he hated me.’

‘Okay,’ said Agatha. ‘Okay. Let's say that man –’

‘Portman.’

‘Let's say Portman became a vampire and retained his personality and will. Let's say he learned to choose his victims. That was a hundred years ago. Why would he need you?’

Dracula smiled, and there was no trace of his usual mocking amusement in that smile. He stood up slowly and walked to the door to the terrace. He stopped, looking at the skyscrapers against the blue of the night.

‘You weren't listening?’ he said. ‘Jonathan hated me.’

‘What does Jonathan have to do with it?!’

Dracula turned around, and Agatha saw an expression on his face that she hadn't expected to see at all. An expression of devastation and – indecision. She stood up and walked over to him.

‘Portman is unimportant,’ said Agatha. ‘We need to find out who he works for.’

‘You don't understand,’ said Dracula. ‘You really don't understand, do you?’

They froze facing each other, and for a moment Agatha imagined that she was naked, as if the previous evening, when she came to him, he had taken everything off her, and now she was standing before him, dressed only in silence and the scents of a spring night.

This was long overdue... Zoe was experienced, and Agatha was a virgin, and when, obeying her desire, he filled her to the brim, Agatha understood why she had hesitated, could not, did not want to do it – before. Because never before had she been ready to accept someone with all of herself, entirely. And even more so – she hadn't been ready that it would be so wonderful.

‘What don't I understand?’ Agatha said, looking him in the eye.

And then he leaned over and did what Agatha had been secretly waiting for all this time.

The sea roared steadily and quietly. The creaking of the wheel echoed the distant scolding of seagulls. Above them shone the sky, full of bright stars.

Lowering her head, Agatha saw the wooden flooring and in the corner of the deck – the wreckage of a broken barrel. The lights of Whitby flickered over Dracula's shoulder.

‘Remember,’ said Dracula.

…She was not in pain. She was not lonely or afraid. She did what she had to do, without hesitation and without regret. Such was the price of her knowledge and her mistakes. Agatha was calm. Only the thought of what would happen… later tormented her terribly.

Looking at him, she inhaled sharply, convulsively, as if a noose had once again caught her neck.

‘You see,’ said Dracula. ‘Now you understand.’

The rumbling of the sea and the deck of the Demeter disappeared, leaving only Dracula's embrace and the trembling of his lips on her neck.

‘I thought you left me to die,’ Agatha said, watching him pull away. ‘Left me to drown because I lied to you and because I didn't become a vampire.’

‘Every vampire knows who turned them,’ Dracula said. ‘The one who condemned them to this… existence between earth and sky, where daylight is your enemy and blood is your comfort, but only until you're hungry again, and where you're not welcome anywhere. Every vampire remembers who took their death from them.’

Agatha buried her face in his chest.

‘I couldn't let this happen to you,’ Dracula whispered, burying his hand in her hair.

Agatha smiled weakly.

‘But you just drank Portman and threw him overboard. He managed to survive and decided to take revenge.’

‘Yes. That's why me. That's why you.’

The resignation in his voice struck Agatha.

‘He didn't succeed,’ she said, raising her head and looking at Dracula. ‘He didn't catch you.’

‘Did he?’

Turning to the door to the terrace, Agatha stared at the skyscraper opposite Dracula's house for a moment. She absentmindedly rubbed the wound on her neck.

‘You bit me.’ She turned to Dracula.

‘At least you noticed this time.’

Agatha came closer.

‘The last time you tried to drink my blood, you poisoned yourself. What's different now?’ She frowned. ‘And if Portman was planning on using me to find you and maybe trap you, how could he be sure it would work?’

Dracula did not answer.

‘He could have thought up a thousand plans,’ said Agatha. ‘But how could he be sure that by the time you showed up, I would not be dead? Oh, no,’ she moaned, seeing the innocent expression on Dracula's face. ‘You bloody dirty, vile, lying –’

‘Language.’

‘Damn you!’

Dracula raised his hands.

I didn't deceive you. At least not completely,’ he admitted. ‘In that woman's house, when I bit you, I saw that you thought you were sick. But that didn't make sense. Your blood had no signs of any illness.’

‘And you dared –’

‘I realized that in front of me was a piece of cheese,’ Dracula interrupted her. ‘A mousetrap, then. No wonder. I'm used to it. What I didn’t expect was that you were not on their side.’

‘Otherwise, why would they lie to me?’ Agatha said slowly.

He nodded.

‘That explains why he was so sure he could do it. And they tricked you to tie you down. To paralyze you with fear of illness and imminent death. When did you get the news?..’

‘Shortly before we raised the Demeter. Maybe before a week. He'd been planning this for years,’ Agatha whispered.

‘I'm glad he had a good time.’

Dracula closed the door to the terrace and moved into the room.

‘You can’t leave,’ he said suddenly when they had settled back on the living room sofa.

‘What?’ Agatha asked in surprise.

‘Portman used you as bait,’ Dracula replied. ‘For the obvious reason, I'm harder to get to – ask Renfield. But then you missed me.’ He paused. ‘I suspect he'll want to… punish you.’

‘Damn you all,’ Agatha cursed. ‘What should I do?’

‘Oh, if only I could order you,’ Dracula said dreamily; his eyes glittered.

‘Concentrate.’

‘I'll contact Renfield,’ Dracula smiled. ‘Let him find Portman first. Let's try to talk.’ Dracula took out his phone and dialed a number. ‘Portman doesn't know you're back, so you're just a doll to him. I order you to lie in the box and wait.’

He reached up and kissed her forehead.

Agatha opened her mouth to speak, but Dracula pulled back and raised his hand. Renfield's voice crackled on the other end of the line.

‘And what will I do in your enchanted castle?’ Agatha asked when Dracula hung up.

‘Like all princesses,’ he said, ‘wait for news and be attacked by a monster.’

He grinned and threw the phone aside.

***

‘So my blood won't kill you?’

‘So it won't.’

‘What a pity.’

Getting out of bed, Agatha began to dress. ‘I'll go downstairs,’ she threw over her shoulder to the chuckling Dracula. ‘I need tea. Sandwiches... And a break!’ she snorted, dodging the fingers sliding up her spine.

‘The losing side.’

‘One must never rush a nun,’ Agatha grinned and left. A deafening laugh followed her.

In the kitchen, she made herself a large cup of tea. Looking into the fridge, she cast a critical eye over the bags of blood, closed it, and pulled a plate of half-dried crackers from the table towards her.

Agatha drank tea and absentmindedly tapped her hand on the table. Pictures of her reality overlapped one another. The evening before yesterday, yesterday, night, morning, day. Zoe Van Helsing's old blouse. Agatha's nun's dress.

Zoe Van Helsing grew up in the English countryside. Many years ago, her father, who was fond of all sorts of strange things, took her to a fair. There was a pavilion there, stylized at the beginning of the twentieth century. ‘Incredible Cinematography,’ said the gaudy sign above the entrance.

Inside, in addition to many old films, they were showing an attraction – a projector in which images from different slides were scrolled together. On the white big screen, African elephants roamed English parks, elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies swirled in underground caves with rock frescoes on the walls, and the giant chandelier of the London Opera illuminated the forest landscape.

She felt something similar now.

Agatha remembered her childhood in the Amsterdam suburbs. Her mother's lullaby in German – her father was Dutch, married late. The young German's parents came from Hanover. Angus Van Helsing took her in penniless. He adored her.

She remembered herself in a house in west London – adjusting a stepladder to a bookcase, balancing on the top step to get an encyclopedia of the animals and plants that inhabit England.

She remembered Uncle Gregorius and Aunt Julia, their stories about the fish market in the center of Amsterdam, and about her Great-grandmother Agatha, who went to a monastery before they were born.

The event projector twirled and twirled the slides, and like the images on the umbrella of Ole Lukøje, they revolved above her.

Ole Lukøje was Zoe's favorite fairy tale. As a child, she had reread it hundreds of times.

She remembered very well that there were two of them. A colored Ole Lukøje, with bright pictures on the umbrella, and a black one – on a horse and with two fairy tales, a happy one and a scary one.

Which one Ole Lukøje is for her, Agatha thought, when the doorbell rang. She put down her cup and, looking into the living room and seeing that Dracula was nowhere to be found, went to open it.

‘You are early, Mr. Renfield,’ Agatha said, throwing open the door, and choked on the stinging drizzle that splashed into her face.

The smells and sounds of the Demeter surrounded her again. The sea and flames raged around her, and there was someone else – on the shore, in the distance, and for some reason, Agatha could see and hear him. He stood and watched the ship burn, the fire die out, and the blackened hulk sink into the water.

‘Ich komme wieder,’** said the stranger. He turned and walked away.

***

‘He's nowhere to be found.’

‘It can't be. Keep looking.’

‘I'm trying, Dark Lord.’

Renfield leaned over his laptop, his face grey.

‘They're well hidden.’

‘I don't care.’

Dracula stood up from the table and walked around to Renfield.

‘Find him, or I'll tear you to pieces.’

Renfield's face went white, but there was no fear on it, only stubbornness.

‘The Harker Center's trail leads to Argentina,’ he said after a pause. ‘Most of the transactions over the last three months came from there.’

‘I don't care about the transactions,’ Dracula said. ‘I want to know where Portman is.’

He barely had time to finish speaking when his smartphone on the table came to life. Dracula reached for the phone, opened the message. He stared at the screen for a minute, then picked up his jacket from the chair and walked to the door.

‘Dark Lord!’ Renfield called out to him.

Dracula turned around.

Renfield bit his lips.

‘Dark Lord... Dracula... Don't rush. Wait for backup.’

Dracula shook his head.

‘It says I must be alone.’

The door slammed behind him.

***

Agatha woke up in a room that looked like a cell or a hospital ward. The walls were mirrored, and it was impossible to see anything behind them. As soon as Agatha got up from the bed she was sitting on, the narrow cot folded up like a book and disappeared into the hatch in the floor with a quiet hiss.

If they were watching, she couldn't show fear. However, Agatha didn't feel fear. More like curiosity and anger at herself. How could she have been so careless?

The last thought made her smile. She was no better at being an investigator than a nun. Agatha closed her eyes and tried to remember how she ended up here. But the memory felt... crumpled and sticky, like raw dough, it had gathered into one uneven lump.

The problem was that Agatha still felt uncomfortable as if she hadn't fully returned. She looked around. Zoe Van Helsing knew this place – this room, the mechanics, and the strange walls – but Agatha's anxiety prevented her from fitting the familiar pieces together.

All Agatha could think of was that she was just a living bait, toyed with before being released onto the prey.

Something inside Agatha twitched at the thought. She sucked in a sharp breath, and a new memory crashed on her.

…

‘I fainted? My God, what a shame!’

‘To be fair, anyone would have fainted.’

Agatha looked up. Dracula was standing next to her, looming over the narrow bunk she was sitting on. She winced.

‘Move away. Unless you want me to faint again.’

‘You are no longer in danger of this.’ He smiled.

The floor beneath her feet swayed rhythmically. So he took her to the ship.

‘What if I get seasick?’

‘It would have manifested itself by now.’

Agatha stood up.

‘Why didn't you eat me right there?’

‘I don't know.’ He told the truth. She was sure of it – his voice sounded too surprised. As if he were asking himself the same question. ‘Maybe I…’ he grinned, ‘maybe I thought Jonathan wouldn't approve. All these people around. Killed. Torn apart, desecrated.’

‘It's my fault what happened to them,’ Agatha said.

‘I killed them.’

‘I let the beast in.’

Agatha bit her lip. Standing right in front of her, in Jonathan's bloody white shirt, his fangs bared, he seemed more terrifying than he had been completely naked at the monastery gates. As if the humanity stolen from another had made him more of a predator. He stood in front of her, and Agatha barely heard what he was saying to her. She saw only his face and only his fangs, and then everything went dark. How shameful.

She shuddered when she heard him calling her.

‘I deserve everything you can do.’ She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. ‘You took me on the ship, so you're going to –’

She didn't have time to finish. Nor did she have time to retreat, escaping the embrace Dracula had taken her into.

A new expression appeared on his face. Agatha caught his greedy gaze, cast at her skinny body. This strengthened her suspicions.

‘If you expect me to beg you –’

‘Agatha,’ Dracula interrupted her. ‘I'm sorry I frightened you.’

It seemed that these words surprised him. They were standing in the middle of the cabin... embracing, and it was so strange. Agatha bowed her head and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘How will it be?’ she blurted out.

The pause lasted a long time.

‘As you wish,’ Dracula answered.

‘I don't…’ she fell silent, licking her lips. ‘I only wanted to save this poor girl. I…’

He stood, his arms around Agatha, – and looked at her.

‘It will be as you wish,’ he said. ‘I will be there. And you will be there.’

Something sharp, bright boiled in Agatha's blood. Responding to the touch of his palm on her exposed neck.

She raised her hand and pulled the edge of her dress.

‘Come, boy. Suckle.’

***

Dracula pushed the door and walked through the corridor, illuminated in green. At this late hour, there was not a soul in the above-ground part of the complex. At first glance, the bunker was also deserted. The round lamps on the walls were out, the dim light of those under the ceiling was reflected in the edges of the glass chamber, inside which there was complete darkness. Dracula stopped.

‘You asked me out on a date. I thought it was dinner.’

No one answered him. Dracula moved on.

‘So many years have passed,’ he said, ‘I am impressed. I did not expect this from you.’

‘You thought I was an idiot.’

The voice echoed in the almost empty hall. Dracula turned around.

‘I think everyone is. Experience of life among people teaches that most of them are stupid and stubborn. That is why vampires from them turn out wild and useless.’ He took a few steps forward. ‘But you turned out to be different.’

‘I had to learn.’ A short man in a dark suit stepped away from the opposite wall. ‘If I wanted to survive.’

‘You're dead,’ Dracula smiled.

The man shrugged.

‘You get used to it.’

‘Really?’

‘You said it y-yourself, ‘You are what you eat.’

Dracula paused, looking at him.

‘I see that you have mastered the art of... good hunting,’ he said with exaggerated nonchalance. ‘However, I do not understand why you need such secrecy.’ He waved his hand around the room. ‘All this ceremony. A hundred and twenty years have passed. Morals are different now. You could have simply called me.’

Portman grinned slightly.

‘Perhaps I am old-fashioned. Or perhaps I have a g-g-good memory,’ he added.

Dracula was silent.

‘Maybe I remember being attacked on d-deck, having my throat ripped out and thrown out like a piece of shit,’ Portman grinned. ‘The water was cold. You know, that's the first thing I felt when I woke up. Cold, icy water. It was everywhere, filling me. It took me a while to realize that it wasn't cold outside, that the cold was inside.’

He fell silent.

‘I tried to drive away this cold for weeks. Food saved me. I ate. I ate everything, but as soon as I warmed up, the cold would start eating me up again. I ran from it, but the cold always caught up with me. I killed, killed, killed. I ate again, and I felt sick.’

‘But it didn't get any warmer.’

‘But I got smarter.’

Portman came closer to Dracula.

‘It's worst at night. You're f-free. Do what you want. You can hunt, eat, remember. The time when you weren't Bavarian bacon. When you were worth something. When it was warm.’

‘Portman –’ Dracula began.

