#but I surpassed what I could handle long ago and

[raeathnos]

.

[seventeenpins]

a slight miscalculation - pt. i

pairing: Joel x F!Reader

word count: 8.3k

summary: Sarah is off to college, and Joel is about to be living in an empty nest. They road trip out together, and as she spends her first night in her new apartment, he's staying in a nearby hotel. Letting go of his inhibitions for the first time in a long time, he tumbles into a one night stand that becomes very complicated, very quickly.

content/warnings: smut, age gap, mycologist!reader, dick sucking, implied pussy eating, fingering, no outbreak au, reader likes to hike, reader also infodumps, joel miller has a big cock, he also has anxiety, reader has anxiety too, and a cat, reader is in early 20s--exact age not established, one (1) use of daddy, alcohol and weed consumption, joel is a diligent condom wearer, set in present day, discussion of girl scout cookies, joel is sweet and soft and hasn't been eviscerated by the death of his daughter

a/n: I'm intending this to be about five parts. This may change, but right now it's looking like five. I've been struggling to write for a while, unable to focus, but I think I'm back at it? as always, your feedback is hugely appreciated, and i'm kissing all likers and commenters and rebloggers deeply and with tongue 🩷

check out pt. ii

For the first time in nineteen years, Joel is completely adrift. Sarah's starting college in just two months.

It's the kind of realization that hits him like a bucket of ice water, a sudden shock and then an unpleasant trickling of anxiety wrapping about him in nasty tendrils. And then he feels guilty, because he's so, so happy for Sarah because he knows that she's thrilled, but fuck she's gonna be two time zones away and now what's Joel meant to do on Thursday movie nights when he's here without her?

It's terrifying, and it's new. And it's not that he's new to anxiety. He's usually anxious, and he has the Sertraline on his bedside stand to prove it. But if his general anxiety baseline usually hovered around a 6.4, where he was at now far surpassed a 10. It felt exponential, and totally exhausting.

When he voices his fears to Tommy, to Joel's horror, Tommy just doubles over in laughter.

"Jesus, Joel," he wheezes, wiping fake tears from his eyes in exaggerated movements, "You looked so serious I thought you were gonna say you'd killed someone."

Joel scowls. "The fuck you laughing for?"

"She's going to college, it's not like she's dying!"

"How'm I gonna be there for her? What if she needs me? What if-"

"Joel-," Tommy pats him gently on the shoulder, "She can always call you, and you can always call her. And we both know she's got a good head on 'er shoulders."

Joel snorts in concession. "Yeah, yeah. Better than yours and mine put together, and then some."

"Exactly." Tommy agrees, "And if there's ever anything that really goes wrong, you got me. We can drive out together and make sure she's okay."

Joel nods and feels the tiniest bit of tension leave him. One step at a time.

Just over nineteen years ago he found out he was about to be a dad. Suddenly, he had a purpose. Having a kid at twenty-two wasn't something he'd ever intended, but somehow he knew he loved his baby girl from the moment he knew she was a possibility. He spent a solid seven months running around, hustling, doing everything he could to get the very best for his kid. He'd take on doubles, working himself to the bone to make sure they had the best crib, and the best stroller, too. He was thrilled and terrified and so, so green.

Now, his heart feels so big he doesn't know how to handle it. His baby girl is an honest-to-god adult, moving out and going to college, and he has no idea what he's gonna do with his time now.

He has work, of course. But beyond that? He's really gotta to widen his circle, he realises, because who's he gonna hang out with? His brother?

He'd only just turned forty-one and had absolutely not come to terms with an empty nest--the few friends from high school he'd kept in touch with were so much further behind than him. The ones that had kids had them later in their twenties and thirties, and now they're raising middle schoolers while Joel's kid is a real fucking person, leaving home and everything. All the scrapping and saving he'd been doing since before Sarah was born–for his little girl to be able to follow any dream she chose–it was finally paying off. The precocious young woman she is, she graduated early and spent nearly a year working retail to save up some cash. She'd applied to colleges all across the country, and a few international ones, too. Joel had been crossing his fingers for months, hoping she'd choose something near Austin, but cheered with her all the same when she got her acceptance letter from Oregon State University. The previous summer, just before she'd started her applications, she and Joel and Tommy spent a miserable, wonderful week hiking round the Pacific Northwest. She fell in love with it, and the university offered a few of the majors she wanted to consider.

Joel didn't know what he'd do with his baby girl so far away, his life, his reason, but he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell her that. He will not clip her wings. His baby's gonna change the world and he's not gonna hold her back. He is, though, gonna require regular phone calls and check-ins and god they grow up so fast.

"Y'all should road trip out there," Tommy suggests one night over the dinner table.

Joel knew the conversation of how Sarah would get to the West Coast would come up, and it oughta be sooner rather than later. He was half afraid that she wanted to head out on her own, that she didn't need her dad anymore. Worried she would say she wanted to get a plane ticket, or take the Amtrak all the way to Corvallis. But he knows he needs to loosen his grip a little, so he braces himself when he turns to her.

"What'dya think, Sarah? You wanna be stuck in a car with your old man for a cross-country trip?"

Sarah rolls her eyes, but her face breaks into a grin. "Can we, Dad?"

This was too good to be true, he knew, but he wasn't gonna give up one last opportunity to spend some time with his girl till winter break.

"Course, baby," he tells her, and that flicker of anxiety quells just the tiniest bit.

The next few weeks fly by, and the knot of anxiety in Joel's chest feels like it's consuming him from the inside out. He's taken some time off, more than Sarah or Tommy can remember, but he's constantly trying to suggest ideas for activities to Sarah. For the most part, she's a good sport, understanding how much it means to her dad. She took pity on him, and let him drag her to places that ideally she would've gone to when she was little, but she humored him and he appreciated her dedication. He did his best to step back when she was heading out to spend time with friends--her time here was limited, after all, and she was always a social butterfly.

There are five weeks till classes start, four weeks, three, two, and in the blink of an eye, they're loading up the truck with all of Sarah's things, and Tommy is hugging Sarah goodbye, teary eyed. He gives Joel a hug, too. Joel would never admit it, but fuck he had really needed that hug.

They would take the scenic route. Make a memorable trip of it. Joel would make sure she settles in safe and sound, and then he'd head home.

6am Sunday.

You wake with a start. It's just over a week before term starts and your entire body aches. Fuck, you think to yourself, definitely overdid it with that last hike.

(The hiking part wasn't itself a problem, but one of the trails had washed out. You thought you'd found your way, but the "easy" three and a half mile hike took about five hours, leaving your calves bruised and your heels blistered.)

You roll over in your hotel room bed and, at the sound of a slight yelp followed by a gentle thud, realise with a sudden start that you just catapulted your cat off the corner.

"Shit, sorry goblin," you tell Spatula, who glares up at you with disdain as he licks at his paw. You reach down and, despite your inadvertent cat launch, he immediately rubs up against your fingertips and lets you scratch behind his ears.

"I'm sorry, baby," you soothe.

He meows, loudly. Howls, really. You take it as an apology accepted.

You sit up properly and look at your phone calendar. Nothing immediate. You don't need to get keys to your new apartment till tomorrow, nor do you meet your roommates till then–they're both moving in today, and moving is already horrible without having to navigate around the belongings of two other people. No, thanks. You can afford one more night at the hotel, and it'll make everything go that little bit more smoothly tomorrow. Besides, you have a bit of reading you'd like to get through, maybe stock up on non-perishables till you have a full-sized fridge, and get to know the city just a little.

You move gingerly, testing the ache in your muscles as you unfold yourself from the position you've been sat in and pull yourself from the bed. It hurts, but not something that won't be fixed with a little movement.

A plan forms. First, a walk, to try and loosen up your tight muscles. Then, errands. You have a whole list, with everything categorised by store, but then you enter IKEA and exit fifteen minutes later, only to find that five and a half hours have passed and it's evening now.

How was it that IKEA harnessed such a malicious power. How could anything harness that?

You need a fucking break. And a goddamn drink.

"Hey Dad," Sarah calls from the adjacent bedroom as Joel sweats, hauling another box towards her. The drive has been good, but it has been long. His legs ache. His back aches. There are parts of him that he didn't know existed that now ache.

"Yeah?" he calls back.

"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here tonight?"

Joel lets out a breath. He wants to be okay with it. And there's no way his nineteen year old would want to hang out with her dad when she could be spending the very first night in her brand new apartment. But he also wishes she wanted to spend one last night, hanging out in a hotel room with her dad. They could watch shitty movies together. Make the most of the final night before this cataclysmic shift.

But no.

That'd just be him being selfish. He can handle a night by himself. He's gotta handle a whole lotta them soon enough.

"O'course baby," he nods, hoping the smile he's plastered on his face looks totally genuine. "But we're still doin' breakfast in the morning, right?"

She nods, vigorous, and then waves her phone around. "I was looking up places! There's a diner called Tommy's," she laughs, "Wanna try that? 9:30?"

"Let's do it," he smiles, and this one is a little less forced.

"How much more do we have?" Sarah asks, nodding towards the box Joel's still holding.

"Last box," he grunts, "What else can I help with?"

He places the box down and lets out a slight, almost silent whimper. Sarah catches it, though.

"Maybe you should take it easy the rest of the day, Dad," she tells him, "We both know you have old man back."

He rolls his eyes but nods. "Guess you're right," he shrugs, "That my cue to take off?"

Sarah blushes but turns to him sheepishly. "Yeah, I-"

"No need to explain," Joel assures, "I know you must wanna get unpacked and settle in, get to know your roommates an' all."

She jumps up and, almost startling him, wraps her arms around him in a bear hug.

"Love you, dad," she grins, and she squeezes just a little tighter than usual.

He squeezes back, and they both pretend there aren't tears in his eyes.

As you step through the doors of the hotel bar, you decide you like it. The lighting is comfortably low. It's not loud, but it's not quiet, either. Colorful bottles line the shelves, the light of the filament bulbs glinting off the glass in rainbow prisms.

You take a seat at the bar and give a nod of thanks as the bartender passes you a small menu. It's unsurprisingly extortionate, hotel bar and all, but it'll do.

"Old fashioned, please," you tell the bartender, who nods in response. A minute later, he hands you a glass, delivered with a twist of orange and a cherry on top.

With your first sip, you feel your shoulders start to relax and some of the tension loosen from your body. The warmth of the burn envelops you and your stress starts to unravel, leaving only the buzz feeling good.

You order a second, and as the glass is handed to you, a voice to your right catches your attention.

"This seat taken?" a man asks.

You shake your head and offer a quick smile, gesturing towards it, "All yours."

"Much obliged," he nods, and slips into the backless stool next to yours.

The bartender comes over and passes him the same menu, but without looking at it he asks, "Could I get an old fashioned?"

You smile and catch his eye, tipping your glass towards him. "An excellent choice," you praise, "Though if you don't have a sweet tooth, I'd recommend asking Jeff there if he can go easy on the simple syrup."

"Oh yeah?" He asks, and then he leans in conspiratorially. "T'tell you the truth, I do have a bit of a sweet tooth."

You raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Suddenly, he breaks into a grin and it's dazzling.

"Yeah," he laughs, "I've got cookies stashed in secret locations all through my house."

You raise an eyebrow. "If I keep 'em in my pantry, my brother'll find 'em and eat 'em all," he explains, "But ever since my kid was a girl scout, I always get cravings for girl scout cookies, so I buy an armful o'boxes and try and preserve 'em throughout the year, till I can replenish."

"What's your favorite girl scout cookie?"

"Caramel deLites, hands down."

"Oh yeah?"

"Absolutely," he nods.

The bartender, Jeff, sets the man's drink down with a clink. You catch one another's eye and both erupt into a fit of laughter.

You're not even sure what's funny. Maybe it's just been a long day? Maybe the whiskey was getting to you?

Whatever it is, it feels good.

The man takes a sip of his drink and lets out an aaaahh and it's goofy and charming and then he extends his hand.

"Joel," he tells you, "Joel Miller". You shake his hand, introduce yourself, and then take a sip of your own drink.

"So, tell me about yourself," you smile, "You coming from out of town?"

"Yes ma'am," he nods, "Come up here from Austin."

"Texas?"

Joel nods.

"That's a long trip."

"Yeah," he laughs, "It really is."

"So, you're a nice Southern boy, huh?"

"Well," he swishes his glass and tries to bite back a smile, "I don't know that I'd go quite so far, but my mama did raise me to be a gentleman."

"That so?" you ask and his blush deepens.

"I... have been known to get up to some trouble, but I like to think I've mellowed in my old age." He gestures at the beautiful little smatterings of silver at his temples, and you cackle.

"Okay, that's hot," you tell him and he chokes, but you keep going, "Old age, though? What are you, like, forty?"

He exhales, chagrined. "Forty-one."

You roll your eyes. "That ain't old."

"It feels it sometimes," he smiles, "My kid is grown. My little brother's married with a kid of his own on the way. My back hurts, pretty much all the time."

You snort. You also notice, without trying to look, that he doesn't have a wedding band. Doesn't have a tan line for one, either. Interesting.

"But more than that," he continues, "I guess I feel- I don't know. A little... aimless?"

"Yeah," you nod, and you let the moment sit. "I get that."

He lets out a little breath, and then turns back to you, focused.

"What about you? Where're you from?"

"Oof," you exhale, "All over. Spent a bit of time on the East coast. The Midwest. Lived a few months in the South, even," you tease as you bump your shoulder into his and he laughs. It's a surprisingly familiar gesture, but miraculously comfortable.

"Ever make it to Texas?"

"Naw," you shake your head, "My time in the South was all in Mississippi. After that I moved out to California, and I've been slowly working my way up the West Coast."

"And what have you been enjoying about the West Coast?" Joel asks.

"The mushrooms," you grin, and Joel frowns.

"Like, the kind you get in a little baggy from the dealer down the street, or-?"

"No," you laugh, "Or, well- Okay, sometimes. Gotta say it is great out here for that, too. But I mean fungus as a whole--mushrooms, mold, yeast, lichen. But I'm most interested in mushrooms. They're just really fuckin' cool, and there's so much we don't understand about them. And, they're delicious."

"Huh," Joel ponders, "T'tell you the truth, I've never thought much about mushrooms, besides enjoying 'em as a pizza topping."

"Most people don't," you agree, "But fuck, like-- Okay, so we know there are over five million types of fungi on Earth, but we've identified less than two percent of them. Some fungus aids decomposition. Some fungus is bioluminescent. Some are known worldwide for their delicious flavours, and others are known by the slow, horrible ways they kill you."

Joel raises his eyebrows, and suddenly you feel a little self conscious.

"Sorry, I do this," you laugh, rubbing at the back of your neck, "I get very excited about fungus and manage to alienate everyone around me."

You half expect him to stand up and walk away.

Instead, though, he leans in closer. "Don't apologise," he tells you, "I'm learning something new. Tell me more?"

"No, I should stop. Otherwise I'll never stop talking," you wince.

"How about just one more fungus fact?"

You sit for a minute, pondering. "This is- well, I guess this is one of the reasons I find fungus so fascinating. So, fungus can't photosynthesise the way that plants do--they can't produce their own food from sunshine, and water, and carbon dioxide. Instead, their mycelium-- they're these thread-like networks--they branch out beneath the earth, seeking out food, growing in the direction where it can find the nutrients it needs and breaking down organic material all around them, sometimes living organisms, as a parasite, and sometimes dead organisms as a decomposer, or both. And it's just- It's this hidden world, that exists right beneath the surface even in some of the extreme places on earth, temperature-wise. And most days, we don't even think about it."

You punctuate your thought with a large swallow of your drink, which is half-watered down now that the ice is melted, and doesn't hit quite as hard as you'd hoped, but then you look up at Joel and he's smiling at you, pensive, and--

"That's- That's actually really interesting."

Before you can respond, though, Joel glances at his watch and balks. It is getting late. "Shit," he shakes his head, "I think I oughta call it a night," he says, pulling back. "Early morning tomorrow, and if I stay at the bar I'll just keep drinkin'."

Fuck. That's a dismissal. Of course you went on too much about mushrooms. You'd fucked this up. You'd thought this was going well, but now it felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped over you. "Oh," you nod, matching his posture, and try to swallow down the sudden wave of disappointment. "Of course. Have a good night, Joel."

Joel stands up and then looks you up and down, considering. It's not brazen, but it isn't shy, either. And then understanding flashes across his face.

"Wait- Sorry, that's not how I meant it." He reaches out towards you and you melt into his touch. "I'm messin' this up." He chuckles, but it sounds pained. "Now look, I don't wanna make any presumptions. And I'm really hopin' I'm not coming off as some--dirty old man. Jesus, I haven't done this in a while. But I'm in room 308."

Your eyebrows shoot up. What you'd taken for disinterest was just--nerves?

"I reckon I'll be awake for a while yet. You're welcome to... drop by."

The disappointment melts, making way for a fluttering in your stomach.

"Twenty minutes," you assure him, "308?"

He nods and he brakes into a sheepish grin, shedding what you now realise had been something of an anxious wince. "308."

You watch him leave. When he's out of sight, you toss back the rest of your watery drink and go to pay your tab, but Jeff tells you it was already settled. You thank him and tuck your shaking hands in your pockets. You feel an electricity running through you as you take the elevator up.

When you get back to your room, you hop into the shower, just to freshen up--you keep your hair dry but scrub your body. Once you're clean, you brush your teeth.

Stepping back out of the en suite, you survey the hotel room. Spatula is lounging on the corner of the bed, entirely uninterested in your movements. You top up his dry food bowl and place a kiss between his ears before slipping out.

When you knock at Joel's door, you hear a slight rustle and clatter and then the door swings open, Joel's staring a little wide-eyed, like he didn't actually expect you to show. He's wearing grey sweats and a Johnny Cash t-shirt that looks like it's been around nearly as long as you have. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, an anxious tell that's desperately endearing.

"C'mon in," he smiles, and you step in, closing the door behind you.

You reach out to cup his face, delighting in the feeling of coarse stubble beneath your fingertips. Your first kiss is chaste. You both lean forward and press your lips to one another gently, exploring.

Then, you let out a little moan and Joel shudders. Heat surges between you, and his hands are cradling your head and brushing your cheek and he's pinning you against the closed door. You're kissing again, nothing chaste remaining, learning the taste of him, his rhythm, the crashing waves of give and take between you.

You wrap one leg around him and smirk when he lets out a throaty groan as you grind against his hard cock. You're pretty sure he's not wearing underwear, the thick bulge seemingly unconstrained in his grey sweats, the whole length pressing against your thigh.

Your head falls back and you let out soft, breathy noises as his lips trace along your collarbone, up your throat, and against that tender little spot behind your ear. When he puts your earlobe between his lips and presses his teeth gently against the skin, your knees go weak and he chuckles, strong arms wrapping around you, holding you up.

"Bed?" he asks, and you breathe yes and then, with a yelp and a throaty chuckle, you're lifted up and spun around and both tumbling into the duvet.

You're grasping at each other, desperate to keep your hands on one another. The only times you part is when you undress, and even then, you're helping each other--pulling the hem of his shirt over his lifted arms, pressing into him as he reaches around and moves to unhook your bra, but then he realises you're not wearing one and lets out a groan, his thumbs brushing alongside the tender skin along your ribs, moving gently as if to cup your breasts, but then he pulls back.

Normally you might wait, do this part slowly, draw out the tease just a little bit longer.

Tonight, though, you're ravenous.

As you fiddle with the buttons of your pants, you tug at the drawstring keeping Joel's sweats on his hips. The bow comes loose in one smooth motion, and he lifts his hips and you pull the sweats down.

Your mouth immediately waters seeing him bare, laid out for you. You watch a bead of precum drip down the head and pool on his belly. The coarse hair of his happy trail glistens with it. He's thick, uncut, and looks painfully hard, his cock head ruddy. "Fuck, you're beautiful," you tell him, and his cheeks redden but he grins. It's boyish, the way he grins, and devastatingly charming.

And, what you're saying is true. His body is gorgeous, something you wish you could sketch. Soft flesh over hard muscle, visible tan lines where his chest and shoulders are noticeably lighter than his arms. The muscles and veins along his throat are driving you absolutely fucking insane as he swallows and looks up at you.

He's got freckles on his shoulders, too, and without thinking, you lower yourself down to kiss at his shoulder. He shakes, just a little, and lets out the most beautiful gasp. It's addictive, pulling these noises from him. You follow the curve of him, giving him a taste of his own medicine--tracing feather-light kisses along his collarbone, up the tendons of his neck, behind his ear. You can feel the blood pulse in his veins as your lips brush along him. Joel goes from panting lightly to full on groaning, rutting his hips up towards you and, frustrated, meeting only air.

"Can I taste you?", you ask, and Joel lets out a half-strangled sound and nods, vigorous.

You scoot back, lower yourself, poke out your tongue and, without any preamble, lick at the slit of his head, tasting the salty, tangy precum.

Joel tips his head back and groans and you decide to be kind. You grasp onto his hips and take him in your mouth, slowly sinking down, inch by inch by inch and now you can feel him at the back of your throat, your saliva dripping down the shaft and collecting in the hair between his thighs.

You bob your head up and down, taking him deeper with each thrust, but your throat is full and there are still inches to go. You relax, doing everything you can to take him deeper, and he starts to thrust up gently.

You let him fuck into your mouth but release one of his hips, allowing him to move as freely as he needs and freeing up your hand, which you shove into your underwear, rubbing furiously at your clit.

It doesn't take much to lose yourself in it, to focus only on the sensation. You're so wet, slick coating your fingers, making the glide that much smoother as you touch yourself. Joel tastes so good, too, the intrusion of his cock the most delicious thing, feeling the way he shudders when you moan, the way he moans when you shudder.

"Fuck-" Joel gasps, and then there's a hand guiding you gently off of him.

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He swallows, hard, and nods. "More than okay. Felt too fuckin' good."

"Oh yeah?" and you lean down, as if to take him back in your mouth, but he chuckles and pulls you back again.

"It's been... a while. For me. And-" He drags his palm down his face, wearing an almost pained expression. "Christ, you just look too fuckin' good down there, mouth stretched 'round me while you touch yourself. An' it feels too fuckin' good, too. I ain't ready for this to be over yet but if you keep lettin' me fuck your throat like that it's gonna be over real quick. And I wanna feel that pretty pussy myself."

You sit back up and he pulls you towards him so you're straddling him.

