#cap is politely offering him a cup of tea and is scared that's going to far and havers is foaming at the mouth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hansensgirl · 4 years ago

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please don’t take him (even though you can).

summary. | She can have anyone she wants, but you can never love again. Not without him.

warnings. | Major angst, cheating, nightmare mentions, anxiety, yearning, nail-biting, insecurities, mental heath issues, mentions of violence, abandonment, implied smut, talk of death, grief, some religion stuff (not major), loneliness, mentions of torture, PTSD, split personality disorder i think, this is really angsty and possibly triggering so please be aware of the warnings! 18+

word count. | 12k.

pairings. | Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff.

a/n. | THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 6K!!! i love each and everyone so much like serious i will kiss you all!! happy valentine’s day as well!! based off of jolene by dolly parton and love by daughter. thank you to my love @mypoisonedvine for beta-ing and listening to me talk about this fic every now and then! ilysm! this fic is very near and dear to me, so please reblog it 🥺

The Soldat’s sentences are broken, just like he is. The words fall apart as soon as they roll off of his tongue. So much to say, so few words, so little time. His hands are as cold as the bitter Russian winters, as cold as his stare. The Soldat doesn’t know what to feel. He’s as numb as when one’s entire body has been bitten by frostbite.

His voice is deeper than it was for the man he once was. From the screaming, from the crying, from the torture. He has no control, not even over his own voice. He keeps quiet and thinks. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. Something has dawned on the Soldat. He does have control. But for how long? He only has it for a few minutes, maybe even hours. But it’s enough. He only has it until the soul of his mission’s body has left. He only has it until their eyes hold no life in them.

It’s 2014, and the first sentence he has completed is “I love you.”

You can remember it well. November 17th, the snow had fallen early and neither of you were prepared. Milk intended for hot chocolate boils on the stove and the crackle that the fire brings was the only sound in the room. He watches you from afar as you slowly stir the milk with a wooden spoon — the only one that he hadn’t accidentally snapped.

He doesn’t like the cold, he never has. Though he’s always warm, the cold haunts and taunts him. Memories and nightmares come with the snowfall and ice. “Are you okay, Winter?” you ask him, and he snaps out of a blank trance.

Winter. He likes being called Winter, although he loathes the season.

He nods his head after some careful thinking. Through the mess that is his mind, he manages to ask himself if he’s okay. Is he? No, he isn’t. He’s not sure why he nodded, but damn is he grateful for that smile you give in return. One in a million, you’re a burning star. The brightest there is, and the shiniest diamond ever. You’re rare, the person who poets write about and singers cry about. But you’re the only one for him. Only his.

“What flavours, Winter? Would you like to try something new?” you ask him, bringing the heat down and taking the milk off of the stove. Winter gets up from his spot near the fireplace and strides over to you. He likes the way you don’t choke in fear when he walks towards you.

You show him the numerous flavours of cookies you had baked that morning, and allow him to take as long as he’d like to choose. “M…” He struggles to say the word, scared that he’s being too demanding and that it’s a trick. HYDRA often did that. Fooling him just so that they could harm him, even though they never really needed a reason. “You can have anything you want, Winter. Anything.”

You reassure him, hesitatingly putting your warm hands on his warm face. He looks up at you, and you give him a soft smile that makes him want to cry with love. “Macadamia?” he requests politely. You hand him the macadamia cookies and smile, before grabbing one of the chocolate bombs you and he made the other day.

“Would you like to pour the milk, Winter?” you question him, grabbing his favourite mug. It was white and had a cheesy pun that always made him smile. “Yes.” He keeps his answers short, scared that he’ll say the wrong thing, or that he’ll abuse his privileges. The stories… The harsh stories they tell about him contradict him. He looks just like that feared soldier; the one you should run from.

But God, he’s just a broken man. Not too far past repairing, but just enough that it takes certain special tools to fix him. He towers over you like a brute, a powerful stare that would make anyone but you cry. He takes the carton of milk for you, cracking a slight smile when he remembers that you were so weak that your hands would shake when lifting it.

Your heart warms as his lips stretch. Before, you weren’t sure if you even had a favourite sight. But now… now you know. He’s your favourite sight. He pours the milk with shaky yet careful hands, and you envy his strength through your admiration. He stops just at the right time without having you tell him. Independence. He’s learning.

You break pieces of chocolate into the cup and let the hot milk melt the sweet treat, before adding a dash of cocoa powder. You both watch in wonder and awe as the milk turns into hot chocolate. Winter takes his cup from you, and thanks you. “You’re welcome, Winter,” you say, placing your cold hands on the mug.

He watches as you sigh at the warmth, knowing that your body doesn’t radiate as much heat as he does. “S- Share?” he offers you, taking note of how you’re slightly shivering. You nearly choke on your hot chocolate as he proposes the utmost tempting action ever. “My blanket…” He adds on, making you take note of the blanket your father gave you that rests on his shoulders.

It’s not necessary, but it gives him a type of comfort that only you can give as well. “Please?” you ask, shivers crawling up your spine and goosebumps rising on your skin. You walk closer to him, padded feet barely making any noise as they rest on top of creaky wooden floors.

He opens the blanket like wings and takes you under his arm like a bird. Ready to show you the world, even the nastiest bits and pieces of it. He wraps the majority of the blanket around you and he’s infatuated with the relaxation that you radiate. No threats, no impending dooms. You stand side by side, not so silently sipping on your hot chocolate because you love the little smile he gives at the slightly loud slurps.

Winter doesn’t know what comes over him. Courage? Cowardice? A spur of love? His mind is too messed up to think that clearly. He turns you around to face him, the blanket falling to the floor with a slight thud. Who knew wool could be so heavy?

Heavy like your heart. Heavy like the tension that lingers.

Perhaps it’s not courage or cowardice, and in fact, it’s Bucky who used to flirt like a maniac with every girl in the neighbourhood. He bends down and plants a kiss on your lips — at least that’s what he thinks it is. You’re easily goo beneath his coarse hands as they cup your cold face. He doesn’t move his lips and you don’t either. You’re both content with the simple yet unique kiss.

He pulls away and you have to admit — you’re breathless. From both the lack of air and from happiness. It’s rare to have such feelings be reciprocated. “I love you,” he bluntly admits, and never in your life have you been so shocked. “W- What?” you ask incredulously, taken aback yet you can already feel your body, soul and mind taking off to cloud nine.

“I love you.”

He repeats himself and God knows he’s willing to say those three words and eight letters over and over again just for you. “You do?” you ask him, feeling tears well in your eyes. “Yes. I love you. Love has immense, yet measurable effects and changes in the biochemistry of the brain. I mean- my brain? The three basic parts of love are driven by unique blends of brain chemicals…”

He pauses to take a deep breath.

“Every time I look at you, I have the term, ‘butterflies in the stomach.’ It’s caused by a reduction in blood flow to the stomach. I have the strongest urges to protect and love,” he explains with more words than ever.

Never in your life have you ever heard the words that are pouring out of his mouth. “Do you…?” he nervously questions, feeling his heart palpitations speed up at such a rate, it’s like he’s having a heart attack.

“I love you, even more, Winter.”

It’s 2016, and your Winter is almost a different person.

His name is Bucky– James, he tells you. You call him Jamie. Information discovered from trips to the museum and paragraphs of articles and textbooks fill out the blank spaces of his life. Apparently, students learn about him and the rest of the Howling Commandos in school. But you haven’t been, so you wouldn’t know.

The night terrors are tough, but they’ve been slowly improving with you by his side. You’re both broken in your own ways, but you have each other, and that’s enough. He doesn’t mind it when you call him Winter, but you know it makes more sense to call him by his true name. You’re fine with anything, as long as you have him.

“My, my… Did you wake up in a good mood?” you ask him, hugging him carefully from behind because you know that sometimes he doesn’t want to be touched. That’s fine. “Maybe… I was thinking of going out today. Alone. Will you be safe?” he asks you, handing you the best meal he can scrounge up. Biscuits and tea. “Always, because I have you,” you tell him, making him give you a sad smile.

You don’t have a table, so he lifts you up onto the counter that is next to the sink. Inside, there are stacks of dishes. Neither of you have the energy to wash them, but today you will, to keep yourself busy. He’s already dressed; tight red henley on top of two more sweaters that are stretched out over his broad chest.

Jeans that barely fit his thick legs, combat boots that he stole and a cap that conceals his identity from wandering eyes. He watches as you eat, just in case you accidentally bite your tongue, burn yourself or choke. He’ll always be there for you. “Did you eat?” you question him, breaking your last biscuit and handing the bigger piece to him.

At first, he refuses to take it. Doubts from HYDRA still linger, they never can go away even with the most reassurance and love from you. “Please? You can lie and you can choose to not answer, but at least take this,” you beg, placing the half in his gloved hand. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips; the taste of orange pekoe tea making him sigh.

He’s always been partial to green, even though he can’t recall ever drinking it. He reluctantly eats the piece and you stare him dead in the eyes as he does so. “You know I’ll always love you, right?” you speak up once he’s finished. You know all the proper manners like they’re written on the back of your hand. When you were younger, they were.

In loopy cursive. Black Sharpie ink settling into your skin and you can remember the way your father scolded you for doing so. The memory is fresh, fresh like the tears you notice in Bucky’s eyes. He nods, and you down the rest of your tea. You never had a preference between tea and coffee. You were grateful to have either.

They both had their flaws, and they both had their strengths. “And I’ll always love you, лунный свет,” he whispers, closing the space that divides you both. His lips — slightly chapped yet so soft — are pressed against your cold forehead. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, but it’s not one of surprise.

No.

It’s of satisfaction, and you find yourself doing it more often than once. “What does that mean?” you ask him as you trace the teacup with one of your fingers. There’s still a bit of tea inside of it, but it’s barely anything. Not enough to quench a thirst. But since it’s come from him and since his murder-scarred hands made it, it’s enough for you.

Your finger dips, and it’s only then when you notice there’s a small chip. You don’t resent the cup for it, no, not at all. In fact, you find yourself a bit more enamoured with the piece of cheap china in your hands. “Moonlight,” he bluntly tells you, before taking the cup from your hands. You don’t even realize it until he replaces it with his hands.

Oh… He doesn’t like it? Now– now you hold a little bit of resentment towards it because if James doesn’t like it then maybe you shouldn’t. “Why?” you ask as you wrap your hands around his. You lace your fingers together and you can feel the stark contrast. On one hand — your right hand — your skin is comforted by the cotton glove he wears.

On your left hand, your skin is comforted by his bare, rough hand. “Well, лунный свет, what do you think it means?” he asks you in return as you trace the stitches on his glove and the grooves of his hand. “I… I’m not sure. I’m sorry,” you apologize to him. Your head ducks down in disappointment, but not with him. It’s for yourself, as always. “Don’t be, sometimes we don’t know everything,” he tells you softly, “and that’s okay.” His words reassure you as always.

“You’re just like moonlight. You’re wise, the brightest of them all. No matter how small you make yourself, you always manage to make everyone marvel at your beauty. You’re mysterious, always a surprise, but only for some. Your aura– your brightness, it never ceases to amaze people. It helps me through the darkest times. The world needs you, I need you,” he monologues to you, and you find yourself at a loss of words. “James…” You whisper, looking up at him.

His eyes are still a bit bloodshot, but they’re glassy and you can see right into his soul. “I love you, лунный свет, until the end of love,” James whispers to you, and he places a chaste kiss on your lips. “I love you, even more, Jamie, until the end of love. Until the end of time,” you whisper back, shutting your eyes. Bucky squeezes your hands, and you do the same in return. His head slightly knocks yours as he places his forehead against yours.

“Until the end of time, лунный свет.”

It’s still 2016, and you’ve lost your Jamie.

And it’s not like he’s somewhere in a sea of people, or some nook of a large building. No, he’s gone and you don’t know how to get him back. He told you to wait in the park that nobody usually goes to. Well, if you count both yourself and James as nobodies. You watch from afar as destruction and terror rips your home apart, and you pray that James is okay. You need him.

Surprisingly, nobody notices you. You wear most of James’s clothing, as it all couldn’t fit in the two backpacks he packed. You don’t mind, because you’re trying to forget about the small gun that’s in your boot. You don’t even know how to use it, and he knows that. “It doesn’t matter, лунный свет, once they see you with a gun, you’ll automatically be the strongest person there.” His words echo in your mind and so do his actions.

He dressed you in a rushing manner. His eyes kept locking with yours. Through his soft, almost scared complex, you can see the soldier you met two years ago –– only murder in his eyes, ready for a mission.

You bite your nails and try to ignore the screams from passersby “Until the end of time, until the end of time, until the end of time, until the end of time…” You repeat the phrase over and over, hoping the Gods above can hear the plea in your voice. “Please don’t take him, even though you can, please don’t take my Jamie,” you beg out loud, looking up to the sky that greys the same way old memories do.

He’s not okay, he's probably dead… And you left him there to suffer. How selfish could you be?

“Shut up.”

I’m not wrong, I never am. I wasn’t wrong about Father, was I?

“I… That’s different.”

Is it though?

You bite your tongue, whatever snarky remark you just had has now lost itself in the mess that is your mind. You’re conflicted as always. Should you stay, and let Jamie get hurt? Or should you help him? You spend a good few minutes repeating those questions over and over. You feel like you have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. You let out a satirical laugh, and you know that you seem insane.

Two days ago, you had brought up a saying to Jamie.

“My father… He had this saying. When someone has lived their full life, but it still seems to go on and on, it means that God and the devil haven’t come to an agreement yet,” you tell him, pulling at a thread that hangs on his jacket. “An agreement about what, лунный свет?” he asks you, looking up from the pamphlet he stole from a museum in a town near Bucharest.

It’s crumpled, but everything is legible still. “Who has to take them,” you smile up at him, and he returns it. “Perhaps, that's what's happening. They’re still arguing, still negotiating. That’s why you’re still here. If one of them were ready to take you, they would’ve done so already. But they haven’t,” you explain to him in your usual soft voice. He once told you that your voice is one of the best things to listen to.

Better than music, better than laughter, better than the admissions of ‘I love you’ you tend to trade.

“Maybe you’re right, лунный свет. You know, you’re different from the rest of us– them,” he whispers to you, taking in the way your face creases in certain spots when curiosity takes over. “How so, Jamie?” you ask him, setting down the needle, roll of thread, and jacket. “You have hope, faith,” he starts, “it’s both dangerous yet helpful. It’s what separates you from the demons of the world.”

“лунный свет!” James calls out. You look up from the ground and the movie of your life with James pauses. “Jamie…” You whimper, taking in his form. He’s bruised and battered, cut up and injured. Just like when you found him on the porch of your home. “Oh, Jamie… What happened?” you ask him, feeling yourself begin to panic. Your heart quickens, and you rush to him like he’s about to die.

“We have to go, лунный свет. It’s a hideout, it’s for your own safety,” he briefly explains to you and he grabs your arm. His grip is perfect. Not too tight, but not too gentle. You can tell he’s scared, but you know he’ll never admit it. “I have to go fight, but I’ll be back for you. Do you know the Avengers? It’s– Argh– We don’t have enough time. But I’ll tell you all about it later, лунный свет.” James is all business and nothing else.

You’re worried, so worried. But you have hope, and you have faith, and you know everything will be okay in the end. “But you’ll stay safe, right, Jamie?” you question him. He doesn’t respond, the only thing coming from him are grunts of pain and puffs of determination. “Answer me, Jamie. Promise me you’ll stay safe,” you demand of him in a strong voice. Never in your life have you ever raised your voice like this, but when it comes to James’s safety, you no longer care.

“I promise, лунный свет, until the end of time.”

It’s still 2016, and your Jamie is going away.

He’s leaving this world, but it’s for himself. You hold back all the pleas, all the begging you have in your body because you know he wants this. He needs this. His train is going to depart soon, off to a faraway land. A cold one, to be exact. You feel tempted to remind him how much he hates the cold, but you choose to keep your mouth shut. You’ve learned a lot in the past few days, more than when you were in high school.

Steve, Jamie’s past, what HYDRA is, the Avengers, the types of evil in this world–– They’re all things you’ve learnt. Your Jamie isn’t a different person, he isn’t. He just has more to him now. You replay the horrific memories of the past days in your mind over and over, even though you hated them. You look through the glass doors, and ahead of you is James in all his beatific glory.

In front of him, though, is the Black Widow. You don’t know if she’s from Jamie’s past, but you know they have a connection. The way they speak to each other; low and soft, just like summer rain. It’s almost the same way you speak to Jamie, but it’s not quite like it. He smiles up at her, and you remember how much you love his side-profile. It’s envious, really. But then again, Jamie is perfect in your eyes, despite his horrors and his scars of his past.

Of Winter’s past.

Your Jamie and Winter have their similarities. You’d make a list, but it would go on forever. You keep your eyes trained on his face, one of your favourite things to look at. Dare you say, he looks at her like no other. You’ve never seen this look on his face. But then again, your Jamie is going away and maybe it’s that impending nervousness. She looks at you. Her green eyes –– ones that just encapture you in the best way possible –– lock with yours. You feel insecure, almost as though she’s judging you.

But one of Earth’s mightiest heroes would never do such a thing.

She’s judging you, you know. Probably thinks you’re some nobody, some pathetic little girl who can’t even defend herself.

“No, she isn’t,”

And how can you be so sure?

Right. How can you be so sure? You watch as she gives James –– your Jamie –– a pat on the shoulder. She walks out, through another door and you feel as though she did that just to avoid you. And honestly, you don’t blame her. You walk in, hesitatingly of course. Each step of yours is wary. Your old, beaten-up sneakers barely make a sound against the floor. Your Father always said you walked like a ballerina and spoke like a princess.

“H– Hi, Jamie,” you quietly greet him. He looks up, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips are puckered in thought. He gives you a small ‘hi,’ and you smile at him. “Are you hurt anywhere?” you ask him, taking his form in again. His cuts and wounds are all bandaged and healed up. You recall the marvel that is the explanation of how he heals so quickly. The super-soldier serum, curated by HYDRA just for Jamie.

“No, Shuri and Helen fixed me up. And now, they’re gonna fix my mind,” he tells you, all while letting out a light-hearted chuckle. You smile again, just to ease the tense a bit. But even you can’t fix it. “I may be back to my old self, but I’m a walking time bomb. I’m dangerous, and I need to heal. For the sake of myself, and others,” he tells you sadly. He looks up at you and he gives you a grin that isn’t his usual happy one.

Yours falls, and his follows. “It’ll only be a year, maybe even a few months. Everyone here is smarter than Tony Stark, they’ll probably figure it out,” he reassures you just like how he used to whenever you got worried. You nod, and it’s just a farce. You’re not sure if you hope he can see through your façade or not. He sighs and looks at the door. The same door that Natasha walked out of just a few mere moments ago.

You don’t look back. You don’t follow his gaze. Why waste your time on something that will hold no meaning in the future, when you have the love of your life in front of you? You tilt your beard and swallow, just the way your mother used to. At least that’s what your father told you. “I love you, Jamie. I’ll always love you, until the end of time,” you whisper to him.

“And— And I love you too, лунный свет.”

It’s 2017, and along with your Winter, they’ve taken James’s love for you.

You don’t blame them. You don’t hate them. They’ve helped James heal, help him be better (even though God has already curated such perfection). The past seven hundred and thirty and then some days have been painful. The past seventeen thousand, five hundred-twenty hours have been slower than ever. It’s not like you’ve been keeping count. No, but Friday has.

The team — the Avengers — don’t allow you to come with them on their trip to Wakanda. You expected it. Ever since Steve and Tony put their differences aside for the sake of the world, you knew you’d be shunned from the team. Wanda, Sam, and Rhodey have tried to be friends with you, but after a debriefing with Tony, they couldn’t even lock eyes with you.

Once again, you don’t blame them.

You stay locked in your room, and you don’t mind it. It’s nice. It is true that people really do look like ants from such a height. You know the glass is bulletproof, but it feels like it’s seconds away from breaking. You love seeing the rain patter against the glass, just like how you love to see the snow melt as soon as it touches the clear surface.

You wonder if they’ve cut his long hair. You love his locks. Strands of brown mixing, the occasional lighter brown strands standing out. You love the length of his hair, too. Reaching just at his shoulders, and even past them. You love the way it tickles your face, especially when he bends down to kiss you.