‘I had a bride!’ Portman screamed. ‘Her name was Brigitte!’ His voice rang out and broke. ‘You turned me into a monster,’ he said; a foxy anger flashed across his puffy face. But it froze immediately, like a mask. ‘It was not easy to f-find the place where the Demeter sank,’ he said. ‘It took me years to find a way to raise your box from the bottom. But I was in no hurry.

Portman licked his lips. His face was wet, his eyes were shining. He walked along the wall, stopped. Dracula watched him without moving.

‘I have imagined this moment for so many years... I have dreamed of it for so long that I was almost disappointed when it came. But you gave me a gift,’ Portman said quietly. ‘I was there, on the shore.’

Dracula raised his eyebrows.

‘You were gorgeous when you came out of the water. Wet hair, shirt stuck to your body, oh, pure sex. I wanted to jump out and merge with you in an embrace. But then I saw the way she looked at you.’

Portman smiled happily.

‘And then I knew what I had to do.’

His smile was like a spill of black oil. Dracula ran his hand over his face.

‘Where is Agatha?’

‘Oh, are you changing the subject? Are you scared?’

‘Portman. Where is she?’

‘Still, he softened with time,’ grinning, Portman took a couple more steps. He stopped behind the glass triangle. ‘I can't understand why you call her by that name,’ he looked back. ‘Is this her pet name? Well, it doesn't matter. I don't care what you two play. Today I'm playing.’

The light flashed in the cell.

Agatha was sitting on the floor inside it. When the lamp lit above her head, she shuddered and hugged herself. Squinting in the bright light, she slowly rose.

‘You came for her,’ said Portman.

Dracula was silent.

‘So go and get her.’

The silence that followed was almost absolute.

Still a little confused, Agatha walked over to one of the glass walls. She watched as Dracula raised his head and looked at the hatch in the ceiling. He glanced in the direction of the control panel that Zoe used to control the camera.

Portman, who had been watching him, smirked and reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out something that looked like a magnetic car key and weighed it in his palm.

‘Modern technology is so convenient,’ he purred. ‘I can't get enough of it. Oh, sorry. Hands on top of the blanket.’ He raised his hand with the key and twirled it above his head. ‘Do you want to c-come with me?’

Dracula turned away from him. He walked up to the wall of the cell and placed his palm on the glass.

‘Don't do this,’ Agatha said.

‘I'm to blame for everything that happened,’ Dracula said. ‘For the sinking of the Demeter, for the death of your sisters.’ He turned halfway around. ‘I'm to blame for the fact that this madman lived for decades, turning into me.’

Agatha was silent.

‘Didn't I deserve this?’ Dracula said.

He sank down, crouching in front of the cell, and pressed his forehead to the glass.

‘Don't do it,’ Agatha said barely audibly.

Dracula raised his head.

‘The rules of the beast,’ he said, looking at her. ‘The beast obeys, even if it doesn't understand their meaning.’

Agatha held back her tears.

‘Please help me,’ Dracula asked.

It took forever for Agatha to nod.

Dracula smiled briefly and nodded back. He turned.

‘Nicholas Portman,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘I accept your condition. I will enter the cell and take Agatha.’

He stood up.

Portman grinned happily.

‘But first, you will promise me that you will let her go.’ Dracula's face was stern and severe. ‘I will enter this cell, and you will let Agatha Van Helsing go.’

‘I agree.’

‘You will make a promise,’ Dracula continued, ‘the only one you cannot break. The vow given to the one who turned you.’

A shadow of doubt flickered across Portman's face. Agatha, who had never heard of such a promise before, straightened up in alarm. Dracula waited.

‘Breaking means death,’ Portman croaked.

‘Breaking means death.’

‘I agree,’ Portman said again.

Dracula stepped away from the wall of the cell.

‘I, Nicholas Portman,’ he said, looking at Portman.

‘I, Nicholas Portman,’ he repeated.

‘…I give my word to the one who turned me, Vladislav Basarab, Count Dracula.’

Agatha looked at them, standing opposite each other, and the words they spoke seemed visible, like lamps flashing in the darkness.

…to let go of Agatha Van Helsing, who is here before me.

...in this time, in the year of our Lord 2020, bearing the name Zoe Van Helsing...

...alive and unharmed, free...

...of sound mind and sober memory...

...not attempting to subject her to the action of sleeping, stupefying, or any other poisonous means, as well as to the action of bladed or firearms or any weapon unknown to her or Count Dracula...

...to allow her to go independently, without anyone's help, wherever she wishes, not to pursue her on land, water, or in the air, alone or accompanied by others, under her own name or someone else's...

...not to attempt to harm her directly or indirectly, independently or through third parties...

...not to attempt to induce her, directly or indirectly, independently or through third parties, to harm herself...

‘I promise before the face of the one who turned me,’ said Dracula.

‘I promise before the face of the one who turned me,’ Portman repeated.

Dracula turned and looked briefly at Agatha. The promise was exhaustive and left no loopholes. She was free.

‘I think you'll want to watch to the end,’ Dracula said, turning to Portman. ‘Don't turn on the toy. You might not have time to get aroused,’ he added, approaching the isolation cell and opening the door.’

Let it be quick, Agatha thought, taking a step toward him.

Let it be quick, she thought, touching his shoulder and running her palm over it.

Let it be quick, she thought, hugging him and burying her face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent and feeling how fear ran down Dracula's spine like a light shiver and how Dracula let it go.

The camera starts moving and spinning.

Agatha hugs him, closing her eyes, and stands still.

Until she realizes that nothing has happened.

Pulling away and breaking their embrace, she and Dracula look at each other.

The sun lashes through the hole in the roof, hitting their eyes.

Reaching out, Agatha places her palm on Dracula's forehead and feels the cool skin under her fingers. Taking her hand in his, Dracula brings it to his lips and kisses the center of the palm.

‘And there was light.’

A deafening ringing broke the silence.

‘Sumpfkreatur***, you're not going to leave like that!’

Having grabbed her with his arms and covered her with his body, Dracula pressed Agatha against the opposite wall.

‘Can you do that too?’ Agatha asked, looking over his shoulder at the shards of super-strong glass that littered the floor of the cell.

‘Of course I can,’ he answered irritably. ‘Do you think I talked to you in this cage because I was afraid of cutting myself?’

‘But the mercenaries –’

‘Agatha!’ Dracula roared. ‘For God's sake, step back!”

‘He promised not to touch me,’ Agatha said hesitantly, retreating.

‘I don't want to hurt you.’

Dracula stood there, staring at Portman.

‘Daddy finally realized this is serious,’ Portman said. ‘Okie-dokie. Not as cool as burning you alive, but it works for me,’ he added and lunged at Dracula.

Agatha had never seen wild animals fight. On her aunt and uncle's farm, she had watched the poultry fight; the worst was when the neighbors' goats started bucking.

Now the predators were locked in combat before her eyes, arms and legs entwined, growling, biting, and rolling on the floor.

Portman was strong. He was like a vicious bulldog, winning not so much by weight or skill as by mad tenacity and... training. Agatha frowned. She had never seen Portman before, but everything about him – his face, his figure, his mannerisms – seemed strangely familiar to her. And at the same time, wrong. Surprisingly... old-fashioned.

This strangeness seemed important, it pricked and irritated. Portman said that he was learning. He drank blood, choosing victims, learning... but learning what?

The opponents in front of her had separated and were standing in front of each other, breathing heavily. Dracula's suit was torn, Portman's arms and chest were all covered in blood. Agatha examined him, watching how he leaned his palm against the wall of the cell, leaving a scarlet mark on it. Even his gait was uneven, she suddenly realized. It happens to those who spend a lot of time at sea. And his shirt was too small for him, looking like it was cast-off clothes.

‘You are mistaken,’ Agatha said slowly.

Dracula turned to her. But she was looking at Portman.

‘Who were the people you ate?’

Portman wiped the blood pouring from his nose.

‘Who were you hunting?’

Agatha didn't wait for an answer. She turned to Dracula.

‘You are mistaken,’ she repeated. ‘He did not turn into you.’ She paused. ‘He would like to, and he would like you to think so.’ Agatha looked around the broken cell, at the darkened hall beyond. ‘He wanted to look like some kind of… criminal genius. But he is still the same as before.’

There was no evil plan, Agatha suddenly realized. Invoices and receipts and documents came flooding back from Zoe's memory. There was no mention of Dracula in any of the contracts, neither in the main paragraphs nor in the supplementary protocols. No hint that Zoe was supposed to do anything other than the medical research described there. Agatha closed her eyes and sighed. She had simply received the grant. Her own fear and depravity had made her think otherwise. Portman had simply used them. He must not have even been working for those people, but had simply tricked his way into the meeting and put on a little show. When Agatha opened her eyes, her head was buzzing and her cheeks were burning.

Dracula looked at Portman.

‘Your English,’ he said. ‘Primitive, almost childish. The German accent is still there. Comment vas-tu?’**** he asked experimentally. ‘Tu, mostro ignorante.’***** Have you learned nothing? All you know is how to fight?’

‘Oh, my God, of course! Fight!’

Agatha pushed herself away from the wall. She waved her hand at Dracula, who jerked.

‘That's who you were hunting. Wrestlers, murderers, and mercenaries.’ She looked at Dracula. ‘I couldn't remember where I'd seen it. It was at the fair. In the ultimate fighting pavilion.’

‘Comment vas-tu,’ Portman muttered. ‘No use in your science. Damn aristocrats. All talk, no use in it.’

He straightened up, taking out a gun.

‘I hated you and wanted to punch you in the face,’ he said. ‘That's what I was preparing for. A couple of good fists are always better than all this play.’ He spat out blood. ‘All the best fighters in England, France, and Germany are here in me. The toughest, the ones who didn't shy away from anything. The only thing better than them is a couple of silver bullets.’

He raised the gun and aimed it at Dracula.

Agatha stepped between them.

‘That's clever, that's really clever,’ she said. ‘You could fight him all day,’ she said to Dracula. ‘It's no use. He'll anticipate every undercut, block every blow.’

Portman looked at her with a satisfied grin.

‘You're right,’ he said, ‘a human woman. He can't defeat me.’

Agatha nodded.

‘And if I'm right,’ she said, ‘then you still don't know how dangerous it is to rely solely on reflexes.’

And she stepped forward.

A shot rang out. Agatha was thrown back, right into Dracula's arms. She watched as Portman, still holding the gun, crumbled into ashes, and as these ashes floated in the light pouring through the hatch in the ceiling.

Dracula picked her up and laid her on the floor.

‘Well, that's it,’ Agatha said quietly.

Dracula leaned over her.

‘Why?..’

‘If you don't have enough strength, use your weakness,’ Agatha said. ‘It was the only way.’

‘I wanted to show you all the happiness in the world,’ he said, confused.

‘As always, grandiosely,’ Agatha smiled. ‘And as always, life flicked you... on the nose.’

She was choking.

Dracula's pale face was blurring above her, slipping away into the fog.

Agatha grabbed the sleeve of his bloody, crumpled shirt.

‘I don't know about all the happiness... But what happened in cabin number nine was wonderful... Despite everything,’ she whispered, already losing consciousness.

And fell into the darkness.

…

The darkness accepted Agatha ingratiatingly, softly, as if it had been waiting for her.

Agatha was not surprised.

Black Ole Lukøje.

For naughty children.

For lost sheep.

It was understandable. Not surprising. What was surprising was the pleasure.

‘Dracula,’ said Agatha, watching the golden rays disperse the darkness.

‘I have experienced a lot in my long life,’ Dracula chuckled, ‘but I have never been confused with death before.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I am making love to you.’

‘You are drinking my blood.’

‘Captain Obvious.’

‘You said you did not want to turn me.’

‘Yes. Not today.’

‘I am dying.’

He smiled.

‘Think, Agatha.’

‘Portman shot me. He hit me in the chest.’

‘Yes. And the bullet?..’

It was starting to dawn on her.

‘...still there. If it had been different…’

‘...he would have hit me. I was standing behind you.’

In her youth, Zoe had worked as an ambulance attendant. They often brought in patients with gunshot wounds.

‘The bleeding should have killed me,’ Agatha said, ‘but the bullet inside stopped the bleeding; or it should have been the shock of pain.’

Dracula leaned toward her lips.

‘After all this time, did you think I'd let it hurt?’

The sun blew around them. It washed away the anger and grief, the rage and fear of poor Portman. Agatha thought that if it hadn't been for his stubbornness and anger, none of this would have happened. She would have been Zoe, half of half, or Agatha, far away, lost to herself. And there would have been no blinding light in the cell. And Portman would not have been able to leave.

‘I should be grateful to him,’ Agatha said.

‘As am I,’ Dracula smiled.

She felt him again, all over her. His strength, his sadness, and hope.

Black Ole Lukøje or colored, Agatha thought, it doesn't matter. Anyone can be a savior.

She looked at Dracula.

‘A fairy tale stops being scary when you're ready.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Notes

* Luke 15:4, New Revised Standard Version of the Bible.

** ‘Ich komme wieder’– I will return (Germ.)

*** Sumpfkreatur – swamp creature (Germ.)

**** Comment vas-tu? – How are you? (French)

***** Tu, mostro ignorante. – You uneducated monster (Italian)

#bbc dracula #dracula 2020 #count dracula #dracula bbc #agatha van helsing #dragatha #zoe van helsing #dracula netflix

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hirunoka · 10 months ago

Text

"You're My Angel"

for @incidentale (Thank you so much for that ask and the inspiration ❤🌻 )

Words: 1323

(Ao3 link in reblog)

Characters: Simon (Dinner in America 2020), Patty (Dinner in America 2020)

Additional Tags: Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, They love each other so much, and I love THEM so much oh God we NEED a sequel, Also we need more fanfictions wtf, inspired by a song

“You know that I’m no angel, right?” Simon half-teases with an arched brow after she is done singing, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close on the bed.

“You’re a fucking angel, you’re my angel. All mine, mine, mine…” she sweetly sings into his ear this time. He can feel her smile against his ear and fuck him if it doesn’t make his heart race and ache like crazy.

Just like every time.

He decides that he’ll die a happy man if he can feel her smile like this every day.

“I’m no angel,” he insists.

“You are. To me. You saved me. You can’t deny that. No matter what you do and say, you’ll be always my angel,” Patty says as she nuzzles his neck and that’s what breaks him finally because fuck, he was no one's, and I mean no one's favourite person before: let alone an angel.

Sure, he had a few loyal fans maybe: fans who thought he was amazing and cool, but what the fuck did they know? They only knew John Q. And they sure didn’t think he was an angel. Not that he wanted them to. He knew he was no angel, and he wasn’t aiming for being seen as one by anyone. That wouldn’t be very punk of him, right? Right. Fuck angels, anyway.

Simon is not sure who saved who, actually, so he just lets out a dry chuckle and swallows the lump in his throat as the tears he was holding back gently roll down his cheeks.

It’s a weird and holy feeling; being loved oh so much.

He doesn’t think he has been ever loved like this before; so truly, madly and deeply. Yeah he is quoting Savage Garden okay, sue him. Not even by his parents who were supposed to love him. Because that’s what parents did, he used to think. They would love and accept their kid. Well, apparently that was such bullshit.

Patty, on the other hand, loved him without trying to change him: she accepted him as a whole, loved him as a whole.

Being loved by her was a miracle. She was a miracle in his eyes.

Patty, Patty, Patty…

Kind, funny, sweet, sexy, patient, honest, and just his-kind-of-crazy.