"You gonna fuck me, Joel?"

"Yes," he breathes, "Yes, baby, please-"

You do an awkward wobble and then stand up, shedding your pants and letting your panties drop, stepping out of them, one foot and then the other, and the way he's watching you is addictive. He watches you with beautiful eyes, drinking all of you in, and suddenly the moment has changed into one of those quiet, intimate moments where you both exhale a laugh.

You straddle him again, and lean down to kiss him, and the electric current surges up. He grabs you by the jaw, meeting your desperation. His lips on yours are exactly the balm you need and you can taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Feels fucking good," you tell Joel as you slide up and down his length. He's not penetrating you, not yet, but the lips of your pussy are spread and you're gliding along him, feeling his head at your clit and thrusting back till you're nearly seated on his balls.

He watches you, nearly unblinking, drinking it all in. Then, he lets out a groan, and half-sits up, suddenly focused.

"Shit," he closes his eyes in frustration, "I don't have any condoms. Shit shit shit-"

You push him back down and kiss him again. Then, you hop off the bed and sift around in your jean pockets.

"Ah-ha!," you exclaim, once you've found your treasure. Joel raises and eyebrow and you wink. "Saw they were selling them in the lobby. Figured it might be a good idea."

"Shit," Joel laughs, and presses his lips just to the side of your mouth. "Clever girl," he tells you, and a shiver goes up your spine.

He leans to help, but you shoo him away and he watches, entranced, as you neatly open the condom wrapper and, with a small amount of difficulty, roll it down his cock.

"Feeling okay?" You ask him, "Shit, I shoulda gotten the Magnums. Is your dick okay? It's not being choked to death by an inappropriately sized rubber, is it?"

Joel snorts. "We'll manage," he says, and then he grips you by the hips, lines himself up. He draws his knuckles along your cunt and groans, "Fuck, so goddamn wet for me-" and, the moment you look at him and nod, he holds the head of his cock against your drooling lips and presses into you.

It's a big stretch as he lowers you down onto him, the intrusion almost painful, but before you can even take a breath, it melts into absolute pleasure. You've fucked people with longer cocks before, and you've fucked people with girthier cocks before, but never have you fucked someone with a cock that's both this long and thick and it feels like you're being split in two and it's perfect and you realise, with a sudden flip of your stomach, he isn't even fully seated inside you yet.

Then, you manage to focus on the words Joel is saying-that had really just been background noise for the past ten seconds or so-and suddenly you're tuning back in for "Tha's it," his voice low and hoarse, surprisingly gentle, "Good girl, takin' this cock so well, look at you."

His brow is furrowed and he's looking at you with such dark eyes, nearly black, the pupils are so blown. "Just a little more, that's it, just one more inch, you can do it, christ, look at you, takin' all of me."

His tone is reverent and it sets a fire through you. You can feel more slickness build and drip out of you, and from the way he moans, you're certain he can feel it too despite the condom.

"So fuckin' wet," he groans, "Soakin' my cock- grippin' me so nice-Fuck--"

He leans towards you and cradles your head in his hand, kissing you hard.

When you both pull back, you know your lips must be kiss swollen and red. His are--they're soft and bright, and you want to eat him whole.

"You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

He's thrusting into you lazily, holding you in place, but you need more, you need all of him.

You push forward and move his hand from your waist to your clit. As you manoeuvre him, his nostrils flare, and you'd wonder if he was angry, if not for the way you felt his cock stiffen even further inside of you. You start to move your hips, to rub up against the thumb on your clit, and to feel every fucking inch of him.

Urged on by the way he groans, you start to ride him, properly. Holding each other close, you fuck down onto him and he leans back, awed.

"Enjoying the show?" you ask.

"Damn- right- I- am-," Joel breathes, every word punctuated with a shuddering breath after you drive back down onto his cock, "Jesus- you- look- so- good- like- that."

You like being watched. Being admired. It sent an extra thrill through you, and your hips stutter, just a little, and now you're following a new, faster rhythm.

"Fuck, that's it, baby-" he praises, "Shit, yes- bounce on it."

You lean forward and kiss his throat, and then he makes this noise, half-strangled and beautiful.

"Shit, honey-- honey, honey, hold on-," he holds you still and you're glad he has, because your brain hadn't quite processed his words.

He's looking at you so earnestly.

"Baby, if you keep ridin' me like this I am gonna blow my load in the next twenty seconds and I don't wanna end this quite so soon."

You hum, a moment of consideration. You stare into his eyes, and part of it is calculated seduction, but another part is getting genuinely lost in the way he looks at you. The crinkles round his eyes. The way he seems able to focus on you, in a way that feels as frightening as it is exhilarating.

"How about this," You smile, "You get yours, and then you can eat me out till I get mine. And if you're ready to go again by the time I've come, we can see where we're at then. Hmm?"

You see a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, and take a moment to appreciate how much he's clearly trying to control himself.

After a moments of avoiding your eye, he looks at you again and he looks utterly wrecked. "You- talkin' like that?" He shakes his head and tries to even his breath. "Fuck, I nearly came right there."

"It's okay," you soothe, and you cup his jaw and resume you movements, riding him like you had before. "You can come if you need to-" your fingertips stroke the stubble of his chin, "You're close, huh? It's okay, daddy, you can let go."

Joel lets out a strangled noise and busts immediately.

You savor the way it feels, the pulse of his cock as he spills into you. No, into the condom, you correct yourself, but you can always pretend-

After his balls relax and you can feel him start to get soft, you hold the condom down as you pull yourself off, and you're nearly unseated when there's a sudden squelch noise that sends you both into tumbles of laughter.

It takes a while to calm down, and you find yourselves heaving, tangled in the sheets, and wrapped up in each other. The condom is hanging limply on Joel's now-soft cock and it's oddly cold and gooey as you accidentally roll against it, and that sends you both off again.

"Fuck," Joel snorts, and tugs at the condom, starting to roll it off his length, "I'd almost forgotten the weird texture of a used condom. Fuckin'... Slug-like."

"That-" you declare, "Is visceral. And I hate it. Thanks."

He snorts, and you suddenly have a question.

"Condoms not making too many appearances in your life?"

"Not many, no."

"What, you usually fuck raw?"

"Just haven't been sleepin' with anyone," he shrugs, nonplussed.

"Well, I gotta say, the good people of Austin have been missing out."

Joel shrugs again, and it comes off as casual, but you notice the way his ears tint pink. "Just- not been something I did. But now, I guess, I can. And with way less guilt."

"Why guilt? Are-" you venture, dread pooling in your stomach, "Are you married?"

His eyes flit up to you sharply, and then soften immediately. He lets out a breath and shakes his head. "No. Nothin' like that. I was married, but I've been divorced nearly twenty years now."

The tightness immediately uncoils and you realise how tense you were only a moment ago. I am not a cog in the machine of a collapsing marriage. Thank fuck.

But now your curiosity is piqued. "So... why the guilt?"

"Sorry, I- I really didn't mean to get into it. I'd rather not get into it. It's- complicated."

"Of course," you shrug, and it isn't a problem because this is just a hot fantasy hookup that you'll remember fondly, and it'll be wonderful masturbation fuel for probably the rest of your life, but you don't wanna make the poor guy go into his life's trauma, especially when he's looking at you so fucking earnestly and you are actually really fucking fascinated but no, you would not let this become a problem.

"Thanks," he says, and then steps out of the room. You hear the clang of the bin as he steps on the pedal, then drops the condom, takes a piss and washes his hands.

"You hungry?" He asks, and you realize very suddenly, you're absolutely famished.

"Yes," you jump up and he laughs when you run, bare-assed and shameless, over to the corner of the room filled with brochures and traveller info and finally, you raise it in triumph when you find it, the list of nearby takeaways.

"Okay," you look at the list, "There's one place at the top of the list here that's apparently highly rated, but I actually have plans there soon and I wanna wait till then to eat there. Hope that's okay."

Joel comes over to you and rests his head on your shoulder. "No problem."

"But... alright," you continue. "There's pizza. Or... more pizza. Or, look--there's a Southern-style place, that'll make you feel right at home!" Joel pokes you in the side and you swat at him as he grunts a laugh.

Suddenly, a warning sound starts playing on loop in your brain. It was dreadfully domestic, wasn't it? This was an absolute stranger you'd just met in a hotel bar? But... it also felt... nice? And it felt nice in ways that you'd never found yourself enjoying before. Even with long-term partners. Maybe because this was so low-stakes, you reasoned, such an inevitably temporary situation, so you weren't putting the same kind of pressure on yourself.

As soon as you think that, the eternal curse of overthinking shows itself and you suddenly feel desperately self conscious. Before you can pull away and make some excuse, though, Joel's arm wraps around you and his thumb starts rubbing little circles into a tender bit of skin between your hip and your tummy. The anxiety spiral you'd been teetering on the edge of suddenly vanishes.

"How about-," he nods at the list, "Pizza?"

After Joel calls in your order, the pizza delivery service tells you to expect your food in about thirty minutes. You remember you have a little box of edibles. You ask Joel if he minds if you take one, and he doesn't. You offer him one, and he automatically declines, but then as he starts to explain, he pauses and pivots, goes "Wait, actually. Yeah. Why not?"

A freckled kid who looks no more than sixteen pulls up with a short stack of pizza boxes and a two liter bottle of root beer. He raps awkwardly on the door after exactly thirty five minutes, and it swings open.

The room looks utterly wrecked, clothing strewn along every surface. Joel answers the door wearing a robe, his entire face smelling of sex, and his moustache still shining with the slick of your release.

"Thanks, kid," Joel nods, and hands him a small wad of cash. The kid eyes him and shrugs. "Keep the change," he tells him, and the door swings back shut.

The edibles have hit beautifully. You're both blissed out, comfortably hazy, lost in the sensation of bare limbs on bedsheets and the flavors of the pizza and it's assorted sauces. You lay together on the bed, paper plates strewn between you. In the background, an X-Files rerun plays.

"Ooh!" You sit up as you catch the premise of the episode, "I love this one! See the goo? There's a giant fungal... entity.. that's working on digesting them, and giving them hallucinations as they die."

"You and mushrooms, huh?" Joel laughs, but then looks back at the episode and contemplates the viscous yellow goo. "Jesus christ," he frowns, and sniffs, now contemplating the mushrooms on his pizza slice.

You spot his glare and snort. "I think you're safe."

He takes another bite and shakes his head as if to clear it.

"I'm getting tired," he admits.

"Me too," you agree.

"No pressure, but in case it wasn't clear, you're welcome to stay the night here."

"That's sweet," you tell him, and think it over. "If I took you up on that, would you be offended if I slip out early?"

Joel raises a brow.

"I have a cat," you explain, "And I'm working on moving into a new place, and meeting a friend for breakfast, and then I need to check out after breakfast because I won't be able to get my keys for the new place until the breakfast but I can't take my cat to a diner-"

You take a breath.

"Basically, I've got a bunch of things I need to do in the morning, but if you don't mind me slipping out around, maybe, 5-ish, then I'd love to stay."

He stares at you.

You regret saying as much as you said. You don't need to over-explain yourself to this actual stranger. He doesn't care. There's no reason for him to care. He's probably in it just for the fuck, and it was fun and if you stay then there's a chance the two of you will wake up at some point in the night, still horny and lustful and you might fuck again and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of the draw. You realise, though, you'd also be lying if you said you didn't care what he thought of you. All of a sudden, you are overwhelmed with caring what this man thinks of you.

How fucking inconvenient.

"I wouldn't be offended at all," Joel chews, swallows, wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin and speaks again. "What's your cat's name?"

You don't know what you'd expected he'd say, but it wasn't that. You buffer for a moment. "It's- Spatula."

"Spatula?"

"Yep." You feel foolish.

"Huh. Spatula."

A silent moment between you.

"Got any pictures?"

You weren't expecting that, either. "I... do? Do you want to see them?" He nods. You pull out your phone to scroll through.

Joel, suddenly scrambled around for his phone, too. It was late and he hadn't checked it for hours. Had it been on silent? What if Sarah had called and he'd missed it?

His panic eased when he saw he had only two notifications. Both from Sarah, but neither were bad. He hadn't been neglecting any crises. The first text was a selfie of Sarah and an unfamiliar person, which she'd texted to him with the caption New roomie!! The second contained an address to the place they'd have breakfast tomorrow along with Just wanted you to know I've invited a friend to join us tomorrow morning! Is that okay? Realized I should maybe have checked with you? 😬

There was an ache in his chest. He wanted to keep her to himself, get to spend one last day, just the two of them. It was the start of a whole new chapter, but more than anything, he wished he could hold onto the moment for just a second longer.

But Sarah was stressed, he knew this, so he wasn't gonna make it worse and put this burden on her. He could handle it. He had to handle it. He typed back- No problem, baby. Can't wait to meet your friend.

After a moment, he followed up with another text. Gonna turn in now. Good nite!

The less he texted right now, the better. He did not want Sarah to know anything about the night he was having.

His screen lit up a moment later. Night Dad! He takes a deep breath and wills some of the tension away.

He slips his phone aside and you scoot into bed next to him.

"This," you announce, "Is Spatula."

Joel scrolls thru, his brows raising higher with each image.

With a single nod, he opens his mouth and instead of speaking, he collapses into laughter. It comes out a wheeze- "I-- I know this won't make any sense, but your cat looks just like my goddamn brother."

You're laughing now too, both of you almost hysterical, even though you have no frame of reference. You cherish the absurdity.

Then, Joel pulls up a picture on his phone and shows you, and now you're doubling over again because his brother looks exactly like Spatula.

You don't remember falling asleep. You curse your body's internal clock because you wake up right at 5am, and even though you know you should get up and leave, you wish you could have just a little bit longer.

It's such a comfortable way to wake up. One arm is folded under your pillow, and the other is slung over Joel's hip. He's asleep, snoring softly, and strands of his hair are mussed along his forehead. Your hand is holding his tummy, but you realise there's something pressing against the heel of your hand, and then realise, with a delicious jolt, that he's hard and straining against his boxers.

It's so fucking hard to get out of that bed, but with enough barely-effective reminders--you're gonna fuck up your whole day if you're late, gotta make a good impression, Spatula's gonna be so disappointed if you're late with his breakfast--you manage to bully yourself out of the warm and wonderful bed containing blankets and absolutely fantastic dick, and you tiptoe through the room, dress quickly, and, after making a note and leaving it on his bedside stand, you slip out.

Joel wakes up with a jolt, and then rolls over to see that the alarm clock (which he dared not contemplate the number of times he must have snoozed) was telling him it was 9:13.

He was late. Really fucking late. And then the panic made his brain spin faster and that's when he noticed the note on his bedside table.

I had a really good time If you're in town for a little longer, don't be a stranger?

It's followed with your name and phone number, and a rather detailed mushroom sketch across the page. He wasn't sure what kind of mushroom it was, but it was beautiful, and clearly hand-drawn, and for whatever reason you'd decided to tear it out of, presumably, your sketchbook? And you gave it to him, and he's gonna read that note and replay last night for the rest of his fucking life. It felt incredibly precious. He placed it in a book so it wouldn't get creased or folded. Made sure it was all contained and neat, totally flat in between the pages.

Then, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

After scrubbing the smell of sex off of his entire body, he dresses quickly and checks his watch again. 9:28.

He texts Sarah and lets her know he's a few minutes behind. She responds with an eye roll emoji.

Joel settles in his truck and pulls up directions. It's only a few minutes away. He won't be too late.

When Joel steps into the diner, he's charmed by it. It's old school, with a checkerboard floor and bright red vinyl seats. He scans the room till he spots Sarah in a booth in the corner. She's laughing over a hot chocolate, and her friend must be in the seat opposite her.

He catches Sarah's eye and she grins at him, waving him over.

You've been at the diner about fifteen minutes, and you and Sarah are already getting along beautifully.

You'd met on a university message board and had become fast friends, but meeting someone in person was always a little terrifying. On top of that, you'd already committed to spending at least one (academic) year with this person, so you were damn sure gonna make it work.

Sarah waves over her dad. You can't see him yet, the back of the booth too high.

But then he's standing right there.

You already have a hand outstretched, but when he sees you and you see him, your stomach flips and dread runs through you. All the color drains from his face. He looks like a deer in headlights, and you'd be surprised if you didn't look the same.

Sarah looks between you, not quite concerned, but definitely confused. Sarah smiles and tries to diffuse the situation.

"Hi dad!" She grins, "This is my new roommate! Well, the other new roommate--the one in the picture, their name is Ellie, they weren't able to make it this morning. BUT. Breakfast seemed like a great time to hand off keys!"

Joel is still frozen and white-faced. Your brain whirs, and you know you've just fucking catapulted yourself into a disastrous mess, but you do your very best to save face.

Reaching your hand out further so he can't possibly miss it, he gives into some familiar social instinct, takes it and you shake. You think of his hands, how they dragged along your body last night, touched you, felt you, wrecked you.

You introduce yourself. He nods, avoiding eye contact.

"Joel." He grunts. "Miller."

Sarah frowns at him, but turns back to the menu.

This- was unexpected. Problematic. Arguably, really fucked up. All of those things and more. But it'll be fine.

All throughout breakfast, you repeat that to yourself, letting the words bounce around your head. It will be fine, you repeat your mantra, it will be fine, and you try not to feel too hurt at the way Joel's avoiding eye contact as if simply looking at you will cause him unimaginable disgust.

Everything will be fine.

Note: The fic's premise is loosely based on the book Mistakes Were Made which is a fucking excellent sapphic romance novel that utilises this trope. Would strongly recommend the book if you're into smutty queer stories.

[rosepetalsinwinter]

Five Years That Felt Like a Millennium (2) — Bucky Barnes

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x reader

Word count: 7,579

Summary: Baby Girl isn't doing too well after seeing Quentin.

Warnings: illusions and mention of violence, abuse, manipulation, and cheating, self-deprecation, fluff, flirting, angst

Note: I apologize for my absence. The response to the first part has been unbelievable! Thank you all so much. I hope I can do it justice.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Happy Reading! 💜

Bucky didn't know a person could cry so much. Surely, the body must have surpassed a threshold ages ago for maximum fluid expulsion, but it seemed unlikely. Tears ran unbidden down Baby Girl's face, soaking into her white camisole, still wet from the lake. At least her body no longer wracked with sobs, which was a small accomplishment, he supposed.

He filled a glass with cold water. "Here, drink this."

Baby Girl's movements were almost mechanical as she took measured sips, slowly draining the glass. She stared at her reflection in the crystal, then abruptly stood, making Bucky hastily step back. Barefoot and half-dressed, she made for the front door.

Bucky blocked her path. "Where are you going?"

She went around him and reached for the handle, but Bucky intercepted her just in time, pulling her by the wrist. Her eyes were unfocused and wild, darting this way and that. "Hey!" She froze. "Hey," he said again, softer and with considerably less force. "What's going on in that smart brain of yours, huh? What are you thinking?"

"I need to find Quentin," she gulped. "I need to apologize to him. I need to make things right before he—"

She choked on her words, but Bucky knew her enough by now to predict what she would say next. "Before he what? Before he hurts Sam?"

Her face crumpled. "Maybe if I get down on my knees and beg, he'll forgive me, and things can go back to the way they used to be."

Bucky felt his previous anger return. Quentin Beck was a goddamn asshole because, in the span of a few minutes, he had managed to turn a bright and bubbly soul into an inconsolable mess.

"Is that really what you want?" he asked. "You want things to go back to the way they used to be?" Bucky already knew Baby Girl's answer, but he felt it was imperative for her to acknowledge out loud.

"No," she croaked. "Not really, but I don't have a choice. Quentin will hurt Sam and his family."

Bucky wiped the fresh tears from her face, letting his hands linger on her cheeks. "And what about you? He's hurting you. Are you not Sam's family?"

Baby girl began crying anew. Bucky carried her to the couch and held her close, letting her tears run down his bare skin. They sat like that until her breathing eventually evened, and her eyes drooped close. Bucky didn't dare move. Baby Girl was cradled in his arms and against his neck, legs stretched on the couch.

His eyes began to close, sleep slowly taking over, and he was going to let it. They both needed rest after the day's events, but sleep wasn't in his fortune. Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he startled awake, awkwardly maneuvering around to retrieve it without disturbing Baby Girl.

It was Sam. Bucky glanced down at the sleeping form in his arms. Dried tears painted her face, her eyes were puffy, and her nose red. Bucky's heart lurched in his chest, and he made a hasty decision—promise be damned, Bucky would fix this for her.

He answered the call. "Hey, Sam." And told him everything .

"Sam?" Bucky asked, after Sam had been quiet too long.

Sam sounded wretched with grief. "I knew something was wrong. I just never imagined..."

Bucky sighed, already anticipating the blame game. A family trait, he considered. "It's not your fault. Quentin Beck is to blame, and he will pay for his actions, I promise you." Though Bucky couldn't see him, he imagined Sam nodding his frustration. "Do you think you could get in contact with Congressman Lockhart?"

"Congressman Lock—why?"

"He owes me a favour," said Bucky, not mentioning that he had saved Lockhart's life. "How much are you willing to bet that Lockhart has met Quentin Beck before, and that Beck has probably left a less-than-savoury impression on the Congressman?"

"I don't understand."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Sam."

Sam was impressed. "I'll ask Torres to get us in contact."

Bucky smirked, feeling a satisfaction spread over him at the thought of Quentin Beck rotting in a jail cell. "You do that. When do you think you'll be back?"

Baby Girl shifted in his arms, and Bucky softened his voice. "Day after tomorrow? Alright, keep me updated." He ended the call.

"Who was that?" came a groggy voice. Baby Girl's eyes were closed, and she was in the process of waking up.

"Sam," Bucky answered, adjusting her in his arms. "His business is taking longer than usual. He and Sarah will be back in a few days.

Baby Girl pushed away from Bucky, sat up next to him, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes trailed to his chest and widened in mortification. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I drooled all over you."

When she reached over to wipe him clean, he grabbed her wrist. "Why do you make it a habit to apologize for things out of your control?"

She suddenly jerked away from him, putting ample space between them. "I can hardly help how I feel. If I feel sorry, I apologize."

"Well, don't." Bucky stretched his legs, groaning at the relief. "I'm a grown man," he teased, wiping his chest with the back of his hand. "I can handle a little drool."

Baby girl looked down at her palms, forlorn and despondent. "I'm a mess," she muttered.