You love everything about him. You always have, and you always will.

Your room is small. You can’t handle big spaces — Friday tells Tony, and he scoffs. Truthfully, you’re content with anything. He could’ve given you a broom closet to live in, and you wouldn’t complain. But you like small spaces. Big spaces make you feel a bit overwhelmed. Stark Tower has many wonderments to it.

For example — the technology. If you don’t like the scenery of the concrete jungle, you can change it to the view from Tony’s vacation home in the Hamptons. You always did have the wish to travel the world. From the streets of France to the lovely waterfalls in the Philippines. But the thought of being high up in the sky, with the small chance of crashing. It may be one in five million, but you won’t take the risk.

Even air crafts have their faults and flaws. Like having only two or three backup plans, the bathrooms, the limited space, the fact that if you pay extra you get better treatment, and the food options. But everyone looks past these things and they’ve been reduced to small issues that just don’t really matter. As long as the big picture looks perfect, the small details don’t matter.

You wish you could see yourself that way. A beautiful person at first glance. Where your details –– your flaws –– don’t mean anything. Because as long as the big picture is perfect, the details don’t matter. But you’re a detail-oriented person and every single thing matters. Even the little things that nobody will see. If only you could see yourself the way both Jamie and Winter see you. They know you have flaws, like the way you don’t like listening to helpful advice sometimes.

“Ms… Mrs. Barnes?” Friday calls out. You look up to where the voice comes from. Up above you, and a little to the side is a speaker. It’s small, barely noticeable. “Y- Yes, Friday?” you ask her, setting down the old mirror that was once your grandmother’s. It has a few cracks, but they aren’t serious enough to mess with anyone’s reflection.

“The Quinjet with Ms. Maximoff, Mr. Stark, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Vision, Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Barnes is arriving,” Friday tells you. You swallow thickly — nervously. You may have been preparing all week, but all that effort goes down the drain. Will he act differently? Will he be ecstatic to see you? You ask yourself all these questions, and the answers to them just seem to taunt you.

“Will you be waiting at the entrance for them?” She speaks up after a few beats of silence. You nod before you remember Friday doesn’t have eyes. She can see, but she can’t see. “I will, Friday. Thank you,” you tell her. You set down the mirror with its face on the top of your dresser. You look around and you can just feel as though there is something missing.

Truthfully, you aren’t used to your room. You miss the wooden walls that held scratches from the furniture. You miss the coziness the fireplace emanated. You miss the view of the hills covered in snow. You miss it all. This concrete jungle isn’t made for you — you aren’t made for it. You stand up and with short steps (intentionally short), and the feeling of marble underneath your feet instead of wood works up your nerves even more.

You can hear commotion –– more so people whisper shouting at each other. “God, Rogers, get a grip! You look and sound like an old lady worrying about her grandchildren,” Tony snaps at Steve, before calling out for Friday. “Friday?” he yells, shoving one of his hands into the pocket of his pants. “Yes, Mr. Stark?” she answers back.

“Is the room ready?” he asks her, and the rest of the Avengers take a seat in the living room. “Yes, Mr. Stark. Welcome to the Avengers Compound, Mr. Barnes. If you need any assistance, just call for me.” Friday’s voice is always lovely. She reminds you of an aunt who is always ready to take care of her relatives.

You don’t hear Jamie’s lovely voice and you’re worried. You can see some parts of the living room from your spot in the hallway. “Just try not to kill any innocent people, okay?” Tony sneers, earning a smack on the shoulder from Pepper. Pepper always seemed nice to you, but your encounters with her were usually a bit awkward and short-lived. Steve is ready to throw his shield at Tony and so do the rest of the Avengers who were on the Captain’s side.

“’S fine, Steve. I deserve it anyway,” Bucky whispers loud enough for you to hear. Your heart jumps for joy — your Jamie really is back. You take another step, carefully, of course. “You don’t deserve that… Are you okay, Buck? Do you need to lie down? Drink water? Fresh air?” Steve attacks your Jamie like a mother and you can see why they got along so well in the past.

“I’m fine, Steve. Really. I just want to take a tour of this… this place,” Bucky admits to Steve, and Tony just can’t pass up the chance to roll his eyes. Bucky turns his head around as he takes in the large room. The television was so huge, he feels as though he is at the cinema. He doesn’t turn all the way around, so you must deal with the sight of his back. His clothes are nothing like the clothes he used to wear back in Romania.

He looks like he just attended his own funeral.

“You sure, Buck?” Steve asks him for reassurance. Bucky nods and he thinks about how much he misses his goats. “Alright, but remember to call for Friday if you get lost.” Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder and Tony is the first to walk out of the room, as usual. Pepper follows him, knowing how Tony gets whenever he sees Bucky. “Can I see my room first?” Bucky quietly asks Steve, making sure nobody else hears.

“Of course, Buck. It’s upstairs, is that fine?” Somehow, Steve believes that Bucky has a fear of heights. Though Bucky fell from a great height back in 1940-something, he’s not scared of heights. He’s more terrified of the cold and of trains, especially ones that run between mountains.

“Everything is fine, Steve,” Bucky snaps, growing tired of his best friend’s constant worrying. Steve raises his hands in surrender and you can tell Bucky doesn’t like that. “Hi, Jamie,” you greet quietly. You immediately regret ever leaving your room as everyone whips their heads around to face you. Bucky’s lips fall open in a gasp.

“Doll,” Bucky whispers beneath his breath. You take in his face and he’s just as beautiful as ever, if not more. Wisps of his hair fall and frame his face. He has a slight five-day-old scruff, one that is clean but also slightly messy. You remember the way you would sit in his lap, razor in hand, as you clean up the edges of Bucky’s beard.

He pushes past Sam, past Wanda, past everyone — hell, even past Steve who doesn't take the shove lightly. He nearly trips over the white couch that stands in the way. He comes up close to you, and you look up at him. You watch his eyes — but you don’t look into them. For some reason, you can’t seem to lock eyes with him. “Oh, my doll… I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers softly as he cups your face with his murder-scarred hands.

“Jamie…” You easily mimic his look of shock with a mix of adoration. You’re not sure how you ever said goodbye to the man in front of you — no, the man he used to be.

Now, he’s different. He’s not your Winter, your Winter is gone. They’ve taken him from you, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, then you would’ve fought them until the last tooth and nail. “I’m back, Doll, and ‘m all yours,” he whispers, bringing your face forward to his. You close your eyes and you think he’s going in for a kiss, but he stops when his lips are inches from yours.

“But I need to get better first, Doll. I need to get used to everything, is that all right?” He asks even though he should already know the answer. Right? You don’t know what they did to your Jamie. The rushed explanation filled with words you don’t understand only left you a confused mess. “Of course, Jamie. ‘Until the end of time,’ remember?” You whisper back.

He keeps quiet.

It’s still 2018, and you’re at an impasse.

You loathe impasses. You may persevere every now and then, but impasses just seem to love you. The saying, “you attract what you fear,” is terrifyingly true. You’re scared of impasses. You know they love to knock you down and kick you until you’re sputtering with blood leaking from the corners of your mouth that rarely ever turn up anymore. But they still occur.

It’s been a year and five months since Bucky came home, and each passing day has its difficulties. Whether it be nightmares, panic attacks or intrusive thoughts. But you’ve been there with him for every step. When he didn’t want to go to therapy alone, you went with him. When he couldn’t sleep after a rather gruesome nightmare, you told him some childhood stories. It feels like nothing has changed, truly.

But Jamie isn’t Jamie — and you don’t know what to do. “Jamie, do you want anything to eat?” You ask him, holding a plate of pancakes you whipped up once you knew nobody would be in the kitchen area. “Is– are those pancakes?” He asks you, turning around from his desk. You nod and look down at the impressive stack. Dr. Cho told you to make sure Bucky continues to eat. Sitting on the small table next to you – the ottoman – is a cup of steaming hot tea.

It’s not orange pekoe, it’s earl grey, Your father loathed it, saying that it’s meant for the elderly even though he had a head full of greys and aching joints. You’d laugh him off, but then pour him a cup of green tea. “Yes, some of them have blueberries,” you tell him, stretching your full arms out at him. You see that look of contemplation in his eyes again. “Would you like to eat with me?” You ask, knowing how he can get when those thoughts pester him.

“Of course, I’m all but a gentleman,” he jokes, and you give him a smile. “That you are, especially when it comes to the ladies,” you add, and he blushes. Bucky looks down and tries to hide the shy smile from you, and you allow him to do so. It’s not like you haven’t memorized every bit of Jamie, even down to the small things. “Is there any syrup? I’ve been craving sweets all morning.” Bucky grabs the second plate and he almost hesitates in grabbing a few pancakes.

You turn back around to get the tea, knowing that Bucky wouldn’t feel as embarrassed with taking food. “Here’s some tea, you don’t have to drink it, though.” You set the filled China cup on the glass table and the clink it gives lasts for a split second. “Remember when we would buy about three boxes of orange pekoe tea? Even though it wasn’t the best — especially since it was for so cheap — we’d still drink it like it was water,” you reminisce to him out loud as you take a pancake off of the stack.

There’s silence, and you swallow thickly. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, Jamie, I myself forget a lot of memories too,” you quickly reassure him, fanning the flames before they could even start to burn. “No, it’s not okay… I’m sorry,” he apologizes, gripping the specially made fork tightly. He hates it. It makes him feel like some sort of danger. Someone that breaks people and things so easily.

“Don’t be sorry, Jamie, or else I’m going to have to start apologizing for things that aren’t my fault,” you threaten him, and he cracks a smile. “Alright, only because I know you’re going to become annoying.” He grabs the syrup and drowns his pancakes with sticky delightfulness. “Yeah…” Your voice is all but monotonous with a hint of sadness.

He probably thinks you’re already annoying, you follow him around all the time… Do you ever let him do other things? Without you? Like hanging out with friends, healing on his own, cooking his own food… You’re so clingy.

“Shut up.”

You only want me to shut up because you know I’m right.

“What are you doing today?” you suddenly ask him. You haven’t dug into your pancakes yet, so you stare at the food in front of you with a strong glare. “Uh, well I’m not sure,” Bucky admits, and you only then realize how much you’ve held him back. “You should hang out with Sam, or Steve, or maybe even accompany Banner in the lab,” you suggest to him, looking at his plate. It’s nearly clean, with some streaks of syrups and a few occasional crumbs.

“Sam’s busy training with Steve, and I know Banner works best without someone hovering over him like a hawk — well, more so a raven. I’ll probably just hang out with ‘Talia, she’s been of great help with my healing.” Bucky takes the tea from your side and slowly sips it. “‘Talia?” you ask him. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but you’re sure that it’s a nickname. “Natasha, she went through something similar as me, so I’m hoping she can give me some advice,” he clarifies quickly.

“Oh, that’ll be great for you,” you exclaim to him. “I know… You don’t mind, do you?” he asks with one of his eyebrows raised. He’s never done that before. “Never. Go enjoy yourself, Jamie,” you urge in a soft voice, looking at him from the brim of his teacup. The sight reminds you of when you first moved away from the city.

The sun was rising in the distance. A few clouds shrewd over the lovely sight, but the yellows and oranges were stronger than the greys. From over the horizon, the sun made its way up to the sky. You watched from the porch with a blanket wrapped around your body. You miss those simpler days.

The ones where the only problems you had were the cold weather and the homework your father had given you. Sheets of paper sat on the table in the living room, with your multiplication tables written on them. Your sevens and eights always messed you up, but your father knew you could do it.

“Do you have any plans for today?” He questions, staring into the half-full cup. “I might go to that huge library Tony has, one of the agents was saying they have these seats called ‘bean bags,’ isn’t that funny?” You let out a harmless giggle, one of those small ones a protagonist would have that would make their love interest swoon. “I’ve sat on one. Not very nice. Natasha and I are the only ones on the team who hates them,” Bucky says as his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

The other day, you caught him with a mouthful of blood. It wasn’t from a punch in the face or a knife in the guts.

“Oh, maybe I’ll join you two,” you playfully tell him, wiggling your eyebrows to the best of your abilities. Bucky just stares at you, a small glint of humour in his eyes but it slowly disappears and your smile goes away along with it. “Hm.” He downs the rest of his tea and you wonder how he isn’t wincing with pain from the heat. Oh, right, he’s a super-soldier.

Bucky begins to stand up and moves to take the dishes to the kitchen but you quickly stop him. “It’s alright, I can take it,” you reassure him. Without realizing it, your hand strokes the wrist of his bionic arm. You look up at him and smile, instinctively giving him that look you used to give Winter. Bucky hesitatingly shrinks away from you, and your smile drops. Nononono– Too much…

He smiles and walks out the door, not even sparing you one of those lovely second glances. Sighing, you settle the plates upon each other and the tension leaves the room behind him. You’re careful to avoid the syrup on one of the plates. The feeling of stickiness against your dry, cold hands will be unpleasant.

The thought of it has you shivering. A small electric shock climbs up your spine and you’re glad that nobody is there to watch you shake it off. You carefully pluck the fork from Bucky’s plate and place it next to yours. “Hey, Friday?” you call out into the empty room. “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?” she answers, ready to be at your service.

“What books are there in the library?”

It’s been around 92 days since Jamie told you about him and Natasha, and you can feel reality slip through your fingers.

Bubbles of giggle erupt from the common room. Never in your life would you ever have called a living room the common room, but words always seem to stick. Just like the syrup on these plates that just don’t seem to go away. You don’t mind cleaning up after the heroes. You’re glad.

You have something to occupy yourself with, or else there’d be holes in the floor for your incessant pacing. You run semi-lukewarm water over the plates, hoping the dried syrup would melt. You recall the way your father would terrify you into loathing sweets. He’d show you the way syrup would ‘harden underwater’, and he’d tell you that’s what occurs in your blood.

It’s too bad that a few days later, you learned that blood is thicker than water and the world is filled with nothing but lies. It’s scary, really; trusting someone with your whole life while they toy you around like seeing you be oblivious is a pass time.

Your hands warm up under the water and suddenly you wish you hadn’t left your bed this morning. “Bucky, stop, my face is all red,” Natasha demands through her laughs, and James snorts. “So? I like seeing you red, it’s my favourite colour,” he retorts and Natasha rolls her eyes.

You can’t see the playful, friendly banter, but you can hear it. It makes you smile. You love knowing Jamie is having fun, he deserves it. “Hey, you,” Sam greets, walking into the kitchen. “H- hi, do you need anything?” you ask him, halting your movements.

“No, just got done training those new recruits and I’m already fed up,” he complains and you giggle. You know Sam is being light-hearted, so you don’t take his words too heavily. “Well, a busy man like you needs a big breakfast. There are some pancakes over there, help yourself.”

You wait until he busies himself so that you can continue to wash this plate. You look at it — it’s covered in a mix of suds, syrup and water. You notice there’s a small chip on the edge of the plate and you can’t help but wonder where the piece went. If it were a piece of clothing, you would accuse the washing machine. But it isn’t, so you suppose it just went missing.

You place the plate back in the sink and sigh, before grabbing a sponge. The colours always confuse you. How can two contrasting colours go so well together? It’s beyond you, truly. Maybe your grandmother would’ve known, she always did know a little bit about everything.

Maybe she’d know what’s wrong with you.

You don’t say anything, knowing that you might weird Sam out. You roughly scrub the syrup off and it’s a bit too joyful to see it all gone. “Hey, Sammie,” Natasha chirps, patting her fellow teammate on the shoulder. You halt your movements. “Hey, Nat. Are you doing anything today?” Sam asks her, his eyes following her.

“Other than hanging out with Bucky, no, not really.” She tells him. She stands right next to you, a little too close for your personal liking. She opens up the cupboard and you continue to wash the dishes. You ask yourself if she’s watching you, or if she’s judging you.

Looking up, you accidentally make eye contact with her. You quickly look away and you’re not sure if she does the same. “‘Scuse me,” she whispers, stretching over to the cupboard on the other side. You stare straight at the sink, but your eyes fail to miss the locket that hangs from her neck. It’s slightly opened, and it’s absolutely gorgeous. The gold is slightly aged, perhaps a gift from when she was younger. Or maybe she got it recently, and a battle in the fields damaged it slightly.

On the outside of the locket is an engraving. You squint your eyes to read it, as the shaking from her movements messes up the text. “Until the end of time…” You read in your mind, and you drop the plate in the sink. Everyone in the room flinches and Natasha steps away. Sam stops eating and you’re utterly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you quickly apologize, picking up the plate. It’s not broken at all, but you still feel so guilty.

Natasha looks at you for a brief moment and you look back at her. She darts her eyes to your still hands. If she focuses just a bit more, she could see the way they shake. You look at the locket one more time, trying to see the inside of it. You need to know who’s a photograph she cherishes. You need to know who she cherishes in her heart, until the end of time.

The black and white photo of Jamie moments before he was shipped out reveals itself, and your heart drops.

“Friday?” you call out, setting your book down onto the bed. You place your makeshift bookmark –– a polaroid of Bucky — into the page. “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?” she answers. “Isn’t it a good thing that Jamie is socializing with his teammates?�� you ask her, sounding like a worried mother. “It is. It’s just what the doctor prescribed,” she jokes, adding a mechanical laugh to her words. “Well, more so his psychiatrist. Dr. Cho is the doctor he gets his medication from. And his psychiatrist suggested socializing,” she clarifies.

You wonder if she’s against the joke mechanism Tony added to her system.

You laugh, just to ease the tension but it doesn’t do anything since she’s an A.I and you’re the only person in the room. “Thank you for laughing, Mrs. Barnes,” she graciously says as much as she can. “If it’s a good thing, then why do I feel so…?” You trail off because you don’t know any words to describe the emotion you’re feeling. “Anxious?” she completes, and you sigh. “Yes, anxious,” you admit.

“The other day, I was washing the dishes. I could hear James and Natasha laughing. Jamie’s laugh was music to my ears. It was like that song you hear on the radio occasionally, you know? But he doesn’t laugh like that with me, he doesn’t laugh like that with anyone else,” you solemnly tell her. “He spends so much time with Natasha — and usually I wouldn’t mind, I wouldn’t even bat an eye — but it just makes me anxious, Friday.”

Your voice is filled with concern, and Friday herself has never heard you so worried. “She… She had a locket. It was gold and heart-shaped. It had a very special phrase engraved on it, and the picture inside is Jamie.” You swallow thickly as even you can’t fathom the words that are falling past your lips. “I held back from telling you this, but Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barnes had a past together,” Friday admits.

“Pardon?” you ask incredulously. “Back in Hydra, Mr. Barnes trained Ms. Romanoff. They had secret romantic rendezvous and were in love. Then, when the Red Room and Hydra found out, they were separated,” Friday tells you. “It’s probably why they’re so close, Mrs. Barnes. She’s his most recent relationship before you,” Friday reasons to you. It makes sense, it makes so much sense. “Should I be worried, Friday?” you ask her, smoothing your hands over the sheets that you lay atop of.

“No, Mrs. Barnes. Would you like to know why?” she asks you. “Yes, please,” you whisper, looking down at your hands. They’re sweaty, yet so cold. “Because that was in the past, Mrs. Barnes. Mr. Barnes is in love with you, he’ll love you until the end of time,” Friday sweetly tells you. You smile and then dip your head. Bucky loves you just as much as you love him.

It’s been a month since the talk you and Friday had, and you’re starting to doubt her words.

You lie awake in your bed. Caffeine-provided adrenaline pumps through your veins. This isn’t the first time you’ve stared up at the ceilings since you’ve arrived. Ever since Sam made you a cup of coffee from the new machine Stark bought, the bags under your eyes have gotten worse. You warned Bucky about it and he laughed. Just not as hard as you wanted him to. At least he heeded your advice.

Bucky lays asleep next to you. He lays on his right side, even though laying on his left side would make more sense. Bucky always gets better sleep when he lays on his left. You crack your knuckles quietly, even though you can’t wake him up. He used to be such a light sleeper, only because of the vivid nightmares he would get. You hate when he would get his nightmares. The terrifying images that taunt him would always cause him to have a panic attack.

It’s been over a few months since his last nightmare.