They were living together in their small but cozy apartment for the past seven months and nine days, and yet she never ceased to amaze him every single day.

He buries his nose in her soft hair and sighs.

“I’m sure you would figure something out by yourself to save yourself from that pathetic shit that you used to call ‘life’, eventually. You are punk as fuck and smart as hell, after all. I just… made the process go faster. Diamonds don’t stay hidden all their lives. They can’t. They find a way to shine sooner or later somehow.”

“I don’t remember allowing you to make this about me,” she complains and slightly pulls herself away to look at him. Seeing his tears makes her frown, but she doesn’t mention it or asks if he is okay. She leans her forehead against Simon’s instead, her thump caressing the side of his cheek as he closes his eyes in content. “But hey, at least you didn’t deny that you’re mine.”

“I don’t remember askin' for permission. Everything is about you for me now.”

‘There is no me without you anymore,’ he thinks.

“Is that so?”

“Hell yeah,” he nods. When he opens his eyes, Patty looks at him like he has given her the whole wide world. “You see that streetlight?” He points at the streetlight across the street from their window. “Even that is about you,” he whispers. “It helps me to see you better when you’re sleeping. Big fan of that one, I swear. Beautiful warm yellow. Maybe I should write a song about it later. And of fucking course I’m yours, music girlfriend. Always. Hell, I was yours before you even knew it.”

“Ew, babe, you’re sooo cheesy right now. You’re like, as cheesy as mac and cheese, even.”

That makes Simon laugh. Teach Patty a word and voilà, just watch her start using it all the time.

“I’m just fuckin' with you,” she laughs back. “And I’m yours, too, angel,” she adds as she starts pressing soft kisses on his body: first on his naked chest and then his collarbone, shoulder and jaw.

“This better not become a thing,” feeling his cheek heat a little, he mumbles, his hands wandering up and down her sides.

“What? Me calling you ‘angel’? How about… ‘Punk Angel’ ‘Angel of Punk? But nah, I think I love calling you just ‘angel’ more. Sorry not sorry,” she says with a cocky smile that suits her so much that Simon falls in love with her all over again.

He is utterly captivated by her and her affection.

“Did I ever tell you that your voice is as deep as an abyss that I wouldn’t mind falling into for the rest of my life, angel?”

That sounds like a promise somehow and Simon’s heart suddenly skips a beat. He hopes and wishes it’s a promise because he would give everything for Patty to stay by his side for the rest of his life.

It makes him feel selfish to want her that much even when he has her now, though. He cannot help but feel like one day she will realize she can do better than him and then decide to leave his sorry ass because God knows she deserves better.

Even imagining that makes him feel like dying so he tells his brain to stop thinking such things and focus on the moment they are in instead.

“And you call me cheesy. Oh God, you’re ridiculous.”

“Goddess, you mean, am I right or am I right?”

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say, you adorable and sexy Punk Goddess.”

Satisfied with his answer, she locks their lips together finally. Simon kisses her back like her lips are oxygen and he is a dying astronaut.

“Don’t be surprised if I steal your idea about that The Streetlight song,” Patty lets him know when they pull away eventually. “I think I can pull it off before Saturday and sing it for you at my concert.”

“I have no doubt you could,” holding her close, he yawns and agrees as she lies on his chest.

“Now hush, I gotta watch you sleep while the streetlight accompanies me.”

“Whaa— You creep.”

“What can I say? You’re my inspiration, angel. And don’t act like I don’t catch you watching me sleep nearly every morning.”

“Who? Me? You can prove nothing,” he denies.

“Uh-huh, sure. Sweet dreams.”

“Being with you is like a sweet dream anyway, I need nothing else.”

And with that, he let himself start falling into the warm embrace of sleep. At this point he cannot even remember how he used to sleep alone before he met her.

“He sleeps soundly by her side, without a care,

While she traces his features with a loving stare.

In the quiet of the night, they're alone,

With the streetlight as their silent chaperone,” just when he is about to fall asleep, he vaguely hears Patty singing quietly.

“Sweet streetlight, keep shining bright

As I watch my angel through the night.

Guide him with your gentle light,

In this moment, everything feels right.”

“Wow, you’re fast. That terribly sounds like a gospel for some reason though,” he makes an honest comment, ignoring the way how it made him feel warm inside despite it really sounding like a gospel.

“Shh, I’m just warming up, ignore it. Sleep.”

Simon chuckles and does as he is told after planting a kiss on her forehead and whispering: “I love you.”

“I love you, too, my angel,” is the last thing he hears before falling asleep with a slight smile on his face.

He thinks he can get used to that.

#dinner in america #kyle gallner #simon #patty #movies #my writing

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gregorovitch-adler · 2 months ago

Text

AO3 Wrapped (Writers' Edition).

Thanks for tagging me, @lisbeth-kk and @gaylilsherlock!

1. Biggest surprise while writing this year?

That I developed a genuine hyperfixation over an OT3 (Sherlock x John x Mariana). Enough that I wrote several fics (including a smutty one) about it.

I'm not even that big of a shipper in most fandoms (I tend to be a non-shipper generally), but even when I do start shipping something, it usually just involves 2 characters at a time.

Especially with the case of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

A year ago, I never would have imagined shipping either of them with anyone else apart from each other (because I'm generally not a multi-shipper).

It changed this year because the friendship among these three in the canon of the podcast Sherlock & co is just that good.

It was a very pleasant surprise to me. :))

Expanding my usual writing style from writing about strictly monogamous relationships (and that too usually just about Johnlock) to including a third character - and thus a polyam relationship in my fic writing - was a little challenging though.

A very interesting challenge, of course. ;)

2. How many WIP's do you have in your docs for next year?

Just one case fic right now. It's definitely going to increase.

3. Your favorite character to write this year?

Gustavo Fring from Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul!

I know I didn't write a lot of fics about him this year, I'm just featuring him during this December fluff (fluffcember) prompts challenge, but still.

He'll always be my favourite antagonist.

If you've watched these two shows, you'll realise he's not even a villain. All significant characters (especially Walter White) have various degrees of villainy under their belts.

Something about him being such a no-nonsense kinda guy on the surface, never saying a word beyond what's necessary in the source material (especially in Breaking Bad), but all of that just being a façade to cover up his human side (i.e., his feelings for Max, his determination to avenge Max's death, his genuine respect for his employees at Los Pollos Hermanos and everything else) is extremely interesting and delightful to me.

In Tumblr-speak, I want to place Gustavo Fring under my microscope. 🤭

And then there's John Watson, of course. He's my all time favourite. But this year, I just felt the need to write about Gustavo Fring too a bit more.

Also, Irene Adler is my wife. ☺ I loved writing Mollrene ficlets in December this year.

Here's to featuring her in my stories even more.

4. The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

I can't think of anyone in particular at the moment, but I did find capturing John's voice in The Veiled Lodger (my first ever Sherlock & co fanfic) a bit challenging in the beginning. Because I was only getting started with my Sherlock & co fic writing journey, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

5. What's one pairing you want to explore next year?

Gus/Max.

I'll continue to write about Sherlock x John x Mariana (and even about just Holmes/Watson), too, obviously, but yeah.

I used to be a bit hesitant about this pairing before, even though I've always loved Gus ever since I first watched Breaking Bad (in 2020).

That's because we don't see Max in canon at all, save for that one (1) flashback scene which lasts for just 5 minutes (and Max dies brutally in that one...)

So, featuring Max in a fic at all would just mean writing an OC from scratch at this point. And making an OC feel like a fleshed out character makes me feel a little nervous sometimes.

But I broke all that hesitation this year, and I hope I continue to do that next year too!

6. Did you receive any gifts this year?

Yes! I received 3 beautiful art pieces (including the one in my header image) from my friend as gifts. It was lovely. 🥰 @jamielovesjam

7. Did you do any collaborative works this year?

I did! @nowiamcoveredinyou and I wrote this fic based on ACD canon this year. We had fun.

8. What do you listen to while writing?

Nothing much, to be honest. I prefer a quiet environment.

9. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

Hard to choose, but if I have to, then here you go:

Sherlock stepped forward and took John’s hands in his own.

“Watson, I’ve said this before, and I’ll repeat it now: fear is a sickness. Fear is seemingly ordinary but insidious enough to eventually put one in the shackles of one’s own imagination. Never let it get to you. I can very well face Moriarty alone. He did ask to meet me, anyway. So, this is my battle. I’ll fight it.” Sherlock visibly swallowed. “Please, go now. The lady will never find a doctor as good as you.”

From my Sherlock & co fic Dilemma. It's a modern day re-write of that one scene from The Final Problem (where Watson cannot decide whether to help the old lady or to go with Holmes to meet Moriarty with him).

I wrote it just after the Part- 1 of The Shoscombe Old Place (Sherlock & co) had aired on Spotify and YouTube (and on other platforms).

Moriarty's name had been (not so) casually dropped for the first time in the podcast when John was going through all the shoutouts.

We still don't know where they'll go with that... 👀

Enough with my rambling.

Tags: @helloliriels , @nowiamcoveredinyou , and anyone else who sees this! (No pressure).

#ao3 wrapped #writers #fanfic writing #writing #writeblr #john watson #Irene Adler #gustavo fring #maximino arciniega #my fanfics #my writing #q&a #sorta #tag games #mariana ametxazurra #snippets #fic links #more

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syoish-aot · 3 months ago

Text

"I Found You (too)" - EREN/READER - REINCARNATION AU (chapter 5)

eren/reader

Rating: M

2020s reincarnation of marleyan nurse reader & undercover eren

3.5k words

also on Ao3

<- chapter 4 | chapter 6 ->

*A Warm Living Room*

“Mr. Kruger?”

“Um- …yeah.”

You scowled.

Mr. Kruger looked over at you. “What?” he asked.

“Why do you do that?”

“Why do I do what?”

“Get uncomfortable when I say your name,” you pointed out.

“It’s-” his cheeks flushed pink. You weren’t used to them doing that.

In the real world they didn’t, in the real world Mr. Kruger looked at you with his expression blank, his face pale, a bandage wrapped around his head and obstructing part of the view.

But here, in this world you had found yourself trapped in, things were different.

Mr. Kruger was different.

And he looked at you with his face flushed a healthy pink as a million golden stars danced across the blues and greens of his eyes.

“Is it because that’s not your name here?” you asked when he still hadn't finished his sentence. “I can call you by your other name, if you want.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the couch next to you and you couldn’t help but want to tease him, just a bit. He was so easy to tease here and it was fun. So you leaned closer.

He froze as your hand rested against his arm. As your chest brushed his shoulder. As your lips tickled the shell of his ear when you whispered:

“Eren.”

His cheeks burned an even deeper red. It made you think about the differences between this place and reality.

Everything was so much quieter here. The city was loud, of course, but there was a peace to it. A peace that you knew you would never find in the real world. In Liberio.

The food here was better. With more flavor and more of it in general, because nothing was rationed.

There was no war. No pain. No suffering. And no red spray paint against brick walls.

And then there was Mr. Kruger.

Eren.

He looked the same (although he has both eyes and legs). With the same brown hair (although here it was cut shorter and not hanging down) and the same facial features (although his skin was less rough, with fewer scars and no tired bags under his eyes). He was the same height. Basic build. And had the same blue-green eyes that revealed golden flecks of stars when the light hit them just right. But…

But Mr. Kruger smiled here. He smiled and he laughed and he played with his cats while he told you about his friends.

He was alive in Liberio in the sense that he was breathing, eating, moving around and going through the motions of existence. But here, in this beautiful vivid peaceful place, here Mr. Kruger was able to live.

And there was a difference, you supposed. A difference between living and being alive.

Maybe that was what made them different people, despite all of their similarities.

Mr. Kruger was living.

But Eren was alive.

There was something depressingly poetic about the whole thing, though you didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it right now.

“Mr. Kruger,” you said and he visibly relaxed at the familiarity of it. You followed it up with: “I’m hungry.”

Mr. Kruger shot off the couch and darted into the kitchen without another word.

You smiled to yourself as you watched it, reminded of another difference between this beautiful peaceful world and reality.

He might look like him, sort of, but at the end of the day Eren wasn’t Mr. Kruger at all.

Mr. Kruger had no idea how to cook.

*???*

There’s a small living space.

Some people might hear that and immediately imagine a cottage. A cottage with vines of ivy growing up the red brick walls. A creek running alongside it. Wildflowers and baby bunnies and birds singing every morning with a beautiful melody that echoes through the woods around it; but that’s not what you mean at all. It’s not a cottage. It’s… It’s not even a house. And there certainly aren’t any woods.

It’s a small living space.

A small living space right in the heart of a bustling city.

You like the city. The chaotic business. The fact that you could step outside at any moment and be surrounded by people. Sure, it was a little dirty. Yeah, there was always noise outside your window. But you like that.

The loudness- the dirtiness- the people. It's life.

And that’s why you like it.

It’s a city.

And it’s alive.

So no, contrary to popular belief, it’s not a small cottage in the middle of the woods. Actually, you’d hate to live in a small cottage in the middle of the woods.

There would be too many bugs.

Despite the hustle and bustle outside, the inside of the warm-living-space-in-the-middle-of-the-city is cozy.

The furniture is crammed together because there’s only one bedroom which doesn’t leave enough space for all of your things. You’ve had to forgo a dining room table to make space for a (slightly scratchy but nevertheless comfy) couch.

There are a lot of plants.

Some of them are dying because even though you try your best to keep them alive, at the end of the day you’ll always have a black thumb. But that’s okay. The ones that die get replaced with new ones and if those die they’re replaced again. The cycle continues until you eventually find a plant that’s hardy enough to constantly flip back and forth between living in a desert and being drowned.

There are four cats asleep on the-

“Four?” Mr. Kruger interrupted with a short, breathy laugh.

“I-” Your cheeks burned out of embarrassment, illuminated by the glow of the setting sun that seeped through the hospital window. “Yes,” you answered firmly, “four.”

“That’s a lot of cats.”

“Well, I-... I like cats.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” you scowled. “They’re cute. And they’re not messy like other pets so that’s why I want four.”

Mr. Kruger let out another short huff of amusement as the corners of his lips tugged into a soft smile. You were transfixed for a moment before he broke you out of your trance when he leaned against the wall behind him. You did the same.

You looked out at his hospital room, your legs spread across his bed.

You knew you shouldn’t have been sitting there.

It was too close but-

But you also knew that no one was going to be checking on Mr. Kruger again until morning since you were the one that was locking up.

No one would come in, so you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

“What are the cats doing then?” Mr. Kruger asked as his eyes slid closed.

It was the second question Mr. Kruger had asked you. The first one being:

‘Where do you?’

It's how he'd answered, just minutes ago, when you had asked him about the place he wandered off to when he looked at the horizon.

‘Where do you?’

So you'd told him. You'd told him all about it.

“Um…” Your back pressed against the wall behind you as you continued to stare out into the bleak hospital room. “There’s… There’s a little one that’s playing.”

“Hm…”

You begin imagining out loud again: “She’s bouncing back and forth in front of one of the others, but he’s old so he paws her to leave him alone.”

“Does it work?”

“No,” you smiled. “She’s a bit of a brat.”

You kept going. You described everything in vivid detail. From the colour of the curtains to the age of the old rug on the floor and the story of how you got it, second hand, from an old man who claimed it was cursed.