"Yes, you are," Bucky responded quietly. She jerked her head in surprise, expecting him to dispute her. But she didn't need his false reassurances any longer. Bucky wanted the full weight of her circumstances bearing down on her so she might escape from the haze of melancholy and finally fight back.

Bucky looked out the window at the setting sun. It cast a beautiful golden glow over the two of them. "You should change into something comfortable," he told her. "There's a lot to talk about."

"Quentin was in one of my electives at school." Baby Girl was freshly showered and changed, wearing Bucky's sweats because she was out of clean clothes. They were enormous on her frame, which suited her well.

Bucky had also changed and was sitting across from her on the kitchen table, a warm cup of tea in his hands. It was something floral with a bitter note. He took his plain while she drowned hers in honey.

"Abnormal Psychology," she continued, "which is ironic because I diagnosed him with narcissism a few years into our relationship. I never told him, obviously. It wouldn't have ended well."

The conversation—long overdue—produced a painful pit in Bucky's stomach. He recognized it as suppressed rage, slowly building in potency and power. Bucky took a large sip of his tea, letting it burn his tongue so he might focus on anything other than the need to punch Beck's face.

"I tripped over his bag. He helped me up; apologized, and asked me to dinner."

Bucky couldn't help how bitter he sounded. "And you said yes."

She looked at him with dead eyes. "I wish I had. Then my life wouldn't have turned into a Shakespearean tragedy."

"That seems a bit bleak," Bucky snorted.

"But isn't it?" she implored. "Bleak? He was my first serious boyfriend; I moved in with him after two weeks and quit my job after a month. He didn't say 'I love you' until I threatened to leave him when I found out he was cheating. I pretended to look the other way when I found another girl's bra in our bed. I laughed when I saw lipstick stains on his collar. I gave him my virginity on my birthday, the day after I found out he cheated on me again. If that isn't bleak, if that isn't a tragedy, then what is? Perhaps it's the fact that I made excuses for him the first time he hit me. I told myself he was aiming for the wall, and I got in the way of his fist, but let's be honest, I was deluding myself."

Baby girl took a deep breath and dug her nails into the table. Her previous sorrow was replaced with unbridled anger. "I recognized all the signs. I knew he was using me—manipulating me! He even said so himself. We were at a party, and his friend said I was 'quite something.' Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean! Quentin said, 'She is, isn't she? But I gotta tell you, I'm not with her for that brain of hers.' I was standing right next to him! He and his friends undressed me with their eyes, and I just stood there and smiled!"

Bucky felt his rage simmering—at Beck, at the situation, at her . "Why are you blaming yourself? It's not your fault!"

Baby Girl pushed away from the table and paced around. "Don't!" she shouted. "Nothing you say will make this okay, Bucky. Nothing you say will make what I did okay!"

Bucky stood up as well, breathing heavily. He had known her less than a week but already felt burning concern on her behalf. "And what did you do?"

"Nothing!" she screamed, and her shrill voice echoed throughout the empty house. "I did nothing! Quentin threatened Sam, then once Sam blipped, he threatened Sarah and the boys, and I knew it wasn't a bluff because he had the connections to back him up. I knew, because I'm the one who helped him get those connections in the first place!"

Bucky sucked in a quick breath. "What connections?" Baby Girl had calmed somewhat after her brief yet brutal rant, and she sat down at the table, sipping her tea.

"What connections!" Bucky almost shouted.

Baby Girl startled. "I don't know! Businessmen, stockbrokers, a lot of Wall Street types. They paid attention to him when he had a pretty girl on his arm."

"Was that all?" Bucky probed.

Baby Girl shook her head. "There were a lot of government officials, too. I told you, remember? FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Senators, UN spokespersons, congressmen, federal court judges—"

"Repeat that."

"Federal court—"

"No!" Bucky interrupted again. "What you said before."

"Congressmen?" Baby Girl huffed in annoyance. "I don't understand why that stood out to you the most. Are federal court judges not impressive enough for you, Bucky?"

Bucky ignored her snark and sat across from her. "Do you happen to know a Congressman Lockhart?"

Baby Girl paused before taking a sip from her cup. "Surprisingly, yes. Mr. Lockhart left a lasting impression when he didn't try looking down my dress every few minutes or shoving his hand up my leg."

"That's disgusting," he frowned.

"That's life," Baby Girl retorted. "Trust me, I had it better than most women."

Bucky shook his head, hating how she downplayed her struggles. "That's not okay."

Baby Girl scoffed without heat. "Like things were so much better in the forties. Right, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky ignored any feelings the utterance of his title from her lips brought forth. "I didn't stand for that then, and I don't stand for it now."

Thankfully, she seemed to have mercy on him and let the topic slide. "He didn't seem to like Quentin much; Lockhart. He asked me a lot of questions, and I think he got suspicious when I couldn't answer anything."

"Like what?"

"Like what I do for work, my interests, how I met Quentin. I couldn't tell him anything without revealing how abusive Quentin was. He especially didn't like it when he found out I was Sam Wilson's adopted kid sister."

Bucky was intrigued. "What did he say?"

"Nothing. He ignored Quentin for the rest of the event, but right before it ended, he pulled me aside and..." she trailed off.

"What?" Bucky encouraged her.

Baby Girl looked at him with shame and guilt swimming in her irises. "Congressman Lockhart told me I was making a mistake. He told me Quentin was using me because of my relation to Sam Wilson. He told me men like Quentin were rotten to the core, and I should run the other way and never look back." She gulped. "I should've listened to him."

Bucky shook his head. "You made a decision. You couldn't have known."

She didn't hear him, seemingly playing the scene in her mind. "Then the strangest thing happened. Congressman Lockhart called a few days later to meet about the project Quentin had proposed. Quentin was ecstatic, as you can imagine. He was overly sweet with me that day." Her brows puckered in confusion. "But I never understood... Why warn me away from Quentin only to cozy up to him later?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, thinking everything over, connecting the dots. "Congressman Lockhart is a good man," he said. "A good and clever man."

Baby Girl narrowed her eyes. "How do you know him anyway? What does he have to do with anything?"

Bucky hesitated. He didn't want to get her hopes up if his plan didn't work, but he also couldn't watch her beat herself up any longer. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, had Bucky wrapped around her fingers since she wrapped her arms around his waist that day on his bike. This girl, who laughed and cried and smiled and was never afraid to voice her opinion. This girl, who looked at Bucky with admiration in her eyes, who looked at his metal arm with gentle curiosity and without any of the disgust or malice he was used to. Who kept her questions light and discrete so as not to unsettle him. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, who made Bucky smile.

He would do anything for her. Even if it meant keeping his scheme a secret.

Bucky hesitated, not wanting to lie to her, but finding he had little choice. "I have a plan," he said. "To get rid of Quentin Beck for good."

And Bucky was presented, for the first time since their swim in the lake, a genuine and awe-filled smile, directed entirely at him.

"Lemonade?"

Bucky swam toward the deck, hoisting himself from the lake. Baby Girl was sitting on the edge, letting her bare feet skim the cool water. "You take such good care of me," Bucky teased. He gave a playful shake of his head, sending droplets of water her way.

Baby Girl shrieked and raised her hands to cover her face. "You ass!"

With a chuckle, Bucky leaned back on his elbow, reaching for the drink.

"And to think I brought you sustenance!" Baby Girl pushed a plate of fruit toward him.

Bucky picked up a fruit with a deep purple flesh and examined it with suspicion. "Is this alien food? It looks like something you might find in Asgard."

Baby Girl stared in awe. "You've been to Asgard?"

Bucky was still looking at the teardrop-shaped product. "Not yet," he declared confidently and bit into the flesh. Bucky paused a moment, staring at Baby Girl before taking a larger bite. "What the fuck? Why is it so good?"

Baby Girl laughed. "What, you've never had a fig before?" She grabbed one for herself and showed him a better way to eat it. "You pinch it at the top. Split it open. Fold it over, and voila!" She popped it in her mouth, groaning as flavour burst across her tongue.

"I thought it was some weird kind of plum!" Bucky exclaimed, grabbing another.

"Nope, just a fig."

"Just a fig, she says," Bucky teased. "And what's this?" He threw a shiny orange fruit in the air, catching it just before it smacked Baby Girl in the face.

She took it from him with an unconvincing frown. " This —is a persimmon. You know it's ripe when it's ready to burst. I like to pinch the skin like this—" she demonstrated by making an incision with her teeth, "and suck the flesh." Baby Girl moaned in delight. "I missed this."

Bucky intensely observed her, paying close attention to a drop of persimmon juice on her lip.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bucky reached over to wipe the juice with his thumb. "You're a mess," he said hoarsely. Then, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off as she watched him. "It's sweet."

She stared at him, soft lips parted and breaths uneven. "Did you think it would be sour?"

Bucky shrugged and picked up one for himself, following Baby Girl's instructions and getting a proper taste. When he was halfway through his fruit and Baby Girl was still gawking at him, Bucky realized he had taken the flirting a bit too far.

Satisfaction crackled in his muscles, and he twitched out a smirk. It was only a small accomplishment that he had retained some of his frivolous ways, but he was still proud. "What else do you have for me?" he inquired loudly, effectively diverting her.

Baby Girl quickly composed herself, dropping the rest of her persimmon onto the fruit plate. "Watermelon and grapes."

"Does the watermelon change colours, and do the grapes taste like cotton candy?"

"Change colours—No!" Baby Girl gawped. "You have a strong imagination." She suddenly turned thoughtful. "I was thinking of grabbing the cotton candy grapes, though. But they're too sweet for me."

It was Bucky's turn to gawp. "I was being sarcastic. Do cotton candy grapes really exist?"

Baby Girl smiled. "They've been around a while. I'll get you some next time."

Bucky reclined on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. "Next time. I like the sound of that." He caught her eye and asked her the burning question. "So, you've decided to stay?"

Baby Girl pushed the empty glasses and fruit tray away, lying back on the deck. From this angle, with Bucky hovering over her, the sun didn't burn her eyes. She smiled a sad smile. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice," Bucky replied fervently. "We would never keep you against your will."

Baby Girl shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Quentin will always find me. He's possessive of his things."

"You're not a thing . And he doesn't deserve you."

"Maybe I deserve him."

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears. He understood the feeling of helplessness—the intense guilt that followed. Even now, after being pardoned and making amends, Bucky couldn't stop guilt from seizing him in the dark hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable and exposed.

He often looked around and wondered if he deserved the life he had been given, this second chance that none of his victims had the fortune of. On more of a surface level, Bucky understood he was as much a victim as any other. A prisoner in his own body. He, and he alone, knew the struggle he had put up for almost twenty years before finally succumbing.

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears, and saw himself reflected in them. He saw himself as a younger man—a better man—waging a war against invisible demons, and he understood. Trauma left its presence in various ways, and the evidence of it was scattered all across her vulnerable physique.

Bucky reached for a strand of her hair. "Sometimes, the hardest prison to escape from is the one we build in our own minds."

Baby Girl turned her head to look up at the sky. "That sounds like something you'd hear at the therapist's."

"And I'm giving it out for free," Bucky smiled.

They both said nothing for a short while, enjoying the sun, and soaking each other's company.

"He used to tell me I was beautiful every day." Her brows creased. "Well, not exactly. He never called me beautiful. He called me hot, and sexy, and fire—" she suddenly scoffed. "I hated that. 'You look fire.' One day, even that stopped. I remember thinking he didn't love me anymore because that's what attracted him in the first place."

Bucky played with her hair, letting her say what she needed to.

"Objectively, I know I'm attractive. I was told often enough by his friends. But I haven't felt pretty in a long time. And it disgusts me that I needed his validation to feel good about myself." Baby Girl took a deep breath, shaking slightly from the overload of emotions. "Sorry."

Making sure she was looking at him, Bucky leaned his head down and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her skin was soft and warm, and he lingered a moment longer than necessary. "You're beautiful," he murmured, savouring her sweet scent. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Baby Girl stiffened under him, eyes widened with surprise, soft lips parted in exhale. She blinked furiously, grabbing her necklace in a white-knuckled grip—a dainty gold crescent moon with black detailing. "I feel very hot," she croaked.

Indeed, Bucky could hear her heart furiously pumping blood through her veins due to his risky kiss. He bent down and placed another, dangerously closer to her lips than the previous. "Let's cool you down then," he smirked, grabbing her around the waist and launching both of them into the lake.

He lost his hold on her as they submerged in the cool water. Bucky kicked off the bottom and broke the surface, looking around for her. Baby Girl emerged a moment later, mascara lines running down her cheeks and brows creased in a furious frown.

She wiped her face and scoffed, "You absolute ass!" When Bucky laughed at her, she splashed him with a large swell of water, which went into his mouth. He choked and sputtered between laughter, welcoming her gentle abuse with a large smile.

"You said you were hot," he rationalized. "I only wanted to cool you down."

Baby Girl intensified her attack, wading closer until she was on top of him, attempting to submerge his head. "You idiot!" she yelled. "My clothes are all wet!"

"Pity," Bucky sputtered, trying to grab hold of her, but she was relentless in her assault, flailing her limbs in reckless abandon.

"Die!" she shrieked, managing to clamber on top of him. She wrapped her legs around his neck and pushed him under, painfully pulling at his roots in the process.

All this time, Bucky could've easily subdued her. But where was the fun in that? When her legs tightened a smidge too much, and Bucky could no longer breathe, he finally put an end to their little game. He clasped his hand around her ankle and gave a gentle pull. Baby Girl fell from his shoulders with a dramatic scream, and realizing she had far surpassed his patience, began to swim away.

Bucky grabbed her ankle once more, keeping her in place. "You brat," he hissed. "I'll teach you a lesson."

Her panicked laughter brought a large smile to his face. Seeing her happy because of him; after the horrible week she'd had, filled Bucky with indescribable pride.

"No!" she giggled. "No more. I'm tired." In fact, she had stopped swimming and was struggling to stay afloat.

Bucky lifted her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protests. "That's enough games for today," he announced, carrying her dripping body inside.

After drying themselves and changing, they settled in the kitchen for dinner. Baby Girl sat on the island with her head resting on her arms, watching Bucky cook.

"Where did you learn that?" she asked when he expertly chopped onions without looking.

Bucky shrugged. "My Ma taught me the basics when I was little. She said cooking was a survival skill."

The girl smiled. "Smart woman."

"That she was," he sighed. "I learned some more in the army. Then, after I was pardoned, I found all this time on my hands and all these cuisines I wanted to try. YouTube is very handy for that."

"That it is." She walked to his side, watching him saute shrimp for the pasta. "You sure you don't want me to help?"

"Yeah, you sit your pretty ass down and relax."

"Yes, Chef!" Baby Girl saluted, not bothering to sit. She exclaimed in delight when Bucky flipped the pan one-handed.

"Wanna see something cool?" he smirked, grabbing a bottle of Cognac from the pantry. "Step back."

Baby Girl shuffled back, and Bucky poured some Cognac into the saucepan. He was so focused on the task that he didn't notice Baby Girl inch closer. Bucky tilted the pan, letting it catch fire, and a beautiful flame blazed powerfully in front of him. He turned, wanting to see her reaction.

She stepped away with a shout, arms raised to protect her face. The flame fizzled away as quickly as it had ignited, but she was still shaking in fear. She fell against the island counter, sliding to her knees.

Bucky turned off the stove and sank next to her, grabbing her arms. "What's wrong?" he worried. "Are you hurt?"

Eyes shut tight, she shook her head, but she was still trembling. "I'm okay."

Bucky didn't believe her. He lifted her up and set her on the counter, sliding between her spread legs. "Hey," he soothed. "What happened just now?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed. "I don't know, I—" Baby Girl exhaled shakily, trying to calm down. "I wasn't expecting—I thought. I'm scared of fire," she eventually admitted.

Bucky frowned. He vividly remembered the night of the bonfire, where she chased AJ and Cass around the large fire. There was no hint of fear on her face that night, no discomfort or hesitancy. He told her as such.

"I don't know. I think it's because the bonfire was out in the open. It was controlled and didn't feel as dangerous. But indoor fires..." She left the next part unsaid, but Bucky understood.

His flambé trick took her by surprise at such close proximity. For a moment, she was transported to her childhood home to relive that fateful night. Bucky hugged her tight, soothing her with kind words of affirmation. "You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."

She clutched tightly onto him, burying her face in his neck, breathing heavily into his ears. "Sometimes I think I was supposed to die that night," she whimpered, making Bucky freeze. "I was supposed to die in that house with my family. But I didn't. I'm scared the past will catch up with me one day to finish what it started."

Bucky held on to her tighter.

"I'm scared I'll find myself in that house again, and no one will be there to push me out the window."

"That won't happen," he promised. "I won't let it."

She briefly said nothing, and Bucky worried he hadn't done enough to reassure her.

"Have you seen the house?" she suddenly asked.

"No," replied Bucky, running his hands through her hair. "But Sam told me it was nearby."

Baby Girl hummed. "It's on the far side of the lake, covered by trees. We shared the lake with the Wilsons. Did you know the house is still there? What's left of it anyway. They fixed the damaged parts and put it up for sale. I found out two years ago."

Bucky pulled away from her, meeting her gaze. "It's been up that long?"

"Longer," she replied. "It went up for sale six years ago, but no one will buy it. Who wants to live in a house where an entire family died?"

Bucky wanted to correct her. "You're not dead," he wanted to shout. "You're not at fault. You deserve so much." 

"If I had the money..." she shook her head and dismissed the thought.

Would she buy the house if she could? he wondered. The home where she grew up and created happy memories with her siblings.

Bucky thought about his house in Brooklyn Heights, which had been turned into a poor excuse of a strip mall. The house where he had sleepovers with Steve. Where Rebecca hosted her friends, and Bucky hid underneath her bed to try and scare them. Where he snuck in his prom date, Dorothy, through his bedroom window when his parents were out of town. The time he and Steve were playing baseball on the street, and Steve hit the ball straight through the front window.

Would he buy that house if he could? If it hadn't been bulldozed? He decided he would. He had the desire, and he sure as hell had the money.

"There's no point in dwelling on the past," he parroted. Occasionally, his new therapist offered advice that Bucky kept close to his heart. "You're alive to see another day. Make the most of it."

Baby Girl smiled softly. "You always know just what to say," she teased. "I will."

Bucky was consoled by her steady heartbeat and easy manner. "It's a god-given talent," he shrugged, instantly rewarded by soft giggles and an unenthusiastic shove at his chest.

Once the adrenaline from the scare dissipated, Bucky finally noticed their proximity. Her thighs were bracketing his, and his arms were caging her body. Their breaths mingled in the air between them.

"You're very modest," Baby Girl croaked, jerking away.

Bucky hastily turned to the stove, turning it on and resuming making dinner. "With good reason," he replied, clearing his throat.

He chastised himself while the shrimps finished cooking. Baby Girl had just gotten out of an abusive relationship. Now was not the time to be sweet on her—hovering so close he could smell her shampoo and the scent of her skin.

Wait. Was she out of an abusive relationship? Baby Girl had emphasized that she was only with Quentin because he threatened Sam, Sarah, and the boys. Except, that was no longer an issue as a plan was underway. Bucky knew it, Sam knew it, but did Quentin? Did Quentin assume that his dismissal from the Wilson Residence a few days prior was a fluke? If Quentin returned thinking he could whisk her away as if she owed him anything, he would be sorely mistaken. Bucky would make sure of it.

But where did that leave them? There was obvious attraction—though Bucky was unsure if it was appropriate to act on, considering the circumstances—and they were legal adults, but the path forward felt very unclear. While Baby Girl hadn't shown any unpleasant reactions to Bucky's past, she hadn't particularly reassured him either that it did not bother her. Was it fair to her to be caught up in his mess, along with her own?

So many questions, and yet the answers felt out of reach. Bucky turned around. Baby girl was sitting on the kitchen table, and she gave Bucky a smile that answered at least one question. 

Did she trust him? Her smile said, "Yes. Yes, she did."

Another day passed like all the others. Had it really been over a week since she arrived in Louisiana? Sam and Sarah were still away on "business," and the boys were still at their sleepover—ridiculous really—she knew it was summer break, but there had to be a limit. She and Bucky were still alone together.

Bucky. His name made her burn with embarrassment. Lately, anything and everything related to him made her temperature rise a few degrees. His smile, his presence, his proximity . His hands holding her tight to his chest. Embarrassment always closely followed such thoughts, though for reasons that deeply ashamed her because never, in the entirety of her relationship with Quentin, did she feel like this. Beautiful, and desired, and wanted, and free . Happy.

She had invested around six to seven years in her on-again, off-again relationship with Quentin Beck and never managed to blush as furiously as she did in the presence of Bucky Barnes. The White Wolf. War hero. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

While most girls gushed over Captain America in high school, Baby Girl cut out pictures of his best friend from her textbook and plastered them inside her locker. It was a stupid girl crush, one she quickly outgrew as she matured into a young woman. However, the fascination remained. During the past week, this fascination had transformed from a small, barely there spark to a blazing fire. The gruesome analogy was not lost on her, yet it was the only way to vividly describe her deepening feelings.

Bucky Barnes had lit her heart on fire. And that terrified her. Not because she was afraid of men after her relationship with Quentin, and not because of Bucky's unfortunate past, but because of her unfortunate reality. What did she have to offer a man like Bucky Barnes? She had nothing. No job, no prospects, no backbone with which to confidently regard the world. She had spent six years with an abusive man, and she could have left at any moment—could have gathered the courage to trust her brother Sam to take care of all of them. She hadn't taken the opportunity when presented with it, and there was this man, who hadn't been given any semblance of reprieve, and he was stronger for it.

So, no. While there was obvious attraction between them both, she was not sure it was appropriate to act on. She could never deserve the likes of him.

The path ahead was unclear, but somehow she knew he would be there to guide her. And when he chucked her into the lake that evening, laughing loudly at her temper, she smiled back, hoping her face screamed, "I trust you. I do." 

After an uneventful dinner, Bucky sheepishly announced he had to leave. "I forgot I promised Carlos I'd help with his car."

She raised an unimpressed brow, fixing him with a stern look. He had promised to take her shopping for a new phone, and while she wasn't looking forward to a ride on his death trap, she really wanted her games back. "I didn't know you were a mechanic along with being a war hero."

"I'm not a war hero," he responded mechanically.