You want to turn on your side so badly–– and you can. But your mind can’t help but make you wonder if he’ll wake up. You look to your side when you hear a snore escaping Bucky’s mouth. You let out a coo, even though you used to think snoring was annoying. Your father’s snores would always bother you. You used to joke and say that one night, he’ll wake the sun up.

You gently turn on your left side and a small part of you hopes he’ll do the same. Maybe then you’ll get some warm cuddles to make your sleep. You shut your eyes because the city lights are far too bright at night. The sheer curtains obviously can’t hide New York’s bustling and liveliness. You slow your breathing down and relax your body. Hopefully, sleep can come to you soon.

Next to you lies Bucky. He’s quite literally in dreamland and he doesn’t want to ever wake up. Everything is so realistic, almost as though he’s living another life when his eyes are closed. He has a smile on his face, one that can charm almost anyone. The last time he had a dream like this wasn’t back in the forties — no. It was last night, and now sleeping is a lot better for Bucky.

Natasha giggles, loudly. It’s a cacophony of different sounds. It’s not fake, like the ones you hear on television. It’s real. It’s so vividly real that it makes his heart swell loudly. He looks to her first, making sure she’s enjoying herself before facing the judging stares from Tony and Rhodey.

His hand is intertwined with hers. He rubs his thumb on her skin and he knows what’s running through her mind. She shoots him a look, one that he chooses to ignore. He gives her a smirk and then brings her hand up to his face. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss on the diamond ring she wears.

The scenery changes.

It’s some time in 1992, and he’s holding onto her tightly. She’s asleep, with her locks of auburn hair spread out against the floor. She lays on his chest, and he makes sure she’s comfortable enough with him. Sure, his spine may ache and his under-eye bags may have deepened but he doesn't care.

“Natalia?” he whispers, checking to see if she’s asleep.

She’s knocked out cold and he’s glad. After what he just put her through, he doesn’t blame her. Hours upon hours of what they both like to call ��training’ has her sleeping like a baby. He chuckles, and he hopes the rumbles in his chest don’t wake her up.

“Hi, Winter,” she hums, rousing from her sleep.

He curses and she giggles. Natalia rubs the tiredness from her eyes and she stretches as much as her body allows her to. “How long until they come?” she asks him. He looks to the make-shift alarm he stole from a mission and sees an hour marked on it. “One hour, Natalia,” he says.

She hums in delight. “Do you think this one hour will take a while? Or will it go by as fast as light?” she questions. Her accent is heavy, but it’s so beautiful. “Fast. Time well-spent goes by fast,” he tells her. “And how do you know this will be time well-spent?” she looks up at him.

“Time spent with you, is always time well-spent, Natalia.”

You hold your breath. Bucky mumbles sweet nothings to Natalia — Natasha. You want to cry so badly but then again, you don’t want to wake Jamie up from his dark paradise. You try to tell yourself it’s just a dream, that everything will be okay and that there’s nothing to be worried about. But even your thoughts fail to reassure you about the man lying next to you. You don’t know whether you should wake him up, so you bite down on your bottom lip and hope that this whole thing is just a dream.

“Did you sleep well, Jamie?” you ask him, folding his laundry for him. He looks up from the book he’s buried in and nods. “Amazingly, I’m so glad I can finally get some shut-eye now,” he tells you. You hum and Bucky looks at you. “Is everything alright?” he asks. “Yeah. Just peachy,” you say. He mumbles a quick okay and goes back to reading his book.

Jamie has a wonderful attention span, so there’s no reason for him to be stuck on the same page for around ten minutes. You have an idea as to what’s on his mind. Well, more so who. Natasha. “Any weird dreams?” you ask him after a few seconds. This time, you’re pairing up Bucky’s socks. “N– No, I don’t think I dreamt of anything.” He lies through his teeth and you know this because he has a tell.

Whenever he lies, he stares out into the distance. It’s usually to your right, but that doesn’t matter.

“But that’s good, right? No more nightmares.” You hold a pendant in your hand and it’s not yours because you broke your necklace a few days ago.

“That’s true,” he dryly agrees. It has the letter ‘N’ written on it. It seems like it’s new, unlike Natasha’s locket. You place it on the dresser softly. “You know, everything has a meaning. Nightmares, dreams, even dreamless nights,” you start. “I know, some are worse than others, though,” he follows. “Sometimes, nightmares mean change,” you continue.

He nods, but you don’t see it. “When you dream, it might be that you have some wishes or conflicts that have been suppressed,” you sweetly tell him. Bucky looks at you, but your back faces him. “And even not dreaming means something. When you don’t dream, it might mean that your mind is free of all the bad things,” you roughly shut the filled up drawer and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut at the loud sound.

“Sorry…” you sheepishly apologize. “S’ alright,” he smiles. “Well, my burning question relates to that, I guess,” you admit. He raises an eyebrow and you turn around. Your fingers tap against the oak wood of the dresser. Sweat that has built up for the past morning or so leaving an imprint of your fingers on the wood. “Do… Do you remember when you used to call me ‘moonlight’?” you ask nervously.

Bucky pauses whenever small movements he was making and you make direct eye contact with him. You look away immediately, though. “A– As a nickname?” he asks. “Yeah… You’d say it in Russian. There was beautiful reasoning and meaning behind it…” you explain to him. Your voice carries more hope than anything. He stays silent and you shakily exhale.

You know exactly how to pronounce it. “лунный свет.” You look up at him. “I… What was the meaning?” he asks. “I– I have it written down. Just wait, don’t go.” You move towards the bed and reach underneath your mattress. Your father would always hide things like that. Sometimes, you’d catch him placing your works of finger-painting underneath the bed.

You lift it and retrieve your little notebooks. It’s not much, but it’s something. You flip to the page that you wrote on two years ago. You smile once you reach it and turn back around. Jamie hasn’t left. “This page. I wrote it down when you left to go to the market. I remembered each word and I still do,” you cheerfully tell him. He smiles up at you and you hand him the book.

You’re just like moonlight. You’re wise, the brightest of them all. No matter how small you make yourself, you always manage to make everyone marvel at your beauty. You’re mysterious, always a surprise, but only for some. Your aura– your brightness, it never ceases to amaze people. It helps me through the darkest times. The world needs you, I need you.

The words are beautifully written. They’re traced over in black pen and even have little stars scribbled around them. “I said this?” he asks, in an almost incredulous tone. “Yeah, word for word,” you assure him. “This is really sweet, and I probably said this, but I don’t remember calling you moonlight, Doll. I’m sorry…” He sadly admits to you. Your heart drops, but it’s alright. He may not remember it, but you do. Maybe one day he will.

“It’s okay, don’t apologize,” you tell him in a sad tone. You take the notebook back from him and place it underneath the mattress. Jamie watches you as you do so. “Are you sure?” he asks on more time, just to be sure. “I’m sure. Dr. Cho and the others said this is normal, Jamie,” you assure him. “Alright.”

Everything is alright. Everything was alright. Everything will be alright.

You carry the laundry basket against your waist and you can’t lie and say you didn’t just bury your hands between the clothes as soon as they came out of the dryer. The common room is mostly empty. Wanda and Clint are out on a mission. Tony, Rhodey and Pepper are on a trip. Steve and Sam are training recruits. Vision and Bruce are in Dr. Cho’s lab. You assume Natasha is in her room and James is in yours.

But even assumptions can be wrong.

You hear that laugh that’s as soft as summer’s rain — Natasha’s laugh. It’s beautiful, just like her. But you can’t compare her beauty to anything, it’s beyond that. You walk up to the room where you can hear her, and pear through the small crevice the door has. She looks at Bucky with those emerald green eyes of hers. In them is absolute love and adoration.

“лунный свет, you look so pretty when you laugh,” Bucky tells her. She smiles and blushes, before giggling again. “You’re too sweet, Buck,” she whispers. Bucky grabs a hold of her hand, and his thumb rubs against her ivory skin. “Can never be too sweet when it comes to you, лунный свет,” he counters.

Your heart cracks, especially at the seams.

It’s been a week since Jamie called Natasha “лунный свет,” and you’re determined to get him back.

She must know she can have anyone she wants, but you can never love again. Not without him. That’s why you’re wearing a dress you borrowed from Wanda. You bite your red-stained nails nervously. It’s an improvement since your last date night with Jamie. Last time, you both shared a box of macarons that he stole from the grocery store. Underneath the moonlight, he once again professed his love for you. But this time, he gave you his dog tags to wear.

You have them on. They clink with your each and every movement but you don’t mind the sound at all. You spread a blanket onto the wooden floor. It has some similarities to the two sleeping bags you used back then. They were similar colours and took up the same amount of space. You throw some pillows on top, arranging them in a circle. The record player in the corner plays “‘Till the End of Time” by Perry Como.

You hum along to the melody of the song. You remember when Jamie said it was one of his favourites. You jumped in joy because it’s also one of your favourites. You carefully light the candles that are scattered around the room. Friday is already on alert in case one of the flames gets a little too big. You open the box of macarons and place them inside the little circle you have going on.

You set down other food items — such as croissants and a charcuterie board. It was all for cheap, mostly due to the bargaining you did with the old lady at the store. As soon as you dropped the words “date night’, she immediately went with whatever you had to offer. You turn back around and try to search for the scrapbook you have been making for the past two years. You always saved it for something, but that something doesn’t seem to be in your future.

“Where are you, little book?” you ask out loud. Your voice is in a sing-song melody, just like how your father would have his. You search around the dresser. You check in the drawers and the jewelry box but you can’t seem to find it. You decide to check the desk, because if it’s not here then it has to be there. You scan the top of the desk but don't find anything.

Carefully, you grasp the golden handle of one of the drawers and pull it open. The drawer glides easily, and if your father were here, he would’ve marvelled. You don’t find it, so you lift some stray sheets of paper. “Please be here…” You beg out loud. But it doesn’t turn up, and you pout like a little child. You drop the sheets of paper, but something grazes against your finger.

If you weren’t so out of it, you’d probably squeal in fear. Twine that’s pulled at the ends tickles you and you giggle. Your eyes follow to where it comes from, and you find a sealed envelope. You frown out of pure, ingenue curiosity. You pick it up and spin it around in your hands. It’s a beige envelope, one of the many you gifted Bucky on Valentine’s Day.

The twine wraps around it with no useful purpose. Only for the aesthetics. On the back has your name, written in cursive scrawl that belongs to one James Buchanan Barnes. You turn it back around, and carefully open it. Your father taught you that there’s a specific trick for opening envelopes. It was one of the many secrets your family had. And by family, you mean Jamie, your father and your grandmother.

It may not be much, but it’s more than enough.

Inside is a letter. More of Jamie’s handwriting fills your view and you don’t mind it at all. You pull the letter out and unfold it. You start to read it, only taking in the way his handwriting looks. You sit down on his chair and your eyes take in each word.

Dear лунный свет,

I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. You can hate me, you can be disgusted with me. You can do whatever you want. But promise me, you won’t let what I’m about to say hurt you. I’m in love with Natasha. I’ve fallen out of love with you and listen, it’s not your fault. How can it be your fault? You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.

But I’m in love with Natasha. I have been for the past year or so. When I saw her again two years ago, something inside me happened. I got butterflies, as stupid as it sounds. She’s everything I want, everything I need. We go way back, and she knows me like the back of her hand. I’m sorry, лунный свет. I am so fucking sorry. I know writing this letter isn’t the best way to do this, but I feel the need to do so.

Love,

James Buchanan Barnes.

You can die right here, right now. You wonder if this is some kind of sick joke Bucky is playing on you, but after sitting there for a few more minutes, you realize it isn’t. Suddenly, the candles burning around you are pointless and so is your entire being of existence. You sit there, stupefied and filled with hurt. You let the letter fall into your lap and slip down to the floor, where it meets the wood with no sound.

The record scratches but you don’t even wince. Now, the voice of Perry Como is all warped and haunted. You hate it. You hate everything. You shut your eyes and sigh quite loudly. She took Jamie from you — your Jamie. Your throat tightens up and you feel like time slows down. You break down, the dam crashing down as the water flows at high pressure. It’s all so much at once. Tears leak from your eyes and drip down to the desk.

You hang your head, almost in shame.

Why are you crying? This was bound to happen.

“Can you just shut up for once?” you cry out.

“Mrs. Barnes, is everything alright?” Friday asks. “Yes, Friday. Do you mind leaving me alone, please?” you politely request. Your voice nearly cracks from the tears. “Of course, Mrs. Barnes,” she says, before dinging away. Mrs. Barnes… You’re not Mrs. Barnes, were you ever? She was always Mrs. Barnes, and she always will be. You let out a choked cough, one that uses all the strength in your body that isn’t destined for your crying.

You look down to the opened drawer and then to the letter on the floor. A groan escapes past your lips. It’s one of pure hurt and pain. You can feel your heart shattering into pieces. Each shard cuts your insides and you struggle to calmly breathe. You grab a sheet of paper from the drawer and pluck the pen that lies on the desk. You take a deep breath and begin to write your heart out.

Natasha,

Please, please don’t do this. I know you may be in love with him (which is the best feeling ever, I know), but please don’t take him just because you can. I also know that nobody can control their feelings. But even love disappears one day, right?

You could have your choice of man, Natasha. But I don’t think I can ever love again. Not without him. If only you could see the way Steve, Sam and Bruce look at you. You can have any of them, so why did you choose Bucky? Why are you taking my Jamie from me?

He dreams about you. He calls your name in his sleep. He calls you moonlight and I’m sure you don’t know the true meaning of it. But if you ask, he’ll probably tell you. This is coming off as rude — I know. It’s not what I want but I want you to ask you one thing only.

Please don’t take him, even though you can.

You scribble your name at the bottom of the page. A tear drops from your eyes and soaks into the paper. You re-read each sentence, and with every word, you hate yourself even more. You throw the pen at the wall, not caring that it breaks at the impact.

You want to send it to her so badly, but your father always told you to never fight fire with fire. Would she even listen to you? Probably not, so why try? Jamie isn’t coming back because Jamie doesn’t love you, he hasn’t for a while. You look away from the letter and to the candles that decorate the room.

You’re so foolish, thinking Jamie could ever love you. He did once, but this isn’t your Jamie. Your Jamie is gone and so is his love for you.

You fold the letter up until you’re satisfied. One end slightly overlaps the other but even the smallest things that would usually bother you doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. You bring the letter to the burning candle and let it light on fire. Along with the paper goes your instinct to fight for the love of your life.

You can never love again. Not without him.

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sprnklersplashes · 3 years ago

Text

theo/robin- “we broke up but I was in an accident and you're still my emergency and you dropped everything to come to the hospital”

also on ao3

He grabs the phone at what he suspects is a second before it stops ringing. After pushing himself off the couch and throwing about five hundred things off the coffee table in search of it. He can feel Moth’s stink eye on him even as he turns and heads into the hall, half-closing the living room door. Not just because he disrupted the organised chaos of their coffee table, but because he violated their ‘no answering the phone during the movie’ rule. He’ll make it up to her, he tells himself. He’ll do the coffee run tomorrow. Even she can’t remain mad after an iced latte.

He hears her pause the movie and thinks maybe he’ll throw in a cupcake too.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Robin Goodfellow?”

“Yep.” He’s just a little suspicious, because the voice definitely isn’t one he recognises, and hardly anyone has his number, just Moth and a few close friends. It’s a little unusual, but not too much, and certainly not enough to scare him or anything.

“This is Greendale hospital.We’re calling you because you’re the emergency contact for Theo Putnam.”

Apparently, he spoke too soon.

The first part is enough to send a shiver running up his spine. He thankfully doesn’t have too much experience in hospitals, but the word still puts him on edge. His experiences might be few and far between, but he’s smart enough to know that calls from hospitals mean bad news, 99% of the time.

And yet, that’s not even the part he’s focussing on. Instead he’s focussing on the name uttered on the other line. A name that makes him feel like he’s drowning, and flying, and dying all at once, just at the mention of it.

“Theo?” he asks. Slowly, the information begins to come together, clicking like a jigsaw puzzle. Theo. Hospital. Hospital. Theo. Emergency contact. Him. Emergency. Theo in hospital for an emergency. He breathes out steadily, one hand flat against the wall, and swallows past the lump in his throat. “Theo Putnam?”

“Yes.” The operator’s voice is soft, careful, coaxing him to stay calm, and it would work were it not clearly rehearsed. They’re trained to stay calm in any kind of crisis. Robin is yet to learn that. “He was in a motorbike accident. We’ve tried to get ahold of his father, but we’ve been unable to reach him.”

Robin looks down at his watch. Of course, he thinks. Thursday night. 8pm. If nothing has changed, then Mr Putnam is out in the fields right now, his phone left on the kitchen table because, in his words, ‘it’s too expensive to take out and get lost’. Theo had tried, and failed, to explain to him that the point of a cellphone is for people to reach him whenever they need to. Briefly, he hopes that the hospital doesn’t see Mr Putnam as some neglectful asshole for this.

But there’s more pressing things than Mr Putnam’s reputation.

“Is-is he okay?” He pushes his hair away from his face and pretends not to notice the trembling hand, or how the warmth has fled his skin entirely.

“Yes. We believe there’s nothing fatal. Like I said, he crashed his motorbike and was badly hurt. And since he’s a minor, we need someone to come in and fill out some paperwork for him, and take him home. He’s in no state to drive himself.”

I bet he isn’t. Robin lets out a soft curse and leans against the wall. Now that the worst-case scenario is over, he lets himself think about how much bullshit this all is, and how much of an asshole Theo is because, seriously dude, you didn’t update your emergency contact info? Why was I even there to begin with?

His heart flutters though, just a little, when he thinks about it, and he tries not to hate himself for it.

“Mr Goodfellow?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I-I’ll be right there. Thanks. Bye.” He hangs up before they can say anything else, and lets the dial tone ring in his ear, flood his mind and leave it blank, before springing into action.

And of course, Moth is standing in the doorway when he turns, her grin only growing wider when he jumps.

“Jesus, Moth.”

“Where you off to, hot shot?” she teases, like she doesn’t know. Like she paused the movie so they could watch it together. Like that name didn’t set alarm bells off for her as much as it did for him.

Moth never liked Theo, and never made an attempt to hide it. Not even when he brought him around, or when Theo tried to get on her good side. He gets it, to some extent, given that they;re brother and sister in all but blood, and protecting him was a job she began early on. But even he soon got bored of her speeches about how Theo isn’t good enough for him, how he’s risking too much for a small town farm boy. He reminded her that he was hardly high class himself-an ex foster care brat who only just got a full-time job as a tattoo artist. Her rants didn’t stop bringing Theo round though, and towards the end he just started tuning her out. He assumed, hoped, that one day she’d get tired, or bored, and then finally see the good in Theo, and they’d all live happily ever after.

So much for that.

She wasn’t necessarily happy when Robin came home that night, eyes full of tears and heart freshly broken. She made him some tea, turned on Taylor Swift and let him cry his sad little heart out. So no, she wasn’t happy. But still.

Now he pushes past her into the living room, grabs his jacket from the coffee table, and prepares himself for some more of her bullshit.

“I guess I owe Mer ten bucks,” she sighs. Her response is so far from what he expected-which was something closer to a rant about how he’s better than this-that he freezes in place, his eyes narrowing in a silent demand for the answer. She just shrugs, her lips pursed like it all makes perfect sense. “She bet me you wouldn’t last six months without him. I thought you were stronger than that, but that’s what I get for believing in you.”

“Okay, first off, can you and your girlfriend stop making bets on my love life,” he says. “And second, he was in an accident, for your information.” He pulls his jacket on and turns down the collar. “He’s in the hospital. I'm his emergency contact.”

“Oh,” is all she says. She’s not one for admitting when she’s wrong, not out loud, so she just steps aside and tosses the keys into his open hand. It’s enough for him though, and he taps her shoulder as he passes her in thanks. “Text me when you’re coming home,” she says just as he opens the door. “And if you need anything. And… if he’s okay.”

He nods, the gesture minute, and jogs outside. He throws himself into the car and peels out of the driveway, shaking fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. He picks the first radio station he can and turns it almost all the way up, letting it drown out his thoughts.

It doesn’t work, but no-one can say he didn’t try.