You told him every single minuscule detail about the place you’d created in your head.

The nice place.

The place you escape to, constantly, because escaping to somewhere nice like there was so much better than living somewhere terrible like here.

You’d never told anyone about this place. This nice place.

Not your friends, not your parents, not Myra. No one.

But you told Mr. Kruger. For some reason, it was so easy to tell Mr. Kruger.

You supposed it was because he got it. He understood what it was like to slip away to somewhere else. To get stuck in his head with wonderful thoughts of somewhere better.

You still didn’t know about the place he went, but you hoped one day, maybe, he’d tell you about it.

That he’d tell you every minuscule detail about his somewhere nice that he saw when he looked out his window and beyond the horizon.

“When I fall asleep at night the city is quiet,” you concluded as your eyes fluttered open. “But I guess that’s a little unrealistic to expect from a busy ci-”

You cut yourself off.

Mr. Kruger's eyes were still closed, just like they had been earlier.

But from the steady rising and falling of his chest. From the way his breaths slipped in and out of his parted lips. From the way the tension on his face was completely gone- you knew he was asleep.

Mr. Kruger didn’t normally emote much, but when he was sleeping his expression was different.

When he was awake, it was neutral.

When he was asleep he was-

…when he was asleep he was at peace.

Maybe it was because he was there. In that place beyond the horizon. The place he went off to that was warm.

His hand rested against the bed next to yours. There were a few inches of space between the two of you and the realization of this space left you feeling warm.

Like Mr. Kruger often did.

Warm.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you slid your hand across the sheets.

You stopped just before you could touch him. With your fingers only a hair’s width away, you could feel the heat radiating off the back of his hand. You were so close, but still not touching.

You wished you could though.

You wished you could touch him.

But you couldn't. Not here, anyway. Never here.

Rope. Flesh. Eldian Lover. Eldian Lover. Eldian Lover.

Not here.

But-

A warm living space in the heart of a bustling city. Life in the streets below. Warm food. Soft bed. Scratchy couch.

There.

There was where it could happen.

Tucked away in your mind where no one else would ever be able to find it. It was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Somewhere safe.

Somewhere nice.

You imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand. To cross the forbidden space between the two of you and curl your fingers against his.

You could feel it. His calloused fingers, chipped nails, the scars against his palms.

It wasn’t happening, but you could still feel it.

As you imagined it, as you felt it, his hands became soft…

The hospital bed below you faded into that scratchy couch and the empty white walls that surround you were now covered in framed photographs of the two of you. A three legged cat hopped onto your lap, purring loudly as it made itself comfortable.

You didn’t need to reach out to touch him.

Your fingers twitched against the hospital sheets.

But you didn’t need to reach out to hold Mr. Kruger’s hand…

…because somewhere nice

you’d already done it.

*3 days later*

“I made you a cake, obviously,” you answered Mr. Kruger as you began to rebandage his head.

“What kind of cake?” he asked.

“Hmm… strawberry.”

He grimaced.

“Chocolate?”

He shrugged.

You stopped bandaging. “You like vanilla?”

“I don’t like flavors that are too strong.”

You scoffed.

“Hey,” he protested, “it’s my birthday.”

You smiled as you continued to bandage his head. “Alright fine, I made vanilla then,” you said as you expertly wrap and tuck the bandages, continuing to ramble about the made-up birthday party you would throw him in your head. Describing it in vivid detail, as if it was real.

As if it was in front of you instead of the place in your head.

You imagine Mr. Kruger’s hand brushing against the back of yours as you hand him a slice of cake.

But you didn't tell Mr. Kruger about that.

***

*2 days later*

“I would wear… a blue dress. Oh! And one of those big floppy hats to keep the sun out of my face!”

You were helping him cross the courtyard. He was sore from an intense session of physical therapy with Dr. Rall and needed more than just his crutch to get around.

Mr. Kruger grunted as you lowered him to his favourite bench where he said he was meeting a friend.

“Do you sunburn easily?” he asked.

“Yes,” you answered, “all the time.”

He let out a short huff of amusement as his eyes trailed your face. “I bet you skip tan and go right to red.”

Your cheeks burned as he said it.

In your head, you were potting hanging baskets of pretty red flowers on the balcony. In your head, it was more than just his eyes that trailed your cheeks. In your head, his fingers brushed against them too.

Again, you didn’t tell Mr. Kruger about that.

***

*1 week later*

“Chamomile.” Mr. Kruger said softly as you handed him his paper cup and his three pills. You had already slipped the green one into your pocket.

You blinked away the tears that had started to well up in your eyes.

“That’s the kind of tea I’d bring you.” Mr. Kruger said. “It’s relaxing.”

You always got this way on the anniversary of his death. You weren’t supposed to be sad though. Your brother had been a traitor, so you were supposed to be happy he was dead.

But you weren’t.

You took in a shaky breath. “Would you… Would you sit with me while I drink it?”

“Yes.” Mr. Kruger took his medicine.

You imagined the couch. The tea.

You imagine letting your head fall to his shoulder and your eyes slipping closed as Mr. Kruger described the chipped cup he’d hand you, and the cat that would be asleep in your lap.

Once you were finished with your tea, he’d take the empty cup from you. He’d place it on the table and then wrap his arms around you so you could tuck yourself against his chest. He would rub your back as you cried. As he let you cry.

When you were done, he’d kiss the top of your head while you drifted off to sleep.

Like usual, you don’t tell Mr. Kruger about the end.

***

*At some point later*

The house grew more vivid. More detailed. More wonderful and into a more perfect escape with little pieces of you and little pieces of Mr. Kruger as well.

Paintings. Souvenirs. A collection of different mugs and teacups because you couldn’t help constantly buying new ones.

It became more than just your home.

Your nice place.

It became his too.

“What would you do?” Mr. Kruger asked.

It was well into the evening and several hours past the end of your shift. You should have gone home ages ago, but instead you were sitting in his hospital bed next to him- so close that you could feel the heat radiating off his shoulder.

But you weren’t touching.

Never touching.

The few centimeters between the two of you were as close as you’ll be able to get in reality.

Thankfully, you weren’t in reality right now. You were swept up in the fantasy of your small, safe home.

You were somewhere nice.

“I would read a book on the couch,” you answered. “What would you do?”

“Sit next to you,” he said. “The cats won't leave me alone.”

You laughed. “It’s because you ignore them. Cats like that, you know. They like it when you play hard to get.”

“Maybe I should play harder.”

“It’ll only make them want you more.”

The corners of his lips just barely lifted into a smile.

A silence passed over the two of you as you sank into the moment. You were staring at the wall across from you, but the hospital room wasn’t what surrounded you.

Not really.

What surrounded you was framed photos. Plants. A warm couch and the smell of a homemade dinner wafting in from the kitchen. There were people in the streets below. People at peace, because there wasn’t any war. Not here. There wasn’t war. There wasn’t pain. There wasn’t any suffering at all.

There were only nice things.

Nothing else was allowed.

It was just you and Mr. Kruger.

You leaned against him.

But, like usual, you didn’t-...

You took a breath.

You could imagine doing it, but you’d never told him about it like you had told him about everything else. But what if you did? Just this once. What if you…

“I’d move closer to you...” you told him, just above a whisper, “...so our arms could touch.”

You could imagine it so perfectly.

The brush of his arm against yours.

If you leaned over, even just slightly, you’d feel it. But that was reality.

And you weren’t in reality right now. You were somewhere nice.

You took a short breath: “And I’d-”

“I’d hold your hand.” Mr. Kruger cut you off, “...I bet it’s soft.”

You held your own hand, fingers twitching against your lap. They curled together and you imagined the sensation of his hand replacing one of yours.

Soft.

“I-...” you stuttered, “...yours is too…”

It’s soft.

Not just his hand, but everything else.

The house. The couch. The life. The people on the street below. The cat in your lap. Mr. Kruger sitting beside you.

It’s soft. It’s warm. It’s comfortable. It’s perfect. The most wonderful escape. The most amazing fantasy. You wished it was real, you really did, but at the same time you hoped somewhere like that never slipped into reality because you knew if it did it would be ruined.

Reality was thick ropes. Flesh. Bone. Red words against brick walls. Reality took the tiniest spark of something pure, of something good, and turned it into a nightmare.

Somewhere nice couldn’t possibly be real. That warm, soft, comfortable, perfect place would be tainted if it was.

So you didn’t want it to be real. Not at all. You never want it to be real. If it was real it wouldn’t be perfect.

If it was real, you could never-

“...I’d kiss you...”

You can see it so vividly, just like the couch and the food and the chipped tea cups.

You see Mr. Kruger right next to you. Holding your hand. You see yourself pull back, just enough that you can meet his blue-green eyes, before your own eyes flick down, just for one second, to his lips.

When you glance up he looks different.

His bandages are gone and he’s got both of his eyes and legs. His brown hair is cut shorter and no longer hanging down. His skin is less rough, with fewer scars and no tired bags under his eyes. He’s the same. He’s the same height. Basic build. And has the same blue-green eyes that reveal golden flecks of stars when the light hits them just right. But…

He's smiling.

He's smiling and laughing and talking to you so much faster and louder than he normally does he's-

He's alive.

And there was a difference, you suddenly realize, a difference between living and being alive.

Without a second thought, you lean forward.

You kiss him, cutting off whatever he had been rambling about in favour of sinking into the feeling of his warm lips against yours.

Warm.

Just like the rest of that wonderful place.

You’d spent the last few weeks describing a lot of your fantasies to Mr. Kruger, but there were still things you kept to yourself. Stolen glances. Forbidden thoughts. Feelings that you couldn’t admit to, not even in the fantasy.

But then you’d gone and said it:

‘I’d kiss you.’ You had told him, only a fraction of a second ago without taking a moment to think it over.

But you weren’t given a moment to think it over, not really, because the image of it happening flashed through your mind so quickly, and in that time, Mr. Kruger made his reply.

He took a short breath. His body completely motionless next to you.

He was looking out the window, gaze firmly set on the horizon and he whispered: “...I’d kiss you too…”

He lifts a hand to cup your cheek and kisses you back, pulling you against him on the couch.

The scratchy couch.

The warm world.

Somewhere nice.

The perfect fantasy where you’ll never live-but for once in your life you could be alive.

The next day was your day off.

Your body spent it in bed, but your head spent it somewhere else.

Somewhere with no flesh.

No bone.

No spray paint against stone walls.

Somewhere that there was just you. Your home. Your cats.

…and Mr. Kruger.

It was a beautiful place, your favourite place; but it could never be real.

Nice places like that didn’t exist.

If they did they would be ruined.

If they did they would be tainted.

Somewhere nice didn’t exist.

And you were so thankful that it never ever would.

TAG LIST: (like this post to be added or unlike it to be removed)

@xngelsau @f4irygard3n @vlsquuu @fvckingeetar @shmaptainbonky @maluvilela @gojojang @merrygo14 @ebubeu @dumdxm @janneeeexdxc @huni7857 @misshale21 @dracucil @venus1224idkpleaze @decadentprunepersonadragon @magictrump @kooromin @ilovemollyweasley @azulaenthusiast @dattebakay @suagxsugax @sky-full-of-magic @longestline @skoll1897 @hayleighloatx @datshittuebrat @br0ken-g1rl @tbzzluvr @jaeg3rb0mb @ratkidcalledallie @sieihebendh @lcve1yk3nz1e @marklover142717 @areenaa @luvs4kim @anything4yoongi @misavxz

#eren x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren yaeger x reader #aot x reader #my post #my writing #i found you too

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celinamarniss · 25 days ago

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Year in Review

In 2024 I posted 4 fics at 53,035 words.

Previous years:

2023: 4 fics at 58,153 words

2022: 4 fics at 45,096 words.

2021: 3 fics posted, 55,788 words.

2020: 7 or 10 fics posted, 125,738 words.

2019: 7 fics posted, 72,149 words.

2018: 7 fics posted, 87,752 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,643 words

2017: 9 fics posted, 115,336 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,653 words

In total, 52 fics posted to Ao3.

Thrones, Dominions

31,420 words, explicit, Thrawn/Mara/Luke

I finally wrapped up the Triumvirate verse with a big flashy finale (and bound it, too). I started Triumvirate in 2019, which means I've spent six years on this series, and that blows my mind a little. (a lot).

Will there be more Triumvirate stories? I genuinely hope that other writers will take up the torch and write more fic for all fans of the series. I’m not sure if I’ll write any more myself. It could happen. But for now, I’m happy to let this series rest.

An Oral History of the Ewok Bikers of Endor

4,115, gen, an Uncommon Hazards fic

I pitched three story ideas to the From A Legends Point of View fic collection, and this is the concept they accepted. It takes an idea from the Uncommon Hazards series, that post-Endor, Ewoks have immigrated to Coruscant and started an illegal swoop racing industry.

As I began to write it, I realized that the fic challenge required 5k and this story wasn't much more than a 3k concept. I stretched it out to 4. I'm not sure that this story was exactly what the mods had in mind, but it was fun finding ways to bring in characters and reference different types of media.

A Smuggler’s Guide to Joining the Rebellion

14,355 words so far, gen, the sequel to The Things You Find on Tatooine.

I wanted to get this fic through all of ANH by the end of the year, but my brain didn't cooperate and I ran out of time. But Smuggler's Guide has been a fun distraction to carry through into 2025.

The Coruscant Job

3,145, gen, Fenig Nabon/Ghitsa Dogder

Who? you may ask. Why, the super obscure con artist team that appeared in three short stories in the 90s. AKA the Fenig Nabon/Ghitsa Dogder fic literally no one asked for, because no one even knows who these characters ARE. This was another idea I pitched to the FALPOV challenge, and while it wasn't selected, I wanted to write it anyway. It turns out that was a good decision, because what I wrote wouldn't have followed all of the FALPOV rules. (My idea moves their timeline forward and retcons the story “Credit for Your Thoughts.”)

GOALS FOR 2025

Finish A Smuggler’s Guide to Joining the Rebellion (teen, Luke/Mara) The ongoing project. Progress: five chapters posted, uhhhh lots of scraps and and partial drafts in a doc.

Lando Calrissian and the Jewel of Andara (gen, Lando/Karrde, Luke/Mara) The Lando and Mara heist romcom I’ve been promising forever. Will 2025 finally be this fic's year??? at this point, I don't even know. Progress: three chapters drafted, but in need of heavy revision.

Experiments (teen? Luke/Mara) I honestly started to think this fic was dead dead, but this year I dusted off the old files and finished drafting the first two chapters. What happens next? I'm not really sure. I feel like this period/setting (Mara on Coruscant post TTT, pre Yavin) has already been well-worn by other fics recently and I don't know if there will be any interest in it. If I keep going, I'll have to come up with a outline and figure out what I want to do with the fic. Progress: two chapters drafted, but they may need to be merged into one chapter.

Other fics on the backburner:

Courtship remix

Daughter of the Rain and Snow (dead???)

More daemon fic! (I always want to write more daemon fic)

#year in review #my stuff

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barbex · 24 days ago

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My AO3 wrapped 2024

Thank you for the template, @spicedrobot, it's here, for anybody who wants to do it.

Now, that wordcount is definitely not true, it's counting the words of the big, updated fics, which were started in like 2020 or something. That probably means the Kudos and Comments numbers are also too large, but I'm too lazy to figure that out.