The words burst from her lips. "If it weren't for you," she snapped, "Doctor Zola would've been on his merry way to design new techniques to destroy the human race. You stopped him. If that's not heroic, I don't know what is."

"I'm not a war hero," Bucky said again after getting over the initial shock at her outburst.

"But you're a mechanic?"

"I'm not that either," he huffed. "Mr. Thurow needs me to tow his car."

"Excuse me?"

"The company overcharges and always ends up damaging the vehicle. He asked me for a favour."

"Do we have a tow truck?" she asked.

Bucky raised his left hand. "I have a metal arm," he pointed out. "And super strength. I can easily tow a car."

Baby Girl was speechless. "How long will you be?"

Bucky checked his watch. "An hour? Less, if I manage to not get roped into game night."

"Game night? It's a weekday."

"Every night's a game night at the Thurow's," Bucky responded seriously. "We'll get your phone first thing tomorrow morning."

"Promise?" she asked his retreating figure.

"Promise," he replied. "Lock the door, alright? And keep the blinds down."

"Alright, Dad," she retorted, but he had already left.

Baby Girl took a deep breath. This was the first time she had been alone in weeks. She sat down on the couch and closed her eyes. A minute passed, then two, then three. Five minutes later, she opened her eyes and saw only thirty seconds had passed. She groaned from boredom and flopped over the armrest. She was loath to admit that she dearly missed Bucky. There was something in his air and manner of walking that brought peace to her inner turmoil.

She sighed, resorting to cleaning the kitchen, which was not dirty in the least. In the middle of her furiously scrubbing the countertop with a sponge, the landline chimed annoyingly from the other room. "Hello," she answered, twirling the cord with her pinky. "Who's this?"

"Baby Girl!" the jolly voice on the other line bellowed. "I was hoping you'd pick up."

"Sam!" The two talked, catching up on the past few days. It turned out Sam was in Washington. "How's Sarah?" she asked. "Is she enjoying her time away from the boys? They're lovely, but they can be a nuisance."

Sam grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

"What?"

"She's on a date," he groaned. "Look, I'm happy for her. But I didn't need to see her exchanging spit with a stranger."

"Poor you," she giggled. "And lucky Sarah! Wowza!"

Sam laughed on the other line. "It's great to hear you happy after so long."

"Hmm," Baby Girl hummed, feeling momentarily guilty. "By the way, I thought you and Sarah were going to New Orleans. What are you doing in Washington?"

"He didn't tell you," Sam said with surprise. "I thought he would."

"Tell me what?"

"I know about Quentin," Sam sighed. "I know you're still dating him."

Her breath got stuck in her throat. "He told you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Don't be mad at him," Sam pleaded. "I made him tell me."

There was shuffling on the other end. A loud sniffle.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry you felt like Quentin was the only one you could count on."

"What exactly did Bucky say?" Baby Girl questioned, thinking Sam was too calm about the situation.

"He said Quentin was blackmailing you to stay with him."

Baby Girl sighed. "Is that all? Did he say anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Like... nothing." She realized Bucky had not disclosed any of the more sensitive subject matter. Not the abuse, nor Quentin's impromptu visit. "It's nothing. I'm sorry I kept this from you."

Sam sighed heavily on the other line. "That's in the past. We can only move forward from here on out."

Baby Girl nodded even though Sam couldn't see her. "You have a good friend," she told him. "Bucky's doing a lot to help. He came up with the plan to distract Quentin with "bigger fish," as he put it. Quentin will forget all about me if he finds something more worthwhile. But I'm sure you know all about that."

"He said what? That's not what we planned!" Sam exclaimed. He swore under his breath. "I need to take this call. It's Congress—I'll tell you soon, alright? I'll call you right back."

"Sure," she said, slightly flustered. "I'll be waiting."

Sam ended the call, and she put the receiver down. The second she did, the landline immediately started ringing.

"What took you so long?" she joked with a laugh. "I've been waiting hours for your call."

"You have? I knew you missed me."

Baby Girl felt her heart drop to her stomach. The voice on the other line was not quite as deep, or quite as warm. It was low and raspy, eliciting goosebumps across her arms and bad memories across her skin.

She made to end the call, but his shrill warning stopped her. "You don't want to do that," Quentin hissed.

"What do you want?" she managed to ask between ragged breaths.

"Straight to the point, I see. You've really changed."

"Fuck you!" she seethed. "I asked you a question." She was surprised by her resolve, and so was he.

"What, you're swearing now? That's not the girl I know."

Her body was trembling with adrenaline. "Tell me what you want, or I'll end the call."

She could feel his anger through the line. "I want to talk to you in person."

"Over your dead body!" she yelled.

Quentin was oddly calm with his response. "No, not over mine."

It was so obviously a bait—one she couldn't help but fall for. "What do you mean?"

"It's a shame," he sighed, "that I'm meeting them for the first time under such shit circumstances. They're cute kids. Would've loved New York."

Time seemed to stop.

"Have you boys ever seen the Statue of Liberty? I'll take you once your Aunt comes back home. We can all go together."

There was a muffled noise, then the slam of a door shutting close. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Baby Girl. Her muscles tightened painfully, and she collapsed onto the couch.

"No," she whispered.

Quentin laughed on the other end. "Cat got your tongue?"

Baby Girl closed her eyes, feeling tears of frustration well in the corners. This is why she kept her distance. This is why she wanted to go back to Quentin and back to New York. But she let herself hope in Bucky's presence, let herself believe that she could have a family while keeping her freedom. "You monster," she hissed. "Don't you dare touch them." But there wasn't any heat behind her words, only the bitter taste of defeat.

He tasted it too, and oh, how he reveled in it! Quentin laughed again, low and menacing. "I told you I wouldn't let you leave so easily. Meet me in person if you want to see your dear nephews again. And don't you dare tell anyone," he hissed. "This is between you and me."

Baby Girl ignored his warning and reached into her back pocket to grab her phone and tell Bucky. But her hand came back empty. She didn't have a phone; she didn't even have Bucky's number. And did she really want to risk the boys' lives by going behind Quentin's back? He didn't want them anyway, he only wanted her.

With tears burning her eyes and a fire blazing in her chest, Baby Girl asked, "Where do you want to meet?"

On the other end, Quentin smiled, knowing he had won.

Bucky reached into his back pocket and grabbed his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, realizing too late that he didn't have her number. His face fell, and he sighed deep and slow, garnering the attention of the room. Carlos Thurow had invited some friends for a game of poker and forced Bucky to play a round with them. That was four rounds ago.

"What's got you so down, Sergeant?" Carlos teased. "There a girl waiting for you at home?" The men laughed and cheered, barraging Bucky with questions.

He found himself smiling, and finished his beer in one swig. "I do, actually," he said, grabbing his jacket and walking to the door. "I should get going."

The men cheered him on, and Bucky left feeling light and tingly. It wasn't from the alcohol—Bucky couldn't get drunk anymore—it was her. His Baby Girl.

The walk to Sam's was warm. The stars were out, the sky clear, and the wind blew gently, ruffling the trees around him. Bucky took a deep breath, smelling the ocean air and the earthy trees, listening to the faint sounds of crickets chirping and owls hooting. A night had never been sweeter.

Once at the house, Bucky lightened his footsteps and creeped onto the porch, feeling mischievous and wanting to spook Baby Girl. The living room light was on, and he could see the television playing silently through the thin curtain. Bucky placed a hand on the door, frowning when it creeped open at the slightest touch.

Didn't he tell her to lock the door? And to leave it completely open? Delacroix was a small community inhabited by kind and lawful people, but there was a crazy ex on the loose. He expected Baby Girl to be more careful than that.

Bucky decided he would give her a proper scare for her carelessness and slipped through the entryway. He sneaked into the living room, arms raised like in the movies, and—

She wasn't there. Bucky quickly scanned his surroundings. TV playing, couch pushed askew, the landline dangling from its cord, the edge of the carpet flipped over as if someone had run over it. Bucky rushed to check the rest of the house, the bedrooms, the washroom—he even checked the lake. Nothing.

He went back to the living room, senses dialed to the maximum. There was no sign of a forced entry, and though a scuffle was apparent, there were no prints or marks that indicated there had been another person. Unless they covered their tracks. But then why leave the carpet overturned, the couch askew? Why make it obvious something had happened?

Perhaps Bucky was overthinking, and Baby Girl had run to the store to grab something. She had already proved herself to be impulsive and clumsy. It wouldn't be a huge stretch to believe she forgot to lock the door behind her in a hurry.

Except, she wouldn't have left without her wallet. Bucky bent down to grab her purse from under the coffee table, feeling dread engulf him at the sight. Palms sticky and breaths uneven, he looked around the room once more. This time, he noticed something he hadn't before, a hastily scribbled note peeking out from under the landline.

Bucky snatched the note, careful not to crease it.

"I'm sorry," it began. "I had no choice. He has the boys." 

Bucky's mind began to race with questions. Most namely, "Where?"

It was then that his senses picked up on something new. The faint scent of smoke. Bucky dropped the note and ran out the back, scanning the horizon. There, on the opposite side of the lake, a thick column of smoke billowed from behind the treeline. The beginnings of a large fire. Baby Girl's house was set ablaze, glowing brightly in the dark. Bucky's heart dropped to his stomach, and he ran.

Note: So... I lied. There will need to be another part.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated!! 💜

@astrophileous @buckylovinglokivariant @casa-boiardi @crazyunsexycool @dancer3205 @dascarypicklerawr @drakelover78 @hallecarey1 @kandis-mom @marantha @marvelatthetwilight @marvelouslyunstable @ria132love @spookyparadisesheep @sunnyhummingbee @traderjoesmints

[shiny-jr]

Congratulations on 5000 followers, that's such an amazing milestone <33

For your event, if you don't mind, could I please ask for the prompt HOLLOW - "Without you, I am nothing. I am empty" with Malleus Draconia

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

– Prompt: Hollow. "Without you, I am nothing. I am empty."

– Character: Malleus Draconia.

– Note: First prompt! I originally didn't plan for it to be this long, but I kinda got carried away when writing. Oh well, it is what it is. Thanks though! Here's your large order of dragon fae content.

In a way, it was pathetic. He was the fae prince, heir to the throne of the valley and named on the list as one of the top magicians in the world without even trying. People fell to their knees in either fear or reverence in front of him, the mere mention of his name was enough to make the ordinary folk tremble, he had enough power to summon destructive storms unconsciously with just his mood. The list of his strengths was as long as the years he lived, he surpassed everyone not only in skills and power but also in age. As a fae, he would live much longer than the majority human population could even imagine.

Despite all this, despite his status, his might, his intelligence, and the abundance of wealth he had, he was alone. Those he did have were far and few inbetween, just enough to count on one hand. On his thumb, his grandmother, the queen; on his pointer finger, Lilia, his caretaker and oldest retainer. Those two were with him since the beginning, for the first hundred years of his life. The rest were only recent additions. On his middle finger and index finger were his newest retainers in training: Lilia’s adopted human son, Silver, and the son of a long time fae lineage loyal to the Draconia family, Sebek. Finally, on his pinky, was the newest addition, a human he met only months ago. Yet months were like a blink of the eye to him, human lives were like flames on a candle, burning brightly and flickering out abruptly and in the next instant. This human must’ve had the brightest candle of all with the most captivating warmth and light, because he was always lured toward them, just like a month to a flame. The reason he thought it pathetic, was because someone like him was reduced to nothing by a mere human. It was much like the most fearsome and mightiest of dragons submitting to the smallest mouse.

And yet, no matter whether he continued to believe it to be pathetic, or he didn’t care, or he actually enjoyed it, there was one fact constantly lingering in the back of his mind: mortality. Fae would always outlive humans, he’s outlived more humans than he could count. And it scared him. When his dear human friend’s candle finally extinguishes one day, what then? Just the thought causes him to lose his composure. He refuses to go back to being alone, back to a life of darkness and despair. Just one taste of the light was enough to make him never want to return to how things used to be, and he would long for that light from them for as long as he lived. Still, the fact remained, what would he do when the flame is at risk of being extinguished? He wasn’t sure if he could handle the grief when that day would eventually come, because the truth was: Malleus depended on his human. This human he held close to his heart was his world, his treasure, and without them he was nothing. He was empty. Would he snap and destroy everything in his vicinity, reducing it all to rubble and ash? Would he isolate himself once more and spend his every waking hours searching for that familiar warmth and light? When he did dream and succumb to the cold darkness, he was sure that his dear human would haunt his dreams too. Now during his lifetime, he had heard of theories and stories of reincarnation. If this held true, he could search for his dear human and reunite with them, but he was certain that even the short time separated with only grief and desperation left would drive him insane. 

[memescomicswriting]

Sneak Peek Sunday

It's Nice to Have A Friend Ch 5: My Heart, My Hips, My Body, My Love

A/N: Welcome to Sneak Peek Sunday! Every Sunday I'll update the Sneak Peak with an excerpt from next Thursday's chapter. I hope you enjoy the teaser!

Series Masterlist

Y/N made it to the clearing earlier than most party goers. Her intent was to arrive before Aemond and Jace, and help set up. This was for them and they shouldn’t be responsible for preparation. 

In a refrigerated bag, Y/N carried a few handles of liquor and litters of mixers. There never came a time where they had to ration booze, but if you wanted something specific, you had to bring it. She left her contribution on the empty kegs turned tables from years prior. Graduation years were spray painted across each one. They went back decades. 

Y/N planned to start directing drink set up when she caught the familiar sight of long silver hair on a masculine form. Aemond was crouched on one knee next to the firepit looking like he wanted to start it.

“You shouldn’t be setting up. This party is for the graduates. That includes you.” Y/N’s announcement startled Aemond, though to the untrained eye, he hadn’t reacted at all. Y/N knew his tells, but she knew better than to tease him. He’d be in a sour mood for the rest of the night.

A faint frown draped over Aemond. Part of him knew she’d gotten to him. He also hated Y/N seeing him struggle, and starting this fire wasn’t easy. “Well since it’s a party for me, I had to make sure it was done right.” 

“Control freak.” Y/N rolled her eyes and smirked knowingly. Before joining Aemond on ground level, she rearranged the firewood so air could better circulate and feed the flames.

Aemond scoffed, though he was slightly amused. “Says the girl literally taking control.”

Y/N kneeled down and claimed his tools. She worked, engaging in his obvious desire to spar. “Aemond, your talent surpasses others in many things. Lighting a fire, I fear is not one of them.”

She stroked his ego while taunting him. His favorite flavor of fun. “And yet the heiress knows how.”

“Huh,” It was a dry and dark utterance from Y/N. “With my history, yeah.”

That was the nail in the coffin to any quips Aemond could retort. How do you win an argument when the trauma card is played. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, no, I took it there.”

“Are you… okay?”

“Yeah,” Y/N sighed and relaxed back onto the forest floor with a plop. She crossed her legs and left her now free hands in her lap. “I just…wanted to understand it. The ways to start it, manage it, end it.”

Aemond nodded in consideration and focused on the unlit logs. “I can see why.”

“I know it’s fucked up.” Y/N continued and refused to look up from her hands and the lighter in them. “But sometimes I wonder what they went through.”

Y/N sparked the lighter and orbited her hand around the flame. Her fingers danced nearer and then distanced from the light like she dared it to grow and claim her too. “What did they feel last? Was it the burns? Or the smoke that did them in. Like if I know the feeling, I could go back and stop it all together.”

Aemond wasn’t skilled in comfort. He sharpened his tongue long ago and dulling the edge with sweetnesses was a difficult act. He tried the best he could, sharing what he knew. “Our ancestors used fire as a tool of divination and sorcery.”

She scoffed at his ridiculous connection. “And it only brought death and destruction to their enemies and to them.”

Aemond shrugged. Regardless of feelings, it was their legacy and legacy was everything to Aemond. “It gave us what we have now.”

Her hard focus snapped to him. Defiance and a tad of horror lived within her gaze; though her words sounded like a caress. “Was it worth it?” He blinked and withdrew in slight intimidation. She spoke of how horrid fire and flame were, yet here he felt their heat radiate off of her. “The histories say they used dark magics to inject fire into their blood and the blood of their decsendents.”

“Perhaps that’s why you’re always so hot headed.” Y/N mumbled.

His immediate reaction was a sharp laugh. “Very clever.”

Y/N side eyed Aemond with a sleek smirk. “I have to be, to keep up with you.” The lighter sparked a piece of kindling. She tossed it into the larger pile beneath the main wood. Then she earnestly addressed him. “Now, the question is, can you keep up with me?” The pair shared an understanding smile.

A/N: Buckle up buttercups, this chapter is a wild one. It may even contain something spicy...

[leaderoffestivals]

Poltergeist Epilogue 1

Natsume: By the wAY, why have you been painting on that canvas for so loNG?

Scenario Writer: Akira Season: Winter Characters: Mikejima Madara, Narukami Arashi, Sakasaki Natsume, Aoba Tsumugi

<A few days later, at the festival event held at Dancing Cranes Home.>

Madara: [HAHAHA! A RIOTOUS MYRIAD OF COLOURFUL FLOWERS! FIERY BLOOMS ARE ABOUT TO COVER THE NIGHT SKY!

LOOK UP, CHILDREN! SEE THAT EVEN IN THIS WORLD, FLAMES OF SUCH SURPASSING BEAUTY CAN EXIST AS WELL!]

Tsumugi: Seriously?! Setting off fireworks in front of children with fire-related trauma is the most thoughtless thing I’ve ever heard of. Do you not even have the smallest shred of empathy at all?

Natsume: That’s a topic you have no right to judge others oN, Senpai. BesidES, the children appear excited and are unexpectedly enjoying the shOW.

After aLL, even if someone hates bell peppers with all their heaRT, they'll think them delicious when wrapped in tasty meAT; and carrots one usually avoids like the plague will be welcomed happily when baked into a sweet caKE.

The children’s hearts and psyches seem strong and resilient enough to handle this muCH, at leaST.

HowevER, this is a brutally rough approach to theraPY. The worst case scenario could have resulted in all the children breaking down into hysterical tears and the festival being cancelED. 

Madara: Hahaha. It’s true, watching the show for too long might cause them discomfort, so I did make sure not to overdo it. However, it just isn’t a festival without fireworks, you knowww——

And we should try everything we can to lift the gloom from the children’s hearts, even if just by a little, riiight?

Arashi: That's right. We’re nothing more than temporary caretakers at Dancing Cranes Home, not meant to make a deep impact in the children’s lives, but even so—

Even if we’re just pretending or this is all just a facade, at this moment, we are the children’s guardians too. 

I want to help relieve their suffering somehow, even if what we do has only the tiniest effect. 

Arashi: ——When I was a child a lo~ng time ago, I was suffering too—

But because I was a child at the time, I didn't realise I was in pain.

It was like I was a land animal, born by mistake in the middle of the sea. And while I believed I was living the same kind of life like everyone else, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was choking and gasping for air.

It wasn’t until I began working as a child model and started comparing myself with other children——

That I realised for the first time how pitiful a child I had been.

That’s when I started to fall apart. Even though I had been absolutely fine up to that point—

With the sudden realisation of my situation, everything became overwhelming, suffocating, and terrifying.

My parents—my family—felt absolutely no interest in me at all. All of them prioritised their own lives over mine, neglecting me entirely.

But, because they justified it all saying it was done for my sake, insisting it was the “cool” way to live—

And because I didn’t know any better, I believed everything they said. 

Tsumugi: … … … It must have been hard, not receiving the love you needed from your family, huh?

Arashi: Exactly. Isn’t love supposed to be something parents give to their children without question, like regular meals or a warm bed to sleep in?

Arashi: But for me, I didn’t get any of that—or at least, I wasn’t given enough of it. That’s why I fled that home, desperately seeking out whatever it was I was missing—

But here’s the kicker—I’d no idea what I was even looking for, because my parents had never shown me what that something was.

Arashi: But then… someone came along and saved me.

He didn’t do anything extraordinary. He just, in the most ordinary way, showered me with the things my dazzling family couldn’t be bothered to do for me—

He cared for me, showed concern when I was struggling, and actually listened attentively to me when I vented about my troubles.

He saw me as a person, recognised me frankly, and treated me as an equal.

It was like he truly saw me—the real me—who was physically there yet feeling like I didn’t exist for anyone at all (2)—

And because of him, the pain I carried was eased just a little—

And for the very first time, it felt like I could actually breathe.

He brought into my life the air I so desperately craved—the kind everyone else seems to get from their parents without fail. It was like one of those fairy tales, where the prince brings the princess back to life with a kiss.

That's the reason why I still love everything about that person, to this very day.

Arashi: And that's also why… 

I want to be that person for the children who are hurting like I was——just like what he was to me.

Please don’t get me wrong, okay? I'm not doing this for you, Mama. I’m doing this purely for me.

Madara: Yup, I'm totally cool with thaaat. We're not comrades from the same Unit; we’re just colleagues who happen to work in the same place. 

However, if we’re aiming for the same goal, we should be able to join forces and work together.

That’s something I’ve learned from my time in Double Face.

Arashi: Fufufu~. Looks like Mama has achieved some personal growth too, huh? Well done, good job ♪

Madara: Hmmm? And who exactly are you to be making that comment to me?

Natsume: FufuFU. WeLL, in any caSE, Mikejima-senpai is the star of this shOW—or at leaST, officialLY, anywAY. That’s why we will be following Senpai’s leAD—

Or rathER—we’ll be providing support so you can achieve whatever it is you’re aiming fOR.

The kitten’s request to get to the bottom of what happened to her frieND, NEGI-chan, was completed pretty satisfactoriLY, if I might say sO— 

And since I’m pleased with how things turned oUT, I’ll stick around a while longer to help you out as a special serviCE.  

After aLL, I’m a childcare worker at Dancing Cranes Home tOO. I’ve got obligations and responsibilities to this place as weLL. 

Tsumugi: Exactly. We’re all part of NEW DIMENSION, and that alone is reason enough for us to support one another, don’t you think?  

Madara: Huh? NEW DIMEN—… … Ohhh, that’s NEWDI’s official name, isn’t it? We’ve been using the shortened name so often that I’ve forgotten that’s what we’re reeeally called! 

Tsumugi: Oh, come on. The bar of your loyalty is set so low, I’m honestly impressed, instead.   

Natsume: WeLL, that doesn’t really matTER, does iT? We might be the smallest and weakest of the four big agencIES, but that’s precisely why we’re free from the various pressures and constraints imposed by the higher-uPS—

Which allows our idols the freedom to do as they please and achieve the goals they set for themselVES.  