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

He’s not in the waiting room five minutes before he puts his headphones in. It’s the same logic as the music in the car; drown out the sounds, forget where he is. The paperwork sits on his lap, supported by a wooden clipboard that’s seen better days and a receptionist with tired, sympathetic eyes sporting dark shadows. She tells him she’ll come and get him whenever he can see him, and less than a minute later, appears with a paper cup of coffee. ‘You look like you could use it,’ she said before leaving him to the paperwork.

The coffee sucks, but the gesture is appreciated.

He texts the Midsummer Night's group chat, updating them on what little has happened so far. Moth is surprisingly sympathetic, messaging him privately saying she hopes he’s okay, Merry offering words of comfort and the others piling on with the love and support. It’s beautiful, and it’s sweet, but it’s suffocating. He mutes the chat before he can see someone else asking if there’s anything they can do and puts on a podcast that has yet to let him down. From there he reads through the paperwork and mindlessly puts his signature wherever he needs to. He tenses at the sight of the word ‘surgery’, even if the word ‘minor’ is before it and shudders at the word ‘accident’. He turns the volume up on his podcast every time his thoughts start going down a road he doesn’t like, as if Theo will be okay if he doesn’t let himself think about it.

By the time the nurse taps him on the shoulder, he’s getting dirty looks from the lady two seats down that tells him everything she thinks about his podcast choices.

“Hey,” the nurse quietly, like he might bolt if she scares him. “The surgery went well, and we moved him to the recovery room. He’s awake, if you want to go see him.”

She leads him down a perfectly-polished corridor, neon lights distorted in the shiny reflection, and quickly up in a too-small elevator before stopping outside what must be Theo’s room. Room 203, with the word RECOVERY printed on the wood in grubby white letters. The nurse tells him something in a soft, polite voice and he thanks her before leaving, because he wasn’t raised in a barn, and then it’s just him and the door. And Theo, on the other side of it.

It takes more effort than it should just to put his hand on the handle.

It’s been four months now. Four months, two weeks, five days, because yeah, he counted. Four months since Theo’s insecurities got the better of him and he told Robin to leave, since Robin got tired of trying to work it out and told him that he’d come back whenever he’s ready. A week later, Roz appeared on Robin’s doorstep with most of his things in a box-a mixtape he’d made for Theo’s birthday, one of his shirts, his cap, a book he’d forgotten about. Four months of waiting beside the phone, of not-so-subtly checking out his social medias.

Four months without waking up next to him, or meeting him for coffee, or sharing milkshakes, or having his face pressed into the crook of his neck.

Four months had never felt so long, and now here they are.

He doesn’t feel himself turning the handle, only sees the door slowly opening before him, a cold wash spreading over his body. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Stony silence. A potted plant being thrown at his head. A colourful array of curse words telling Robin exactly where to go. Or maybe, in his wildest dreams, Theo bursting into tears and begging him to take him back.

He doesn’t know what he expects, but what he gets is Theo blinking at him, surprise slowly trickling through the medication-induced haze.

“Hi,” he says slowly. That’s the first word Theo has said to him in four months. Hi. His response is ‘hey’, so it’s not like he’s much better, but still.

He closes the door and moves closer, stopping a good few feet from Theo’s bed. He isn’t an asshole, and so he lets the fog clear a good bit before he starts saying anything. He had planned on going straight into a lecture, but state he’s in, he now feels bad doing so. His skin is almost as pale as the sheets he’s lying on, his right cheek sporting a nasty looking purple bruise, smaller marks and cuts trailing along his neck and jaw. The arm facing Robin is wrapped in layers of white bandage, while the opposite leg sits atop the sheets and wrapped in a cast. He moves, little by little, until he can see that side of his body, which seems to be more bruises than skin. He winces on instinct, and then remembers that he still can’t see what’s beneath the blanket and hospital gown.

“What are you doing here?” Theo asks after a while.

“I’m still your emergency contact,” he replies, and he tries not to laugh when Theo curses under his breath. He chuckles humorlessly. “Seriously, you need to get that changed.”

“Yeah, I’ll make that a priority.”

“Well, you should. I changed my contact info two months ago. When-” The words catch in his throat. When it became clear to him that Theo didn’t want him back. When he texted him and waited around for two days for a reply. When it was obvious that Theo had moved on and he should do the same. “Well, I did.”

“Oh well good for y-” He gasps sharply, the word turning into a strained cry as he clearly pulls on something he shouldn't have. Robin’s at his side in less than a moment, his hands on his shoulders because he’s unsure where else to put them. They stay there, sitting in that half-embrace, as the seconds pass and the tension fades from Theo’s face. Robin watches and resists the urge to run his thumb along Theo’s jaw.

“You okay?”

“Peachy keen,” he replies in a voice that implies anything but. Now that he’s closer, Theo somehow looks worse than he did when he came in. He can see the bruises poking out from beneath the hospital-issued gown, along with freshly-covered cuts. He remembers the nurse telling him something about needing stitches and he tries not to shudder.

Theo’s eyes follow his and, because Theo is a bastard, he smiles.

“I look pretty badass huh?”

“Not the word I would use.” Theo pouts and damn it, Robin can’t help it. He laughs; he’s not made of stone. Theo laughs too, as much as his beaten-up body will allow, and raises an eyebrow at him. “So is this the part where you tell me ‘I told you so’?”

“No. Because I am not an asshole.”

But in complete fairness, he did tell him so. Several times, in fact. He told him over and over again that that bike was a death trap and would it kill him to wear a helmet for the love of God and there’s no way he should be on that thing when he doesn’t even have a permit and does he know the reason motorbike insurance is so much cheaper than car insurance? He had told him all of that, over and over again, and Theo had just laughed and kissed his cheek and told him he’s cute when he’s protective.

Well now he’s cute and right.

“No,” Theo says after a pause. “You’re not an asshole.” He tilts his chin slightly and looks at him, his eyes still slightly dazed, probably from the pain meds. “You came all the way out here because you heard I got hurt. That’s not an asshole thing to do.”

“Yeah, well… You’d have done the same for me.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead he just huffs a soft laugh and looks down at his sheets, his free hand toying with the fabric. Maybe it’s just him, he hopes it’s just him, but it feels too bold, what he said. Like he had just asked, or at least implied, something about them not being entirely over. His heart skips a beat, and so he quickly changes the subject. “They said they’re trying to reach your dad. I know he’s usually busy these nights. They said they’ll keep trying to reach him.”

“Oh God.” Theo’s head hits the pillow, a low groan escaping him. “My dad.”

“Yeah.” Theo opens one eye and looks at him and sighs heavily, grunting slightly with his sore chest. “You may not tell me you told me so, but my dad definitely will.”

“Well, to be fair… he told you so.” He chuckles when Theo flips him off, a scowl on his bruised face. Robin feels braver, and moves closer again.

“Do you know what happened to the bike?” he asks.

“Nope,” he sighs. “I haven’t seen that bike since I crashed it. And I kind of forgot to ask the paramedics what they were going to do with it.” He picks at the sheet. “But given how I ended up, she’s probably scrap metal by now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how much you loved that bike.”

“No you’re not,” he replies dryly. “You hated it.”

“No, I hated the risk attached to it. That’s different.” He finds himself, somehow, standing at the foot of Theo’s bed, his hands shoved into his pockets. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he doesn’t know what, and it feels weird. Words always came easy with Theo. That happens when you have someone you can be yourself around. When there’s no need to hide anything because you’re not afraid of what they’ll do. There was never any need for hesitation or hint of discomfort between them. Not until right now.

He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t want to go either. He’ll stay until his dad comes, he decides. Until he knows Theo’s going to be okay.

And it’s probably a good thing he does, given that his ever-restless ex boyfriend grows bored of laying down and tries to push himself up, despite his beaten-up body’s protests. He gasps sharply, a short, stifled grunt escapes him, but he keeps acting as though it didn’t happen. Robin rolls his eyes and moves over to him; one hand on his arm and the other adjusting his pillows. Theo scowls again, because he would walk on broken legs before asking for help, but he doesn’t push him away.

“Here, careful… there you go.” Theo sits up against the wall, his back supported by pillows. Robin settles next to him on the mattress, watching his face for any indication that he should go. He doesn’t get one. Instead, he gets a smile, and the ghosting of fingertips along his hand.

“Thank you,” he says. “For… for coming here.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. His mouth runs dry, his heart beating louder and louder being so close to him. He’s missed him. Holy crap, he’s missed him. He’s missed him for months and it all slams into him now, like a speeding train hitting him. Theo doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing patterns on his hand, his finger getting faster and faster by the minute. He knows him well enough to know what that means. He doesn’t push though, because finally being this close to him is something he doesn’t want to risk losing.

“Robin,” he begins after a long while. “About what I said to you-”

“It’s fine,” he says again, a little too quickly this time.

“It’s not,” he says firmly, shaking his head slightly. “It wasn’t. What I said, the way I said it…” He closes his eyes briefly, probably reliving the night they broke up. He’s recalled it countless times since then. “You didn’t deserve it. And don’t-” He holds up his finger to silence him before Robin can even say anything. “Tell me that it’s okay, you Canadian asshole. Because it wasn’t.”

He laughs at that, even if it’s short-lived. He felt bad for thinking it sometimes, but it never felt right, what Theo had said to him. Half-sentences about not wanting to hold him back, how he can’t stay and give up everything just for him. How he ended it with “I don’t want you anymore” and told him to go. Aside from maybe cheating on him, he doesn’t know how it could have been worse. Leaving him with a broken heart and so many unanswered questions.

“Okay, it was,” he says. “Thank you for apologising.” Theo smiles, barely, and his fingers move quicker against his hand. He doesn’t say anything, not out loud, but he does rest his free hand on Theo’s knee. A brave move, maybe, but also a silent signal that it’s okay. That whatever he has to say, he can say it. God knows when they’ll see each other again, so they might as well.

He must hear it, but even so it takes a lifetime for him to say “I got scared.” He leans back on the pillows, the three words having drained him, and Robin processes it.

“You got scared?” he asks. “Scared of what?”

“Of us,” he sighs. “Of you and me and… how serious it was all getting. And… and your family, and my family, and school. And it was all getting so serious and I-I freaked out.” He swallows thickly and pulls his good knee close to his chest, a small whimper escaping him. He doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or something else. “I’m sorry.”

They fall silent, and Robin digests what he said. For the past few months, he’s lived with constant confusion over their break-up, and it was just over the past week that it was slowly morphing into acceptance that Theo had just outgrown him. Now there’s this, and his view is shaken up again.

“Oh,” he replies. That might be the only thing he’s capable of saying, given how tight his throat is. He tries to clear it, only to find tears blurring his vision. “Theo… what happened?” Something comes back to him, one night near the end, with Theo over at his place. Him arguing quietly with Moth in the kitchen, her whispering that Theo will ‘ruin his life’. It hadn’t occurred to him how thin the walls in their house actually are. “Did you hear me and Moth?”

“Some of it,” he mumbles. Robin opens his mouth, a fire against Moth ready, but Theo holds up his hand, his pained expression grinding him to a halt. “It’s not just Moth though. It’s everyone else. You heard it too right?” He laughs bitterly. “When people said how weird it was that we were getting so serious so fast.”

Robin doesn’t say anything. Theo’s right; people did talk. It wasn’t because it was two boys, which for Greenedale, is saying something. It was the fact that they’d only been together a few weeks before they were staying at each other’s houses. It was that just two months into their relationship, Robin gave Theo his father’s ring. They talked even more when Robin let it slip they were looking at apartments to share for when Theo went off to college. So yes, people talked, but they weren’t listening. Or apparently, he wasn’t.

“Since when do you care what other people think?” he asks after a while.

“I don’t. But I care about you,” he says. “I care because what if they were right? Robin, you were planning on moving out of Greenedale for me.”

“Yeah, and I said I was okay with it.”

“Well what if I wasn’t?” His voice is tight, shaking, and when tears run down his red cheeks, Robin doesn’t hesitate in wiping them away. Theo leans into his touch, shivering slightly at his skin against his. His hand comes up and wraps around his wrist, his thumb rubbing against the back of Robin’s as he tries to compose himself. “What if I wasn’t okay with dragging you across the country?”

“Is that what you think you were doing?” he asks. “Theo… you weren’t dragging me anywhere. I wanted to go with you.” He swallows thickly before adding, “I still do.” Theo closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair, his fingers catching on knots.

“Yeah I know,” he whispers, and Robin isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to himself. “I know that now.” Theo hesitates for a moment, uncertainty in his eyes, but then he wriggles closer, despite his beaten-up body, and Robin does the same until they’re just a breath apart. Close enough for Robin to count the freckles on Theo’s cheeks. Holy crap, he loves those freckles. He loves him, every part of him.

Moth was wrong; he wasn’t lasting six months without him.

“Why did you come here?” Theo asks.

“Because I’m your emergency contact,” he reminds him.

“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head. “Roz is third on the list. You know that. You could have left it to her. Why did you come?”

“Because you were hurt,” he says, and he means it. It’s the truth, but not the whole truth, and they both know it. “Because I miss you.”

Theo laughs, and kisses the inside of his wrist.

“I miss you too,” he says, and the tears running down Robin’s face aren’t from heartbreak this time.

The kiss starts slowly, their foreheads pressed together before their lips touch. Robin moves to hold the back of Theo’s head, his free hand on his hip, still mindful of the condition his ex(?) boyfriend is in. Theo’s hand curls into Robin’s shirt, his other tangled in his hair. He feels Theo’s grin against his mouth, feels his own heart finally being put back together. Feels the weight of the past four months finally slipping away, leaving a new future open for them. Together.

But he also feels Theo’s hand shaking, his short, pained gasp against his mouth, and so he pulls away, leaving a small frown on his boyfriend’s face.

“I’m not going to make out with you on a hospital bed,” he tells him. “No matter how badly I want to.” Theo huffs a laugh and nods.

“Fair enough,” he says. He doesn’t let go of Robin’s hand though, instead linking their fingers together. “What about when I get out of here, we can maybe talk about this? About you and me and…. Everything. And I can try not to freak out this time.”

Robin pushes Theo’s hair away from his face, mindful of the bruises, and smiles.

“I’d like that.” He moves in to kiss him again, fully intending to keep it small this time, but they’re interrupted by the door opening, and a familiar, frantic voice cutting through the air.

“Theo? Oh my God, I left my phone in the house and I just got the call from the hospital, are you-”

He stops his rant just as Robin turns around, his and Theo’s faces a matching shade of red. He feels flashed back to when Mr Putnam caught them in Theo’s room, his mouth hanging open and his eyes darting between them just like he did then, waiting for an explanation. Except they’re not in Theo’s bedroom this time around, and this is the first time Joe has seen him in months, so he sympathises for him this time around.

“So…” he begins. “You two got back together?”

Theo just laughs and buries his face in Robin’s shoulder.

support me on ko-fi

#goodnam #theo x robin #theo putnam #robin goodfellow #caos #chilling adventures of sabrina #caos ff #i did a writing!!#look at me!!

16 notes · View notes

livesincerely · 3 years ago

Text

always yours, always mine

Also on Ao3. Rated E.

Disclaimer, this is another A/B/O fic, which I know isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so feel free to skip over this one if that’s not something you’re into <3

00000

“Okay,” Davey says after the third time one of the boys flinches away from him: Albert, this time, who lets out a panicked yelp and all but tucks and rolls, head over ass, in his attempt to keep Davey from touching him. Given that Davey had only gone to clap a friendly hand on his shoulder while they line up to get their papes, this seems like a drastic overreaction. “What aren’t you all telling me.”

They actually have the gall to look surprised—as though they’ve been anything even approaching subtle in the not-quite fifteen minutes that have passed since Davey arrived in the square—and their guilty, hang-dog expressions might’ve been comical if he wasn’t so annoyed.

“Well?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over each of them in turn. “What is it?”

Race snatches Albert’s cap off his head and thwaps him with it. “Nice goin’ Albie, you done gave it away!”

“What was I s’pposed’ta do?” Albert says, disgruntled, rubbing his forehead. “Jus’ stand there?”

“No, but you were s’pposed’ta handle it discrete like, dumbass—”

“Oh, sure, ‘cause it’s just that easy—”

“None of you would know discrete if it socked you in the jaw,” Davey cuts in, his hands making their way to his hips as he stares down at them. “Now, what’s going on?”

There’s a long silence as the boys all glance at each other, shifting guiltily, but none of them willing to be the first to break.

Finally, Racetrack sighs. “This was a stupid idea anyway,” he mutters. He rolls his shoulders back and looks Davey straight on, opens his mouth to speak—

Henry elbows him in the side, hissing, “Race! Don’t tell him!”

“Albert already ruined it, we might as well come clean—”

“I didn’t ruin it!” Albert cries.

“You kinda did,” Finch says with a shrug. “You were really obvious, Al.”

"What was I s’pposed to do!”

“I say we just tell him,” Buttons chimes in over Albert’s protests. “Davey’s gonna figure it out eventually—”

“—and he’s gonna be more upset the longer we keep it from him.” Specs adds. Buttons points at him as if to say, yeah, see?

“You just don’t want Davey to be mad at’cha,” Romeo says, accusatory.

“Do you want Davey to be mad at’cha?”

“....No.”

“I’m gonna tell him,” Race announces to the group at large.

Multiple voices interject all at once, shouts of disagreement and words of encouragement all jumbled together.

“Race, you can’t,” Crutchie says with a shake of his head, his quieter tones just barely heard beneath the others’ bickering. “Yesterday was bad enough and you heard what Jack said! He doesn’t want to say anything—“

“Yeah, well maybe if Jack wasn’t such a moron, it wouldn’t’ve gotten so bad in the first place—”

“So, this is about Jack, then?” Davey asks, loudly, and the silence that falls is so sudden and absolute that it almost seems to echo.

The boys all look at each other, apprehensive. Then Racetrack blurts, “Jack’s in rut!”

“Jack’s… what?” Davey says, startled, because out of all the possibilities he’d suspected, this wasn’t anywhere on the list. “I thought he was sick?”

“He didn’t want us to tell you,” Crutchie admits, apologetic. “He didn’t want’cha to know.”

“Jack’s in rut and he wasn’t going to tell me?” Davey says, confused and a little hurt. “But… why?”

“Because he’s an idiot?” Race offers, rolling his eyes. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any typa explanation but he’s probably freaking out about some stupid alpha thing—”

“Hey,” Mush protests weakly. Sniper just shrugs as if to say fair enough.

“—and he’s been all keyed up since Tuesday, stinking like frenzy and frustration—and not the fun kind,” Racer continues, wrinkling his nose at the memory. “Plus, he can smell you on all’a us when we get back to the Lodging House every evening; he nearly tore Buttons’ arm outta its socket yesterday when he caught your scent on his sleeve, just from wantin’ it so bad.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Buttons assures him when Davey looks his way, alarmed. “Nothing like that—you know Jack would never. But he’s driving himself crazy stayin’ away from ya, and havin’ your scent around without you there with it is only makin’ things harder on him.”

“But, why doesn’t he just…” Davey asks, trying to think of a delicate way to say fuck it out, even as something in his chest bares its teeth and snarls at the thought of Jack even considering a rut partner.

“You’re kiddin’, right?” Race says flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. “Please tell me you’re kiddin’, because I can only deal with one of you bein’ stupid at a time and Jack’s already called dibs on this week.”

“So, what, he’s trying to just wait it out when he knows that I would—“

Davey stops himself, flushing. It’s no secret, how he and Jack have been circling each other—teetering on the brink of becoming more, just waiting for something to finally give—but he’s reluctant to talk about it too openly, the possibility of him and Jack still feeling oh so fragile where it’s tucked away in the deepest corner of his heart.

Because he’d thought that they were on the same page, thought that there was an unspoken understanding between them that one day, eventually… But if Jack didn’t want him to know about his rut, hadn’t asked Davey to keep him company through his cycle… Davey chews at his lower lip, stomach twisting up in knots.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to be stupid?” Racetrack asks—frowning, but with no real heat to his words—and Davey realizes that his scent has taken on a sour, anxious note as his thoughts spiralled. “You can’t possibly think that he’d want anyone but you riding this out with him.”

“Except, he doesn’t want me there,” Davey points out. “You just said that he didn’t want me to know—”

“Yeah, but not ‘cause he don’t want you,” Racetrack assures him, as though this is plainly obvious. “‘Cause he really, definitely does: he’s puttin’ up with the rest of us ‘cause he loves us and ‘cause he don’t gotta choice since we all live together, but he wants you. I think he wants you so bad that it scares him.”