I can pull my wordcount for 2024 from my trusty spreadsheet though, which says 115k, including fanfiction and original fiction. Not bad, not bad at all, if I do say so myself.

As for the most popular and favorite fics of 2024, I excluded the big ones (Not Yours, Twilight and Soup, See Your Name) because they were all started in ancient times. They're all my favorites, I swear, I will finish them! (I did finish Sunset, Sundown, Sunrise, so yes, I can write completed fics, eventually)

Let's see your stats, friends! Consider yourself tagged!

#AO3 wrapped #AO3 stats #dragon age fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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marveltrumpshate · 4 months ago

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September 2024 MTH fills

Counting down the days until Preview Week? Here are some MTH fills to tide you over while you wait. :)

The best way to see all the fills that have been shared with us is our monthly roundups tag or our #MTH-fills channel on our Discord, but you can also view them through the following methods:

Our Tumblr tags: 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023

Our AO3 collection (only has works posted to AO3; see "subcollections" for specific auction years)

Completed works tag list

To find specific content, use our completed works tag lists above which includes instructions on how to search for a particular character, gen or romantic relationship, universe, and fanwork type.

GEN/PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS

Alpine & Bucky Barnes

Yavannie/@heyitsyav - Art of Bucky on a motorcycle with Alpine on his shoulder and Nat swinging in on a rope for @callmekayyyyy (MTH 2022)

Alpine & Bucky Barnes & Clint Barton & Lucky

@3twindragons - Bucky/Clint art of Bucky back hugging Clint on the couch as Alpine and Lucky try to catch and eat pizza slices tumbling out of Clint's pizza box for @hannahshattuck

Bucky Barnes & Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov

@uofmdragon - "Home on the Range (Where the Raptors and the Compeys Play)" (Western with dinosaurs AU fic featuring Bucky/Nat and Clint & Bucky & Nat with some minor Peggy where outlaws Clint and Nat find an amnesiac Bucky) for @drivingyelenabelova (MTH 2022)

Clint Barton & Loki

@iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid - "The Devil You Know" (post-Avengers canon-divergent fic where Clint and Loki are forced to team up) for kerravonsen (MTH 2022)

Steve Rogers & Morgan Stark

Lady Gigi - An MCU comic page of Steve spending the day with Morgan for @magicasen

Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov

@kerravonsen - "Hugs and Kisses, Barbed Wire, and Fireflies" (Yelena & Natasha-themed necklace and earrings showing their love and sisterhood) for @moonyroony

Yelena Belova & Liho & Natasha Romanov

Sanctuaria/@aleksandrachaev - Art of Natasha, Yelena, and Liho chilling on the couch watching a movie for @skarabrae-stone

SHIPS

Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton

3twindragons - Art of Bucky back hugging Clint on the couch as Alpine and Lucky try to catch and eat pizza slices tumbling out of Clint's pizza box for hannahshattuck

Bucky Barnes/Howard Stark

@ruquas - The third installment of a wartime epistolary fic in the form of handwritten letters between Bucky and Howard for @fuckyeahhowardstark

Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov

Yavannie/heyitsyav - Art of Bucky on a motorcycle with Alpine on his shoulder and Nat swinging in on a rope for callmekayyyyy (MTH 2022)

uofmdragon - "Home on the Range (Where the Raptors and the Compeys Play)" (Western with dinosaurs AU fic featuring Bucky/Nat and Clint & Bucky & Nat with some minor Peggy where outlaws Clint and Nat find an amnesiac Bucky) for drivingyelenabelova (MTH 2022)

Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers

@buckybarnesdeservestobehappy - "Corporate Shill" (grumpy Steve/sunshine Bucky COVID-19 pandemic coffee shop AU fic) for @sofreakinmanyfandoms (MTH 2022)

BritBrit99 - Red and yellow gold star wrapped in green thread based on controlofwhatido's Steve/Bucky fic for @controlofwhatido

@cristinuke - "peace, beneath" (MCU D/S Steve/Bucky fic where Bucky has a complicated relationship with his designation) for @zepysgirl (MTH 2022)

@messypeaches - "Fearful Symmetry" (post-CA:CW AU fic where Bucky is a werecat and Pepper has Extremis) for Dogsled

@zenaidamacrouras1 - "A Passel of Backhoes" (non-powered Steve/Bucky AU fic featuring Appalachian Bucky's OC sisters from the "Backhoe" universe) for @thegirldetectivesblog - "Only the Good Die Young" (paramedic Bucky/Captain America Steve AU fic) for @gloromeien

Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

buckybarnesdeservestobehappy - "The Coffee Goes Cold" (Before the Coffee Gets Cold-inspired AU boxer Bucky/soldier Steve/CEO Tony magic AU fic) for @capsgirl1990 (MTH 2022)

Bucky Barnes/Tony Stark

@sivan325 - "Buck by any other name" (Bucky/Tony 9-1-1 fusion fic where Bucky meets Buck while doing physiotherapy and they talk about their boyfriends) for @tehroserose

Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau

onthecyberseas - "Finding Our Way" (post-The Marvels Carol/Maria Rambeau fic where Carol and Kate make significant discoveries as the Young Avengers go on their first mission) for @puzzlebean

Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

@ghostcwtch - Clint/Phil Star Wars AU art for uofmdragon

Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow

Dogsled - "How Does Your Garden Grow?" (post-CA:TWS Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow fic where Brock has to come to terms with his past after being burned in the fall of the Triskelion) for Mech (MTH 2022)

Nixie DeAngel/@nixies-creations - "What A Delightful Find You Are" (werewolf Jack Rollins/vampire Brock Rumlow AU fic and accompanying mood board) for @kalika999 (MTH 2022)

Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson

Marvel_Kitten/@marv-with-a-v - "Blinded" (MCU Matt/Foggy fic where Matt struggles with resurfacing trauma after discovering how Madame Gao's disciples are initiated) for @kimmycup

thelonebamf/@amazing-spiderling - Illustrated fic cover of Foggy shaking vigilante Matt's hand for the MCU Matt/Foggy fic "All in Good Fun" for @missmoochy (MTH 2022) - Comic page of "Toy With Feelings," a Daredevil/Toy Story Matt/Foggy AU featuring an outraged Wilson Fisk porcelain doll as well as Matt, a fashion doll, and Foggy, a troll doll, hugging for missmoochy (MTH 2022)

Natasha Romanov/Original Character

zenaidamacrouras1 - "A Passel of Backhoes" (non-powered fic with Steve/Bucky in the background featuring Appalachian Bucky's OC sisters from the "Backhoe" universe) for thegirldetectivesblog

Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson

Yavannie/heyitsyav - CA:TWS Nat/Sam soulmate AU art of Sam showing Natasha her name on his arm in a bunker for @secondalto (MTH 2022)

Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

messypeaches - "Fearful Symmetry" (post-CA:CW AU fic where Bucky is a werecat and Pepper has Extremis) for Dogsled

Sam Wilson/Original Character

zenaidamacrouras1 - "A Passel of Backhoes" (non-powered fic with Steve/Bucky in the background featuring Appalachian Bucky's OC sisters from the "Backhoe" universe) for thegirldetectivesblog

Steve Rogers/Thor

@daisytarget - "Godlight" (Steve/Thor genderbent fic where Steve is a fallen Roman god and Thor stays on Earth after the Battle of New York) for @bulkyphrase and @alwaysabrighterdarkness

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

@burntheedges - "Deal" (MCU Steve/Tony fic where Steve mother hens Tony when Tony gets a minor injury and needs to take it easy) for alwaysabrighterdarkness

hkandi/@hkandiu - "A little bit you, a little bit me" (MCU Steve/Tony fic where schedule conflicts interfere with their relationship) for @captainneverever

Nixie DeAngel/nixies-creations - "Always Have A Backup" (MCU Steve/Tony fic where Steve and Tony take Morgan trick-or-treating and accompanying mood board) for @gottalovev (MTH 2022) - "Be My Only Hope, I Beg Of You" (Steve/Tony AU fic where king consort Steve, married to Brock Rumlow, will do anything to sway warlord Tony to spare his people) for @sabrecmc (MTH 2022)

Yelena Belova/Kate Bishop

onthecyberseas - "Finding Our Way" (post-The Marvels Yelena/Kate fic where Carol and Kate make significant discoveries as the Young Avengers go on their first mission) for puzzlebean

#monthly roundup #september 2024 #mth 2022 #mth 2023

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aduckinpain · 1 year ago

Text

The Ice and The Snow

(can't melt with each other near)

Tags: Loscar, Logan Sargeant centered, Logan Sargeant Character Analysis, Hurt/Comfort, Rookies handling their first year as mirrors of each other, Happy Ending, That one radio in Qatar with James Vowel, Las Vegas 2023 Grand Prix, the consequences of Qatar haven't left yet

Word Count: 2.7k

This work is also on AO3 under user roianamustang (me).

Eyes would blink open. Body wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket. The air cold, but the atmosphere warm. Winter had always felt special, with its holidays, weather, and new year resolutions.

With the snow. Gentle snowflakes descend slowly. Each one has intricate and unique details. Yet each one still falls down. Depending on where they land, they either melt, or they pile up. Stacked on top of each other, invincible to the human eye when they stand alone, but wondrous when they form their patchworks. It’s almost as if a needle is being thread, linking each one with the other.

But this link never happens so delicately. The snow's weight pushes on itself, causing it to get packed. The pressure never leaves, it just unifies them.

Living in Florida gets everyone accumulated to heat and humidity, so when winter starts knocking on windows, it is rare that the package that arrives with it, is made of fluffy whiteness.

But snow can get deadly. It is slippery and wet. It builds up and always keeps on tumbling. It drags along everything in its path. It pulls.

An avalanche is a large amount of ice, snow, and rock falling down a slope, such as a hill or mountain.

With 2023 starting, Logan felt like he was hit by an avalanche with no ground to stop him. He was stuck under layers of freezing temperatures. Tremors and shivers were expected. Ice involuntarily and unknowingly scraping his skin.

And he was trying so, so hard. He kept digging and pushing around. But he’s been there for some time. He can’t find a way out. He can’t see the light.

Which way is up and which way is down?

Please. I promise I can do this.

Being the first American to win an FIA Karting World Championship title since 1978, is a fact that Logan keeps close to his heart. Lets it rest there, coil around. Reassure.

Entering in 2015, opened up new pathways and a clear goal to aim for. So the years continued. Full throttle.

The snow kept falling. Piling up.

Snowmen were created, snowball fights were won. And in 2016, as a newly entered Formula 4 driver, he met Ice.

The ice was immovable and quiet, yet intimidating. Somehow it has always been there, yet it just showed up.

The title was won with him standing as a solid third in the championship ranking. He was closer to the cold than to the trophies.

Soon enough in 2018, Logan wasn’t achieving podiums anymore. He was achieving wins. The high was exhilarating, the slower he fell from each cloud, the more he appreciated the crisp, fresh air. But the clouds kept rising and without him noticing, the pressure was increasing. His ice left for a bit. He missed his comfort. After all, the cold keeps the snow from melting.

2019 was a year full of points and disappointments, but Logan didn’t let that deter him. His path was now drawn and he’d entered it with purple sectors. The wind had picked up a bit, kept changing the trajectory of the flakes, but the destination was clear.

In 2020 the ice returned stronger than ever. The snow solidified with no chances of melting and plummeted to results. He ended up third in the championship. A result he added to the coil around his heart. His glacier won the championship, but the snow would catch up.

I promise you James, I will finish this race.

You have my word.

In 2021 Logan decided to take one more year of Formula 3, in hopes of achieving more, of having a more assured future. His ice felt like verglas, further away and much thinner.

While he had ranked lower than the first time in the championship, a majority of the team's points were won by him alone. He’d worn his gloves and slowly packed the snow together.

Still, when he received the news of Williams' support, he could not believe it., it came as a surprise. Things were looking good, he was excited. A good F2 season would give him more chances to fulfill his dream, his goal, his future.

He exited Prema’s building, while entering William’s and felt like a rime. Excited and cold, from the rapid freezing of the water around him. He wasn’t alone. Other drivers were there, his teammate was there, but most importantly, the snow touched its ice.

Oscar Piastri was an iceberg . Logan had never met someone quieter. But Oscar didn’t have to act loud, he was loud. His presence screamed hard-work and talent. A champion in F3, that people still underestimated. People seemed to warm up to him with a bit of time, but no one could deny the ruthless gleam in his eyes. Oscar didn’t just come for a win or a road to F1. Oscar was here to be champion.

So the hail picked up the pace. He couldn’t be beaten easily. He’d make it a challenge.

The snow cascaded down, each day with a new speed, with a greater intent. Pieces of ice were caught in its plunge.

Oscar became an intricate part of Logan’s life. Whether he liked it or not the videos and the activities brought them together. The ice kept the snow cold. Logan felt safe, calm.

The boys spent time together playing on their PlayStations, looking at each other’s simulator results and laughing at jokes with the team. Nothing, however, could beat their quiet nights.

Being with Oscar made Logan feel serene, if he didn’t want to talk, they just wouldn’t talk. If he wanted to rant, Oscar Piastri and those stupid big brown eyes of his would cling onto every sentence, every word. Logan felt listened to. He felt important. Sheltered, guarded.

When he was with Oscar, the wind fell silent, the snow fell slowly, softly. It never melted. It got cradled.

Oscar was the Champion of the 2021 F2 season, and no matter how annoyed Logan wanted to be, the pride surging through his chest overwhelmed him. Logan was second anyways, he’d bind for his time. The only thing that this season’s results assured him, was that the snow and its ice would meet again.

This time in F1. This time competing in their dream.

So while Oscar awaited his turn as a reserve driver for Alpine, Logan went through another season. This time with an ultimatum. If he managed to receive the correct amount points necessary for a Super License, his next year would be in a Formula 1 car, alongside Alexander Albon.

Coming fourth in the championship allowed him to get his license. What more could he want in life?

During this season however, his ice wasn’t there. Now usually, that would be okay, however the few times they called, texted or even met up, Oscar would seem dim, tired, unsure. Not physically, no. He felt defeated, confused. Alpine had promised him a lot of things yet, there he stood, jobless, dreamless. So this time Logan packed the snow, made a fort, an igloo, anything to protect the ice.

This is maybe, why he was so surprised when Oscar called him at 1 AM one night, something he doesn’t like to do generally, only to tell him the news.

@OscarPiastri

I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2023. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.

8:00 PM · Aug 2, 2022

44.2K Reposts 50.7K Quotes 386K Likes 4,282 Bookmarks

Next year, his ice will be orange.

Next year, his ice will have his snow.

The year started and while Sargeant realistically knew the potential of a Williams car, it still overwhelmed him. Or underwhelmed him.

It whelmed him.

Getting used to an F1 car was different. The step from F2 to F1 was supposed to be gradual, seamless. It was neither of those.

Every race was a disappointment. At first he had hopes, he’d get used to the car or the car would be good enough to at least go near points. The longer time went on, the more he yearned, the more he lost. Disappointment coursed through his veins.

He was tired.

At himself.

While at the beginning he could reason with the prospect that he was a rookie and looked at Oscar who was going through the same thing, albeit with more drama, that could not be an excuse anymore after the summer break.

The ice was growing.

The snow was melting.

The avalanche was nosediving.