That’s a unique advantage given to us by our agenCY, wouldn’t you agrEE?

Tsumugi: Indeed, that’s true. I might be tooting my own horn here, but our agency truly is a great place, isn’t it? 

Mikejima-kun, Narukami-kun, if you both felt the same way too, nothing would make me happier as Vice-President! 

Madara: HAHAHA! Well, I guess after being here for so long, I can’t help but grow quite fond of our agency, too~.

Anyway! This isn’t the time for leisurely chit-chatting, riiight? Our time in this place is running out.

Let's proceed to the final act of our project: the festival.

Natsume: Just like we plannED, rigHT? The staff here gave us free rein over the conteNT, so we came up with the ideas togethER.

By the wAY, why have you been painting on that canvas for so loNG?

Madara: Nope, I’m not painting, I’m restoring it. I’ve already finished what you’d call the main work a while ago; I’m just putting the final touches on it now. 

Tsumugi: Wow! You’re really talented, Mikejima-kun~! You can do just about anything, can’t you?

Madara: Umu… … Look, Natsume-san. You were there with me when I found it, weren’t you? This is the large painting that had been discarded like garbage.

The painting itself isn’t anything remarkable; it’s just an ordinary piece that probably wouldn’t sell for much—

And of course, there’s no secret code hidden in it like you’d see in the movies. 

However, to the children of Dancing Cranes Home, this painting definitely meant a great deal to them—

Because this painting was always hanging in NEGI-san’s room, she who tragically died in the fire. 

Arashi: Yes, that's right. Somehow, it was protected under a collapsed wall and miraculously survived the blaze.

Since it remained intact against all odds, the children couldn't bear to see it being thrown away with the trash—

Because to them, that painting was inseparable from the memory of their beloved friend, NEGI-chan—

Forever shining brightly together in their memories.

—————-To be continued——————

Chapter 17 / Epilogue 2

Translator’s Notes:

Arashi has 2 parents and an older brother. The person who helped Arashi was Kunugi Akiomi. You can read about how they first met in the Scout story "Lookback: Portrait".

This could be a reference to a Moomin story about a little girl, Ninny, who became invisible because she was unloved, and after being cared for by Moomin, turned visible again.

This isn’t proofed, so if you spot any mistakes, please DM me.

[doodle-pops]

Slow Hands

Maedhros x reader

Request: Hiiiii! (You're my fav Tumblr btw, this is my first ask I'm so nervous!!!) Please don't take anything from here offensivelyyyy! So I was going through your blog, and you know based on this ask, I found it rather interesting, and so I was hoping for you to write something based off on this? But personally speaking from House of Feanor, if not (completely your choice), then House of Finwe. Omg, Thanks so much, Love you and your blog! Good day!!!!

A/N: Next time, please state a character of choice. I was gonna make this a lot more angsty that I planned, but I was more in the mood for comfort.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, reader being a domestic abuse survivor

Words: 2k

Synopsis: A burst of anger leave both you and Maedhros in a quake of trepidation, cautious about your next move.

It was more than a week since you last saw his face. His perfect dimpled smile and pearly whites gleaming at you in contentment while his fiery ginger curls would swoop down to tickle your face as he leaned in for a kiss to start your day. No “Good morning, my love” or “How’s my sweet darling fairing on such a lovely day?” during your first meetings. His voice lingered in your mind for hours, for days, for a week and tormented you to think about it. You still craved his presence, you yearned for his silent smile or his gentle stormy eyes on you. They held so much affection, he still couldn’t believe he was capable of capturing.

Your bed was cold, not even all the lumber supply could maintain a fire hot enough to bring warmth. Anor could shine for days if it wanted to and not a single ray of sunlight would brighten your cloudy atmosphere looming overhead. The moment your fëa went cold, every crevice and crack did not escape your sullen mood. It was as if all life had been sucked out and there was no chance at anything encompassing. You felt like you were the anti-life.

To say it was your fault was not the route you should be taking to assessing the situation, but you assumed you had grown out of it and healed many years ago when all ties were severed. For the first time, his displeasure reenacted your fear from the constant abuse you once faced. A simple raise of his voice and the abrupt swivelling around to rake a hand through his hair prompted your body to jolt as though you were ducking an object being launched at your head. Your mind still replayed the images of his confusion and hurt at your response. You knew what his sorrowful eyes meant when they froze on your deer-like figure.

“You believe that I would harm you?”

To reach out and let him comfort you, reassure him that it was a reflex from trauma and not believing he was an evident failure. You could see how he stared at his hand and stump in disgust; memories of what he saw during his time in Angband flashed across and urged him to recoil entirely from you. If he saw those images of himself, then indeed you did as well. What would you consider him, an orc? Perhaps he was and never saw that image until now when you looked at him with trepidation.

How long would you wait? How long could you wait? You knew he wasn’t coming to see you, he was focused on distracting or hating himself. Did you have the strength to surpass the rod that aggravated your anxiety and pushed more horrifying images of him truly harming you or would you accept defeat?

Standing before his study, the guards outside had already informed you of his presence and all that was left to do was enter. Knocking was a no-go.

One hand was gripping your outer robes and tugging at the seams, the other was vibrating on the handle. Any moment and the door would begin rattling off the hinges. The drafts in the corridor weren’t helping your nerves, only pushing for goosebumps and shivers to ache your body, sending you into further agony. Sliding your eyes to the right and then left to notice if the guards saw anything, their heads remained ahead. You breathed a sigh of relief. The world was shifting and making you nauseous as if everything was against this one act.

The voice of reason picked at you endlessly to soothe your body and settle thoughts of assurance. “He said he would never hurt you and he would not. It was unintentional. Reason with him.”

Heaving, the handle was twisted, and your body inelegantly slipped through the opening and stood before the quickly shut door with hands fisting your robes. A beam of sweat rolled down your temple as you saw him. He was faring a lot worse than you could imagine. One might believe he was the victim of domestic violence—of course, you knew that he had his suffering similarly to yours.

His study was a hurricane, and at the centre sat him with a melancholy expression. His disposition reminded you of the stories of his early years after captivity. Your natural urge was to rush over and chastise him, but there was hesitation in your motion. You weren’t sure if he noticed you from his hunch and eyes on the horizon, but you saw a slight huffing when he dipped his head downwards before returning to the horizon.

“...Maedhros?” you timidly called out to him.

At his name, his body seized. The hands on the armrest instantaneously increased pressure in their grip; any moment now, they would crack under the tension. Though, the tension in the room was thicker than what the chair suffered. Yet still, he did not turn to greet you, only dropping his head to bite his quivering lip.

“Maedhros, it’s me, Y/N. I’ve...come to talk...” your words shook slightly at the consciousness of taking the upper hand. This was usually his line of action.

“Why....why would you still wish to talk to an orc like me?” his voice sounded like gravel scraping under a boot. His posture shifted from hunched to slouched, the last display of mannerisms you’d expected from the head of his household. The same person who chastised his brothers for their behaviour.

Shifting on your feet and blinking a few times, you gulped. You expected difficulty, but expecting and experiencing were always different. “You’re not an orc, Maedhros. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for flinching and worsening the situation,” you explained.

“Apologise?” He turned his head to finally meet you. What you saw was just as imagined; his eyes hallowed and darkened, lips scaled and face slightly gaunt. “You shouldn’t be apologising, I should...it was my fault for breaking your trust and making you feel unsafe...” His lis lips sneered in disgust as his eyes dropped momentarily to glance at his hands.

Denying his claims, you took the courage to step forward as more light was shed on the issue. You now stood before the desk, still five feet away. “No, it’s not your fault. It’s...I-...It’s mine. I overreacted.”

“You didn’t overreact Y/N, you acted as anyone would...and I’m sorry for making you feel this way. You no longer have to stay with me if I cause you distressing harm," he painfully clarified. His knuckles were turning white from the agony he had caused for himself. How was he supposed to continue living without you when your love turned into hate?

“Mae,” you called softer with fiddling fingers, “I know you would never harm me, but it was just my body doing a natural r-reaction. That’s all.” There were tears welling in the corners of your eyes the longer you explained yourself. Your throat was closing in.

He hated how you blamed yourself when the obvious enemy was him, but your words placed an arrow in his track. Yes, sometimes it was natural for someone to flinch if they were about to be struck, but you weren't nor were you about to be. Even if it was a spooked reaction, never in the manner you did. It wasn’t defence or flight mode, but rather a genuine dread. He saw this and he knew there was a trigger behind it all. Overreacting was never a justification for what you displayed.

“Y/N, is there something you wish to tell me? Is there something you aren’t telling me that resulted in your...response?” He wanted to remove himself from his chair, but that would be the worst mistake of his life following his question. Instead, he chose to remain seated and attempt to soften his gaze as he patiently awaited your reply.

“My...” your voice felt heavy and drenched as you spoke across the depleting tension, “...oh Mae. It’s...It’s hard to bring up. I’m...I-...so sorry.”

It slipped your mind how observant he was. Nothing ever missed his sight. You knew he would not be pleased with your response, undoubtedly, he already knew it but wanted the assurance. Nibbling on your top lip, you dropped your eyes to the floor and stepped backwards to plop down on the sofa. Your hands fell limp at your sides before you cupped them to your chest and held your heart.

As your body shook, you missed the sound of the chair being scraped against the carpet and the presence of a towering figure above you, crouching to your level. Maedhros sat on his hunches while you cried and cursed himself and your past lover for the reason why he couldn’t hold you as he now wished to. All he could do was watch as your trauma unfolded before his eyes and shed tears of his own. His heart clenched and bled rivers of tears for you. To cradle you like the most valuable creation in the world was his longing desire for more than a week, and he still could not.

“Ěr��melda, please do not blame yourself. You are not to blame; you are not at fault. If anyone is to blame, it is that vile and disgusting person who did this to you,” he consoled. His eyes lift to stare at your hidden face behind your hands. Fighting the urge to reach out, wanting nothing more than to respect your privacy, he still needed you to see that he was no longer a threat and that he was here for you. 

His left hand cautiously inched forward and reached for your arm; he fell you froze making him freeze. Not pushing him away, he gently pried each of your hands away from your tear-stained face and cupped them in his hand. Using his amputee, he made the decision to swipe your tears off your cheeks and around your eyes. The action felt foreign to him. All the while, he remained diligently at work, tidying up your face like you do with him. When he was complete, he pulled back and offered an apologetic smile.

“Please do not blame yourself, you were mistreated and still the signs are present. Because I was not aware, I triggered this. I am sorry, I will watch my anger from now on,” he apologised, bowing his head and humbly submitting himself.

You watched his actions as though it was a scene from a fairy tale or some romantic novel where the male is always perfect in every way for his lover. The surrealism was perplexing. The last image you could ever conjure was a Feanorian humbling their pride and apologising genuinely. Your subconscious joked claiming that something had possessed his body.

Smiling at the thought, you called out to him with light in your voice. “I think it is I who should be apologising for not telling that important information. This could have been avoided if only I had.”

“I believe, we were both in the wrong and apology accepted. Please, do not wallow in guilt as I assure you, it shall never happen again,” his voice fell for a quick moment before perking up again, “what can I do to make it up to you?”

Feeling the corners of your lips tugging, your eyes dropped to his hands and then back to his face. “I’ve missed you these few days gone by, will you join me for dinner, followed by a bath and a nap together? I miss you holding me.”

The glow of a thousand radiated from within and burst through his chest. The last thing he assumed was that you would still request more time and space. “If it makes you feel better, then I would be most honoured, my dear.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane @hoshinokurasa

[annesstardustchords]

I'd Go Through it Again (If I Could Hold You For a Minute) - Part 1 / Simon “Ghost” Riley X Reader

hi babies! im so sorry ive been MIA lately, school is fucking me raw and I haven't been doing mentally well at all. that being said, yall deserve some good, angsty smut. luv u all <3 (smut will be in part 2)

(my mental slump may have slipped into this one a little bit...)

Description: Ghost had passed away; killed in action and DOA a couple months prior. You hadn't been handling it well. He was the love of your life, your rock, your muse; all of it. After one particularly bad day at work, you shuffle home in tears, but what you don't know is that there's a little surprise waiting inside for you...

CW: angst, fluff, sobbbbinnnnggg

TW: Mentions of death, suicide, self-harm (non-graphic)

READ WITH CAUTION!

MINORS DNI! I WILL TELL UR MOM!

Four months ago, you received the letter; he was gone - Fuck it, dead. No need to put it nicely.

The love of your life, torn from the warmth of this earth, from you, in a split second. A bullet the size of a pill had ripped through his chest, surpassing his heart and exiting through the thickened muscle of his back. How can something so small do such damage to someone as strong as him? How can something so small take a life? How could he be gone, just like that? How could he leave you?

Angry, intrusive questions swam around in your mind every second of every day; replaying the moment he was shot, the moment he took his last breath in your brain as if you were there. abut you weren’t. You could see it; his massive frame falling to the ground, suddenly appearing small as his eyes widened, and his breath stopped. It haunted you, knowing he was alone when it happened. Soap hadn't found him until hours after he'd passed. "DOA" the letter had read. Dead on fucking arrival. How long had he been there? You could've saved him, you think. You should've been there. But alas, you were deployed to another field, another team just days before. You couldn't protect him.

"Aye!" your superior calls out from behind you, "Head in the fuckin' game, soldier!"

You snap out of your thoughts, raising your gun to the practice target and firing without thinking. You were a great shot naturally, but not these days; your mind focused solely on Simon, your eyes fogged with his decrepit silhouette inside of his casket. It was open the day of the funeral; not your typical soldier send-off, but you had requested it. You hated what you saw when you looked inside that box. You had lifted the mask to ensure it really was him, and sure enough, it was. His scarred face, and tight-shut eyes. It haunts you everywhere you fucking go.

You hit the white plastic of the target, not even close to the drawn body of the thing. The Sergeant laughs from behind you and you toss your gun to the side, embarrassed and exhausted.

"Thank god this is just target practice, eh? You really did a number on 'em, probably killed em' with that fuckin' shot," he cackles as you walk past him and grab for the door handle, "Ay now, Soldier. Where do you think you're goin'?"

"Home, sir," you bluntly answered, too disappointed and spaced out to give a shit about your current ranking or the fucking novelty of the trade.

"You go home now, Soldier, and you're done," he barks, "You understand?"

"Yes, sir," you respond bluntly, swinging open the door and walking out with a huff.

You weren't one to disobey your orders. You weren't one to leave your post. You weren't one to quit. But, honest to god, if you had been put on the field the next day as planned, you would've thrown your un-armoured body against the first bullet shot.

Anything to see him again.

As you gathered your things from your locker and left the base, you could feel tears burning down your cheeks beneath your mask. You didn't sniffle, you didn't wipe them away. You didn't care. You just needed to be home. Being around this many guns, around a fucking armoury, couldn't be safe for you in this state. The morbid fascination you faced daily following Simon's death was nothing short of constant, but you were scared. What if he got into heaven, and you couldn't?

God, you just needed to go to bed.

You held your keys tight to your hand as you walked to the door of your apartment, the harsh metal breaking skin; not that you noticed, though. You turned the key and walked in, locking the door behind you and chucking your belongings onto the floor along with your shoes. You tore your mask from your face, and walked down the hall. As you made your way towards your bedroom, you noticed the familiar shine of your lamp seeping through the slightly ajar door.

Certain you hadn't left the light on yourself, much too weary of hydro costs, you quickly grabbed the gun from your safe. You hadn't even looked at the gun since that wretched day, untrusting in yourself and your thoughts, but with your job being what it was, you couldn't take any risks. You hold the gun tight to your side, slowly opening the door, and raising it to the dark figure sitting atop your bedsheets.

"Get the fuck out," you harshly whisper, "I don't have fucking time for this."

"Hi, darling," a familiar voice says as the figure turns his head.

Your heart nearly stops then. Your eyes meet the ghastly white of a skull mask, one you were all too accustomed to. You wrap your finger around the trigger, ready to end this sick joke immediately.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, or what the hell this is, but you need to go. Right fucking now," you bark, tightening your grip on the pistol.

"Y/N, please, put the gun down," the soft, British voice pleads.

"You're real fuckin' stupid if you think that's gonna happen."

You take a step inside the room, pressing the gun hard against his forehead as you take an unwavering breath.

"Make a move, and I swear to god, I will put a bullet in your brain," you mutter, "Who are you?"

"It's me, Y/N. I promise it's me," the man says, confident but composed, fully aware of the gun pressed between his eyebrows though seemingly unafraid of it.

"Is this some kind of sick joke? Hm? Putting a fucking widow through this?" you nearly yell as you press the barrel harder into his skull, causing him to wince, "You wanna beat me, interrogate me? Fucking fine, but this... this is sick. He's gone. I saw the body myself."

"Y/N, I-"

"Don't say my name," you snap, "Who fucking sent you, huh?"

"Love, please. Back up, let me take my mask off, yeah?" he asks, carefully lifting his hand to your wrist, tapping it gently in request.

"Don't fucking touch me. You're not him. God, when Price hears about this..." you dryly chuckle, trailing off when you notice a bump under one of his gloved fingers.

"Take your glove off," you demand, motioning your head towards it.

"Wha- I... Okay," he stammers, lifting both of his hands cautiously and removing both of the gloves. You grab his left hand, tugging off the band prominently placed on his ring finger. You raise it to your face, your other hand still firmly holding the gun to his head.

"Y/N L/N, in combat and in devotion," read the inside of the ring, matching the words circling the ring placed on your left hand in similarity.

"Where'd you get this?" you whispered, your once stern demeanour shifting into something much smaller; more pathetic.

"The pastor on our wedding day. Gaz got them made for us," he answers calmly.

You pull the gun off of him, raising your hands to your face and pressing your palms to your eyes as you turn around.

"What the fuck is going on?" you cry, hardly audible.

"Y/N, it's me. I'm so sorry," he whispers, shifting to stand.

"Sit the fuck down," you yell, "Take your mask off."

He nods, turning around to check the curtain is closed before gradually and carefully tucking two fingers under the hem of the mask, lifting it over his chin and nose.

You feel tears brim your lashes, slick to your under eyes as his mouth and nose come into view. It's like a b-roll as the mask is lifted higher and higher off his face; the scar on his right cheek, the dark war paint, his furrowed brows, his fluffy hair. He discards the mask, tossing it next to him and grabbing a makeup wipe from your bedside table to rid himself of the smeared paint around his blue eyes.

"See?" he says, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your hands shake as they go to cover your mouth, holding in the deep wail threatening to pour from your lips as you sob. The man you loved so much, the man you fucking married, the man you buried just four months prior, was here; alive.

"Si," you whimper, throwing your full body weight onto him after placing the gun down, your thighs on either side of his hips as you wrap your arms so tight around his neck that he nearly chokes.

"Hi, Lovie," he whispers into your neck, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you close to him. You take in everything; his scent, the feel of him so close to you, his scruff against your jaw. All of the things you swore you'd never get to feel again, tucked between your limp arms.

"How could you fucking do this to me?" you croak, your throat raw as you slam your weakened fists against his vest-clad chest.

"I know, I know, darling," he says, pulling away just far enough that he could see your eyes, lifting your chin to look at him before holding your face between his strong hands, "I had no choice. Trust me, I wanted to come back to you the second it happened."

"Then why didn't you? Do you know what I've been through? Do you know what it's like to watch the love of your life get fucking buried?"

"No, I don't," he sighs, "but I do know what it's like being dead to you, literally and metaphorically, and that's nothing I ever wish to relive."

"So why'd you do it then? I can't fucking live without you, I tried to fucking kill myself just to see you again, Simon," you accidentally admit, tears falling off your face and down your neck.

"Oh, my love," he sighs, worry adamant in his gruff features as he gently caresses your hair, "I wish I could've called, sent a letter, fucking anything. I'm so, so sorry I put you through this."

"Tell me what happened, Si. Tell me there was a good reason you faked it all."

"Two of the opposing had intel on you. They must have seen you without your mask, or someone let something slip; I'm not sure. I got cornered by two of their men, and they gave me an ultimatum; Either I take the bullet, or they tell all divisions outside of 141 your identity. Knowing your past with OpFor, I couldn't let that happen - couldn't risk your safety. Soap shot both of them before I could say anything," he explains, never breaking eye contact.

"So, they're both dead. Why did you have to-"

"There's more," he says, taking your hands in his, "There was only one other opposition out there who knew about you, and I couldn't come out of hiding until I was sure he was dead, so I faked my death under Price's orders to give us more time and to keep you safe. As long as this guy knew I was alive, he wouldn't have let it rest until he ruined you. This guy was good - stealthy, and stayed hidden. I knew you were safe as long as I was out of the picture, and that's all that mattered to me."

"Oh my god," you whimper, the tears seeming to be endless, "Please tell me you caught him? I can't risk losing you again."

"He's gone, baby. We caught him. I wouldn't have come back if I knew it could put you in jeopardy," he softly smiles, wiping your tears away with his thumb once more as you slowly smile.

"Si-" you choke out, a look of realization crossing your soft features.

"Yeah, love?" he asks, concerned.

"I'm so sorry, I-" you sob, unable to get the words out, choking on your own tears.

"Baby, baby. Shh," he coos, trying to stop you from hyperventilating, "What on earth are you apologizing for?"

"I was so angry at you. I- I was so mean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have blamed you," you mutter, letting your forehead fall against his.

"Oh, my love. It's okay. I can't even imagine what you've been through over the last four months. I don't know what I'd ever do if I lost you," he admits, grabbing at the nape of your neck gently as his eyes flutter shut.

"It was hell. I walked out of target practice today. I can't even aim anymore. I don't think Sergeant is gonna let me back," you confess.

"He'll let you back, baby. Price and Soap both know what happened, and we've all got your back, okay?" he says, gently rubbing along the back of your head.

“I don’t even care if he does, I’m just- I only care about you; about you being here,” you softly smile, wrapping your arms tighter around him as you sniffle.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he whispers, “I missed that face of yours so much.”

“You can’t even begin to understand how much I missed you,” you say, gently kissing his soft lips, “I thought I’d never get to do that again.”

“‘M not goin’ anywhere baby. Never again,” he murmurs, kissing you back, “I couldn’t bare knowing how much I’ve hurt you again.”

“I love you, Simon,” you whisper, the words rolling off your tongue like an oath, like a god damn prayer.