Davey tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth as he considers Race’s words. But it’s not even a choice that needs contemplating, really, not when it’s Jack.

“I’ll go over and check on him,” Davey decides, a little voice in his head whispering yeshelpprotectfixsoothe. “See if I can convince him to let me help him.”

The boys all sag as one—it’s clear that they hadn’t wanted to go directly against Jack’s orders but are relieved that Davey’s going to step in.

“Thank fuck,” Elmer mutters. “I can’t take anymore of his goddamn pacing.”

“Felt like I was havin’ sympathy pains, watching him prowl around,” Mush agrees, rubbing a hand over his chest like he can feel an ache there. “Don’t know how he’s managed to hold out so long—I can’t imagine tryin’ to get through a cycle without Blink now that we’re together—”

“I’ll handle it,” Davey says, determined, the feeling in his chest crystalizing into something solid and certain and unshakable.

“We’ll let your folks know where you are,” Crutchie tells him, clapping Davey on the shoulder. “Just go an’ take care of him—god knows he ain’t gonna take care of himself.”

“And don’t let him run you off,” Race advises. “You know how he gets.”

“I’ll handle it,” Davey repeats firmly.

00000

Davey smells Jack before he sees him: the air is heavy with his cedar and summertime scent, undercut with the smoky sweetness of his rut, so potent that Davey almost goes dizzy with it.

“Jack?” he calls out, announcing himself out of politeness rather than any real need—he’s positive that Jack smelt him the moment he arrived. “Jackie?”

The hair on the back of Davey’s neck stands on end, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and Davey turns just as Jack steps out of a side hallway, his face shadowed with tension.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Jack rumbles, watching Davey with dark, dark eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of thin sleep pants, his skin dewy with a sheen of sweat, and even from where he stands, Davey can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves.

“Oh?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Which one of ‘em squealed?” Jack asks with a growl of frustration, raking a hand through his hair. “No, don’t tell me, it was Racer, wasn’t it?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your rut was coming up?” Davey asks, getting right to the point.

“I didn’t wanna put’cha in that position,” Jack says evasively, gaze falling to the floor.

“And what position would that be?” Davey questions, crossing his arms over his chest.

It takes Jack several seconds to answer. “Didn’t want’cha to feel… obligated or nothin’. Like you hafta be here, like you hafta help me with this, jus’ ‘cause we’re...”

“I don’t understand,” Davey says, watching him carefully, a spark of realization starting to dawn. “How is this any different than you helping me through my heat last month?”

Jack’s spine stiffens, tension thrumming through him like a live wire, but he lets it go just as quickly as it arrived.

“Come on, Davey,” Jack says, voice heavy, his mouth pressed in a thin, unhappy line across his face. “You know what I mean. You know why it’s different.”

“Sweet, stubborn, overprotective alpha,” Davey murmurs with a sad sigh, shaking his head. “Jackie, you’re not going to lose control and go wild just because you’re in rut, it doesn’t actually work like that—”

“Are you sure?” Jack says darkly. “Are you absolutely positive? ‘Cause I’m feelin’ pretty fuckin’ outta control, here, Dave. Feels like I might bust outta my skin any second, my instincts are goin’ goddamn nuts, I can barely sleep, can barely keep my fuckin’ head on straight, and there’s this hollow, empty spot between my lungs that aches every time I breathe, and I can’t— I can’t—”

“Jack,” Davey says, low and soothing. “You have to stop fighting your instincts. I know you think you’re protecting me by holding yourself back, but I promise that there’s nothing to worry about. Let me help you, darling. Please?”

Jack wavers—not like he’s convinced, not like he’s found any sort of faith in himself, but like he no longer has the strength to keep arguing—and that more than anything has the alarm bells going off in the back of Davey’s mind.

“Jack,” Davey beckons, soft but firm. “Jackie, love, come here.”

Jack takes a stumbling, hesitant step forward. Davey meets him halfway and draws him into a tight embrace, one arm wrapped securely around Jack’s middle, the other guiding Jack’s head to rest against the curve of his throat.

Jack’s hands settle cautiously against the small of his back, his nose tucked right against Davey’s scent gland. He takes in a single, shaky breath, then crumples like a puppet that’s had its strings cut, that salty, bitter note of distressed alpha finally fading from his scent.

“Dave,” Jack whines, snuffling desperately at his neck. “Davey.”

“I know, Jackie,” Davey murmurs, hugging him even tighter. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

They stand like that for several minutes, just holding each other—Davey pressing gentle kisses to the top of Jack’s head while Jack clings to him, relaxing more and more with every inhale.

“Can you look at me for a second, love?” Davey asks, craning back as much as he can without letting go. Jack grumbles but obediently tilts his head back—now that they’re closer, Davey can see that his eyes are glassy with fever, his skin flushed beneath his tan. “When’s the last time you ate something? Or had anything to drink?”

“I dunno,” Jack says, shrugging. “A while, I guess. H’ven’t been keepin’ track.”

“Let’s get some food and water into you, okay?” Davey says. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

Davey leads Jack along the hallway and down a set of stairs into the basement, following the traces of Jack’s scent in the air to find wherever he’s been hunkered down for his rut.

He quickly discovers what must be the Lodging House’s cycle room. It’s cold, cramped, and uncomfortable, not a hint of carpet or wood or anything to cover the wall-to-ceiling concrete that encloses the space, and Davey’s heart aches at the thought of Jack waiting out his cycle here, alone, for these last couple days.

He takes stock of the room: there's a wooden bed frame with a lumpy mattress pushed up against one of the walls, covered in a plastic mattress protector and made up with a cheap set of sheets that are stale with sweat, and a single threadbare blanket to go with it—no pillows. There’s a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter sitting on a table in the corner, a mostly full pitcher of water and a glass next to it, and there’s a stack of towels and linens tucked underneath the table with a wash basin.

“Think you can eat something?” Davey asks.

Jack shrugs again but doesn’t answer. Davey decides to interpret this as a yes.

“Sit down for me, darling,” he says, making quick work of fixing Jack a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water.

Jack hovers close for a second, then finds a spot right on the floor, leaning with his back against the far wall.

“Go ahead and eat this for me,” Davey instructs, handing over the food. Jack accepts it from him by route, but makes no move to actually take a bite. “Jackie, please. You need to eat something.”

“‘M not hungry,” he mutters.

“I know you aren’t, but that’s just the rut talking,” Davey says, running a hand gently along his arm. “You’ll feel differently once you’ve got some food in your stomach.”

Though he’s clearly not thrilled about it, Jack manages to choke down half of his sandwich and two glasses of water. Once that’s taken care of, Davey starts stripping the dirty sheets off the bed, piling them into the corner to be washed later, then remakes it with a fresh set.

“Do you want to try laying down for a while?” Davey asks as he finishes, smoothing away a wrinkle near one of the mattress corners. “You said you haven’t been sleeping well—”

“I think you need to leave,” Jack interrupts, the words coming out in a low, gravelly rasp.

Davey goes very, very still, a sudden flare of heat prickling low in his stomach.

He slowly turns around. Jack rises to his feet with all the grace and power of a jungle cat, his eyes shaded dark with hunger and his scent burning like a wildfire, staring at Davey like he might devour him whole, the air between them growing heated as the next wave of his rut kicks in.

Davey barely resists a whimper, his own scent spiking sugar-sweet in response as desire pulses through him. He wants to rub himself all along Jack’s front, until that smoky-spicy-cedar scent is imprinted into his skin. Wants to lick the taste of it right out of Jack’s mouth.

“David,” Jack growls. His eyes are scorching. “You gotta go, sweetheart. You gotta leave right now.”

Davey swallows around a suddenly dry throat, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, but his voice is remarkably steady when he says, “What if I don’t want to leave?”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to stiffen. “Davey,” he says sharply. “I know you’re tryin’ to help, but trust me, this ain’t like your heats. You don’t wanna be here for this.”

“You haven’t actually asked me if I want to be here for this,” Davey points out, taking a single step forward. Jack’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “You’ve just assumed that I don’t.”

“Because you don’t understand how—” Jack’s jaw snaps shut as he cuts himself off, expression tight.

“Answer me this then,” Davey says when Jack doesn’t continue, stepping closer and closer until they’re standing toe to toe, chest to chest. Jack’s nostrils flare, the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing, and that mouth watering scent spikes even stronger. “Do you want me, Jackie?”

“Of course I want’cha,” Jack groans, and one of those big, hot hands finally curls around Davey’s waist—not pulling him any closer, really, but like Jack just can’t help himself. “What kinda question is that? This ain’t about not wantin’ ya.”

“Then why is it so hard for you to believe that I want you too?” Davey asks. “That I want you like this? That I want everything you’re willing to give me?”

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Jack insists, stubborn. Davey would admire his dedication if it wasn’t so exasperating. “I’m— I can’t control myself as well when I’m in rut, I get rough, possessive—”

Davey rolls his eyes.

“You’re my alpha, Jackie,” he says dryly. “Possessive kind of comes with the territory.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. Two seconds later, Davey realizes what he’s said: this is the first time either of them have openly acknowledged what they are to each other, and voicing it aloud, saying it so plainly… something in Davey’s chest thrums with energy, with connection.

“You... “ Jack’s throat works for a moment. “You think of yourself as mine?”

“Jackie, I’ve always been yours,” Davey says, cupping his hands around Jack’s face, so true and so tender that he aches with it. “And, I think you’ve always been mine.”

Jack pulls one of Davey’s hands away from his face and curls his own around it, pressing a kiss to Davey’s knuckles, then to his palm, and then to the inside of his wrist, his gaze growing more heated with each one.

“Mine,” Jack growls, a hint of teeth scraping against Davey’s pulse as he pulls away. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Davey breathes. “All yours.”

Jack’s eyes flash red, then he’s drawing Davey in for a hard, demanding kiss, pressing a thigh between the hot space between Davey’s legs. Davey gasps at the first brush of Jack’s lips against his neck, the slide of Jack’s hands shifting down to palm at his ass, his fingers digging into the swell of Jack’s biceps for purchase.

“Take these off,” Jack growls, yanking Davey’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. “Take them off before I tear them off you.”

Davey fumbles for the buttons on his shirt, liquid heat pooling low in his stomach. Jack’s hands trail greedily at every bit of his skin as he uncovers it, thoroughly distracting and too good to ignore, and after several minutes of scrabbling, interspersed with long, frenzied kisses, they eventually manage to get their clothes off.

“Bed, cielito,” Jack says. “We need to— Bed.”

Davey hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move, his face buried against Jack’s shoulder, biting at the skin there until it bruises.

“Dave,” Jack tries again.

“I’m busy,” Davey mumbles, mouthing at the sharp line of Jack’s collarbones.

“And I’m about two seconds away from pushing you down and fucking you right through the floor,” Jack says, voice laden with promise. “So get on the goddamn bed.”

“I really don’t see what the issue is,” Davey teases, still not moving an inch. “The floor is closer, isn’t it?”

Jack snarls, curling a hand around Davey’s nape and pulling him back up into another frenzied kiss.

“Mouthy— little— smartass—“ he pants, his teeth dragging along the tendon in Davey’s throat. “I’m gonna eat you out ‘til you cry.”

He wraps his hands under Davey’s thighs and hoists him up and back. Davey lands on the mattress with a soft bounce, barely given any time to situate himself before Jack is on top of him, pinning him down with rough hands and spreading him wide before following through with his threat, tongue lapping at Davey’s entrance in broad, greedy strokes.

“Ah,” Davey gasps, fingers tight in Jack’s hair, scrabbling for some kind of anchor as Jack licks him open.

Jack lets out a low rumble of approval that vibrates right against where he’s most sensitive, his body growing even wetter, even slicker at the sound and feel of it. Jack swirls his tongue around his opening, making Davey’s toes curl against Jack’s sides, then presses in—Davey cries out, a harsh, desperate sound that tears out of him as he grinds up into the sensation.

“Jack,” he gasps, mindless, hips jerking uselessly in Jack’s unrelenting hold, body pulled taut and stretched loose at the same time, pleasure coiling in his belly. “Jack, I’m— I can’t—”

One particularly filthy swipe of Jack’s tongue has Davey’s breath hitching in his chest, head thrown back as the feelings swell and crest, and it only takes one more teasing flick before Davey’s coming with a broken moan.

“Jack,” he croaks when his lungs reinflate. “Holy shit.”

Jack’s mouth and chin are shiny with slick, his pupils blown wide and shaded with satisfaction.

“Told you,” he says smugly.

Davey tugs him down into another messy kiss, needing to lick that handsome smirk off his face. Then he rears up and flips them over so that he’s the one on top now, kneeling over Jack with his legs straddling Jack’s lap.

“My turn,” Davey murmurs, reaching down and taking Jack’s length—thick and hard and wet at the tip—in hand, lining it up at his entrance.

Then he takes a breath, leans back, and sinks down onto it in one slow, smooth downstroke.

“Mmn,” Davey sighs, his eyes slipping shut as his body adjusts to the stinging stretch of finally being filled. He’s thrumming with tension, with heat, his thighs quivering where they’re spread wide around Jack’s hips, hands splayed against Jack’s chest for leverage, and it feels so good he could almost choke on the pleasure of it.

Jack’s hands flex jerkily against Davey’s sides, then go wonderfully, bruisingly tight, thumbs pressing hard against the divots of his hips.

“Fuck, Davey,” he groans, staring up at Davey with dark eyes tinged with red, lovely and wanting. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. So fucking gorgeous and absolutely perfect for me.”

“For you,” Davey agrees, grinding down in a tight, deliberate circle, ass flush against the cradle of Jack pelvis, and Jack’s scent burns even brighter, smoky and sweet. “And you’re all mine, aren’t you darling?”

“Always,” Jack promises.

Davey rises up then drops back down, carefully at first but quickly finding his rhythm, rocking his hips in a steady back and forth motion that sends liquid fire sparking up his spine. Every slip and drag of Jack’s dick inside of him feels like being shaken apart and pieced back together all at once, aching desire coursing through him with every slap of skin against skin.

“Davey,” Jack pants, his hips bucking up to meet Davey’s own as he rolls down again, and Davey moans through the bursts of bliss that explode behind his eyelids. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”

“Jack,” Davey gasps, leaning forward to tuck his nose against Jack’s neck, nipping at his pulse point as he grinds down in his lap, the scent of summer and cedar and mate, mate, mate anchoring him even as he goes a little scent drunk on how right it all is. “Jackie, I— oh, yes, just like that.”

Jack pulls him down into the next thrust, hard and fast, and Davey cries out, twisting his hip as he sinks into it.

“Perfect,” Jack grunts, those hot, rough hands squeezing tight. “God, Davey, you look absolutely incredible. So fucking pretty, sweetheart, feel so good riding my cock.”

Davey works his hips that much faster at the praise, so much so that the bed starts rocking underneath them, the squeaky creak of the wooden frame echoing through the room in time with his own heaving breaths. He’s so wet now that he can hear Jack fucking him, hears the slick, dirty squelch of Jack’s knot pressing a little deeper inside of him every time they clash together, driving closer and closer to completion.

“Harder,” Davey pleads, his thighs burning from the effort of keeping up his pace but still needing more. “Jack, please—fuck, alpha, please—harder.”

Jack snarls—a low, rumbling, dangerously sexy sound—and his eyes bleed red, his scent washing over Davey like blazing fire. He leverages his legs up, bending them at the knee with his feet flat against the mattress, and when he thrusts up into Davey on the next roll of his hips, it feels so impossibly good that Davey’s mouth falls open around a broken, guttural little keen.

“O-oh,” Davey says, the word catching in his throat, barely able to think with how completely and utterly Jack is destroying him, his knot starting to thicken and swell against his rim as their bodies meet again and again. Davey arches his back, planting a hand against one of Jack’s bent knees for balance, chasing blindly after his pleasure, and Jack makes a noise like he’s going out of his damn mind, a possessive growl tearing its way out of his throat. “Oh fuck.”

“Say it again,” Jack orders, eyes on fire.

It falls out of Davey’s mouth, desperate and true: “Alpha, alpha, my alpha—��

“My omega,” Jack says, his voice low and gritty, rut and desire clouding his gaze. “Mine.”

They’re both teetering on the edge. Jack’s knot is catching on every thrust, fucking him open in torturous, delicious increments, and Davey wants, wants, wants.

“Jack,” Davey’s head hangs heavy between his shoulders, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he pants and sighs. “Jackie, yes, give it to me, give it to me, please, yes—”

Jack’s hands slide lower, clench harder, and Davey has one second to delight in how much he loves the feel of those big hands curled around him before the world spins and he lands flat on his back again with Jack braced above him, his eyes wild and vivid red. He grabs the backs of Davey’s thighs and pushes his knees up towards his ears, hardly faltering at all before he’s driving back inside again, fast and hard and so, so deep, and Davey’s boiling, blistering from the feeling of Jack, always Jack, pulsing inside of him, etched right into the seams of his heart.

“Mine,” Jack growls again, nipping viciously at the base of Davey’s throat, tongue swirling over his scent gland like he’s already trying to taste his claim. Davey tilts his head back with a needy whine, unable to do anything except offer himself up to him, freely and wholly. “Mate. Mine.”

“Jack,” Davey whimpers. “Jack, I— I’m—”

“You’re going to come for me,” Jack orders, pistoning his hips even harder, and the new angle means that he’s tagging that sweet spot inside on every other thrust, fierce and relentless.

“Yes,” Davey moans, sparks flying at the edges of his vision. “Yes, I’m— Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t—”

Jack presses him down, snaps his hips forward, sharp, and his knot finally catches, swells, and locks inside of him. Heat thrums, then surges through him, white hot, at the searing stretch of it and Davey comes so hard he goes lightheaded, body rippling and writhing through wave after wave of pleasure. Jack manages a couple more filthy grinds of his hips before he’s tumbling over the edge right after him, capturing Davey’s mouth in a breathless, bruising kiss as his orgasm rocks through them both.

When he feels like he can move his limbs again, Davey lets his legs slip down to wrap around Jack’s waist, looping his arms loosely around Jack’s neck. He turns his face towards Jack’s temple and inhales, smiling softly when he catches the smoky, spicy, cooling-embers scent of a sated, happily exhausted alpha.

“How are you feeling, darling?” Davey murmurs, brushing Jack’s sweaty hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. “Alright?”

Jack mouths something unintelligible against his collarbone, a solid, grounding weight sprawled bonelessly on top of him. Davey cups his hand around the nape of Jack’s neck, then strokes soothingly down his back, his mind a wash of hazy contentment.

“‘M good,” Jack grunts. “I’m… fuck, Dave.”

Davey huffs out a laugh, then presses a kiss to the high point of Jack’s cheek. “Fuck,” he echoes hoarsely, still recovering from his high.

“You?” Jack asks, nuzzling clumsily at the column of Davey’s throat. “Feelin’ okay?”

“Better than,” Davey decides, his body aching deliciously around the hot, hard knot pressed inside of him, stomach sticky with with own release, his thighs wet with slick and come, neck littered with marks, the air thick with their combined scents, spring and citrus and cedar and sweet melded perfectly together, and he feels totally, entirely, completely— “Feel claimed.”

Jack’s body twitches, his knot throbbing as he spills another burst of pleasure deep inside of him. Davey hums, pleased, some base omega instinct purring with satisfaction at how wonderfully full he is.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Jack eventually gets out, voice rough and raspy and wrecked. “You can’t just— Have mercy on your poor alpha.”

“My alpha,” Davey agrees. “All mine.”

#newsies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #tease series #yep yep yep yep #I’m sorry for nothing

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donutloverxo · 4 years ago

Text

Salty Baby

Chapter six

Summary - When you moved to New York in hopes of living a glamorous life this isn’t what you expected. Steve offers to help you but your pride gets in the way. Pride isn’t going to pay your rent and college loans.

Chapter themes - This chapter you meet the Avengers. Will you be able to make a good impression on them? smut, semi-public sex, angry sex, jealous steve.

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - 3k

Masterlist is linked in bio! Previous chapters can be found in it!