I will show you I can do this, please. I promise you I will.

Each weekend felt like the shards of ice were slipping away from his fingers, or digging deep into the blizzard. Logan started growing quiet, reluctant. He’d seen the jokes, laughed with some even, but what got to him was the comments.

This year, F2 drivers were chosen to drive an F1 car as a test. They got good results.

This year, Liam Lawson, his past teammate, stepped foot in an F1 car, passed Yuki Tsunoda, got points and beat Max Verstappen to Q3.

This year, after the summer break, Oscar Piastri was breaking records and expectations alike. He was loved more by the second and gradually carved his way into being McLaren’s greatest choice and Alpine’s greatest failure.

This year, Logan Sargeant was consistent. For a full season, he had managed to accumulate no points and be outqualified by his teammate in every race.

His seat was being wasted. All the years of hard work and achievements, reduced to water. Melted.

It all plunged in Qatar.

Any time someone bothered to use his face on social media, it tended to be followed by two things.

What the fuck is a kilometer, a joke which he had to admit, at first was funny.

And the eagle.

The eagle was supposed to represent the USA. His home, his safe space. He was supposed to represent where he came from. Give it meaning and value in this sport. Yet at every moment that passed, he felt two sharp talons digging onto his shoulders. Blood dripped down. The weight of this apex predator was bringing him to his knees. He was melting. He sank.

He didn’t ask for this. He just wanted people to be proud.

He just wanted Oscar to be his equal.

He missed Oscar.

He didn’t deserve Oscar.

Logan had given up on setting expectations for himself a long time ago, so the Grand Prix started and he went along with the flow.

Entering the car, he remembers making a joke about the weather. After all, Qatar was known for its intense heat. But nothing could prepare him. Nothing could prepare anyone.

Sweat dripped down his face, fogged up his helmet, sticking each strand of hair to his balaclava. Maybe it wasn’t the fog, because with a sudden jolt, Logan realized his vision was getting blurry. The content in his stomach had been swirling around for some time now, a sensation which only aided to his growing discomfort. Every muscle ached. He could feel every tendon tense in his body. There was a weight pushing down on him. Packing him up.

Every turn he could feel the effects of the G-force. It felt intensified, worse. His hands shook around the steering wheel. He was scared for a moment. He blinked.

He opened his eyes again.

He had blacked out. For a moment sure, but he had blacked out in a car going over 250 km/h.

Lap: 23/57 SAR: 1’29.298

Sargeant: I’m feeling pretty sick. I’ll be alright.

Jego: Okay. Zhou 1.5 behind. Focus on your lap times.

Lap: 26/57 SAR: 1’34.588

Sargeant: I’m not feeling well at all.

Jego: Okay, understood. Are you happy to continue, question?

Sergeant: Yeah.

Lap: 27/57 SAR: 1’53.468

Jego: Are you feeling okay? Are you happy to continue, question?

Sargeant: Let’s keep going.

Jego: Okay.

Sergeant: I feel like I might throw up.

Lap: 32/57 SAR: 1’28.230

Sargeant: I’m not doing well, mate. Fucking hell.

Jego: Can you continue?

Lap: 33/57 SAR: 1’28.804

Vowles: Logan, you’ve fought a brave day, but let’s bring it in and call it a day. Let’s look after you.

Sargeant: James, I promise you I can do this.

Vowles: Alright, I’ll leave it to you, buddy.

Sargeant: You have my word

Lap: 39/57 SAR: 1’29.587

Sergeant: I don’t feel well man.

Jego: Are you retiring, mate? Please confirm.

Sergeant: I don’t know.

Jego: If you’re feeling unwell, you retire. Your call, buddy. Doing opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise, opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise.

Lap: 40/57 SAR: 1’51.661

Jego: Racing Bottas on pit exit. You’re the one making the call if you want to retire or not, Logan. There’s no shame in retiring if you’re feeling unwell.

Sergeant: Yeah, I need to stop. I’m stopping. I’m stopping.

Jego: Okay. Okay. Okay. We will stop. Box, box, retiring the car.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

He remembers anger, sadness, frustration and hands keeping him upright. Getting out of the car was a struggle. He could finally breathe.

He turned his head to one of the TVs in the garage and saw a blurry orange passing by.

He let go.

He came to for a moment, only to see bright lights and white walls. Slowly rising, he managed to sit upright. The room swiveled, or maybe he did.

He felt dehydrated.

James Vowel entered the room, and for the first time that day, Logan broke down.

He didn't need water to cry. He had melted.

Oscar’s sprint win and second podium and Logan’s fifth DNF. Things to be celebrated, obviously.

Oscar is not a party person, but having a legendary weekend is bound to make any man break character. That is why Logan refrained from texting him. Closed his phone.

He went back on an old promise. He was having a hard time, sure, but he wasn’t going to let it soil Oscar’s success. He deserved it.

At least that’s what he was trying to convince himself with.

The phone's screen lit up the darkened room. He typed.

You have a new message.

LS: Hey

Oscar Piastri picked up his jacket, bid goodbyes and left.

Wrapped under the covers, Logan didn’t even hear the knocking. What brought him back to reality, is his phone suddenly ringing and shaking the bed.

‘Open the door, mate.’ Logan blanked for a bit, got up, wore his slippers and opened the door. Hands shaking. Exhaling

Oscar Piastri in the flesh was standing before him, remarkably less drunk than he had anticipated.

An eyebrow was raised and he moved out of the way.

Before he realized, he felt the wood of the bed frame dig into his back. On his left, stood an iceberg.

In the quiet.

His mind so loud, he didn’t even hear Oscar the second time he spoke, call out to him.

To be honest, he didn’t think he had more in him, yet the tears flowing down his cheeks were adamant to prove him wrong.

Each breath that escaped him was held in cold hands, protected.

As if he knew everything, Oscar reassured. Whispered.

No, it wasn’t his fault.

No, he wasn’t bothering him.

No, it’s completely normal and fair to feel what he’s feeling with everything that is happening.

Never, ever assume his opinions. Of course he wanted to be there.

Because Logan was a priority. He held importance.

He was important.

The snow froze to a comfortable temperature. Its ice was encased around him.

Las Vegas.

The land of the lucky, impulsive and very, very bright and shiny lights.

Finally at home.

He’d done better these past few races. Even got points in Austin. By pure luck, sure, but points were points and Logan was not complaining. And this track was new to everyone.

And according to everyone, loved by no one.

People's expectations were all over the place.

Friday came and went. Their tyres destroyed, even in a low grip track.

Saturday came. Saturday did not leave.

Qualifying.

P6 and P7.

With Sainz’ penalty, P5 and P6.

Logan was P6.

James was proud.

Alex was proud.

Oscar went up to him immediately, proud.

Logan was proud.

It may be a small step, but the avalanche had stopped and the clouds were liberating the snowflakes. Small and new, still unique, still falling. Landing on top of soft ice. The sun shined but nothing melted.

Logan smiled.

-End-

Please note that no matter how much I am writing here, it is all artistic speculation of what Logan himself has decided to show the world. Do not forget that these drivers are real people.

A short analysis yay:

The obvious things first, Logan is the Snow and Oscar is the Ice.

Verglas, a thin coating of ice or frozen rain on an exposed surface.

Rime, frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in cloud or fog.

The eagle is the vague legacy the America has put on Logan's shoulders and he feels like he is failing it.

The Qatar radio is completely accurate as I thought it displayed accurately how hopeless Logan sounded and probably felt

His future may be unsure, but for now things are improving.

This piece is 2,777 words I felt like that is a great omen to Las Vegas

I got emotionally attached to an american and I have no excuse besides that he actually sounds so sweet. He's just so.....american you get put off by it.

Honestly, I think this may be my weakest one. Be it because of the lack of Logan content online or just wanting to hug the dude, I needed to write something but I can't say I am the proudest. However I have decided that if it took time to write then I will post anything.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot if I managed to get some reposts, comments or liked!

If you like this, I have written more stories that can be found on my Formula 1 masterlist. Including: Lestappen and Landoscar with more to come. If it manages to spark your interest, please go support those as well!

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shimmershy · 2 years ago

Text

Thunderstorms (Undertale Fanfic)

The fanfic I kept talking about is finally finished! >:) I haven't written a full story in ages, so it's not the best thing in the world, and I feel like the pacing leaves a lot to be desired, but I enjoyed writing it. Also, I came up with the idea in like... 2020, so I'm mostly just glad I finished it at all lol.

Summary:

The rain outside your window is loud, but your thoughts are louder. Now that everyone's settled onto the surface, even you, the past is behind you for good, but your bittersweet memories are endlessly trying to crawl their way out of the recesses of your mind to take hold of you again. You don't think you would be able to handle this on your own. Luckily, you don't have to. (Written from Chara's POV, second person.)

Characters: Chara and Frisk

Word count: 4,465 words

(Ao3 link in reblog!)

You awake to a buzzing in your head, a stabbing in your eye, and a flash of light from outside. Thunder booms, rattling you to your bones. Your heart beats violently in your chest as you sit up and tilt your head up to the glowing stars on your ceiling to catch your breath.

The rest of your room is dark and silent, save for the hammering of rain outside and the steady, quiet breathing from across the room, Frisk’s. Another flash fills your vision, momentarily illuminating the room before casting it into shadow again, and another crash of thunder follows – barely two seconds after, you note. As your pulse returns to normal, you notice the prickly yet comfortable chill in the air. As the panic ebbs from your body, you find yourself alone in the dark.

Reflexively, you bring your hand up to your left eye, only to wince in pain as your fingertips brush the petals clustered there. Right, right. You’d forgotten. You groan and wrap your arms – also speckled with little clusters of golden petals – around yourself. Another nightmare, you conclude. By some stroke of luck, none of the details stuck with you, but you can still feel the darkness and the fear in the corners of your consciousness, lingering with all the allure of a memory just out of your reach. Perhaps if you weren’t so used to this routine already you could find it within yourself to be frustrated, but right now you just feel tired. You know you won’t be getting back to sleep tonight, though. You never do after a nightmare.

Part of you wants to go to Mom – she could offer you a hug and some comforting words, which you could really use right now – and another part of you wants to wake up Frisk – they’d understand – but the part of you that wins out is the one that doesn’t want to be a burden. So you stay curled up on your bed and listen to the rain instead.

The drops on the window are so thick and so numerous that they all just coalesce and run down the glass in a single, constant stream. You keep trying to single out a couple to watch them race, but none of them last long before melding with the rest of the raindrops. The water distorts your view of the backyard; it’s a sorry sight, all mud and leaves.

The weather has been like this nonstop lately. It feels like the dark clouds are here to stay, permanently, like this is your new reality and you have no choice but to get used to it. You don’t mind it, really. You’ve always liked the rain. Besides, having a body of your own again means you’re sensitive to things like the sun and the heat, and you absolutely hate it, to say the least. The sun can stay hidden for as long as it desires. But you can tell it bothers Frisk a lot. You can always tell when something is bothering Frisk; after sharing a soul with them for so long, there’s very little they can hide from you. Staying cooped up at home isn’t their speed at all – they’d rather be out exploring or playing with their friends – but there isn’t much that can be done with all this rain. Unlike you, they thrive in warm and happy places, and this bleak weather has been weighing them down like a sack of boulders.

That’s the thing about Frisk. Everything about them exudes warmth, really. Their selflessness, their optimism, their smile… They really are the “sunshine child”, aren’t they? They’re the kid who could show mercy to a kingdom full of monsters trying to steal their soul. They’re the kid who could stay determined through it all, so much so that not even death could stop them. You feel a smile tug at the corners of your mouth, tinged with bitterness. They’re the kid who broke the barrier, and they’re the kid who saved monsterkind. They were able to do what you failed to do, and then they found a way to bring you back, too, just to tie everything up with a pretty, perfect little bow. Because “everyone deserves a second chance”, as they say.

It makes you want to laugh.

…

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself instead.

At first it bothered you, the way they’re so much better than you, that they succeed in absolutely every area you fail. It was certainly…painful, to watch them clean up all your mistakes so easily, to see how perfect they were, in everything they did. But eventually you realized that they definitely weren’t perfect, actually. They were just a lot better at acting as if they were. In some ways, the two of you are like two sides of the same coin, and with time, you’ve grown to love that. Haven’t you? They even out your rough edges. They keep you grounded and stop you from doing stupid things. And in return, you’re their voice of reason, a loyal friend who will listen and won’t hold back an honest opinion. Not to mention a practically limitless source of information who will gladly (and proudly) help them with their homework.

The fact that they tolerate your near-constant presence at all confuses you, but…you’re glad they do. What would you do without them? Honestly?You glance over at them, snuggled up in the covers on their bed across the room. You don’t even want to think about what you’d do. You surely couldn’t handle living again, or the complications that come along with doing so, or just being here, without them. It was their idea to try to help you get a body of your own again, but of course you’d agreed, because you had been sure you’d intruded on their life enough already. They’d followed through with it, too, all the way to the end, despite all the moments when it seemed impossible.

The pattering of the rain continues steadily in your ears as you reminisce. They had stayed right there by your side when you stepped into the sunlight on your own two feet for the first time in so long. They sat there at the top of the mountain with you for what felt like hours while you took everything in, felt the sun on your skin and the blades of grass between your fingers, and they waited until you felt ready to see everyone else again. They held your hand when you saw your parents, when Mom and Dad could finally see you standing right there in front of them, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to push all the words you wanted to say past the lump in your throat. They didn’t complain when your grip became so tight you worried you might break their fragile fingers. They know how hard all of this is for you, and they don’t mind spending time with you when you don’t want to be alone. They feel more important to you than the heart in your chest that shouldn’t even be able to beat anymore.

They understand you in a way no one else does, in a way you doubt anyone else ever could. You wish there was a way to tell them just how much they mean to you, but you know by the time all those feelings are condensed into words they become nearly meaningless anyway. It almost makes you wish you still shared a soul with them, so they could understand your feelings just as clearly as you could understand theirs, but something tells you they already understand, to some extent. You hope so.

You groan and pull your blanket over your head, as if you’re trying to quiet your thoughts with it. Even with the rain, it’s too quiet. And your thoughts are too loud, like a bunch of buzzing bumble bees that could sting at any moment. You don’t want to be awake right now. You don’t really want to be asleep, either. You need to leave your room.

Sneaking another glance at Frisk’s side of the room to make sure they’re still asleep, you slip out of your bed and pad to the door as quietly as you can. Of course your blanket is still wrapped around you. For comfort. The door doesn’t creak very much, luckily. You know how inconsistent it can be. You’re cautious as you shut it behind you.

The hallway seems to swallow you up tonight. You can still hear the rain, but it sounds more distant in this part of the house, and everything looks like a shadow in the darkness that your eye is slowly adjusting to. You ignore it and make your way downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe you could make yourself some hot chocolate, make the best of being awake against your will. You think there were some packets in the cabinet.

Gentle, dim light streams in through the kitchen window. As you make your way to the cupboard to grab a mug, you’re overwhelmed with a sense of peace and tranquility. You feel it in every part of you. There really is nothing to compare with the feeling of being alone in the middle of the night, with the sound of rain enveloping you. You’re glad that none of the bedrooms in this house are very close to the kitchen, because the microwave can be a little loud. You lean against the counter as the mug spins round and round inside of it, humming away.