“I love you, too.”

You know it’s more than just words; it’s a promise. He’s yours.

[theheirofthesharingan]

Or what you think about Obito helping Itachi during the massacre? I think, the story of Itachi being extremely strong and dangerous that at 13 he killed everyone gets diluted if Obito killed the strongest in the clan and Itachi killing the civilians. And as well the mysterious Itachi's illness, do you believe or think maybe Kishi should have written another way for Itachi to die than to illness? Because for me, if Fugaku has the mangeku sharigan then why Itachi didn't took it to help his illness if it will help him live long enough for Sasuke? I just think maybe, there are some plot holes about the sharigan too.

Or what you think about Obito helping Itachi during the massacre? I think, the story of Itachi being extremely strong and dangerous that at 13 he killed everyone gets diluted if Obito killed the strongest in the clan and Itachi killing the civilians.

Obito didn't kill all of the police force.

Sasuke asks Itachi about this: Itachi couldn't kill the entire police force alone.

And Itachi doesn't contradict it. He admits he had Obito's help.

Furthermore, taking Itachi Shinden novels into account here, Obito killed most of the women and children which left Itachi with men, police force included.

Itachi being a cruel psychopath was a myth, legend, and a lie that had to come an end as soon as his truth came out. Even though he received Obito's help it doesn't negate how powerful he was. On his first appearance in the series, he easily took down Kakashi, one of the strongest Shinobi at that time in the village. Orochimaru in the same episode tells Kabuto Itachi has surpassed him in power a long time ago. Orochimaru was the same person who nearly killed the Third Hokage.

And as well the mysterious Itachi's illness, do you believe or think maybe Kishi should have written another way for Itachi to die than to illness?

Itachi's illness adds the tragic layer to his character, albeit it's unexplored; and my main gripe with it remains that Kishi doesn't bother with Itachi if he's not useful for Sasuke's arc. Itachi's disease and him handling it tells us the kind of person he was. Guilt-ridden after killing his clan and destroying Sasuke, he saw his life as a penance because he wouldn't want to even live while he'd done so many horrible things. Once he left the Village, he wasn't living for himself anymore. He did the bare minimum for himself - living as long as Sasuke was ready to kill him. He must even have believed he deserved the pain that came with his illness, but since he didn't want death to foil his plan he took the medicines to prolong his life.

Because for me, if Fugaku has the mangeku sharigan then why Itachi didn't took it to help his illness if it will help him live long enough for Sasuke? I just think maybe, there are some plot holes about the sharigan too.

Fugaku having an MS is mentioned only in the anime. It's neither in the novels nor manga. It's a filler thing only. He was an efficient Shinobi with only base Sharingan.

Itachi could have taken his father's Sharingan if he wanted to. He didn't because he, most probably, didn't think he was worthy of anything that belonged to his father after he became his clan's doom.

Imo, he chose a more painful way to live because he couldn't bring himself to forgive for the cruel, ugly things he'd done to his clan and most importantly, Sasuke.

[eternalchiyo]

Everlasting Spark ~DARK 10~

Apparently, when it came to hating on natural smells, the Mukami’s surpassed Chiyo by far. Or at least that’s how it seemed to her. Vampires weren’t that territorial by nature but for some reason the whole family was highly bothered by the fact that Ruki Mukami’s smell would not stop trailing behind her.

Chiyo wondered what that meant exactly. She could barely tell the difference the way she was, but if they had a different smell than regular Vampires, did that mean they were a different species after all? She never heard of this in her entire life but what other possibility was there? Were they just vampire-like demons? They definitely seemed like they came from the demon world. Chiyo hummed to herself as she sunk into the bathtub that was filled with hot water. Maybe they were zombies? At least that would put the dead person she saw into perspective.

Reiji had not asked but ordered her to go and take a bath as soon as they arrived at the mansion. He also told her to hurry as he had some sort of important announcement to make to the whole household.

Chiyo decided to take her sweet time with bathing.

She washed her hair thoroughly and was detangling and separating her locks from one another when she remembered the way Ruki’s hand felt when he touched it. A warm feeling spread through her whole body and suddenly she felt incredibly guilty.

She wondered what Shuu would say if he had seen that. Undoubtedly he had made his own deductions when he was sitting in the car. He had a nose, and he probably thought she was now trying to seduce Ruki or something like that. Always so quick to make assumptions.

Well, there was certainly something to get from Ruki here and it was attention. Attention Shuu refused to give to her ever since their terrible fight. Maybe Ruki has seen through that and tried to use Chiyo as a way to get to the Sakamakis.

The girl groaned and punched the water.

“Get a grip Chiyo,” she told herself.

When she came down the stairs, she could see the whole family gathered in the living room. Or well… almost the whole family; Shuu was missing, and Reiji seemed to get increasingly impatient.

“Good grief, he really is worthless. Chiyo, I need you to fetch him.”

“Are you being serious? I just came down the stairs, someone else can do that,” she said.

“I gave you a phone for a reason, it’s not my fault you failed to pick it up, now hurry up. I already told you I don’t have all night!”

Chiyo rolled her eyes at Reiji’s mention of the cellphone. That worthless thing, she didn’t bother even looking into how to use it, just chucked it somewhere into her closet without any intentions of ever using it anyway. It probably ran out of battery a long time ago.

She let out an audible and exasperated sigh while she made her way back upstairs. Letting everyone know just how little motivation she had to do that. Why would Shuu listen to her of all people all of a sudden?

Before, she had always tried to avoid going near Shuu’s room, but she guessed now she didn’t have much of a choice. It felt like ages since she had set foot into his room, the last time probably being before their fight that caused them to go their separate ways.

Now she stood in front of the door, hand hovering over the handle, not sure what to do next. The next step would be to push it, quite obviously, but Chiyo was scared and felt practically glued in her spot.

Knock, knock.

No answer. Not much of a surprise, he never answered doors.

With a sigh Chiyo decided to let herself in.

“Pardon the intrusion...”

There he was, laying on his bed and sleeping. Chiyo stepped closer.

It wasn’t visible from afar but now that she saw him up close, she noticed how restless he seemed. His breathing ragged and sweat forming on his forehead. He looked as if he was in pain.

Was he having a nightmare?

She couldn’t bear seeing him like this, so she decided to wake him.

“Shuu…” she said, gently grabbing his shoulder and squeezing it.

Suddenly his eyes shot open, and in the brief moment she was able to get a look at them they seemed almost panicked. Though, Chiyo did not have enough time to think about that as his hands wrapped tightly around her throat and pressed her into the mattress.

“You’ve got some serious nerve showing up in here like this,” he said, voice almost a growl.

Chiyo tried to talk back to him but found it too hard with him gripping at her neck like that. She only managed a few words.

“Shuu… it’s not… Reiji was…”

His grip tightened even more.

“Hah? So now you also run circles around my brother? Is Ruki not good enough for you anymore? Hm?”

“No– Listen—”

She clawed at his hands, tried to get him to let her go by digging her nails deep into his knuckles. But he didn’t let go.

“Your voice makes me sick. Guess I will have to shut you up this way.”

The girl’s eyes widened when she noticed him baring his fangs at her. They pierced her skin violently and she couldn’t help but let out a painful cry. The only good thing coming from this was him finally removing his hands from her throat. It didn’t make it any easier to breathe though.

Tears pricked her eyes as she tried to just endure it until it was over. The state he was in right now made her think that if she were to resist and move, he would rip her whole throat out. She couldn’t stand seeing him like this and the worst thing was that she was at fault for it.

She dug her grave and now she had to lay in it.

She wrapped her shivering hands around his torso and dug her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. Shuu’s body tensed under the sudden touch, grounding him somewhat. Soon enough the pain of fangs piercing her skin was replaced with a warm tongue tracing the wounds gently. Like a kitten that bit its owner and now apologized by licking the wounds.

Chiyo gasped.

Slowly, Shuu moved his head back up and looked at her.

“You’re crying,” he said.

Huh? Now that she thought about it, her cheeks did feel warm and sticky. Must have been the tears. He looked at her with his eyes, those beautiful and sad blue eyes. So many things untold between them, and yet there was still this connection.

Shuu got a hold of her hands and pressed his lips onto hers; the taste of her own blood on them. His grip wasn’t very forceful and Chiyo managed to sneak her arms back around his body.

If only she never agreed to help Reiji with his stupid plan. If only she hadn't been so stupid in the past. Her life wouldn’t be such a mess right now. She would be able to kiss Shuu normally, without regrets. Without the bitter aftertaste of betrayal on her own lips.

Oh, how she hated herself.

[ask-healthy-light]

When she turned around to get Boom out of her sight, Ember was forced to listen in absolute disgust as the sickening sound of unbreaking bones and pained groaning grew increasingly louder from behind her; but while her stomach started to churn for the first time in an Age, Boom focused on more than merely healing his body, as he struggled to understand how he failed to break free from the anchor.

Although Ember gave away the element of surprise by landing behind him, which nearly allowed him to strike first, he could not lift a hoof before the magic of the Scepter she wielded overpowered him, and bound him in stone; but neither by his own strength, which challenged that of Rockhoof, nor his magic abilities, surpassed by only a hoofful of others, were able to undo the spell Ember had cast.

But Boom knew that he should not waste any time complaining or berating Ember for what she did, for not only were his hooves nearly fully healed already, and he had to meet the others again soon, but he knew that she was right, and he could not fault Ember for it; for he, too, had gone through such pain long ago, and even now, he was on a course to take his revenge upon those who had wronged him.

Fortunately, not long thereafter, his body finished tearing itself back together, and both Boom and Ember took a deep breath to calm their minds, as they no longer heard any nauseating sound, and the area fell into silence again; but Boom still stayed careful as he got up, and he slowly placed more weight on his recently healed bones, finding that his hooves had fully healed, to his great relief.

Only after Boom took a step towards Ember did she move again, only to forcefully slam the handle of the Scepter down on the ground, gripping the staff with terrific strength, before she asked Boom to speak quickly; for while he did not deserve her time, her patience, nor her kindness, since she now knew that Princess Nox was part of his fellowship, she would make but a singular exception for him.

After Boom swallowed loudly in response, knowing that he had but one chance to ask anything of her, he did not utter a word, and he instead took the time to consider everything he could ask from her, and what he could give her in return; but he realised that the Monster within him had taken far too much from her already, and there was little he could do to ease these tensions, if anything at all.

With a deep sigh, Boom solemnly told Ember that he came here to ask her for help, be it as passage, or guidance, or maybe strength of arms, if she could spare it, not for himself, but for the rest of the group who had followed him hither; for they were all travelling East to stop the Marauders from threatening their friends and Family in the Empire, and by some luck, he managed to join the group.

As he closed his eyes, and lowered his head, Boom did not realise that Ember briefly looked back at him, bearing a confusing mix of white-hot anger and compassion in her eyes, before he admitted that he cared little for his own safety, but he feared for that of the others; for he knew not what they would face, and while he could not be slain, he knew that he would not be able to protect everyone.

Over the many Ages that he had been running around aimlessly, doing whatever he pleased for his own amusement, and rarely helping others, let alone getting close to them, he did not want to waste all that he, most undeserving of all, had so generously been given; for with the help of Healthy Light, the Kirin of the group, and a friend, he was getting closer than ever to being free of the Monster.

Although he knew not what laid ahead of him after they defeated the Marauders, nor what he would do when he had finally cleansed himself, he swore upon his life to Ember that he would do anything she wished, for as long as it took him to make amends for the Monster's actions; and as sincerely as he could, Boom told Ember that he would even be willing to give her his life, as payment for the past.

At that moment, Boom felt his lips get sealed, and himself float off the ground, before Ember said:

"Be silent. I have heard enough…"

(Thanks for reading! And if you enjoyed, please reblog! Thanks in advance!)

Send an ask or request! | Start at the beginning! | Next part!

Featuring: Boomlord from @thedumbguywithaheart43

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 7

Also read on AO3

Catch up here

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Themes: Childhood trauma, guilt, confession, regret

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: In the tunnels, Erik confesses his violent past to Christine.

Chapter Word Count: 8,732

So another, what is this three months? My sincerest apologies for making you wait so long.

I have once again had to split the chapter, but I think I've found a very satisfactory cut off point.

This chapter is pretty hefty in both volume and content. I hope you'll all be pleased. Writing a character sharing their backstory is one of the toughest things to do. It's easy to write the speaker speaking, but significantly harder to convey the listener listening, but I hope I did an alright job. And if you feel like you want more insight into Christine's thoughts, don't worry, that'll come in the next chapter!

Also, we do have Depeche Mode References in here (boy do we--I mean how could we not? :3)

Many thanks as always to @l10ng1rl for your support even when you're uber busy, and to @itsdarogatimebitch for beta reading this chapter and for your generally wonderful feedback <3 <3 <3

Enjoy this Chapter with my custom Phantom's Lair soundscape!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christine was quite as still as a statue as this pronouncement fell, raw, from Erik's lips. Her heart thudded as icy needles pricked her spine and her stomach lurched.

The admission was undeniably shocking, though, truthfully, his words did not wholly surprise her. She had suspected, whenever she remembered the clean efficiency with which Buquet had been executed—so expertly handled that no one, not stage-crew nor dancer nor audience, had suspected what horror was occurring in the rafters of the stage until the body dropped, twitching, on that sickeningly taut rope—that the assassin who had carried out the deed must have done so many times before.

Yet hearing such a disclosure from lips that had, within the last hour, been pressed with such surpassing sweetness against hers was a difficult thing to comprehend.

Erik, feeling numb from his fatal admission, flinched from her stillness, and he again made to remove his hands from her, certain that she would not want them touching her any longer, now that she had an understanding of how very bloodstained they truly were.

But Christine's hand did not release his. He tried, again, to pull it away, and she clasped it still harder.

"Erik, tell me everything," she said, her voice so strained it was only a hoarse whisper. And yet her eyes did not accuse, nor her mouth twist with disgust.

This alone was nearly enough to bring Erik once more to tears. He gripped her hand in his, the other balling into a fist on his thigh as he prepared to obey her.

Christine’s other hand came up to his now, so that they both caged it, just as they had when she'd thrown herself  onto the organ bench, when his music had so delighted her.

Her entire being felt tight and tense, apprehension bubbling inside her. The horror of Erik's actions had made her stumble in fear not two days ago—yet she felt bizarrely calm now as she held his guilty hand.

She pressed his fingers to her angel's lips and again whispered, so softly, "Please tell me."

Her breath, warm and gentle, puffed through his fingers as she spoke, and her eyes, troubled, but gently pleading, peeked over their joined hands.

A different kind of numbness—not numbness... Calm. Peace? Something foreign. Not an emotion he had experienced enough to correctly identify it—spread through Erik's chest as reality settled on him.

Christine would listen.

For years Erik had been the listening ear to whom Christine had bared her soul, while Erik himself had no similar confessor. And... if he could not confide in Christine, then who else would ever hear him? Did he have any choice but to go down on his knees and pray that she would have the strength to forgive all the things that he'd done?

It seemed so wrong to burden her with the afflictions of a loveless childhood and the crimes of a Godforsaken youth in the middle of a dark, damp tunnel.... Yet she knelt with him, held his hand with such an attitude of attentive sympathy! So ready to listen, to hear him...

That nameless sensation spread through his limbs and up to his head, bringing with it clarity. He looked down at her knees where they rested on the floor of the tunnel. Now he could feel the chill of the damp stone seeping into his own legs, and he could only imagine how cold it was for Christine in her thin cotton nightdress and negligée.

Christine was startled when he suddenly righted himself and made a decisive motion to stand and bring her up with him. With wide eyes, she watched as he unclasped his cloak, swept it off, and brought it around her shoulders. She hadn't realized how chilled she was, even with her shawl, until she felt the garment envelop her in its warm, heavy folds, the sudden shift in temperature eliciting a delayed shiver.

Erik's expression was inscrutable as he gathered up his gloves and the lantern with its two broken panes, setting it down next to the bottom of the staircase. He then took her, very gently, by her upper arms and guided her to sit on the steps, the thick woollen cloak protecting her from the chill of the stone.

Erik knelt on the floor to one side of her, his eyes fixed on her knees. 

"How much did your—" he paused here, with a sigh—he did not want to offend Christine again by mocking the boy to her face—before resuming, "How much did the Vicomte tell you of what he learned about my past from Madame Giry?" he asked. His voice was strangely even and detached.

It galled Erik that he even had to ask her. No doubt, he thought, that the simpering jackanapes had taken great pleasure in painting Erik's history to further condemn him in Christine's eyes; a murderous imp locked in a cage—a mere child, but already more monster than man. Much good it had done him, he thought, with an internal smirk.

Erik knew that some conversation had passed between the two. The Vicomte had found Christine huddled on the front steps of the opera house with little Meg, following his little tête-á-tête with the latter's mother.

Erik had seen it all, but from the rooftop; and even his superb hearing could not cut through the din of New Year's Eve in Paris to capture what was being said in hushed voices ten stories below. Erik strove not to remember the surge of jealous rage that had overtaken him as he had watched the Chagny boy put his dolman around Christine and hold her as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Christine was a little surprised at Erik's question. She had always thought of him as being absolutely omniscient. She had assumed that, somehow, he had heard all that Raoul had related to her. But then, she supposed even the Opera Ghost might not hear what was said outside of the Opera house's walls.

"Only that you were kept in a cage in a travelling circus, and Madame Giry helped you escape," she replied. "And that she hid you in the opera cellars, and you've never known anything outside since..."

"Is that truly all he told you?"

So the Vicomte hadn't spoken of the murder at all then?

"Yes. That's all," she confirmed, now certain, from Erik's response, that Raoul had withheld some details of importance. A twinge of irritation passed through her. "There's more he didn't tell me, isn't there?" she asked quietly, an edge to her voice.

Erik could not help the little sound of dark humour that escaped him. "Yes, Christine... yes, there was more..."

A moment of silence as Erik gathered his thoughts, steeling himself against the heavy sense of trepidation that threatened, like a disease, to take hold of his tongue.

Doing his level best to shake it away, he said, "I will tell you all, Christine," his even tone trembling a little. "I only ask that you.... that you try to be gentle in your judgement of me."

He chanced to look up at Christine, dared to meet her gaze, and felt a profound sense of nudity; as though her rich, dark eyes would draw the truth out of him and into their depths with an irresistible gravity. Hers was not a piercing gaze, but a haling one. 

Once caught by that gaze, he found that it held him, and he could not look away.

"I was born in a village near Rouen," he began simply. "My father was a very skilled masonry contractor. He was much away from home because of his work, which was just the way he preferred it after I was born. He never saw me; and my mother," his mouth twisted around this word with an unnatural degree of both anguish and distaste, "gave me a mask so that she would not have to, if she could help it. I don't remember a time when I didn't wear one.

"I told you she resented me, but that was not the extent of it, Christine; she feared me—loathed me, even. I think she viewed me as her own personal demon; a curse sent by God, which she endured for some sin she felt she had committed. I couldn't tell you for certain, for she never told me.

"I was kept hidden—no one else but the priest, her confessor, knew that I existed; she had let it on that I died after the birth."

He paused, but he was still unable to look away from Christine's eyes—still felt their irresistible pull, and soon yielded to it.

"She would often sing while she worked in the house, my mother," he continued. "She would sing to fill the silence... And I would hear her every day, and listened to all that beautiful music, and learned, in quietness, every word of every song. Because, you see, I learned very young that she did not like when I called for her; and I hoped that if I could sing to her, that she might then hear me a little more willingly. The first time I sang, I think, was the first time she ever voluntarily looked at me. I have to think, to hope, that if my mother ever felt some kind of tenderness toward me, it was when I sang to her.

"Oh, she never looked at me without my mask. She would glance at me, constantly, with terror, checking to ensure that it was still in place. And she never kept from me the reason why I had to wear it, or why I couldn't go outside during the day. She told me it was for my own good, and that people would hate me if they ever saw me. I had no reason to disbelieve her.

"But... I think that my singing was what made it possible for her to endure raising me as long as she did...

"And one day I was singing as she did needlepoint, and she let me come so close to her chair... I thought... that she might allow me to give her a kiss...

"I was sometimes taken to looking through a little gap in the curtains, and I had seen other children out with their mothers. Little boys my age who would pick the yellow flowers that grew by the well and give them to their mothers with a kiss on the cheek. But my mother... I stood by her chair, and I lifted my mask... just to my lips, Christine, just to my lips..." he demonstrated by holding his hand level to his upper lip “... Just to give her a small kiss, and she..." Erik shook, his head falling forward, near to Christine's knees, as though he might rest his forehead against them. But he did not. He held his head at that stiff angle, shaking, and Christine could not tell if it was rage or sorrow which caused him to tremble. Then she wondered if the emotions had not so long been mingled for him in these memories as to be indistinguishable from one another. Christine felt tightness beginning to choke in her throat, her face tensed with emotion as he continued.

"She threw me away from her," he forced the words out and they fell from his mouth, as if they were bitter food he could not bear to swallow and must therefore spit out. "And she screamed," he ground this out through his teeth, "so loudly, and told me never to touch her. It was not the first time she had told me this, but it would be the last.

"A neighbour had heard that scream, and my mother hid me while she told the neighbour that it was because there was a rat in the pantry... in the pantry where she had hidden me."

His head rose now, and he looked at Christine again, his eyes steely and fierce.

"And as I was crouched in that pantry, I knew that I could no longer endure it. I could no longer stand to be the burden of my poor, unhappy mother, and it was that same night that I broke the locks and ran away.

"It was late summer. I think it was near the time of my birthday.... I had gradually come to realize, not the exact date, but the time of year when I was born, because of the way my mother behaved.

There was always a week in early August when she... was worse than usual... and I came to assume that these bouts must mark when I was born. I don't know for certain how old I was. Seven, perhaps eight."

Now his expression softened slightly, and his eyes seemed distant; still looking into hers, but seeing past them also.

"I had practically never been outside before, Christine," he whispered. "I hardly knew what it was like to feel a breeze across my skin. Or grass between my toes. And that night... that night when I ran away, I was full of pain and anger, but the night that I ran out into was so full of beauty. Outside, the air was sweet, and cool and fresh. Everything smelled... natural. And the stars, Christine," he breathed, eyes filled with a ghost of some long-ago wonderment as his hands suddenly came up to lay upon her knees. "So many stars.... Do you know what it's like to see the expanse of the sky, and all the real stars, and understand for the first time that they truly twinkle? There was so much beauty around me in that darkness..."