You were nervous about getting lavish gifts from Steve, for the twenty-five five gifts of Christmas he was going to give you. Things you didn’t really need, like the diamond bracelet he got you for your two month anniversary. You couldn’t exactly wear those kinds of things to class. Where your classmates talked about was dungeons and dragons or whatever a doctor who is.

But Steve’s twenty-five presents, all of them, were anything but materialistic. You were amazed at how he personalised each of them specifically for you. He knew you so well and in such a short time. Like how he got you first edition Sylvia Plath books, which you actually had the time to read now, or how he woke you up with your favorite breakfast, or how he woke you up with his mouth. You liked that much more than the breakfast. He also got you a big cosy grey sweater that swallowed you whole.

“You look so cute” He beamed at you bending down to kiss your forehead. You couldn’t help but blush at that. “I’m not cute!” You almost stomped your foot “You’ll always be cute to me doll”

You were pleasantly surprised when Anna invited you and Steve for Christmas dinner at her place. You did miss your nephews. Brock was, as always, gone for work. She didn’t want to spend Christmas alone with the kids. She also had to make a dig at you, how you’ll be in the same boat as her, what with Steve’s demanding job. Which was far from the truth, but you let it go.

The only problem was that it was the same day as the Christmas party at the Avengers tower. Steve, being the angel that he is, said you could go to the party after dinner, it would probably start late anyway.

“Doll, how does this one look?” He asked as you stared at him noticing how thick he looked under the off white cable knit sweater.

You gulped down smoothening the flare of the white lace dress Steve gifted you. “It’s perfect Steve. And stop being so nervous! I told you I don’t care about Anna’s opinion”

“Yeah but she’s the only family you have. I want to make a good impression” he said giving you a pout which you kissed away.

Thankfully you didn’t have to ask him to not take his death trap of a motorcycle. He got you both an uber. You enjoyed the whole city lit up with the beautiful festive lights. You couldn’t help but think you wouldn’t be half as happy if you didn’t have your man sitting right next to you.

“Oh my god. Ca – Captain America” Anna stammered as she looked at your boyfriend. Right, you never did mention you were dating Steve Rogers.

“Ma'am” he gave her a curt nod handing her the non-alcoholic wine bottle he had got since she was pregnant. She pushed about how considerate he was. Which was true.

Your nephews, instantly loved Steve. It didn’t take much to impress them, the lego sets and other toys and chocolates you got them probably helped as well. Both of them hanging off of his biceps as he sweeped them off the floor. While Anna tried to process that The Captain America was standing in her living room.

She dragged you to the kitchen excusing you both away from Steve. “What is wrong with you?! You never told me you were dating Captain America!” She whispered harshly.

“What difference does it make?” She only shook her head calling you a liar “Omitting information is not the same as lying. On that note I haven’t really told him about Mom” You paused gauging her reaction “I would appreciate it if you didn’t either” You winced as she smirked at you. Wouldn’t she love having such power over you?

“What do I get in return?”

“What the fuck do you want?” you snapped.

“I’ll think about it. But remember that you owe me”

You couldn’t get her words out of your head. As you kept stabbing at your meatloaf barely eating it. Steve squeezed your thigh, under the dinner table as if to reassure you. He threw his head back at the kids antics and making polite conversation with Anna.

“I’ve worked with Rumlow before” He mentioned referring to the picture frames he saw of Brock.

“Oh goodness really? He never mentioned it. But he never really talks about work. Are you good friends?” She asked eagerly.

He cleared his throat sitting up straight “Not really. But I would like to get to know him better”

Friends was always a touchy subject for Steve. Having lost so many of them, you were amazed at how he was still willing to open his heart up. He couldn’t connect to or trust anyone in this era. He didn’t need to tell you that, you could sense it. You were almost anxious, did he feel connected to you? Atleast half as much as you did to him.

Maybe that’s why you were more scared to meet his ‘family’ than he was to meet yours. You had to crane your neck up, to the point that it actually hurt so you could get a view of the Avengers tower. It was majestic and maybe a bit over the top. Not really your cup of tea, but from what you heard from Steve about Tony Stark, he loved going all out. Which was probably why there were humongous reindeers next to the A of the Avengers.

“It’s amazing!” You gushed as you both got in the elevator making your way over to the party deck. You could see why they called it a white party. The Christmas tree decorated with silver and white ornaments, which seemed to be the theme of the party. “Oh” You let out as you read that all the decorations and the tree would be bio-degradable. How is that possible?

“Cap you finally made it” You turned around to look at a blonde man, who was taller and larger than Steve which you didn’t get to see everyday, and a redhead, whom you recognised as the black widow, greeting Steve. You quickly stood next to him, holding his hand and lacing his fingers with yours.

“Oh you must be Steve’s lady” He raved squeezing you into a tight hug, which would normally be uncomfortable for you but somehow it wasn’t when he did it. It was almost comforting, like a bear hug. You awkwardly patted his back. With your face smashed in his chest you could barely breathe.

You finally pushed him away trying not to hypnotised by his eyes wrinkled by his wide gein “Yes I am the lady” you chuckled nervously smoothening the wrinkles of your dress. You looked down at the pretty white thing. You had never even worn a dress before, you weren’t sure if it was for you.

“Hope Steve is treating you well” Black Widow smiled at you before looking at Steve. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” she raised a brow at him.

“This is Thor” Steve frowned at the bulky blonde out of the corner of his eye “And this is Natasha” She smiled shaking your hand. Now Natasha, she looked absolutely ravishing in her grey bodysuit, that seemed to hug her in all the right places, she looked like someone who was made to fit into a place like this.

“Can I borrow Steve for a minute? We have some business to attend to” She said lacing hers arm with his.

Your breathe hitched at the thought of being left alone. “I – uh” You stammered.

“I can keep you company if you like” Thor offered and you smiled at him. Feeling his presence already comforting. You thanked him letting Steve know that you were fine.

For the next hour, Thor told you all about his home, which was in another world, something you still couldn’t wrap your head around. His delinquent brother Loki, who’s never up to any good. And his girlfriend Jane who unfortunately couldn’t join you too. His face beamed up when you told him you study physics. “I believe that is what Stark does”

“Oh I’m not sure it would be the same field. But maybe” You hummed.

“Where is he” He looked around, his silky long strands shaking with his head. “Oh Clint! Come meet Steve’s lady” He called out to someone.

“Oh you know what? I think I have to use the restroom” You stood up abruptly collecting your clutch. “I’ll catch you later” You said briskly walking away. You had caught a glimpse of a balcony on the when on the way from the elevator to the party which was your destination. As much fun as it was supposed to be to hang out with everyone, how all your classmates and your sister were ‘so jealous' of you, you were exhausted and completely burned out.

You breathed in the cold fresh air as you stood near the railing of the balcony, which was empty save for a few people. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you felt the air creep chills up your body. You close your eyes, your teeth clammering as you tried to rub your arms to create some warmth

“You don’t look so comfortable there” Your eyes snapped open as you heard someone drawl out. You looked to your left, where the voice came from, and instantly recognized the face. You’d have to live under a rock not to. It was the man who saved New York.

“I’m fine” You brushed him off. Not knowing how you could possibly speak to such a larger than life personality.

“It’s a nice party. Isn’t it?” He moved closer to you standing just a few feet away from you now “No? I’ll try to do a better job next time I guess” He shrugged his lips curling up in a smile.

“It is nice. But – I don’t know” you stopped yourself “– I’m just an introvert”

“See that's what people get wrong. Introverts don’t hate parties. I know plenty of ‘em who are the life of the party in fact”

“Name one” You scoffed.

He hummed for a minute as if thinking it over “Oh the hulk!” you cringed as he yelled enthusiastically “Banner is an anti social geek but the hulk is actually a pretty fun guy if you get to know him” he said leaning on the edge of the balcony.

“I don’t think that counts. Hulk and Banner are not the same...” you trailed off not quite sure if they were or weren’t and this time he scoffed not believing you “It’s true!” you argued “just like how Steve and Captain America aren’t the same person”

“Who capsicle?” he tilted his head.

You tried to hold it in, you really did but you burst out a laugh and quickly held your hand over your mouth to contain it. “Cap – what does that even mean?” You shook your head finally giving in and throwing your head back laughing at the ridiculous nickname.

“There you are” You stopped laughing as soon as you heard that voice. You whipped your head to look at Steve approaching the two of you, his jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve been looking all over for you” He said pulling you into him by grabbing your waist.

“Oh I’m sorry I got caught up -”

“You two know each other” Tony interrupted you and Steve introduced you as his girlfriend.

“We should get going. There are some other people I want you to meet” Steve said looking down at you, somewhat sternly, his tone reminding you of his authoritative side, the one he used on the battlefield and in bed with you.

You felt your heart beat fast and your mouth dry as you nodded. Steve held onto your wrist guiding you away from the balcony

“Wait!” Tony called out for you “don’t you wanna know what it means?”

“What’re you talking about?” Steve rolled his eyes, still pulling at your wrist but you stood your ground, you did want to know. You looked at Tony expectedly.

“He spent decades in the ice frozen like a capsicle” He chuckled “and because he always has a huge stick up his ass”

Your smile faltered at that. You thought it would be something fun his friends tease him with, but this just seemed mean-spirited. “It was nice to meet you Tony” You bid him goodbye and he waved you off as you walked with Steve back to the party.

You could feel Steve fuming beside you, but you weren’t exactly sure what he was angry at. You didn’t think a stupid nickname would make him so mad. You were about to ask him but you were pushed into a coat closet? What the hell? You yelped as your backside bumped against the desk in the middle of the closet. “What - Steve!” you scolded him as you looked at the brown grease on the desk stain your white dress. “this isn’t going to come off you know” you tried rubbing at it but you were sure it was ruined.

“What were you laughing about out there with Tony? I left you alone for barely half an hour” He said. His tone contained and cool. As if what he was saying was completely rational and true. Which only served to piss you off even more.

“You left me for an entire hour! You know I’m not good at these things. Why am I here?” You said pointing your at your chest “I’m here for you! And now you’re saying what? I’m flirting with other men?”

“That’s what it seemed like” He said with the same even tone and your hand twitched wanting to smack him across his stupid beautiful face.

“Whatever Steve” you shook your head pushing him away to get away from him. You never thought you’d need distance from your Steve. “Steve let me go” you pushed him again but you knew it would be of no use. You were no match against the great Captain America.

“No” He walked close to you caging you in till you had no where to go. You felt his hot breathe fanning against your face as he stared you down. You let out a breathe, disgusted that you could feel his erection against your thigh. That you were just as turned on.

“Fuck it” you leaned up on your toes crashing your lips onto his wrapping your hands around his neck, your teeth clattering together as his hands worked to push up your skirt and pull down your panties. He pushed you up to sit you on the desk and you cringed thinking of your once beautiful dress.

He pulls away from you, his face flushed and his lips swollen from your rough kiss. He put your panties into his dress pants. “I’ll buy you another one doll” But you didn’t know if he was referring to your dress or your panties. And frankly you didn’t care. You were so angry and hurt, that all you could think about was his dick inside you, your golden boy railing you in a fucking coat closet.

Your hands made quick work of unbuckling him and pulling him out of his briefs. His cock already hard and ready. You pulled it in to line him up with your entrance but he stopped you, swatting your hands away.

“I’m too big for you doll” He leaned into your ears to whisper, two of his fingers entering your channel. “And you’reso tight. We have to get your prepared” he groaned driving his fingers in and out of you adding a third one as you held onto his shoulders for life, biting into the crook of his neck to muffle your screams.

“Don’t you dare come” He warned you as he felt you clench around his fingers. You could only whimper to answer him, holding off on your release. Knowing that if you didn’t listen to him he wouldn’t fuck you. In that moment you felt as if you’d die if you didn’t feel his cock inside you. “Please fuck me” you tried to catch your breathe as tears clouded your vision. You cried as you felt his fingers slipping out of you. You were about to say that you didn’t come. That you were good. You deserved to get off!

But then, in one single thrust he pushed his cock deep inside you, hitting your g-spot. You sighed biting his earlobe and sucking on it as a way to thank him. The weight and warmth of him cooling down the burn in your core just a little bit. But you were still very much on edge.

He rolled his hip as he started fucking into you. You grabbed onto his hair with your hand pulling on it a bit. He groaned at that driving into you faster.

With his cock hitting your cervix, again and again with such ferocious pace, you couldn’t even remember what you were angry about. Were you angry? What were you doing in a coat closet? It didn’t matter, not really. The only thing that mattered was him, his cock inside you and your impending doom. “I need to come. Please “ You wailed unable to contain your sounds.

“Go ahead doll” he pulled away a bit to look into your eyes “I’m all yours” He drove his cock into you, in the way he knew you loved. He pushed your hair out of your face, staring at you so lovingly, feeling so vulnerable and overwhelmed you closed your eyes, if you didn’t see him he couldn’t see you either right?

You clenched around him as you felt him fill you up with his warm seed. Your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. You felt completely spent, not being able to hold yourself up you laid your head on his shoulder.

Your high didn’t last for long. You felt him slip out of you, shuffling to take out a handkerchief and clean you up. You recalled what you were fighting about. How he mistrusted you even though you had given him no reason to do so. You hugged him closer not ready to address all those issues just yet. They could wait till you had had your moment with him.

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#salty baby #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #captain america x reader #chris evans x reader #steve rogers x you #chris x reader #avengers x reader #marvel x reader #steve rogers fic

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realityhelixcreates · 4 years ago

Text

Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 9: Magic Carpet Ride

Chapters: 9/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),Drug Use

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags: A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: Loki, paragon of self-sacrifice, must face down a cultural taboo.

Loki stared ruefully at the little bottle of pills on the table in front of him.

“You've got to be kidding me.” he said, “Your weak mortal medicine will have no affect on me.”

Tony Stark shrugged. “Works on Cap.”

“I am not your Captain Rogers. We are worlds apart.”

“The guy's a never ending science experiment. We had to develop insanely strong meds for him because, in the event that he actually managed to get hurt, our strongest stuff couldn't help him. But I have it on good authority that this'll do the trick. That authority being your brother. King of Asgard.”

Loki glared in scandalized disbelief. “You are telling me Thor actually took one of these?”

“Took some persuading, but yeah. After he came back down, he was pretty sure they'd work on you too, despite your differences.”

Loki's eyes flicked to you, then back to Stark, then to the bottle. “Hold your tongue. We don't need to discuss this any further. I will not poison myself at your command.”

“It's not poison!” Stark insisted. “It's a painkiller and anti-inflammatory. It will help you heal.”

“You cannot expect me to degrade myself for your convenience.”

“No, I expect you to lie for your convenience.” Stark shot back. “Though I don't see how hiding this from me,” he gestured at the chair, the neck brace, “actually helped you at all. You don't get anything out of it. Anyway, you really need to start cooperating if you want to stay. I'm trying to be lenient, but the more you complicate things, the more likely it is you'll be discovered. I think we all agree that would be bad.

As for you, if you want to come back downstairs and rejoin society, we've always got space for you” he said to you. “The baristas have been asking after you.”

“No!” Loki burst, “If I must befoul myself with your medicines to retain my lodgings, then I require her assistance to oversee things while I am...impaired.”

It had been an accident. Or rather, a lapse in personal judgment. You had left Loki after dressing him one morning, to fix breakfast, and Stark had shown up. And because he was your boss, and owned the building, you had just let him in. That's right, you had helped out the landlord. Your parents would be ashamed of you. You were ashamed.

And the silent fury Loki had been radiating when he wheeled out into the seating area and Stark had gotten a look at him as he really was made you surprised that he wanted to keep you around at all.

Stark had given him an exasperated earful, and then left, coming back this morning with a bottle full of small pills. You couldn't even come close to pronouncing the complicated name on the label, but from what Stark was saying, they were the kind of thing that should never be taken by a normal person. Not if they had been made with Captain America in mind. Not if they were powerful enough to string out Thor.

You were surprised Loki was even pretending to go along with this, considering the cultural attitudes to chemical medicines in Asgard. Really, you fully expected him to order you to throw the pills away once Stark left.

When you brought him his tea, he sighed deeply, his expression a mask of utter melancholic resignation.

“Crush one of those accursed pills into a powder and add it to the tea.” he said woefully. “Stay by me as I suffer this indignity. Be forgiving of any upcoming transgressions, I implore you.”

“Hey, I'm sure it won't be that bad.” you said, grabbing a cooking spoon, and carefully breaking the pill down into a fine powder with the handle. “It won't stay in your system for very long. Your body will filter it out and flush it away, and you'll be clean again.”

You brushed the powder into his teacup, and stirred until it dissolved. Then you handed it over to Loki, who stared into the cup morosely.

“Won't it be good to not be in pain, even just for a little while?”

“I thought that many times, when I was in the clutches-” He stopped abruptly. “I've thought that many times. It is always denied to me somehow. There's always a catch.” He took a long sip of the tea, and sighed again. “And so I am tainted. At least the tea doesn't taste any different. You are getting better at that.”

“Here, have a muffin.” you offered him your freshest creation. “It says on the bottle that you're supposed to take it with food.”

He accepted the muffin with all the graveness of a prisoner at his last meal, but he thanked you graciously, and stopped you when you started to leave his side.

“I will be rendered a senseless fool by this foul poison. You must stay close, so that I do not do something utterly moronic, like throwing myself from the balcony on the assumption that I can fly. I might not actually survive in my situation, and I dislike long falls anyway.”

“You're scared of heights?” you asked, scarcely able to believe it.

“No,” he said haughtily, “I dislike long falls. It is different.”

“Why do they bother you?”

“That is personal.”

“I've seen your dick.” you pointed put.

“You would not be the first.” he said, matching you for vulgarity.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Do you want more tea?”

Loki glanced into his empty teacup, bemused to see the bottom.

“Yes, I suppose I would.” he said, setting it down for you.

He had tried to teach you the fine art of pouring tea, and you had finally managed to do it without dribbling, but, as Loki put it, you also did it without grace. He didn't say anything this time, just tightened his lips in a sarcastic way, and took a sip.

At least you knew how to make tea to his specifications. It wasn't difficult, once you had figured it out. Just measurements and timing.

He had devoured his muffin, so you brought him another. Loki was extremely particular about flavors; not adventurous at all. Even banana nut offended his senses. But cream cheese met his approval in every application so far, even if he did complain about the texture of bagels.

“You'll have to get me an Asgardian cookbook, if this keeps up.” you said. “I might be able to whip you up something that reminds you of home.”

“I do not necessarily always want to be reminded of home.” Loki said. “And some of our dishes take many hours, even days to make. I need you for more than that. You cannot be in the kitchen at every moment.”

You would never admit it to anyone, but you got a surge of secret pleasure every time Loki said that he needed you. You'd always enjoyed hearing it from others, but it was so much better coming from a god.

Though it did make you wonder if the isolation up here was messing with your head a bit.

“Besides,” he continued, “enough cheese, bread, and meat will approximate the diet well enough. Asgardians have high metabolisms, and require many calories, and so do I. Our active lifestyles tend to make us big eaters as well, although I do not get my usual exercises these days.”

“If you would actually give yourself the time to relax and heal, you might be able to get back to that sooner.”

“Yap, yap, you nag like a bratty lapdog.” He scorned. Your eyebrows skyrocketed.

“Well gee,” you said with exaggerated shock, “if you don't want me here, just go ahead and say so. I'll go downstairs and be a barista.”

“No, you cannot leave me!” There was a distinct waver in his voice. “I will be polite. You won't leave me, will you? I didn't mean it.”

“Loki.” you said, suddenly feeling guilty. He sounded like a scolded little boy, on the verge of tears. “I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry about that. You should be more polite though.”

He reached out gracefully and took your hand.

“Dear lady...” he began, his words slightly slurred, and you finally realized that the medicine was taking effect.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, filling his tea again.

“Strange.” he said. “I feel light, but like there is a weight upon my eyes. Light, but like I cannot lift my limbs. One with this chair. Melting into the floor. I do not hurt...it's been so long...”

He really was starting to tear up.

You took his tea from his trembling hand and grabbed up a tissue.

“Here you go.” you said, dabbing his eyes gently. “Go ahead and enjoy it. Pain shouldn't be an everyday thing for you, if it doesn't have to be. You don't have to feel bad for enjoying a little bit of peace.”

“No, you don't understand. I don't deserve this. The pain was at least something familiar. I don't recognize this feeling. This lightness. It doesn't feel real.”