You have a better view of the backyard down here. There isn’t much to be seen in the middle of the night with all this pouring rain, but your house backs onto a peaceful forest that you and Frisk have explored many times. There’s a small creek a little ways in – you’re sure it must be overflowing by now – and a huge, fallen tree with clusters of mushrooms growing from it in various places. It must have kept watch over the forest for well over one hundred years before meeting its inevitable fate, certainly the oldest tree in your backyard. It must have been around since before you climbed Mount Ebott even. The first time you and Frisk came across it, you picked up a few flowers laying nearby and set them on the rotting log, and the two of you held a little mock funeral for it. You felt somewhat bad about, ironically, outliving it, which must sound strange, but Frisk understands.

With all this rain, the flowers must be long gone by now.

The lightning and thunder are almost simultaneous now. You jump a little as the kitchen is flooded with light, and in that moment, the microwave starts beeping. Shoot. You rush to open the door and take the mug out and almost burn your fingers in the process. You must’ve gotten too lost in thought.

Setting the mug on the table, you pour in the hot chocolate powder and begin to stir. The spoon makes a little ting! each time it hits the side of the mug. You try to direct your thoughts in a less dangerous direction, more towards thinking of the future rather than reflecting on the past. What are you going to do tomorrow? (Or, well, later today. A quick glance at the microwave’s little digital clock tells you it is past midnight.) Maybe you could read a book, or work on your most recent knitting project. Even if the rain did let up eventually, it would be too wet and muddy to do much outdoors.

The hot chocolate is still very hot, but you brave a sip anyway, because of course you do. Bad idea. Now your mouth is on fire. You squint your eye in disappointment.

Hopefully Dad’s garden is still salvageable after all of this. You know how much effort he puts into maintaining it, and you enjoy helping out with it whenever you visit. You would hate to see all that hard work go to waste, and just when it was finally getting somewhere, too.

It always felt weird, when you thought about it for too long. You used to garden with Dad when you lived in the underground, too. You used to drink tea with him in the living room and have long talks, just like you do now. You used to sit and read with Mom, and knit sweaters in your room when you had nothing better to do. Sometimes it was as if nothing had changed, and you didn’t always know how to feel about that, because eventually, your mind would bring up everything that had changed. And that was a slippery slope of drudging up memories you would much rather leave buried.

You blow on your hot chocolate a bit and take another sip. Luckily, it doesn’t burn off what few taste buds you have left this time. It tastes like warmth and bittersweet memories and home. You feel the slightest tug on your heart and close your eye.

Mount Ebott isn’t visible from the kitchen window, but you picture it in your mind anyway, shrouded in dark clouds and pouring rain, looming in the distance against a dark sky. You don’t have to try very hard; it’s a familiar image. You were ten years old, and your world was hell. It was a mountain, and it promised an escape. You could think of no greater force between two pieces of the universe.

At first, you had been disappointed when you woke up after the fall. But then Asriel found you, and the world didn’t seem quite so dark anymore.

You never deserved him. You knew that then, and you know that now. You…don’t want to think about him. You can feel guilt creeping in like thorns in your skin. Like the golden flowers that rooted themselves in your reanimated body, sharp and painful when you pull on them. You don’t want to think about him…

You hate being around Flowey. You wish you understood him, but you don’t. Time had created a rift between the two of you that not even the abilities of reality-bending determination could fix. It was hard to see him as the same person sometimes. It was harder not to feel guilty when you did. Even Flowey said so himself: Asriel died in that throne room years ago, and he was never coming back.

Your face feels wet and it’s not because of the rain. You let out a deep breath and take another sip of your hot chocolate. You wish you could just get over this – it’s certainly been long enough – but the past still infects your mind like weeds. Ironic, is it not? Ha.

But, no. Despite it all, you could still hear his voice in your head. Soft, as he asks, “Chara, can you tell me about the surface?” You can see the stars in his eyes as you tell him of the ones in the sky. You can feel his head on your shoulder as he yawns, his hands holding onto yours as he tells you you’re not a bad person. You can hear his shuddering breaths as he sits beside your bed and you can feel his fear as if it were your own and you feel a bullet through your- his- chest and-

A boom of thunder that you can feel at your very core startles you from your thoughts and before you know it, your mug has tumbled from your hands and collided with the floor in a manner that is far from quiet. The ensuing silence, however, is deafening.

You don’t even react to it right away. You just stand there and stare at the mess of shattered porcelain and hot chocolate on the floor with a blank expression on your face. You think, This might as well be a metaphor for my life. And then you make a move to clean it up.

Your hands are so shaky as you pick up the shards and there’s a well of frenzied energy building up in your throat. You kind of want to scream. The rain is still hammering against the earth outside. You think about how much Asriel would have liked thunderstorms.

…

You don’t notice the presence of another person in the room until Frisk’s avocado socks suddenly appear in your line of sight. You startle – again, embarrassingly enough – and look up, and sure enough, Frisk is looking at you with an expression of concern on their face.

“You okay?” they whisper. Their curly hair is sticking up all over the place, and they look about as tired as you feel. Immediately, you feel extremely guilty.

You nod. “It just slipped out of my hand... I’m sorry for waking you up.”

They shake their head as they kneel down to help you pick up the remains of the mug. “It was kinda hard to sleep with all the thunder anyways. Why’re you up?”

“Mm…” You hesitate. “Nightmare.” You’d almost forgotten that was why you were awake right now in the first place.

“You wanna talk about it?” they ask, glancing at you as they drop the shards into the trash.

“No, I don’t remember it. It was just hard to go back to sleep afterward.”

“Oh. Okay.”

For a minute, they quietly watch you clean up the hot chocolate with a wad of paper towels, fidgeting with their hands. Your eye is carefully trained on the ground, but you can practically feel them trying to think of something else to say.

“You should go back to bed. I will be alright on my own,” you say, knowing they don’t want to leave you alone right now, because they can probably sense your obvious agitation, can’t they? You don’t want them losing sleep for your sake, though. They’ve done that enough already.

Instead of responding, they grab a chair from the kitchen table and turn it around so that it’s facing the window, sitting down next to you with their knees curled up to their chest and their head resting on their crossed arms. They look at you expectantly.

You sigh and roll your eye but scoot your own chair next to them anyway. “You’ll be tired tomorrow,” you warn them as you get comfortable on the chair and bring your legs into a cross-legged position. “Then we will both be tired and grumpy. Is that what you want?”

They shake their head sharply and scrunch up their face. “Whatever!” They tug on the blanket you still have draped around your shoulders, so you slip it off and pass them one of the corners so the two of you can share. They smile and immediately drop their head onto your shoulder, leaning into you. You hesitate for a moment, but then you lean your head on theirs, too.

“I am more upset than I should be about that hot chocolate.” The sound of the rain fills the empty space between your voices. It almost sounds like it has calmed down a bit, but it’s still pattering away.

“Sorry,” they say.

You laugh. “It’s not your fault.”

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you don’t need words when it’s just the two of you together. Just being there is enough. The fact that they’re there with you at all immediately makes you feel a little less on edge. It makes the rain seem even more peaceful somehow, now that you get to share it with someone. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, and moments later, the low rumble of thunder follows. It’s nice.

The distant tick of the clock in the living room keeps the time, and you almost think Frisk has fallen asleep with how quiet they’re being, but then their voice breaks the silence. “You’re sure you’re okay, though. Like, really okay?” It catches you off guard.

You open your mouth to reply but find that the words get stuck. Oh. You are okay… You are. But the way they said it makes you aware of a pressure behind your eye, and you think you’re about to cry again. You’re able to mutter out a small “I-”, but nothing else comes out.

Frisk doesn’t say anything, either. You get the impression that they’re waiting for something, and for a moment that makes a frustration build inside you, because you can’t give them what they want, you already told them you don’t want to talk about it, no matter how hard you try you’re never going to get better at letting yourself feel things like they want you to- And now you’re even mad at yourself for getting frustrated with them. You don’t want to be like this. You don’t even…

“I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be here,” you finally say. Your voice sounds small.

Hm. You thought you had gotten over this, too.

“I know,” Frisk says. And of course they do. Of course they do. You can’t tell whether that’s comforting to know or not, but…it encourages you to continue.

“I’m…tired of feeling that way.”

Frisk reaches over to hold your hand.

“I have been for a long time. I thought… I was stupid enough to think killing myself was the answer-” You choke out a laugh, but it might have been a sob. You can’t even tell. “I get to help my family, and in return, I am granted the sweet release of death. Two birds with one stone, right?” Laughter bubbles in your throat and it’s a mess as it escapes you. It’s embarrassing, but you can’t stop yourself. You think Frisk is hugging you – you can feel their arms around your shoulders – but your eye is closed and all you can think about is the bitter taste of buttercups.

“A lot of good that did, huh? I literally could not have failed harder if I’d tried.”

The flowers growing in the socket of your left eye sting. Saying all of this out loud makes you feel sick, but for some reason, right now, you feel like you have to get it out of you.

“My brother is dead, and somehow, I am still here. And I still feel the same! Ha ha! If anything it’s only gotten worse! I should be dead, what, twice over? Thrice? And that’s not even counting all the times we- you died, with all the Resets. Do those even count? Does it even matter…?”

Your awareness slowly slips back into the present moment as you wrap your arms around Frisk. Their presence makes you feel steady, grounded, as it always does, and you subconsciously clutch fistfuls of their sweater in your hands.

“Sometimes all of this just feels like a sick joke. I don’t know. Like…maybe one day, I’ll wake up back… back then, and none of it will have even been…real. Or maybe I won’t wake up at all, ha…”

And maybe that would be for the best.

“I do not deserve any of this…”

Frisk says, “I love you, Chara”, and nothing more.

And somehow, it is enough. You take a breath; it kind of stings your raw throat. “I love you too, Frisk.”

You think about how lucky you are to have them, at the very least.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. I think you’re s’posed to be here.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage right now. Because truly, you mean it when you say, what would you do without them? For a moment, you pause and try to soak everything in. You can’t tell whether you feel empty or…relieved. Both, probably. There’s a little bit of guilt there too as you catch a peek of morning sunlight reflected on the kitchen floor. The two of you must have been here for a while…

Finally you pull away from the hug and rub at your eye with the heel of your palm. “Jeez, I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Frisk replies with laughter in their voice. “Whoops.”

You didn’t even realize, but outside, the rain has almost stopped, reduced to nothing more than a slight drizzle. You stretch a little as you stand up from your chair and walk over to the back door, which is on the other side of the room and glass so you can see right outside. It’s very cloudy, but there’s a little bit of light shining over the horizon.

“Oh. It’s kinda stopped raining,” Frisk says as they meet you by the door.

“You wanna go out there?”

“In my socks?” Their voice cracks with disbelief on the last word and you laugh.

“Just for a minute. I need some fresh air.”

Frisk sighs loud and dramatically as they sit on the ground to take their socks off. You open the door – cautiously, as Mom is still asleep and you know this one has a habit of squeaking – and are immediately greeted by a wave of cool air. The comforting smell of rain envelopes you. It’s called petrichor, if you remember correctly, and it’s actually the smell of the soil as it becomes moist, rather than the rain itself. Interesting.

“Ready!” Frisk hops up and bounces on their toes.

You hold the screen door open for them, and the two of you slip outside. Luckily, there’s a little wooden porch here so you don’t have to be standing in the mud, but even the porch is a little wet and slippery. It doesn't have a roof or a cover or anything, so the little sprinkles of rain pitter patter on the top of your head and tickle your cheeks and forehead as you tilt your face to the sky. Frisk is giggling to themself as they splash around in the puddles beside you.

You feel vulnerable. You feel free. You feel terrified… But you feel safe. You think to yourself, this is what it means to be alive. To feel raindrops on your skin, to splash in puddles with your sibling, to feel the relief that comes after crying and to wait for the sunrise. And you wish this was something you could understand all the time, something you could always keep in mind when your thoughts start drifting in dark directions again. It’s so easy to forget how beautiful the world can be sometimes, when you’re always stuck in the shadows. Sometimes you need someone to remind you of why you’re here.

Frisk reaches out to you and does a little grabby-hand motion, so you take their hand, and the two of you spin and dance around the porch, kicking up rainwater. For just a moment, everything that lead you to this moment feels worth it.

#safeutdr #Undertale #chara dreemurr #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #frisk dreemurr #chara #frisk #undertale fanfiction #Undertale Chara #Undertale frisk #frisk Undertale #Chara Undertale #my art #🌼

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 11 months ago

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Spring, 2020 - San Diego, California

Chapter 7 Part 1 of You Are My Soulmate

Bradley ��Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Description: After your inquiry, you've been feeling oddly adrift. It feels weird, being back in your house, in your life like you belong in it. Things feel different. A chance encounter with your soulmate on the beach has you falling into something which seems incredibly close to love.

Disclaimers: Misogynistic speech. Mentioned Homosexual Relationships. Angst. Flagrant disregard for protocols or Authority. Angst. Anguish.

This content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting tag-list requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story.

Warnings: Female!Reader

Word Count: 3880

A/N: You all remember how I teased you with slow burn a year ago, right? We're finally starting to feel the burn now. I know it's taken me nearly a year to get here, but now is when we're going to have some sweet fluff for Tink and Rooster!

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted Here!

My Masterlist

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Tinkerbell

You’ve found yourself retreating to the ocean more often since the day of the inquiry. The crashing waves help you process everything that has happened over the past few months. You've been struck with so much pain, sorrow, and guilt; at times, it feels like you were barely living at all. You’re not sure if you actually lived through those horrible months or if a robot took control of your body. Some of the same feelings came back to you when you walked into your hangar on base the day after the trial.

The work is the same. Your team is the same. Yet, you can’t help feeling like everything has inexplicably changed. Your team has flourished under Commander Greyson's steady, quiet leadership. In your darkest moments, you wonder if they wouldn't be better off without you at the helm. You can't deny that Commander Greyson is brilliant at what he does. There would be so much your team can learn from him - so much you can learn from him. Even the drone project for Admiral Cain is completed with so much detail it makes your head spin. It feels odd, being back on the North Island Naval Base as notorious as you are. It leaves you with a prickling, itching sensation of being seen.

Jake and Javy had dogged you relentlessly that first day, spending all their time off hops draped over the worn sofa in the AMDO hangar in turn like a pair of eager, hungry, sweet Dobermans. They never hesitated to growl at the gossip floating around, even before your inquiry. But you chased them away after the first day, knowing you needed to stand by yourself. Being back home, in your actual house, helps too. The familiar sights and smells wrap you in a warm hug. So does being able to tinker with your cars and motorcycles.

But what you've missed the most when staying with Jake and Javy was having the sea nearby. The crashing of the waves, the salt in the air, the way the sand is rough under your feet. Every night, you had taken to languidly strolling at the tide line, relishing in the prickle of small seashells against the pads of your feet in the wet sand. The rush of water soothes the roar of your thoughts and grounds you. If only it could soothe your unconscious mind as well as the sea soothes your conscious thoughts.

Of course, nothing can soothe your thoughts, not even the rush of the ocean in the distance as Bradley opens the passenger side door for you in front of a gorgeous off-white stucco house. The long, shaded drive is packed with cars, and you can feel your nerves with every footstep you take. You willingly take hold of a couple of the many tote bags full of alcohol Penny had given Bradley because you may not be sure what you’re doing here. You're still not sure why you accepted his invitation to celebrate his dad. Still, at least you can cart alcohol into the colossal house.