Christine's heart swelled with the melancholy beauty of Erik's recollection, her hands inching close to his where they rested on her knees as a sad smile pulled at her lips.

"I wandered along the road for days. I would walk during the night, and hide during the day, sleeping in hedgerows and ditches. After days—I lost count of them—with no food, one evening I found I had not even the strength to move from the hedge I'd been sleeping in.

"That was how the gypsies found me. A traveling circus; tumblers, conjurers... human oddities.... One of them took my mask off. I expected screams, but they laughed. They gave me food, and when they packed up the camp, they packed me up with it.

"I didn't know, then, that making men laugh—and women scream, and children cry—was the price I would pay for every subsequent meal, no matter how pitiful, for years to come.

"As you know, I was kept in a cage. My handler billed me as 'The Devil's Child'. I came to find a certain unintended irony in that moniker, for I belonged to my handler; and he, as far as I was concerned was the devil.

"I was fed, of course, but only just enough. If the paying was good, I was fed better, if not.... For a time, I hardly ate at all because my keeper had the idea to increase the spectacle of horror by giving me a more skeletal appearance. I nearly died. He abandoned the scheme then. He couldn't afford that; I was too valuable.

"This, then, was my life, Christine. For five years I was starved, and exposed, and beaten."

Christine flinched at this last word.

"Yes, Christine," he said, his voice low and dark. "I was beaten.

"I survived out of spite. It was all I could do... until an idea came into my head. Someone had dropped a piece of rope outside my cage, just close enough for me to reach. I kept it tied to one of the bars for weeks. And then, that night..."

He paused again, and his hands clenched at his sides. Dread filled Christine's stomach as she watched his jaw tensing in the gloomy silence of the tunnel.

Erik was seized with apprehension as he perpended the approaching admission of his first crime.

It had been, in his opinion, justified, and he still felt no personal guilt or regret for his first murder; yet confessing it to Christine filled him with cold dread. Surely she would find it unutterably perverse, the idea of a child wilfully taking a life.

"I was perhaps twelve when I first committed murder, Christine," his voice was a leaden whisper, sombre, and heavy, and fearful. "I killed my handler. Madame Giry witnessed it. I strangled him with that piece of rope as he counted his money."

He remembered vividly how the coarse fibres of the rope had chafed his hands as he pulled it tight with every ounce of strength his malnourished little body could muster. That he, in his condition, had conjured the strength and endurance to strangle a full-grown man more than twice his own size was a feat that Erik himself had never fully been able to understand. Perhaps it was rage which had given him the strength, and desperation the stamina.

Erik’s eyes were downcast. He could not look at Christine, though he could feel her eyes on him, pulling him. He was terrified to give into their influence now; he could not bear to think what horror he might find there, so he was entirely unprepared for the sudden impact which followed.

Nearly knocked backwards by the force of it, it was several moments before Erik was able to process what the cause of that impact had been, or what was the source of the tight, warm coil which now squeezed his shoulders and waist with such pressure.

It was Christine, who had thrown herself from her perch on the step and wrapped her trembling arms about him, pressing her face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

She wanted to say something; to speak some sentiment of sympathy, but she had no words. She did not know what she could possibly say. What words in any language could counterbalance such a degree of suffering? An exigency so terrible that it had driven a boy—just a child—to commit an act of such monumental desperation in order to escape it?

And so, unable to speak comfort to him, she simply held him. She pressed herself against him, into him, around him, her chest so full of violent compassion that releasing it in the form of exertion to engird his hunching frame with her arms seemed absolutely necessary in order to keep herself from falling apart.

There was no possibility of misinterpreting Christine's action; even Erik could not misattribute this strength with which she crushed herself into him to revulsion, fear, or reproach. He yearned to lift his hand and cradle the back of her head, to turn his face into her soft, fragrant hair, but was too stunned at her reaction to move.

"Oh, Erik..." she whispered, sounding heartbroken as she shook against him.

This, then, was the extent of what Raoul had learned from Madame Giry? These were the details that he had kept from her? Christine had much to think about on that regard, but she couldn't. Not now, overwhelmed as she was with loving pity for Erik's dark fate.

She felt Erik's mass in the iron bands of her hold. He had not moved at all as she embraced him, except to steady himself at the moment of impact, and she wondered—worried—whether this had, perhaps, not been the right thing to do.

A little timidly, she lifted her face from his shoulder to look at him, her eyes swimming, and Erik, still frozen in his shock, realized that Christine was crying.

Crying for him.

And upon this revelation, he, too, began to weep. Tears stung, and gathered, and fell from his eyes; and Christine whispered his name again, rising higher on her knees so that she could take his head in her hands and bring her lips to his forehead as they cried together. Her tears, warm and sweet, dripped onto his skin and trickled under his mask.

She, Christine, the true angel—who had sought after his kisses, when his own mother had never even tolerated them—she was weeping for his sake.

Her blessed tears mingled with his under his mask, and they flowed down to his lips. He tasted them, and it seemed to him as though their salt water was life-giving.

He wished that he could stay in this attitude forever; not move, not tell her the rest of his tale. But more and more of her tears flowed down, seeping under the edges of the covering, which he felt beginning to slip from its place.

His head suddenly jerked from her gentle hold. Christine no longer felt Erik's skin against her lips, and she saw that he had turned his face from her, with his hand on his mask.

"Do not look, Christine," he said, his voice shaky.

In a heartbeat, Christine understood and obeyed, turning her face away and looking up into the dark well of the stairs. Not because she did not want to see his face; not because she feared to; but because he asked it of her.

Erik wiped the inside of his mask dry, then dabbed his sleeve over the misshapen plains of the right side of his face, though he was loathe to lose even one of her precious tears. His chest felt tight as he replaced the device and gathered himself.

Christine was still gently sobbing, her body twisted away from him at the waist, when he turned around. He reached for her, touching her arm, and she turned back to him, brushing her slim, white fingers across her eyes and cheeks again and again, unable to keep the tears from gathering.

The sight made it difficult for Erik to continue. He pressed his lips together, bowing his head, like an ashamed child.

After several moments in this attitude, Christine's stomach began to twist uncomfortably. She knew he had not finished with his story, and he seemed to be struggling. She inched closer to him, fitting herself to his side, and stretched her arm across his shoulders, wrapping him with her in the warmth of his cloak before drawing him with her toward the stairs.

"Come sit with me," she whispered softly, an earnest plea.

Once again, he obeyed and allowed Christine to bustle him along to sit next to her on the step where she huddled close to him, her warmth inescapable. Yet her caring sweetness filled Erik with apprehension; he had never before known what it was like to have someone whose opinion of him mattered enough for him to care whether he might disappoint them, and he feared disappointing Christine now. But, he reminded himself, he had already confessed the quantity of his crimes to her; now, she was owed the details.

Christine’s hand drifted uncertainly near his, where they rested on his lap. Twice since they had begun this fraught interlude he had tried to pull his hands from her grasp, and both times she had refused to release them. She wanted to hold them again, to assure him, yet she also feared that if she attempted to do so now, shame might overcome him and compel him to flee her touch again.

She wrapped her hands cautiously around his arm, and looked up at him, her expression mild.

"What happened then?" she asked as evenly as she could, her gaze fixing on his face as she gently squeezed his forearm in a reassuring gesture.

He closed his eyes for a moment. She was clutching his arm, yet the comforting pressure seemed, rather, to be closing around his heart, overwhelming in its gentleness. It disordered his thoughts, and his jaw clenched as he attempted to focus them again; to remember where he had stopped in his grim history.

"Then... it was just a few moments before the crime was discovered. To be truthful, I don't remember much of what actually happened. Only that Mathilde... Madame Giry, that is..."

Christine nodded, though it struck her that, in all her years of being raised by the woman, she'd never actually heard anyone call Mme. Giry by her Christian name.

Erik continued: "Mathilde must have acted very quickly. All I really recall is her taking my hand, and then the grate into the chapel creaking as it opened, and I jumped through.

"I don't pretend to understand why she helped me, nor do I question it. She provided me the materials necessary to finish my education. I learned very quickly; and in the meantime, I became familiar with the complex inner workings of my new home. This building...” his gaze drifted up, to the arched ceiling of the tunnel, as if he could see through it to the Opera above, “it fascinated me. I remembered all of the sketches and blueprints in my father's office that I had perused as a young child. My mother had been... disturbed that I seemed to understand them at such an early age. She'd tried to lock them away, but I always found them again. Architecture became a passion for me, and this building was my first and best master in that discipline. Fitting that it was, itself, a monument to my truest and greatest passion; that of Music.

"Six years passed, and in that time, I gained a knowledge of the Opera house that I daresay not even its architect possessed, and wrote more masterpieces than most composers hope to in a lifetime. And yet my creations weighed on me. As much joy and fulfilment as I experienced in creating them, once each was finished, I was faced with the increasingly painful truth that no one, save for myself, and perhaps Mathilde, would ever hear them. It was impossibly confounding for me, Christine. My fear and general hatred of mankind, I'm sure you can understand, was deeply entrenched. And yet, I could not abandon the idea, the hope, that my music could move the hearts of men, though it was poisoned with the horrible certainty that, just as with my mother, even the beauty of my talents would not be able to spare me their rejection and scorn.

"In all those six years, Mathilde was my only direct human contact. And though she kept me in all the necessities of life, it soon became clear that whatever pity had motivated her to feed and clothe me was rivalled by an instinctive fear. Whether because of this," he gestured vaguely to his face, "or the murder I haven't any idea. I believe she felt a sense of," he chuckled darkly, "responsibility for my actions in addition to my general well-being. I was a dark and well-guarded secret. She could easily have washed her hands of me and yet she did not, even as her time became continually more consumed by the demands of her career.

“At sixteen she was, without doubt, the finest ballerina this Opera has ever seen, before or since, and the management were not blind to her merit. By eighteen she was made a principal dancer..."

Erik paused for a moment, considering how best to handle the next passage in this story where Mathilde was concerned. He disliked the idea of keeping details from Christine, as the Vicomte had done. But these details were not precisely pertinent to his own story, and were not his to share.

"Two years later, though," he resumed, "she left the stage and married.

"Despite my distaste for mankind and my preference for solitude, her company, scarce and fraught as it was, was missed.

"I was a youth—perhaps eighteen or nineteen, then—full of energy I could barely contain, with an intellect that was, though I say it myself, already vast, and hungry to expand still further. I lusted after knowledge and practical experience, and while I had made what I could of my home, it was not enough.

"And so, after months of struggling with my own mind, I left my home. I left the Opera Populaire and I left France."

"Madame Giry told the Vicomte that I have never known life outside of this Opera house. Well, as far as she knows, that is the truth. But I have already told you, Christine, of my work for the Shah of Persia..." his voice faltered as he caught the dull glint of his ring on Christine’s finger and an impulsive hand reached out to brush a fingertip over the stone.

Christine held very still as he initiated this pensive contact, breathing carefully, as if frightened of disturbing a butterfly that had landed on her hand.

"And now... I will tell you how it was that I found myself there...” he said in a soft tone,  before continuing bitterly, “and how I left.” Erik paused, gauging Christine’s expression.

Anxiety shot through her now, for she sensed, from Erik’s gravity, that the worst of his tale was quickly approaching. She feared what she may hear, but determined that she would not make any judgement or comment until she had heard all that Erik had to tell.

She swallowed and nodded, as if to say that she was ready to listen.

Breathing deeply, Erik recommenced his narrative: “For two years I travelled; first throughout Europe. Even setting aside my... disadvantage, I was too old for anyone to consider taking me as an apprentice. I gained experience through contract work. Masonry, carpentry, joinery, metalwork; whatever I set my hands to seemed to come naturally, and so skilfully. No one who saw my work could question my competency, and yet it usually paid for less than half what it was worth and was rejected often for reasons... shall we say, 'superficial'.

"Fortunately, I discovered that sleight of hand came as naturally to me as honest skill had, so when the latter could not provide for me, I resorted to the former.

"After a year of—forgive my use of the term—prostituting my craftsmanship and struggling in polite—” he sneered this word—"European society, I turned my attention to knowledge and antiquity and found myself traveling as far East as India. During this time, I expanded my knowledge of medicine and the sciences, and merged those talents to become a proficient magician, the likes of which had never been seen in either Asia or Europe.

"I displayed these talents in fairs throughout Eastern Europe and Russia. I found a certain cynical humour in the fact that sleight of hand paid better than honest craftsmanship had. And it was my remarkable talent for legerdemain that brought my existence to the attention of the Shah-in-Shah.

“I was brought down from Ninji-Novgorod, in Russia, on the testimony of a Samarkand fur trader; at first purely as an entertainment for the Shah's favourite who was 'withering away' of boredom. She delighted in entertaining deceptions, the 'Little Sultana'," he said, his voice tinged with contempt.

"But it was not long before the Shah discovered that I also possessed genius in areas that would be useful to himself.

"Of course, my hidden face was of paramount curiosity to both of them. The Sultana I never did indulge, despite her frequent insistences that I show my face to her.

"But the Shah, despite that devouring curiosity I could see in his eyes whenever I was in his presence, surprised me by never demanding that I reveal it. It was astonishing to me. Every day I waited for that order to come, and every day, to my growing relief, it did not. The only subjects he ever broached with me were pleasantries regarding my satisfaction with my accommodations, and the architectural endeavours he wished me to undertake. After a while, the Little Sultana even stopped her incessant pouting and begging, I discovered, on his solemn orders.

"He commissioned me to make alterations to his Palace at Mazenderan. I was given immense power, and, for a time, my word was law. Those who defied my authority or who were heard to insult me behind my back were punished as severely as if they had insulted the Shah himself. And it soon became easier than ever to discover when such insults were being uttered, with the alterations I made to the palace.

"At the Shah's request, I devised secret passages, made use of hollowed bricks and trapdoors... hundreds of them. By the time I had finished, the Shah had given me a nickname: 'Derb Mekhefa Met'eseb' which, roughly translated, means 'Trapdoor Lover'.

"Soon there was scarcely a room in the entire building where a word could be uttered without being overheard. I daresay I was responsible for numerous little tragedies through my trapdoors alone. I was extremely receptive to all of the Shah's commissions."

Erik lifted his eyes, which, thus far had been fixed on Christine’s hand, to her face. Her expression was intent, as though determined to retain every word he spoke to her. His hand still rested next to hers on her knee, and he feared to move it.

Christine, meanwhile, fixed her gaze on his face while it was turned to her and memorized each line in his brow which was furrowed over his anxious, pleading eyes.

"You cannot understand what this time was like for me, Christine," he said earnestly. "I had been rejected by my parents, scorned and mocked across Europe; but here... here, it seemed, I had a patron who saw beyond my face; who appreciated my genius and skill for all it was worth. For the first time in my life, Christine, I felt that I was valued for myself; as a thinking, intelligent man, and not merely a freak or a sorcerer." He dared to take her hand now, raising it and holding it tightly.

"This ring was the first payment I ever received from the Shah for my first project: a hall of illusion he had commissioned to celebrate the anniversary of his marriage to the Little Sultana. He had brought a selection of his personal rings for me to choose from. I was stunned beyond speech. I couldn't imagine choosing one for myself, so he ended by ordering his Chief of Police to select one for me.

"Not only valued, but I was extolled. Think of it, Christine—barely twenty years old and my talents had made me very nearly the most powerful man in the court of the Shah-in-Shah. I was afforded power, wealth...

"I did not endear myself to anyone but the Shah and the Little Sultana. Numerous attempts were made on my life. Assassins were commissioned by various players at court whose noses my seemingly omniscient presence had put out of joint. One assassin was audacious enough to attack me even as I was entertaining the Little Sultana and her ladies in the garden.

"I was no stranger to killing by that point, even setting aside my... early experience. During my travels, I had often been beset on the roads by bandits. It was in India that I had discovered my particular skill with the lasso. It had saved my life on many occasions, and so I took to carrying one on my person at all times; and on this occasion it saved my life again.

"The Sultana was..." Erik struggled to find a word that could convey that woman's hideous delight at his talent for murder without being forced to expose Christine, even anecdotally, to that particular brand of obscenity. His skin crawled at the very idea. He had sworn himself to be truthful, but did not see that it would benefit Christine to be gratuitous. "She was impressed... most favourably impressed... by the proficiency with which I dispatched my assailant. In fact, soon after this episode she quickly began to tire of my usual exhibitions of magic and illusion. She, instead, began to ask for further demonstrations of my skill with the lasso. And I obliged her."

Erik paused, feeling hot waves of shame engulf him, and, realizing that his hands were shaking, gripped his knees to conceal their trembling; but Christine had already noticed.

"She would have prisoners brought to a locked courtyard, whence she and her ladies could observe, and arm them with a pike and a sword. She would then have me, armed only with my lasso, enter the courtyard, and battle them to the death. It became her favourite entertainment.

"Most of the men sent to face me had already been sentenced to death—my skill was such that this was simply the chosen manner of execution.... Most, not all; but that was not something I considered until later. At the time... at the time, I simply did not care. 

"The Shah, recognizing the efficiency of my chosen methods, and discovering that I had considerable knowledge, too, of poisons, soon engaged me as his own personal assassin. I unquestioningly participated in a number of political assassinations.”

Erik's voice felt heavy and thick as he spoke, filled with distaste and shame. He felt a horrible sense of unravelling at how still Christine was beside him. Throughout she had not moved or made a single sound, and Erik did not know whether, if he chanced a look at her now—even just a glance—he would ever be able to finish his confessions. And now that he had begun, he could not bear to stop until all had been laid out for her judgment.

"Christine, I..." Erik's voice trembled, struggling to know whether to look at her, or away. He settled on looking away, and then immediately felt like a coward. How could he ever hope for her trust if he could not look her in the eye while he confessed his sins? Swallowing hard, he forced his head up and met her gaze, which was baleful but otherwise unfathomable. Erik was unsure whether that was more terrifying to face than overt disgust, or less.

"I will not lie to you and say that I did not derive a... well, a certain... satisfaction from these murders. It was not the same... pleasure that I believe gratified the Little Sultana as she watched me strangle convicts in her courtyard,” he insisted desperately, in the manner with which a man facing a death sentence might plead his case before a magistrate. “But every successful mission was congratulated, praised, and rewarded. I had no love for mankind. The human race had never given me reason to care; it had rejected me, shunned me, exploited and trampled me. I was angry, and I was hateful, and I was good at killing. I had become so acclimated to it in so often defending myself that it had seemed almost a skill like any other I set my hand to. It simply came... easily. I imagine it comes less naturally to those with incentive to value the lives of others. But for one such as myself... it took almost nothing for me to separate myself from the act. I found little difference between those men and the animals I had killed for my supper on the roads. I felt that I owed nothing to the human race, because it had denied me as one of its own.”

All of this was spoken while Erik gazed, transfixed, on the smooth, sorrowful mask that Christine was wearing. Unable to endure it any longer, Erik looked away again, fighting the impulse to simply hide his face in his hands.

"I believe the Shah recognized all of this. Politically he was—is—rather weak, but he was capable of being highly perceptive when he wanted to. He fostered and fed my worst proclivities for his gain, the same as the Sultana did for her pleasure. And I was so blinded by his apparent acceptance of me that I was unable to see this.

"For nearly two years this epoch of decadence and death continued. Early in the second year, the Little Sultana had me make alterations to her palace of illusion, of which she had begun to grow bored. No longer interested in the mere illusions of my creation herself, she decided that instead she should like it to be converted into a torture chamber; her little gladiator matches, too, had begun to lose their interest. I arranged it so that the roof over one of the rooms could be retracted, allowing the sun to super-heat the mirrors that lined the room. The heat and the illusions combined to make the subjects of the torture completely lose their senses, until they either perished of the heat or took their own lives. The idea was the Sultana's, but the methods I devised myself. It was the most abominable feat of genius I had ever constructed. Thus far."

Here, Erik paused and did, for a moment, press his forehead into his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. Then he gathered himself, and, with a deep breath, straightened his back and looked forward into the darkness.

"The Shah was pleased that the Sultana now had a method of... entertainment... that no longer required my presence. It was around this time that I devised a blueprint for a palace on the concept of a trick box, which I knew would please the Shah. A whole palace designed to allow him to move freely within the walls without ever being seen or heard. He immediately commissioned its construction and was glad to know that I would be able to entirely devote myself to the project.

"I, too, was glad of it. I had begun to feel that the talents I wished to grow, my talents of creation, were beginning to stagnate, and the senseless brutality that delighted the Sultana had begun to grow... wearying. I had felt myself, for some months, becoming ever more restless. I slept less than usual (which had never been very much to begin with) and lost nearly all of my already infrequent appetite; I felt that this new palace, a project of construction, something to build, would be the thing to bring me back to myself... or as close to 'myself' as I had ever felt.

"I became consumed by it. Enslavement to my work seemed to free my mind, and I entered into a period of manic creation. I went many nights without sleep, continuing to build even after all the workers had retired to bed. Had I been less absorbed, I might have been better able to see the changes that were taking place around me.

"You see, I had also failed to understand that, in speeding along the construction of the trick box palace, I was hastening my own fall.

“When the palace was nearly complete—in almost half the expected time—the Shah invited me to have supper with him, to congratulate my latest feat of genius. All was as usual, jokes, jovial conversation, praise for my artistry...

"And then came the order that I had feared since my arrival; which I, like a fool, had only just ceased to anticipate. He 'requested' that I show him my face. And I knew, from the look in his eye, behind that mask of avuncular good humour, that this was an order. And one that I was not in a position to refuse."

Erik's face became very dark now, and when he next spoke it was so soft that Christine, her stomach clenching at the shadow that had passed over his countenance, had to lean close to discern the words.

"I shall never forget what that man said to me," Erik whispered. "First he grimaced, then laughed. Both reactions I had long since grown accustomed to, though they seemed to sting in a way they never had before. But then... then he said—" here, Erik assumed a singularly mocking tone, made all the more terrible by its mean-spirited jocularity—“'There, now! you are quite the Don Juan I would say. Any woman that ever saw you would be yours forever. She'd never be able to get that face out of her head.'”  And then he laughed again and told me to cover myself."

Christine sat paralyzed, haunted; for the Shah's cruel humour seemed, to her, a terrible foreshadowing of her own hateful words.

Can I ever escape from that face?