“Well, you are real, and I am real, and the medicine is real. The feeling is the medicine acting on your perceptions, so it's kinda real, it's just different than usual, that's all.” you patted his hand, and he grabbed for yours.

“Will this feeling go away?”

“Of course!” you laughed, “don't worry, this is just temporary. It will help your neck, and when you're healed, you won't have to take it anymore.”

“What if I can't stop?” he asked. “I am...not good at refraining from...indulgence.”

“If no one brings you anymore, what could you do about it?”

“If I am healed enough to remove this brace? To move about freely? What could I not do about it?”

“You know, that's a good point. I think we'll have to find you some of that ultra-powerful super weed the cops keep saying totally exists, but no one else seems to be able to find.”

He gave you a sideways stare. “More poisons?”

“It's to help free you from the other poison. But there are multiple strategies for getting clean, if that really becomes a problem. It's not like I've never seen addicts before; I'll help you if you need me.”

He reached for your hand again, and missed.

“Blessed thing.” he blabbered. “You are a draught of Alfar wine, brewed under the starlight. The fresh breeze through the forests of Vanaheim, just after sunrise. You are the faithful moon, pure as gold.”

“And you are high as balls.” you teased, bashful about the flowery praise. You really shouldn't be pledging any more of yourself, but the allure of being needed-wanted even, was as addictive as any drug.

“You are the only once who may see.” he said. “I want no one else to see me like this. Stark especially. None save you may witness my dishonor.”

“Loki,” you mock-scolded, “if you keep looking at it like that, you'll impede your own progress. You'll fight it subconsciously, and just slow your healing down.”

“How, pray tell, should I look at it then?” he asked.

You took his hand, which was still waving around after yours.

“Look at it as permission. Permission to relax, to let the guard down and just exist for a while. You have everything you need right here, you can just be. It's okay to take some time to just be.”

“Just be what though? What is worth it for me to be?”

You shrugged. “A prince?”

“In exile.”

“A god?”

“Blasphemed rather than worshiped.”

“How about...my master?”

He squirmed a little in his chair.

“I could perhaps do that effectively.” he said quietly.

#betathetaandme #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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kenzieam · 4 years ago

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About Last Night - Chapter Two

@jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @iammarylastar@captstefanbrandt @badassbaker @pinknerdpanda @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink

I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Rating: M

Warnings: Language, general nuttiness, smut, major angst, drama

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

FEEDBACK IS LIFE, Y’ALL!

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

Lev wakes up the morning after a wild night at the Compound and realizes she hasn’t spent the night alone. The fact that the man unconscious beside her is her most trusted teammate is besides the point, he’s also her best friend and

NOW WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE DO???

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

Okay, this chapter is just shameless angst and self-pity, mixed in with a healthy dose of Lev’s incredible stupidity and my absolute favourite... cliffhangers.

You’ve been warned....

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

Too late, sugar. He’s found someone else.

No. NO.

And there’s nothing you can do about it, her mind sneered.

A cold rush went through Lev and it was all she could do to not leap from the table and run.

She was becoming her mother.

She was letting love cloud her mind, dictate her actions.

No. She wouldn’t give in, she was stronger than that, baptized by the blood of the damned, literally.

If asked later how she managed to stay seated at the table and remain semi-functional, Lev wouldn’t be able to say. She’d become talented in hiding her emotions, stonewalling the therapist her father briefly tried sending her to, and disguising the true depths of her rage and sorrow as she grew from a teenager to hot-headed adult, but even she couldn’t kid herself into thinking she was successfully acting tonight.

Conversation continued without her, for if anyone noticed her discomfiture, they kindly chose to ignore it, not bringing up the fact that every single person at the table, with the exception of Bucky, Lev and Lilly, had fully expected and had in reality placed bets with each other on when their two friends would finally wake up to the attraction between them, knowing that something had gone down after the party, but not what.

Bucky’s new woman was questioned relentlessly, the guise friendly inquiry, covert ‘what the fuck, man?’ glances sent Bucky’s way whenever her attention was diverted with answering and he glowered back defiantly, refusing, with the exception of one scorching glance, loaded with too many emotions to sort out, to look at Lev.

And she felt her skin tingle every time he touched Lilly, rested his arm on her shoulders, brushed her cheek or tucked some of her long blonde hair behind her ear. If he was acting he was doing a hell of a job, there seemed to be a genuine draw between them, especially in the way Lilly would gaze at him, like he’d hung the fucking moon and, as soon as it was polite, Lev excused herself, the few bites of dessert she’d managed to choke down sour in her stomach.

Why the hell was she so upset? SHE’D WANTED THIS! SHE’D WANTED TO MAINTAIN DISTANCE, but not like this, anything but this.

And she hadn’t truly wanted distance, not really, not in the deepest parts of her heart. Once the static had cleared in her head, she’d heard the message loud and clear. Love was dangerous, love was terrifying and made fools of us all, but she would have been safe with Bucky. He wouldn’t have hurt her; he wouldn’t have let her fall. He wouldn’t have passed off lust as love and then thrown her away, driving her to insanity in the form of hysterical suicide.

He would have treasured her the way she always secretly wished to be and, at the first offering of that, she’d slashed with razor claws, wounding him perhaps permanently.

She wished for more Mead, but there was none and she instead spent the night cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, headphones secured to her ears, blasting her most angry and rage-filled death metal playlists, hoping to drown out the tears.

She shouldn’t have left her room the next morning, she wasn’t fucking hungry anyway. But she had, and the punishment had been swift and severe. Giggles preceded her arrival in the kitchen and, if she’d been listening instead of continuing to stew, she would have recognized the deep answering chuckles.

There had only been a few times in Lev’s life when she could honestly say she was breathless with shock. The first had been with her mother, slipping and sliding in her lifeblood as the woman screamed and slashed even more at her shredded forearms; the second had been when Lev had awoke disoriented under blinding lights, agony like hellfire crawling through her veins, a multitude of strange, lab-coat wearing men standing dispassionately above her, the sudden and cold realization that she’d been taken and changed, that her issues had blinded her to life’s bigger dangers and she’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, selected by HYDRA for an experimental program due to her lack of family and the extremely large chip on her shoulder and she was never going to be the same.

The third was when she had been discovered by accident and rescued by the team, half-mad in that underground bunker; her shadowy surroundings suddenly lit up and blinding her like the sun, fevered confusion and disorientation, dangerous-looking strangers all around her, their grunts of pain and surprise when she fought their hands, struggled to understand a language she’d not heard in so long. Fear and animal instinct to defend had taken over, her enhanced body too much for all but Steve and Bucky to restrain and her first real memories of freedom from that hellish cell where she’d languished, cold and slowly going insane had been of strong arms, gentle hands stroking her face and tangled hair, masculine spice and a deep, soothing voice, speaking words she no longer recognized but in a tone that calmed her nonetheless.

The forth, and final time was now, when she turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead, like she’d been slapped by the very hand that was currently caressing Lilly’s breast through her half-buttoned shirt, a shirt Lev recognized instantly, even in her shock, as the one she’d bought Bucky months ago because she’d loved how it matched his eyes. Lilly was gasping and mewling, their bodies moving in a sensual, unmistakable rhythm, Bucky’s eyes flaring with heat as they rolled upwards when her lips, hidden by her face tucked into his throat, nibbled in return for his touch and it was devastatingly obvious what they’d spent the night doing, what Lev had probably unintentionally spared herself from hearing all through the dark hours by keeping her headphones on.

What they were still doing.

Lev could smell it on them and there was no way two bodies could twine so close together if they weren’t already connected in the most visceral and primal way possible. His hand fell from Lilly’s breast, but only to drop to her hip, curling around the curve and pulling her closer still, lifting her thigh to hook around his. His eyes raised finally to Lev’s, banked lust making them look like a beast’s eyes, and his jaw clenched, teeth baring as he growled harshly. Lilly moaned as he turned his head to bite at her throat, eyes staying locked on Lev’s almost defiantly, returning the nips with an intensity that made Lilly’s hips roll against his, made her cling even tighter to his body and ratcheting up the sexual heat that was already so thick between them. Seeing Lev seemed to push him to move harder and faster, as if with each heavy thrust of his hips he was snarling at her ‘like what you see? This could have been you.’

Bucky was fucking her against the counter, her ass smacking the edge while he glared coldly over her shoulder, eyes locked with Lev’s, each heavy grunt as he thrust further driving the nail deeper into her heart and something inside her, something that cracked as she’d watched her mother die and had only continued to yawn wider with each successive hit in her life, shattered completely.

************************************************************************************* “So, you’re volunteering to take this mission? The one I haven’t been able to bribe, cajole or threaten anyone else to take on?” Tony raised a brow at Lev, half his attention still directed to a tablet in his hand, feet resting on the edge of his desk, chair tilted back.

“Yes.” Lev waited until Stark reluctantly pulled his eyes from the screen and focussed fully on her. Understanding softened the quizzical lines on his forehead.

“You know, kid… what Barnes is doing, bringing that new girl around-”

“Doesn’t matter, he can fuck whomever he wants.”

“Yeah, but after that party we all figured you two would finally-”

“You know… that shit would have been a little more helpful before all of this. I didn’t realize Bucky felt that way, I didn’t realize I felt that way.”

“Is that why you pushed him away? According to Cap you broke his heart.”

Lev flinched. “I didn’t push him away, okay? I was scared shitless and thought we should stay friends.”

“A man doesn’t look at someone the way Barnes looked at you, if they just want to stay friends.”

And the hits just kept coming. “Again, might have been a little more helpful to me before.”

“Why were you so scared?” Tony changed subjects, tilting his head. “I mean, the Manchurian Candidate isn’t my cup of tea, but he’s never hurt you, even when you were trying so hard to kill all of us in that bunker; if anything, he’d be like a pain in the ass puppy, always loyal and trying to get in your lap.” Understanding dawned. “This have something to do with your parents? You told me their divorce was ugly.”

And then some.

“Nah, their divorce was the standard train wreck, it was what came after; when the guy left her, she uh…. Well, she didn’t take it well.”

Tony arched a brow, waiting patiently and Lev was so tired of holding the weight of her burdened past by herself she gave in and opened her figurative vein.

“When uh…. When the new guy took off, she…. I found her after school one day, blood everywhere and the razor still in her hands. I was trying everything I could to stop the bleeding, to stop her, but all she wanted to do was keep cutting and keep screaming into the phone at the guy, over and over again, ‘is this what you wanted? Are you happy now?’. She… she died in my arms, her last words for him, still yelling at him. I’m not even sure if she knew I was there.”

Tony stared, stunned silent, which was quite a feat for him, and Lev swallowed uncomfortably. She’d not told anyone the whole story, not even her dad or the therapist and she felt her adrenaline beginning to rise as the spectres from her past rattled their chains and threatened to break free again.

“Shit… Lev. You need to talk to someone about that-”

“I need to go on this mission.”

“You need help.”

“The mission.” Lev repeated stubbornly. “Just the mission, Tony, okay? If my mother’s suicide taught me anything, it’s that love is the most dangerous fucking thing out there and if I hadn’t learned it then I sure as fuck did when Bucky showed up with that fucking supermodel. That’s all the help I need. Let me get out of here, clear my head and still be fucking useful as I do it. Please?”

Tony gazed at her, such pain and sympathy in his eyes that Lev was forced to look away, chew hard on her lip to keep from breaking down.

“Okay,” he finally murmured. “I’ll send you out on this one but we’re in on this together, you and me, got it?”

Lev squinted at him, not understanding.

“I’m not going to tell anyone else, but you and I are going to talk, regularly, while you’re out there. I’m keeping an eye on you, kid and when you get back… you gotta talk to someone trained in this, okay? That’s not anything anyone should have to carry alone.”

Lev snorted, trying to disguise how touched she was with more sarcasm. “I’m not carrying it alone; it can haunt your nightmares now too.”

A faint smile, but Tony’s eyes stayed troubled.

“Okay,” Lev conceded. “Now can I go?”

Tony nodded slowly. “Yeah, I got everything set up, if you’re ready now, let’s go.”

“I’m ready now.”

*********************************************************************************** Lev exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to doodle on the notebook in front of her and closed her eyes until the itch passed, then opened them again, squinting as she peered through the scope mounted in front of her.

Forty-three days now of reconnaissance, observation, stakeout…. Boring.

Although it had been in the back of Lev’s mind as the reason why no one else wanted to take this mission, meaning Tony had been about a day away from volun-telling someone they were going, it hadn’t truly hit her until now how epically draining this was.

She had nothing but time now, to think, to analyze and consider.

The communication was iffy, limited, hence the need for someone to stay here and watch the comings and goings of the suspected HYDRA affiliate; setting up remote surveillance simply wasn’t possible, nor feasible to complete the set-up of without drawing suspicion. And rotating teams wasn’t ideal either, so Lev was stuck here, admittedly exactly where she’d asked to be, and she was getting a lot of thinking done.

She had been wrong to push Bucky away, that thought was clear as crystal now after weeks of distilling in her mind while she observed and noted each movement of her quarry.

Even if she’d genuinely wanted to simply stay friends with him, wrong, she had gone about that completely ass-backwards too. There had been happiness in his eyes that morning, the smile on his face hopeful, and she’d squashed it like a bug, squashed his heart like a bug, according to Steve; no wonder he’d returned her pain so cruelly, so harshly. He’d been open and vulnerable in front of her, thinking they’d turned some corner in their relationship, holding out his heart to her that morning and she’d clumsily slapped it to the floor, stomped on with her curt announcement that the magic that had passed between them the night before was a mistake.

God, did she wish she could go back in time.

She’d slap her past self silly in that bathroom, grab her shoulders and order her to not be so fucking stupid and scared, to be the fucking hero she played at being and take that leap of faith, knowing Bucky had already taken the leap and was waiting to catch her on the other side.

It’s too late now, her inner voice whispered.

“Shut up.” She hissed back.

9:32 am – subject takes out the garbage…

************************************************************************************ “So, how’s it going?” Tony asked from the monitor, head tilted to the side. The connection wasn’t the greatest, static crawling across the screen and pulling at his outline, but his voice came through clearly enough.

“I’m bored.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Dude, why do you think everyone else passed?”

“I know, I know, it’s just…”

“Too much time to think?” Tony offered quietly.

Lev exhaled heavily. “Yeah.”

“I know all about that.” Tony continued softly. Usually at this point he would lead Lev into talking about her issues, not start baring his own demons.

“You too?” Understanding hit her like a truck. “Wait, your parents too, right? I forgot about that.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t walk in on my mother having a psychotic break, but they’re both gone.”

“And Bucky…” she couldn’t finish, shocked that she’d managed to put away this detail and forget it for so long.

“No, The Winter Soldier.” Tony clarified. “I’ve made my peace with that, HYDRA killed my parents, not that lovesick sap I see dragging his sorry ass around the compound all day.”

“Wait, what? Dragging his ass around? He’s got Lilly now.”

“Not anymore. Not sure what happened, but she left a couple weeks ago… not long after you took off, actually.”

“Huh.” Lev pondered this, her confusion deepening. What the hell did that mean? Was it just no fun fucking his girlfriend anymore without Lev standing there watching? “And you just decided to mention it now?”

Tony smiled faintly. “Today’s the first time you’ve even mentioned his name too, kid.”

“Touché…. Wait, you just needed me to stay here and finish the job!”

“Why? Would hearing about Lilly leaving make you want to come back and talk to the guy?” Tony challenged evenly; brow raised.

Shit… it did, didn’t it? That’s exactly what she was steamed about, wasting her time here instead of falling on her knees in front of Bucky and begging for his forgiveness. Still, she hated to let Tony know he was right, he could be such an arrogant prick sometimes. “So. What if it did?”

Tony snorted again, chuckling. “You two, Jesus Christ… Still, I’d appreciate if you could stay a bit longer out there.”

“You owe me, Stark.”

“I do? You volunteered, and now you’re trying to bail? Tough, kid.”

Lev stuck out her tongue, chafing mildly at this responsible adult nonsense.

“Brat,” Tony commented mildly. “Another week, Lev. Please?”

“It’s good to hear you say please.”

“It’ll be even better if you stay there like I asked and then come back and talk to that therapist I set up for you.”

Lev clenched her teeth, debating her response. Knee-jerk told her snarl and tell Tony off, to mind his own business, she’d made all sorts of progress just talking with him, but a deeper part of her knew it was time, she needed to confront and drain this wound, she couldn’t let it’s poison taint her life any further. “Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t sound so damn happy. I’m paying top dollar to keep the best grief counselor on the East Coast on retainer.”

“Thanks.” Lev injected true appreciation in her tone and his expression softened.

“Brat.” He repeated fondly. “I gotta go, talk to you in a couple of days, alright?”

“Yeah,” Lev replied softly, offering a real smile.

************************************************************************************* Lev tried not to hurry, jostle the pack on her back and maybe make too much noise. Nobody was following her, that much she was sure of, but she’d managed over fifty days of surveillance without being discovered and didn’t want to disrupt her streak. Nearing two months in a depressing tenement in a dying Eastern European town had been all sorts of boring, staring out through faded old curtains to the building across the narrow alley, but she’d managed and now it was time to go home. Tony was waiting, with a quinjet, at a site a dozen miles out and Lev was eager to see the man again.

He’d passed on her messages to the team, for Lev had left so furtively and quickly that she hadn’t told anyone else, not even Steve, and he’d relayed their messages back due to the constraints in their communications, but she was eager to see Stark, hell, anyone, in the flesh again. There was only so many games of Solitaire you could play on a dingy tabletop as you kept one eye on the window and Lev had discovered that limit long ago.

But… Bucky.

She still hadn’t spoken to him.

She’d not told him she was leaving; hell, he probably hadn’t even pulled out of Lilly yet by the time she was heading for the jet and there’d been no message from him in the ones Stark had relayed, not that Lev had expected any.

He probably hoped she didn’t come back, and a part of Lev was tempted. But no, she was a part of the Avengers, whether he liked it or not, and she could function as a member of said team even if she no longer had any meaningful contact with the Winter Soldier again. She’d have to figure out a new strategy for when her nightmares tore her from sleep and there would be no more Bucky to save her, as well as what she was going to do now when his nightmares echoed down the halls and she wanted to run to comfort him, but that could be solved easily enough. She could switch floors, sleep with earplugs or just plain gut it out, go cold turkey until the impulses faded, until Steve or Sam or, most likely, nobody’s presence took the place of comfort and support when their mutual nightmares grew to be too much in the dark.

But she’d miss the softness of his voice in the dark as her heart raced, miss the gentle way his hand would stroke across her forehead, thumb rubbing at her cheekbone; his bright, earnest eyes locked on hers as he talked her down, helped her match her gasping breaths to his steady ones.

She’d miss the way he’d cling to her when he was trapped in his own hells. The faint tremble in his massive frame that would start to cease, begin to relax as soon as he sensed her touch, the way his arms would band around her and hold her close, his body wrapped around hers like a shield but his face buried in her neck like a child’s while he grounded himself again. The way he’d murmur her name over and over again like a mantra, soothing himself back to sleep or, more likely, to the faint drowsy, dreamy, pillow talk stage, laying next to each other for hours as night died, talking about everything and anything that seemed too fragile to hold up and not shrivel under day’s harsh glare.

How had she thrown all that away? How had she not seen what everyone else apparently had? Actual physical love and sex had been about the last boundary they’d had, they’d been intimate and close in every other way possible and yet Lev had deluded herself into thinking, no… into telling herself stubbornly, that it was only friendship, that the way she’d sometimes catch Bucky gazing at her were nothing, only projections of the way she sometimes would watch him.

What a fucking idiot.

Christ, she was going to take a hellacious long bath when she got back to the Compound and compose a doozy of an apology to match her depths of remorse.

She glanced at her GPS, saw the jet was mere dozens of feet away now, in a clearing so well hidden she, even so close, still couldn’t see and picked up her pace. Hopefully, Tony brought some of those Cow Tales caramels she was such a whore for like she’d asked.

Pushing through the last break of trees, Lev paused, just admiring for a moment the stark (tee hee) splendour of the sleek jet amidst the woods. With a muted hiss, the ramp descended, and Lev turned her attention to the pilot.

“Tony-” her voice died in her throat.