When the door opens, it's to a wall of pure sound. You're shell-shocked by it but more so by the slight man with dark hair and green eyes standing at the threshold.

“A-admiral Mitchell!” With your arms encumbered by the bags, you can’t salute, though a part of you wishes you could.

“At ease, Lieutenant Commander.” His grin is mischievous, and his voice is sardonic. “Come on in. I'm glad Bradley finally got off of his ass and invited you out to meet us.”

Your smile is nearly a grimace as you follow Admiral Mitchell into the kitchen and set the bags down on one of the counters. You turn and brush invisible dust off of your fingers. Admiral Mitchell's looking at you with a knowing smile on his face.

“I guess he didn't tell you he was bringing you here?”

You shake your head and let him take the bags out of your hands. “Well, you’re always welcome, kid. And please. Call me, Mav.”

The door swings open again, and this time, you’re hit with a waft of that sandalwood scent that you’re quickly coming to adore. It's Bradley, and you're not sure why, but he's easily holding all of the other bags, bulging with bottles of alcohol in his brawny arms.

“Hey, Baby Goose!” You grin at the naked affection in the other man’s words. “It took you long enough to get Tinkerbell to come here.”

“But, kiddo, you could’ve at least warned her what she was walking into!”

Maverick Mitchell looks like he’s practically leaping for joy. You have to stifle your snicker as a blush crawls its way up Bradley’s neck.

“It was a spontaneous invitation, Dad.” Now, the endearment has you looking wide-eyed at Bradley.

“Go on, get all the drinks in the kitchen. Ice is out in the backyard, manning the grill. All of the others are out there, too. Grab whatever you’d like for yourselves, and get on out there!” Mav seems quite content to ignore the look on your face, skirting around you and Bradley in the hallway and disappearing through an arch at the end of the hallway when someone calls his name.

“Come on, Tink.” You follow his broad shoulders as he leads you through the house. The walls are covered with pictures, a lot of them depicting a tow-headed boy in various stages of growth. Of course, you realize they're Bradley when you see his graduation pictures right next to his Officer promotion pictures on the wall. When you walk through the same arch Mav disappeared through, you’re spellbound at the sight of the sun setting through the big picture windows. There are fairy lights strung through the trees and music playing. On an impromptu dance floor, you can see couples dancing.

There are a lot of people floating through the backyard. You recognize most of them from dossiers and others from reputations built on hearsay in the Navy, and all of a sudden, you're absolutely sure you shouldn't be here at all. The icing on the proverbial cake is when you see Mav kissing Iceman, yeah, that Iceman, tenderly on the lips.

“Yeah, Dad and Pops are soulmates.” You squeak just a little as those words hit.

“So you’re telling me your dad, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, and your Pops, Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky, the COMPACFLT of the US Navy, are soulmates?”

You’re sure you can be excused for your tone. This is a whopper of a secret to find out. Bradley takes one look at your face and snickers like he can’t believe the expression on his face. You poke your elbow into his side gently, trying to make him let up on his teasing. You’re not serious about it, enjoying the light air between the two of you. But when Bradley wraps his arm around your waist, you have to sigh at the warmth his arms bring you. He stops moving when he’s wrapped around you, one hand securely holding his beer, the other curled around your front like it was made to be there.

His sandalwood scent wraps you up as securely as his arms do. Standing here, seeing the sun setting behind the party happening out in the yard, it almost feels like you can do this - be soulmates with Bradley Bradshaw. Obviously, there is a lot you still need to talk to him about. But, the warmth Mav has shown you as some of Bradley’s only family goes a long way.

“It’s beautiful here,” you hum as you sip from your icy cold cider bottle, relishing in the condensation dripping onto your sun-warmed skin.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” There’s something reverent in Bradley’s voice as he looks out over the yard with its sprawling green lawn.

“I’ve always wanted to have a life like Mav and Ice’s.” He smiles softly, his eyes sparkling in the golden light of the setting sun like amber shot through with motes of molten gold.

“My mom and dad have a house, you know?” You gasp and slide your fingers down until they’re laced with his across your stomach.

“It’s in Virginia. They got acres of land with the property. My mom’s parents gave it to my mom and dad when they got married. I can’t help but wonder if everything would have been different if I still had them both with me.”

“They loved you, Rooster. I don’t have to have met them to know that. They would have adored seeing the man you’ve become, Bradley.”

“I know they would have, Tinkerbell. I wish I could make that house a home, is all.”

“Who is to say you still can’t?”

“Who would want to build a life with me, anyhow?” There is sorrow in his voice, the same emotion streaking across his face in a flash.

“Well, I know I would be willing to try?” You’re not sure what prompts the words to spill out of your mouth. They feel so right on your tongue. The words also leave you feeling oddly vulnerable because they’re the vocalization of a dream you’ve been carrying yourself for a very long time. Bradley’s sweet intake of breath makes something light up in your chest.

“I’d like that,” he chuckles, “C’mon. Let me introduce you to everyone here. They’re the closest things to a family I’ve got. I want them to like you, but chances are, they’ll love you. They might not love me once they hear what happened, though.”

You slide your drink onto a table and slip your arms around his waist. His arms curl around you tenderly. His lips feather against the top of your head in a soft, barely there kiss.

“They’re your family, Roo. They’re going to love you no matter what.”

He chuckles ruefully at your earnest words.

“They’re going to love you too, Tinkerbell.”

With those final words on the matter, you’re whisked out into the setting sun. A part of you can’t believe you’re out here rubbing elbows with US Navy elites. Every person Bradley introduces you to is another surprise. Before you can blink, you’ve chatted with Rear Admiral Kerner, who asks you to call him Slider, and laughed with Admiral Kazansky. You adore how this colossal cobbled-together family acts with each other. Every conversation is littered with inside jokes and teasing words. But more than how happy you are, it’s gratifying seeing how happy Bradley is. He seems to be in his element, laughing and reminiscing. There have been so many stories of Goose Bradshaw where you’ve seen him wiping away tears even while laughing that gloriously deep belly laugh.

People leave the party in pairs and trios, alcohol-soaked with colossal smiles curling their lips and laughter sneaking out as the ocean breeze brushes through the trees, salt-laden and wet as it smacks into your face. Before long, there are only a handful of the guests left in the garden. You’re not sure when he lit it, but Mav has started up a fire in the firepit, coals glowing red in the night air. You join the rest of the stragglers around the bonfire, settling in next to Bradley in one of the Adirondack chairs.

“So, Tinkerbell.” Your head snaps up so fast at the sound of her voice that it kind of hurts. It’s Sarah, The Iceman’s sister and Slider’s wife (how is this your life), who asks you, “How did you meet our Bradley?”

You swallow your sip of cider hurriedly - nearly choking on the fizzy liquid - caught on the spot as every face in the circle turns to you. Bradley grins as he lays an arm securely over your shoulders. That first night at The Hard Deck feels like it was a million years ago. A part of you can’t believe that it has only been a little over six months. It feels like you’re reliving that night over again when you recount it. You can taste the cocktails you’d been downing all night on your tongue. You half feel the sensations of Bradley’s hands on your skin as you recount the crush of people in the bar that night and the fear as you nearly get trampled.

You unconsciously turn until you face Bradley, drinking in the sight of his face as he looks at you as you retell the first meeting of your fraught relationship. The electricity you’d felt that night is swarming through your veins again as you finish your retelling. You don’t mention a thing about the words you’d shared with him before leaving the Hard Deck and how you’d cried your eyes out in your bed at home, jet lag and exhaustion working in concert to make the words hit harder than they ever should have.

“That’s such a sweet story!” Sarah has a dreamy look on her face as she reaches for Slider’s hands with her own. They look so happy with each other, true soulmates if you’ve ever seen them. But you’re not one to ask. Since you were a little girl, you’ve had it drilled into your head to never ask someone what their soulmate marks are or even if their partner is their soulmate. It’s considered incredibly rude to do so when you’re not immediate family members or intimate friends. There are still people who do it, but they are rare and mostly do it to be rude. “I’m sure the two of you are going to be very happy together.”

You smile a little stiltedly, not sure how to answer that because while things are good between you and Bradley right now, far better than that first night anyhow, they’re far from where you could believe you’ve reached your happily ever after. Bradley seems just as discomfited as you are by his aunt’s well-meaning words. He joins the next conversation topic with aplomb, energy radiating out with him until it seems like everyone is wrapped up in the fun as the music plays low and quiet out of the speaker system. A few minutes later, he tugs you up out of your Adirondack and pulls you down towards the bottom of the garden.

“They love you, sweetheart.” You grin, wild and unabashed, as his words make you light up. Your heart is soaring, but your brain’s still unsure of this sudden need to have him at arm's reach, always touching you, always close. It feels too easy after all the pain you’ve been through.

“I’m glad, Bradley.”

“You don’t sound glad, Tink.” You’ve been trying to keep your emotions from your face, and now, more than ever, you’re sure you haven’t succeeded. The bond between the two of you must be acting up as well because Bradley’s got this knowing look on his face. Goosebumps rise on your arms at the thought.

“I am.” He snorts and slides his Hawaiian shirt across your shoulders. It leaves him in just a white singlet. The top clings to his muscles and almost shines under the golden lights. Unbidden, the words spill out of you.

“I promise I am, Bradley. It doesn’t feel like I deserve this, you know? Being this close to you? Seeing you happy.”

“So what do you want to do?” You fall in love the moment those words leave your soulmate’s mouth. There are no half-hidden attempts to over-explain what you’re feeling or urges to comfort you for something that isn’t a physical struggle. “How can I make it better?”

You shrug, burrowing into the thin fabric of the shirt as the cool ocean breeze wafts across the backyard.

“Would it be weird if we took things kind of slow for the next while?”

“How slow are you thinking?”

“Not too slow.” You’re quick to reassure your soulmate as you wrap an arm around his waist. Even now, there’s an ache burrowing under your skin at not feeling him pressed up against you. “I think we should date each other and get to actually know one another.”

When he doesn’t say anything for several long moments, you start to worry. It has you babbling, “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to?”

His hands gently slide over your cheeks and tip your face up until you can see the soft look in Bradley’s whiskey eyes.

“It sounds like a good idea.” He chuckles as his lips press against your forehead. “We’ve moved in extremes since we’ve met. We need to get to know each other, care about each other, more than just the feeling of this bond linking us together.”

You feel like you can barely breathe at the look in your soulmate's eyes as he leans in close enough that you can feel his mustache on your lips.

“What do you say about dinner? Tomorrow night?”

You hum in thought, aching to press your lips to his. His body is a line of heat pressed up against yours, and you want more.

“I’d love to.”

His exhale of joy brushes damply across your lips, and at that moment, you can’t resist pressing upwards. His lips are petal soft and gentle as they slide over yours. It’s a sensation in direct counterpoint to the rough bristles of his mustache. Your arms slide around his thick neck, fingers catching at the furrowed scars on the smooth skin. Bradley’s breath catches as you trace lightly across the slightly raised skin. If he’s this responsive to your touch, what would he do if you were tracing your lips and tongue down his throat?

When he pulls away, you whimper, actually honest-to-god whimper, at the feeling of his skin leaving yours.

“Slow, sweetheart.” He chuckles as he pulls away, a tender smile curving his lips. “We said we’d go slow, right?”

“Fine,” you huff, licking your lips in a futile urge to taste more of your soulmate on your skin. If it’s any consolation, Bradley seems to be just as affected by that slow, languid, blood-boilingly hot kiss as you are.

“Tell me more about your dads.” It’s a plea closer to a demand than it should be. But you have to control yourself. If you look at him any longer, you’ll jump him. You can’t do that to him, not when you’ve just decided to go slow.

“What about them?”

You grin. “How’d they meet?”

“At Top Gun.” He’s got a faraway look in his eyes. “When Goose and Mav came to North Island in ‘86, one of their first stops was the O-Club. It was one of the only places catering to mostly Navy personnel and was quite famous. That’s where they ran into Uncle Ron and Pops.”

“Did they like each other at first sight?”

“I don’t think so, sweets.” You chuckle and shiver as another breeze makes the lights sway over your heads.

“Were they better or worse than we were when we met?”

Bradley grins and opens his arms to you. You melt into his arms and sigh in pleasure at the warmth of him in your arms. His voice rumbles comfortingly in his chest as he continues, “I think they were worse, sweets. Much worse.”

He sounds sardonic and sarcastic, something drier than the desert in his tone.

“So you’re telling me there is worse than calling me “a little thing who just got her position in the Navy on her knees”?” Your tone doesn’t hold any heat because you know while he said something first, you continued it. You’ve definitely given as good as he dished out.

“Shit.”

You giggle at his hushed exhale because as angry and hurt as you were when you heard him say those words, you’ve forgiven him long ago.

“That was a bad night for me, Tink.” He pulls his hands away from you only to tangle them into his curls as anguish and shame twist his features. Half hidden against his chest, you tug him in closer, soothing his pain with your presence as much as you can.

“You have no idea what you looked like that night, did you? Fuck, you looked so beautiful, it took my breath away. I was hanging on to your every word. From the first thing you said to me, I was seconds away from ripping that little sundress off. All I wanted was to lay you out on my bed and never let you go.”

When you inhale, it feels like the ocean-laden breeze burns. If he felt like this on that first day, how come he didn’t act on his feelings?

“Then that fight broke out. All I wanted to do then was protect you. So I grabbed your waist and got you to that bar stool, holding you there with my back to that room so nobody could hurt you. It would’ve been too soon to kiss you then, no matter how much I wanted to, with the heat of your skin imprinted on my fingertips. Too much, too soon. So, after the fight was broken up, I grabbed my drink and tried to look nonchalant. At least, I did until I heard Hangman calling for you. He sounded so worried like he cared so much for you. I assumed then and there, he was your soulmate. So I backed off.”

“I was in a completely shitty mood the rest of the night. I’d never been so close to someone who I thought could be mine. I wanted you, only you. But I managed to convince myself that you weren’t mine, that you would never be mine. I got drunk. So drunk I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. I let my anger fester, and when it boiled to a fever pitch, I spat those words out when I saw you walk by, at a volume at which I knew you could hear.”

“I’m sorry, Tink.” Bradley’s voice is a growl, a pained one, as he apologizes to you again. “I’d understand if you couldn’t forgive me.”

There’s so much pain on his face you can’t help reaching up until you’re cupping his face in your hands.

“I forgave you a long time ago.”

It feels like an absolution saying those words into the night air. The disbelief on his face cements your decision even more. You forgive Bradley Bradshaw for all of his past sins, and you hope someday he can forgive all of yours, too. You press a kiss to his upturned jaw just because you can.

“There will never be anything but forgiveness between us, darling.”

“But how?” His voice is disbelieving. “How can we get past this?”

“The way we always have been meant to. Together.” Your eyes are soft as you tug on his hands until they wrap around you again. “And maybe, Roo, you should open that mouth and ask me if Jake Seresin is my soulmate next time.”

When he starts to snicker, you laugh, too. He pulls you in closer until he can press his lips to your forehead. You have many questions about your soulmate. For now, standing here at the bottom of the garden at his parent’s house is enough. You have the rest of your life in which to chat with Bradley. It’s a chance you’re not going to give up.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, ON WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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