Guilt pooled sickly in her stomach, and she crossed her arms over her abdomen, leaning into them in an attempt to ease the discomfort. Erik was not looking at her now; he was lost in the bitter memory, and she thanked God that he seemed not to notice her reaction, for after a brief but most  grievous silence, Erik pressed on with his recollections.

"I then finally began to realize all that I had wilfully ignored for so long. I began also, to realize what the Shah's request meant: that he had always intended to have his curiosity satisfied, and had only waited until such a time as he would no longer need to appease me.

"The Daroga, that very Chief of Police who had chosen my ring for me, had seen all of this with the clarity of experience. He was often in company with me. Not of his own will, of course. He had been assigned as my shadow from the beginning. I did not look askance at this, as I soon learned that everyone at the Palace had a shadow. Even some of the shadows had shadows. But though he had no choice in how he spent his time, we built a kind of rapport with each other. He was not much older than I. Though he lacked much of a sense of humour, he did not want for wit, and I recall him procuring a hearty laugh from me on more than one occasion.

"I was, it transpired, fortunate that he had been assigned as my watcher—perhaps the one individual in the entire court with a sense of scruple. He had tried many times to warn me of my folly, and went unheeded at every turn.”

Erik remembered, with an awful, vivid clarity, the occasion when the Daroga had first confronted him with his warnings; how he had ignored him, and the Daroga had grasped his forearm, saying, “You must know that these rosy hours will not last, Erik!” with that pragmatic indignation he wore so well; and how he, Erik, had shaken him off with the hubristic sneer of the power-drunk.

“But it was to him, as the Daroga of Mazenderan,” Erik continued, “that the order for my arrest fell when the Shah was satisfied with his completed palace. In possession of such a gem, he did not want to risk my replicating it for anyone else. At first, as I was told, he had simply intended to have my eyes plucked out, but thinking better of it, he decided that my knowledge of his palaces must be destroyed completely—my sentence was death.”

At this word, Christine finally responded. Her careful mask did not budge, but she, seemingly on instinct, clutched his hand, as if she feared that the recollection of a death sentence which he had quite obviously escaped could still harm him. Erik’s heart could not help but warm at this reaction,  and he took courage from it, returning the pressure.

"Daroga helped me to escape,” he went on, “—I suppose in return for my once having saved his life—but on one condition. 'No more murders.'"

Erik looked at the green tones in the alexandrite stone on Christine’s hand and remembered, with a slight smile, how serious the Persian's jade eyes had been as he had uttered those words with a raised finger.

"I had never believed in making or keeping oaths and agreed to this one without much real intention of putting any stock in it. The likelihood of him ever finding me to hold me to it was very slim. It has been thirteen years, and still, I have no idea if he's even alive. I suspect that his connection to the royal family was just close enough to protect him from execution, and that he was likely exiled, but the devil knows what became of him then."

Christine, observing Erik's expression intently, did not think that she was imagining the subtle trace of regret in his voice. She, herself, wondered where this Daroga was now, and if she would ever have the opportunity to thank him for saving Erik's life.

"I returned, as directly as possible, to Paris. Here, to the only safe place I had ever known. I kept my word, though less out of a sense of obligation, and more simply because I neither needed nor wanted to commit any murders.

“The realization of the Shah's exploitation of my talent for strangling had thoroughly soured any sense of enjoyment I had achieved from it. Only threat of exposure seemed a great enough reason to take lives now, and no one knew enough of the Opera's hidden inner workings to pose a threat of exposing me.

"I was determined to make for myself a proper haven where I could devote myself to music. The Opera house was, at that time, undergoing renovations, making it easy for me to go about preparing a home for myself undetected. I then determined to build  a pipe organ—the only instrument I felt could accurately support the titanic music which I intended to write. That required some funds.

"I had returned to find the Opera Populaire under new management and it was not long before I observed that the new directors, Debienne and Poligny, were far less competent than those who had advanced real talent and taste. Not unlike our present management,” he added under his breath. “In addition to that, I soon discovered that Poligny had, for some time, been defrauding Debienne in their private business ventures, among other... 'indiscretions'. I was fortunate to also discover that he was quite superstitious."

"For years there had been rumours that the opera was haunted—many had begun in those early months when I was still exploring the secret passages and had not yet learned to be so perfectly invisible—and it was this that gave me a singular idea.

"By means of ventriloquism, I let Poligny know, in no uncertain terms, that the Opera was indeed haunted, and that the Ghost knew and saw all—including the skeletons in his armoire. Within a week, OG had sent his inaugural note, and Poligny, sufficiently spooked, needed no further prodding to comply. If he seemed in danger of forgetting, the Opera Ghost would swiftly remind him.

"It was less than a year after I had returned when Mathilde, now widowed with a young daughter, also returned to the Opera seeking employment. She could not return to the stage, but she could instruct. Debienne and Poligny very nearly turned her away on account of her sex, but they were soon made to see reason. She had, after all, been the one of most celebrated principal dancers the Opera had seen in years.

“She knew me well enough to understand who the Opera Ghost was as soon as the stories reached her. We kept our distance, but she was amenable to assisting my scheme. The pittance of a salary she was provided by the opera would have been just enough to live on, but with a daughter to provide for as well, the cut of profits I made available to her was more than welcome.

"Thus, all was in place for me to settle into a, more or less, comfortable isolation; to commence my vocation to music, and to begin what I determined would be my magnum opus: Don Juan Triumphant.

“I worked by fits and starts, composing for weeks at a time, during which I hardly ate or slept and lived only on my music. Then for months I would find I couldn't bear to touch it. And so, it was for almost two years, this angry cycle. I had no expectation of any interruption, and was almost pleased at that idea.

"Until," Erik turned his head and looked at Christine with a most indescribable expression; a sort of blissful mingling of tenderness and agony, "the dearest and most precious disruption, which I never could have imagined, altered my plans entirely."

~~~ 

Author's Notes

[daughterofyourdarklord]

Towering turrets which far surpassed the grandeur of Hogwart’s own stood as tall and rife with dark magic as Bellatrix herself seemed to, faces of dragons and ancient Blacks from the 13th century glaring down at mother and daughter as they stood before the heavy, imposing gates.

“You know — I hope — how sacred we Black witches are. We take rights of passage onto the ancestral home when we become of age.” Grey eyes turn over her younger witch. Sometimes her gaze stilled over her, studying her face. All she remembered at times was the little child she’d had torn from her arms. “I trust my aunt and my father told you what you needed to know.”

The late evening sun glinted off the blade she raised. She turned it fluidly in her palm, clutching the silver between long thin digits, hilt offered.

“You spill your blood only once.”

She showed her own palm as if it would offer certainty. All that remained was a faded line, an ancient scar from three decades past. Delphini would be ingrained in the stone and the earth, she’d be bound forever to the house of Black just as her mother was.

They would know. The moment her blood would touch the door, Delphini would hear it. Whispers, magic of green and white and blue and black cloaking ethereally, stars shimmering on the doors, her name written into the most noble and ancient house of Black, acceptance would be given.

All Bellatrix could hope that was that the magic she’d done — or rather, undone — years ago, would be enough to grant her heiress entry.

Delphini smiles up at her mother, eyes twinkling a bit as she jokes. 

“I think you already know the answer to that one, mum.” If there was one thing Auntie Walburga and grandfather put an emphasis on it was Black tradition. Not that Delphini had minded, she’d soaked it up, all too eager to learn about the family she was almost taken away from. 

The dagger is cold in her hands, the metal of it gleaming amongst the night.

This is it. 

Her smile falters a bit as she brings the blade to her palm. Normally, she’d never hesitate, but Delphini knew… She knew there was a chance that this magic, this ancestry, might outright reject her. Her blood was, of course, of House Black, of House Gaunt - of Salazar Slytherin himself - some of the purest blood in all of the wizarding world, tainted. 

Delphini could only hope that that ancient and noble blood she grew up worshiping was potent enough to cleanse whatever muggle filth had infiltrated their family. Father had done everything he could to wipe it (him) out, now it was up to Delphini to prove it. 

She drove the blade in perhaps deeper than necessary, relishing in the bite of the silver before raising her hand to the handle boldly. Here we go. 

A wave of magic radiates upward the instant her blood seeps into the wrought iron, echoes of the ancient rites suddenly whispering all around her, some sounding like they were coming from just behind, others right in her ear. Delphi shivers, the smile returning to her face as she closes her eyes as though it will help her listen to their words more clearly.

She sees them, the faces of the hundreds that had come before her - she looks like them. The same distinguished bones sheathed beneath impeccable pale skin, those nearly too full lips, elegant black waves framing symmetrical features. The eyes though, Delphini has those muggle eyes. 

Still, they were speaking to her - calling for her. 

She loses sight of them all, now lost somewhere amongst the stars. Someone new is chanting, amidst the constellations she turns. It is her mother, only it is not. Bellatrix is pregnant, the stars reflecting in her entirely black eyes. She has a hand on her prominent stomach, runes climbing up her neck and down her arms. Suddenly, she looks right at Delphini- 

She gasps as a force shoves her backwards, eyes shooting open. The door burns hot, her wound cauterizing from the intensity of it. Still, she does not let go. 

In a burst of magic the gate flies open, nearly taking her arm with it. Delphini freezes for a moment, almost shell shocked, waiting for something to happen. She is entranced by the growing magic, those same voices seeming to lure her deeper into the castle. 

“It worked!” She cries, turning around only to immediately throw herself into her mother’s arms, laughing joyfully against the older witch’s shoulder. Bellatrix had done this for her, Delphini knows it (saw it), her mother had thought her all those years ago and found a way to ensure she’d be granted entry. The younger witch pulls away gently, looking up into her mother’s eyes and hoping her own were reflecting all the words she wanted to say but couldn’t. All she could manage was a gentle:

“Thank you, mama.”

[enderon]

This is another instance of something seeming terrible when I wrote it, but after some time, revisting, it's actually not that bad. A but awkward in some places, but not terrible.

It's the start of a fic that will explore the specifics of Junior and Leo's relationship that does turn smutty, but the smut is for the sake of exploring characters and relationship and I actually put a lot of thought into what Leo, a being with no secual organs who reproduces asexually, might get out of such a relationship. If that interests you and you like this beginning, let me know and I'll see about finishing it.

------------

Leo was busy discussing the preparations of an upcoming ritual feast when a handmaiden walked up and cleared her throat to get the spirit's attention. He turned to her, not feeling even an ounce of annoyance, as his duty as master and guardian of Infant Island saw many people needing him all throughout the day, making interruptions like this very common. 

She bowed politely in greeting. “Your grace, you have a visitor.” She gestured towards the entrance, where a small body could be seen leaning up against a wall. 

Minya didn't often come to the worship chamber. While he was thankfully beginning to grow out of his timidness, he had once admitted that the place was so special that he felt wrong being there. Leo had of course assured the child that he was more than welcome in his family's special place, but he still tended to avoid it if he could. So to see him there, wringing his scarf in his hands in his usual nervous fashion, Leo knew it had to be important. 

“Thank you, I'll go handle it.” Turning back to the priest he had just been speaking to, “Go forward with that idea, see what can be done. I'll check in on the progress later, once this issue is handled.” 

All present nodded and bowed once again in respect before heading off to tend to other matters, leaving Leo with the young mutant. 

“Is everything alright Minya?” He made sure to keep his voice soft and kind as he approached the child, kneeling down once close enough so he wasn't towering over him. Not that that was quite as easy these days. 

While still a bit underdeveloped for his age, Minya was shooting up quick, as most mutant children did. At a mere ten years, he was already beginning to match grown humans in height, and would likely surpass them quickly in the next few years. It warmed Leo's heart a bit to remember the scrawny, malnourished little thing he'd been when they'd first found him three years ago, and to see how much he's grown out. 

But it isn’t the time to get overly nostalgic, as Minya turns wide, concerned eyes on him. 

“I'm alright,” he admits, but instead of continuing just bites his lip and looks away. 

He's not saying it, but the specification of his own state, and present concern, is all Leo needs to know what the issue is. 

“Take me to him.” He insists, standing up and following behind as the child quickly begins scurrying off towards some far corner of the island. They travel along the line where the jungle turns into beach, making for faster travel. If he wanted this to be over even faster, Leo could just fly over, but Minya has never enjoyed the process, and he doesn't feel like troubling the child more than he already is. 

As the sound of snarling and smashing begins to reach his ears, Leo can't help the soft, quiet sigh he releases under his breath. While it's been quite a while since the last time this happened, probably the longest since they began, it's still troubling that it's still happening at all. 

Leo knows that recovery can be a slow, steady process, and that it's possible that complete recovery may never be entirely possible, but they've not been doing this long enough for him to come to terms with that. 

They turn a corner when something heavy smashes into the boulder next to them, spraying debris everywhere. It's instinct that brings a brightly colored wing up, shielding himself and Minya from the onslaught. Bringing it back down, he takes in the scene in front of them. 

The clearing is a mess of broken boxes and crumbled rocks, holes and trenches gouged into the ground and boulders shining with claw marks. 

And in the middle stands Godzilla, huffing and snarling, his body tense and a little curled in on himself. A defensive stance, like he's expecting some kind of fight. 

“Goji?” Minya calls out, his voice colored with concern. Leo doesn't like Minya having to see this, and he knows Godzilla likes it even less, but he won't deny his gratefulness of having him there when the man's gaze immediately draws to them. His chest expands as he takes a deep, slow breath, clearly trying to get himself back together in front of them, though still struggling to do so. In these moments he's his own worst enemy, and it will take a bit more to get him back to himself. 

“Thank you for bringing me Minya,” Leo says and rubs his thumb into one of the boy's shoulders soothingly. “Why don't you go into town and play with some of the other children?”

Minya looks uncertain at the idea, looking between the aggravated mutant and the spirit. While bothered by the sight, he was clearly hesitant to leave his guardian behind in such a state. 

“It will be alright, I promise. I'll help him.” With a confident smile, Leo turns the child and pushes him back the way they came, shooing him further when he still stumbled with hesitance. Finally Minya truly began to walk away, allowing Leo to turn back to the matter at hand. 

“Are you good to go, or do you need a bit more time here?” 

Still struggling with himself, with the heavy, heaving breaths, Godzilla seems to think to himself for a moment, though in his state it’s hard to tell if he’s  actually thinking about Leo's question or arguing with himself more. 

[ljones41]

“TOMORROW NEVER DIES” (1997) Review

"TOMORROW NEVER DIES" (1997) Review Recently, I had watched "TOMORROW NEVER DIES", Pierce Brosnan’s second outing as James Bond. Roger Spottiswoode directed the 1997 Bond movie. It co-starred Michelle Yeoh, Jonathan Pryce and Teri Hatcher.

  When I first saw "TOMORROW NEVER DIES" many years ago, I had a low opinion of it. I wish I could say that my opinion of the movie has improved over the years after this latest viewing . . . but I would be lying. TOMORROW NEVER DIES had some highlights, but unfortunately, it possessed more negative traits than positive ones. I think it would be best if I list both the good and the bad about this movie: Positive: *What else can I say? Michelle Yeoh. *I found Bond’s romantic scene with a Danish linguist rather sexy. *The film's foreign locations – Hamburg and Thailand (as Vietnam) - looked more lovely, thanks to Robert Elswit's cinematography. *Bond and Wai-Lin’s escape from Caver building in Vietnam proved to be one of the better stunts I have seen in the entire Bond franchise. *Thanks to Roger Spottiswoode's direction and Michel Arcand's editing, I thought the Saigon motorcycle chase was handled very well. *Pierce Brosnan gave a very natural performance, especially during his scenes with Yeoh. *Oddly enough, I rather liked Vincent Shirerpelli as Dr. Hamburg. He proved to be a more interesting henchman than Mr. Stamper. And his death proved to be even more interesting. *Mr. Gupta seemed like a pretty sharp and cool guy. *The movie's main theme song, performed by Sheryl Crow - what can I say? I realize it is not regarded as one of the best theme songs from the Bond franchise. But I have always had a soft spot for it, thanks to Crow's vocals and the lyrics she co-wrote with Mitchell Froom. I mean . . . the song did earn a Golden Globe nomination. Negative: *Brosnan's angsty scenes with Teri Hatcher seemed stiff and unnatural. And his voice sounded odd in scenes featuring Bond's attempt to suppress his emotions. *Why did the director Roger Spottiswode, have Brosnan shooting two machine guns at once during the final confrontation on Carver’s boat? The actor looked like a walking action movie cliché. *I thought Jonathan Pryce had portrayed one of the most overbearing and annoying villains in the Bond franchise. Only Sophie Marceau in the latter half of "THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH" may have surpassed him. *Is it just me or is the plot of this Bond movie seemed like an extended rip-off of a "LOIS & CLARK" episode from its first season? Perhaps the discovery of Teri Hatcher’s casting must have given screenwriter Bruce Feirstein an idea. *Why is it that nearly every sentence directed by Ms. Moneypenny to Bond came off as a sly, sexual joke? Their dialogue grew very annoying. *Spottiswoode managed to transform Bond and Q’s Meeting in Hamburg into a hammy production number. Q was simply in Hamburg to hand over an armored company car to Bond. What a bore and a waste of time! *Carver's top minion, Mr. Stamper, struck me as a second-rate version of Red Grant from "RUSSIA WITH LOVE". Where was Robert Shaw or Andreas Wisnewski when you need them? *The entire car chase sequence inside a Hamburg parking structure featured Bond using a remote control . . . ah, never mind! The entire sequence struck me as a bore. Even worse, it happened after the marvelous Bond/Kaufman scene. What a waste of my time. *Despite all of the gunfire exchanged and the other action during the final confrontation sequence aboard Carver’s boat, I thought it was too long . . . and boring. *Joe Don Baker seemed wasted in this film as C.I.A. liaison Jack Wade. *Bond’s Cover as a Banker – I am beginning to suspect that Bond makes a lousy undercover agent. By opening his mouth and hinting at Carver’s boat, he ended up exposing himself. What an idiot! *Teri Hatcher seemed wasted in this film. And her angsty scenes with Brosnan seemed forced - almost unnatural. TOMORROW NEVER DIES did managed to produce a few favorite lines of mine: Favorite Lines: "Believe me, Mr. Bond. I can shoot you from Stugartt and still create the proper effect." – Dr. Kaufman to Bond BOND: "You were pretty good with that hook." WAI-LIN: "That’s from growing up in a rough neighborhood. You were pretty good on the bike." BOND: "Well, that comes from not growing up at all." "No more absurd than starting a war for ratings." – Bond to Carver KAUFMAN: "Wait! I am just a professional doing a job!" BOND: "So am I." (Then kills Kaufman) Despite some virtues, "TOMORROW NEVER DIES" is not a favorite movie of mine. In fact, it is my least favorite James Bond movie featuring Pierce Brosnan. Unfortunately, director Roger Spottiswoode seemed unable to elevate Bruce Firstein's generic screenplay marred by an unoriginal plot and one of the hammiest villains in the franchise's history. Hmmm . . . too bad.

[greatwyrmgold]

I remember watching maybe two-thirds of the first episode of Misfit of Demon King Academy back in 2020, deciding it was garbage, and moving on. It seemed like another dumb isekai-adjacent power-fantasy action/harem light novel adaptation.

The next month, Geoff Thew published a video about how MoDKA is a great action-comedy, a parody in the same vein as One Punch Man, if OPM tried to pretend it was an ordinary superhero comic. A month ago, seeing that MoDKA was getting a second season, I decided to give it a second chance...

...and it's amazing what a change of perspective can do. MoDKA isn't high art, but it's a lot of fun if you don't think you're supposed to take it seriously. I'd compare it to Looney Toons before One Punch Man, specifically the parts where Bugs Bunny pulls one over on Elmer Fudd or Daffy Duck or whatever jerk deserves to be shamed this week.

There are a few things that I think make it work, beyond the simple absurdity of what Anos does.

Anos isn't a show-offy prick. He doesn't mind showing off, but he doesn't go out of his way to do so and often lets others take center stage when they can handle it. Anos is unflappably confident, but he's not arrogant—certainly not when compared to most of the purebloods and heroes he clashes with.

The central conflicts of the show are ones that Anos being super-strong doesn't trivialize. Sure, he could beat up everyone who disagrees with him, but that's clearly not enough to make royal-blooded demons stop believing in Avos Delhevia or treat half-demons any better (or make humans). It's easy for Anos to pick up a castle, spin it like a basketball, and chuck it across the woods, but that alone doesn't accomplish anything.

Anos isn't the only guy who does cool stuff; the supporting characters get their moments to shine. Part of this comes down to Anos encouraging his comrades' growth, but a lot of it comes down to the fact that characters other than Anos are allowed to have cool stuff. His closest friends could even surpass Anos in their respective specialties, with a bit more training. Everyone gets a chance to shine, even Anos's dorky dad and the technically-not-nameless students in the Unitarian political movement/Anos fanclub. (It makes sense in context. And isn't as dumb as it sounds.) Some of the biggest things Anos does are just him supporting his friends.

The characters are surprisingly detailed. Not incredibly so, but it's obvious that the author put a lot of thought into why the secondary cast is the way they are. Sasha and Misha Necron are absolutely a tsundere and a kuudere, but their backstory does a pretty good job of explaining why they treat each other and the people around them the way they do, and they have character traits outside their archetypes. Hardly anyone has the depth of an average Wildbow tertiary character, but plenty have more depth than the average isekai hero, or even the not-harem member who everyone agrees would make a better protagonist.

The series has thematic ambition beyond just making Anos look cool. The main villains, aside from the enigmatic Avos Delhevia, are demon institutions prejudiced against half-breeds and the legacy of one long-dead human who spent his life making sure humans would never let go of his hatred for demonkind. "Racism is bad" isn't the most sophisticated message, and it's not delivered in the most sophisticated manner, but it's also not delivered in the most basic manner. It doesn't make racism a matter of a few bad eggs, but of worldviews that the powerful use to justify fucking with the weak—worldviews that don't go away just because they're demonstrably, empirically wrong. It has its flaws*, but it has fewer flaws than ~90% of stories that try to tackle this subject.

So yeah. It's not a masterpiece, but if you want a dumb fun show to watch, you could certainly do worse.

*Like how the main reason that humans hate demons is a spell one dude cast that projects his angry Alex Jones rants into every human's mind for two thousand years. This could be turned into something that works without much effort, and if someone said that plot point wasn't so blunt and braindead in the light novel, I would probably believe them.