#bucky #bucky barne #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #au bucky #au bucky barnes #au bucky barnes fanfiction #au bucky barnes fanfic #au bucky barnes angst #bucky and lev #bucky and levi #bucky barnes drama #bucky barnes romance #bucky the morning after #bucky mixed signals

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mnthpprt · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 18: A Certain Kind Of Intimacy

[Extra long and angsty chapter because I am an insomniac and a sucker for Arthur being soft]

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. By now, I have developed a comfortable sort of daily routine, and have gotten to know all the residents to some extent.

Every morning, Sebastian wakes me up with a light breakfast and a steaming cup of black coffee. He has quickly learned the way I like it, and to his credit, it is the most effective way of getting me out of bed so early. I take a few drops of Saint John’s Wort before I eat, get dressed, and go to work in the garden.

I water the violets under Mozart’s window, chat with Dazai, and watch Vincent paint. Although he has not said anything about it, I suspect he is using me as a model. He has taken to sit by the greenhouse, and I feel his observant gaze on me as I repot exotic plants or shake the jar of tincture I am making.

I eat lunch with Isaac, and he silently works on his research while I read the English copy of Dazai’s book that I borrowed from Sebastian. Afterwards, if I am done in the garden, I spend some time in the training room. For a couple days, le Comte insisted on giving me dancing lessons there, but I caught on quickly enough for him to drop it. Napoleon likes watching me skate, and we talk about my hometown during breaks. He asks me a lot of questions about the future, mostly about politics, and I do my best to explain the major events between his time and mine. I admit I do not do a great job of it. I have a very strange patchwork of knowledge, and while I could easily list the chemical composition and dates in which each pigment was discovered, I have a hard time remembering names and places. Jean is elusive as ever, and I only ever see him when he’s sparring with Napoleon.

When they are hogging the training room, I tend to stay in the library. Leonardo is usually there, and he jokes around as he helps me find the relevant books for my own research. He is charming and funny, but I have noticed the sadness that seeps into his eyes when he thinks I am not looking.

A couple days ago I found him working on some kind of machine with Isaac. They needed a wrench small enough to fit into a specific piece, I suspect a part taken from another object. I gave them the tool I use for my skates, and Leonardo has spent most of today apologizing profusely for losing it in the dumpster that is his bedroom.

I help Sebastian here and there. Sometimes it’s laundry, sometimes it’s cleaning, or even delivering rouge and blanc to the vampires. We talk about the things we like about the mansion, and about the things we miss from our time. I have come to understand why he chose to stay, and quite frankly, I am starting to lean the same way, although for entirely different reasons.

I tell him about my job, and about my friends in the year 2020. I tell him how much I miss my best friend Mila, who I was about to meet for the first time in over a year, and about Carlos and Jack, who are just as dear to me but I get to see often. They would all love to see what I now live every day, and I am sure that, given the chance, they wouldn’t have hesitated to come with me, especially Carlos. Like Sebastian, he would have given anything for the chance to see the past with his own eyes.

“I have a sister,” I said to him when he asked about my family. He spoke very fondly of his. “She lives in Milan. Our parents aren’t really in my life anymore...” He understood when I said I did not want to talk about it. Though stern, he is a kind man. We have become close while working together.

I have also spent a lot of time with Arthur lately. In the spare moments when he is not writing or out in some bar, he has taken up the habit of visiting me wherever I am. He gives me riddles to solve as I work, and teases me about the odd answers I come up with. While neither of us really confide in the other, conversations with him are always fun and stimulating. He still flirts relentlessly, but I have become used to it.

This afternoon in particular, he drops by my bedroom while I am reading, and I welcome him and the cup of tea he offers me. He brings one for himself, too, and does not hesitate to get comfortable on the armchair as I sit on the edge of the bed to face him, the tray on top of the ottoman between us.

“I am afraid I have come up with a case of writer’s block,” he says as his only explanation. “I need a break from that story. Will you distract me, my dear?”

“Uh, sure,” I shrug. Maybe he can answer my questions about living in this time. “I have no idea how women do their hair for special events in this decade. Perhaps you could help me with that? You know, with the ball being tonight, and all.”

“Could you show me the dress you’ll be wearing?” he asks thoughtfully.

I oblige, and pull it from the wardrobe. It is a beautiful shade of lilac, made of delicate chiffon. Aside from the slightly puffy cap sleeves, it is simple, yet elegant. Arthur examines it for a few seconds, holding it up in front of me.

“I am afraid I can’t help you, darling. I know nothing about hair,” he concludes, the pondering look in his eyes replaced by an amused glimmer.

“Then why did you ask for the dress?”

“Why, I just wanted to see how hot you would look in it, dove,” he laughs. I playfully smack his arm, and he laughs harder. “This shade brings out the green in your eyes!” I laugh too, rolling my eyes, and let him put the dress away as I return to my spot on the bed.

“Okay, then I hope you can actually answer this,” I giggle. “You’re a doctor, right? And you’re obviously well acquainted with female anatomy.” He smirks as if he thinks where this is going, and boy is he wrong. “How do women deal with menstruation? Am I just supposed to use a piece of cloth or what?”

He chokes on his tea, and lets out another boisterous laugh.

“By Jove, I was expecting you to go the sexy route with the way you phrased that!”

“Arthur, I’m being serious!” I giggle. He is still chuckling when I begin my endless tirade of questions. I would genuinely like to know the answers to them, but I mostly just ask for the sake of keeping up the joke. “Do you know any women vampires? Do they menstruate too? Are vampires fertile, or are you, like, dead in that sense? Oh my god, do you drink period blood? I really hope not, but I wouldn’t put it past you,” I tease him, mockingly disgusted.

When he finally calms down, Arthur proceeds to answer all the questions in methodical order, still clutching his sides.

“They sell special undergarments for that, coated in something that makes them impermeable on one side, I think. Just go to any shop that sells ladies’ dresses in town.” I nod, satisfied. Reusable pads it is, then. Next comes the rapid fire of answers to my increasingly ridiculous questions. “I personally do not know any women vampires, but Leonardo and le Comte definitely do. There are two kinds of us: purebloods like him, who are born like that, and lesser vampires like me and everyone else in this house. Purebloods are the only ones who can turn people, and I have no idea if they menstruate or not because I have never met another one, but they certainly do reproduce like humans. Lesser vampires are very much alive, but while we can have sex, we are infertile, and I suppose the women follow the same rule. And no, we do not feed from menses, you filthy lunatic! Don’t be absurd!” he concludes with a chuckle.

“Good to know,” I laugh at his horrified expression.

“It actually smells completely different from regular blood,” he says. “It’s very unpleasant and does not trigger hunger at all, though I have no idea whether a vampire could potentially survive on it. I am relieved to say I don’t think anyone has tried.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath before he goes on, condescendingly adding explanations that I did not ask for. “By the way, yes we do have reflections. Also, crosses don’t scare us and neither does sunlight. Anything else you’d like to know, dove?”

“Give me a break, I am curious, not stupid,” I roll my eyes. “Oh! I thought of one! The garlic thing is obviously false, but it is a natural anticoagulant, so I wonder: was that myth started by vampires so you could feed on people better? Like, if superstitious people ate a lot of garlic to try to avoid being bitten, their blood would be thinner and therefore easier to suck, right?”

“Frankly, I have no idea.” He looks surprised. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about that before, but it makes sense. You’re a clever one, darling.”

I flip my hair over my shoulder with a cocky smile, earning yet another chuckle from Arthur. Suddenly, his eyes focus on something behind me, and he grows serious. He walks over to my nightstand and picks up the small vial on it, carefully reading the label with a furrowed brow.

“Did you cut yourself while gardening?” he asks, a hint of worry on his face. I simply shake my head, and he looks at me, and then at the vial again. Having rejected one of the two main uses for the tincture, he quickly figures it out “Oh. I did not know you suffered from melancholy. I used to give this to soldiers who were affected by their time in the army.”

“Well, you hardly know anything about me. Did it work?” He shrugs, which I interpret as a ‘sometimes’. “In my time we have more effective medication for that sort of thing. I kind of depend on it, but being here... Well, it’s been an unexpected inconvenience. I was lucky to find a mediocre replacement before the effects wore off. It cancels out my contraceptive, but I don’t have that here either, so it’s pointless to worry about.”

He listens intently, his head slightly tilted. He looks at me with sadness in his eyes, the same kind of sorrow that I saw that day at the market. It is not pity, but rather... a mutual understanding. He gets it.

“Oh, Anaïs... I took the Saint John’s Wort myself for a while in my previous life, but it never really did anything for me,” he sighs. I am somewhat surprised by his words. “I hope it works for you, dear. I would hate to see you unhappy.”

“Thank you,” I mutter. He is standing close enough for me to hold his hand, and I am overcome with the urge to reach for it. I interlock my fingers with his, and he squeezes gently in response. We stay like this for a while, silently looking at where our hands meet. His touch is warm and comforting, and he makes no attempt to break contact.

“Oh, shit,” I exclaim, abruptly standing up. “The ball! I have to get ready!”

Arthur lets go of my hand and I immediately begin to undress myself, unbothered by his presence.

“I’ll leave you to it. Have fun, darling,” he says, but I stop him before he gets to the door.

“No, no, don’t leave. I need help getting into the dress.” I shove the one I am wearing down my hips, dropping it on the floor, and hastily remove my bra to change it for the corset. “Besides,” I turn to him, my breasts exposed as I fumble with the clasps on the stiff garment, “you’ve already seen me naked, remember?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he responds with a smirk and, as always, I roll my eyes.

He hands me the lilac gown, and proceeds to helpfully search the room for my shoes as I put it on. By the time he returns by my side, a pair of matching heels in his hand, I am holding my hair up, ready for him to button the back of my dress. His agile hands work fast, and soon he taps my shoulder to let me know that he has finished. I relax my arms, letting my hair cascade over the chiffon bodice, and slip my feet into the shoes he has left by my side, suddenly becoming two inches taller. I kiss his cheek and thank him for the help, to which he replies with a whistle.

“You look lovely.” He looks genuinely impressed, for once, causing me to blush.

“You really think so?” He nods, and I walk over to the mirror. A chuckle escapes my lips upon seeing my reflection. “I look like a cupcake. Seriously, though, this is so different from what I am used to wearing. I hardly recognize myself.”

“You almost seem ladylike, even,” Arthur jokes. “All prim and proper. I agree. That,” he says, pointing at the mirror, “is a totally different person.”

It is amazing how effortlessly he can make me laugh. I move on to the dressing table, and pull out every hair accessory I can find in the drawers. Arthur observes thoughtfully as I quickly brush my long hair and begin to work on the styling.

“You were wrong, you know?” he finally breaks the silence. “When you said I hardly know anything about you.”

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow at his remark. “Well, go on, don’t leave me hanging. What do you know about me that I haven’t told you?”

“For starters, I know that you were not scared of Isaac feeding on you that night.” I look at him through the vanity mirror and nod for him to go on, my hands still braiding through my hair. He seems almost hesitant to keep talking. “When I brought up biting you in the thermae, you were completely unfazed. Considering the incident was so recent, it just didn’t add up. It wasn’t the idea of him biting you that scared you, was it? It was the way he acted when he tried to. I won’t pry if you do not wish to talk about it, but I know that your past can’t have been easy, Anaïs.”

“You’re right,” I whisper. My braid now hangs limp and undone over my shoulder. I must have stopped at some point without realizing. “If he had explained, I might have let him do it, but... I don’t know. He became so violent, so suddenly. The way he grabbed me, it just... It brought back a lot of memories I’d rather forget,” I explain. My voice is barely a murmur, but I am sure Arthur can hear me just fine. “I know it wasn’t his fault, and I have long since forgiven him. Honestly, the reason I was so shaken up after the incident was because I kept reliving all those things it reminded me of. Granted, suddenly learning about the existence of vampires just added to my stress, but ultimately, It had nothing to do with Isaac himself. Or with any of you, for that matter.”

“You’re strong, Anaïs,” he comforts me. “That’s another thing I saw the moment I met you. You’re clever as the devil himself, and I have no doubts that were I human, you could absolutely destroy me in a fight. Those skater legs of yours are good for more than just walking, I bet. Not to mention how kind and caring you are, even for a bunch of strangers who could kill you. You manage to be so open without being naïve. I love that about you.”

I look down at my hands and resume braiding my hair, unsure of how to respond. I refuse to look at my reflection for fear of Arthur seeing it too, but I can feel my cheeks burn. My fingers work fast, providing a distraction, and I blindly pin the braid into a bun at the back of my head.

“Another thing I know,” Arthur continues, granting closure to my silence, “is that you played Mozart’s piano.” I notice his choice of words. He said ‘played’, and not ‘touched’. Coming from him, I have no doubt it was intentional.

“How on Earth do you know that?” I look up at him through the mirror as I keep working on my hair, adjusting strands and adding pins every now and then. He chuckles.

“I heard Wolfie complain about going to the ball with you. You clearly did something that upset him, although I must admit that’s not exactly a hard task.” He waltzes over to the vanity and comes to a stop right behind me, putting his hands over my shoulders to playfully lean closer. “And I know you were playing, specifically, because you do this thing with your fingers when you’re quiet. Like you’re playing a song in your head.” He wiggles his fingers on my shoulders to illustrate his point.

“I do?” I ask, puzzled. “I have never noticed.”

“Yes,” he laughs. “I first saw you do it in the bath, when you closed your eyes. After that, and after spending some more time with you, I have been able to notice how frequent it actually is. It’s rather adorable, if you ask me.”

“Oh, no,” I laugh, embarrassed, and bury my red face in my hands. Once again, Arthur has successfully made me feel better. He sits back on the armchair and finishes his tea, which is probably cold by now.

Meanwhile, I dig around my backpack for the small amount of makeup I happen to bring with me when I arrived. I apply some mascara, and smudge a tinge of red lipstick on with my finger, before reaching for the last product. I spend the next few minutes applying layer upon layer of concealer over the few tattoos that are visible over the dress: the one on my collarbone and a portion of the flower on my right arm, just below my shoulder. While the gloves will cover the rest, I made sure to try them on beforehand, only to find out an inch wide portion of skin would remain visible.

“Okay, can you still see it?” I turn to Arthur, applicator still in hand, for his approval. He squints and then shrugs lazily.

“Only a little, and only because I already know it’s there,” he says. “Honestly, I doubt anyone will notice.”

I sigh, defeated, and walk to the full length mirror to add one last coat, for good measure. This is surely going to become a cakey mess in a few hours, but there is nothing else I can do. I guess that means I am ready for the ball.

#ikevam #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen vampire arthur #ikevamp arthur #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevam fanfic #ikevamp fanfiction

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moonscarsandstars · 4 years ago

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michelangelo

Part 1

Part 2

did i almost forget this was a thing? that’s a secret i’ll never tell you.

~~~

The splintered wood of the door frame scratched against the back of Remus’s neck as he leant against it.

He couldn’t help the bubbling excitement in his stomach, biting his lip to distract him from the nervousness and excitement rioting inside.

This was like a high school crush all over again.

The soft buzz of chatter from inside the cafe, and the deep, almost sickening scent of coffee beans- though that might’ve been because Remus was so erratically nervous for some reason- distracted him from the racket of cars and trucks rushing past him.

“Michelangelo?”

The voice nearly made him jump.

Remus turned around, and felt a grin tug at the side of his mouth as he took the man’s hand.

“Guilty as charged.”

His heart sped up as the man’s appearance seemed to sink in.

The first thing Remus noticed were his eyes, how could anyone not notice them? They were sharp, and intense. Normally, Remus would shudder under his gaze, but there was something about the way the man looked at him that made butterflies erupt in his stomach.

“Sirius. I- I’m Sirius,” the man blurted out

“You’re serious about what?”

“That’s my name,” he drawled dryly.

“Oh- shit, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay everyone makes that mistake anyway, my parents’ fault for naming me.”

“If it helps, my parents must’ve been possessed by a mythology book while naming me. Remus Lupin.”

“You have a brother called Romulus?”

“Only child. What about you, have a sister called- what was it- Adura?”

“It’s Aludra,” chuckled the man- Sirius. “I have a brother called Regulus.”

“Honestly, I like that idea. Naming children after stars. Much better than whatever my parents were thinking when they named me, at least.”

“Can’t say the same, can I? Makes introductions a nightmare.”

Remus let out a small chuckle. “Want to go inside then?”

“Unless you’re planning to stay out here forever.”

It was as they’d stepped inside that Remus noticed Sirius’s entire appearance. Messy hair fell down to his shoulders, with a small, messy bun behind his mane, and small, silver rings hung from his ears.

Sharp cheekbones defined a large portion of his cheeks, and gave him a sort of aristocratic look, though the rest of his messy, devil-may-care style definitely said otherwise.

Sirius sat at a small booth- Remus blushed as he realised- one typically for couples.

Picking up the small menu, which was pinned onto a clipboard, Remus stole a look at Sirius. He was biting a lip, and pulling a wavy strand of hair that fell over his face.

His eyes met Remus, who blushed, but returned a polite smile.

“Why’d you choose this place if you aren’t a coffee person?”

Remus turned his face up at the word, and saw a quizzical look occupying Sirius’s face.

“Lily did- my friend. She hijacked my phone. Apparently my password’s that easy to guess.”

“Was the password Michelangelo? Tell me it was Michelangelo,” said Sirius eagerly, sitting up in his seat and leaning against the table.

“Masaccio. It even had a capital ‘M’!”

“Sorry Moony, she probably knows how to use the caps lock button. Truly a travesty.”

“Moony?”

Sirius’s eyes flicked down to a small tattoo on Remus’s collarbone. A small lunar phase one, that just peaked from Remus’s sagging jumper.

“That’s going to stick, isn’t it?” Remus trailed his finger over the ink, trying to keep himself from drowning in the memories tied to it.

Sirius smirked. “Of course it will, Moons.”

“Up for anything?” A waitress with messy blonde hair and a large grin had almost scared Remus out of his skin.

Sirius, however, was much more composed, looking Remus straight in the eye while ordering two coffees.

“I’ll have a black tea,” said Remus, earning him a mock disgusted look from Sirius.

“I apologise for having such a distasteful companion-”

“Tea is better!”

“-I assure you, he’ll come to his senses at one point.”

The waitress stifled a laugh, her eyes flicking between the two, before scribbling down in her notepad. “Anything else?”

Remus looked expectantly at Sirius, who shook his head. “No thanks, we’re good.”

“How do you not like coffee?” Sirius looked incredulous, amusing Remus.

“Why?” Remus stretched the word out.

“I offered to take you out, so I deserve to know.”

“Tell me our potential relationship won’t form on the basis on the fact that I prefer tea,” groaned Remus, but through his hands that were plastered on his face, he was smiling.

“Relationship?” Sirius blushed slightly.

“That- I didn’t mean- are- you’re”

“No, no I’m really not. Straight, that is.”

“I never was too religious, but thank god above.”

“Oh Moony, you flatter me.”

“Trust me, that’s not the only thing I wish to do to you,” mumbled Remus, blushing as the words escaped his mouth.

“Oi! Think about the children, Moony!”

“The children? Where’d we get children from?”

“Their poor innocent ears!”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. Probably smoking, making love, disappointing us in somehow or the other.”

“Do you have no faith in our children?”

“Not really if I’m honest.”

“You wound me, Moony. I would never have offered to take you out to such a beautiful place if I knew-”

“Trust me when I say there’re other places I’d much rather visit.”

Sirius blushed slightly, making Remus’s heart raise a little. The waitress appeared, carrying a tray. She kept down Remus’s tea, and giving him an apologetic look, she placed down the two coffees next to an eager Sirius.

“It’d probably be beneficial to remind you of our no violence policy,” she said, tone dripping with sarcasm, and a grin on her face.

Another waitress whispered “Marlene!” aggressively, puling the blonde waitress back and shooting an apologetic look at the two.

“Bet you another coffee they’re dating.”

“I really don’t understand your obsession, honestly.”

“You will once you drink this cup,” said Sirius, taking off his leather jacket, and revealing his faded Queen shirt, which Remus’s eyes travelled to.

“Really keep up with the punk rock vibe, don’t you? Studded ears, band shirt, leather jacket, what next, a Harley Davidson?”

Sirius blushed and gave a small, sheepish grin.

“No. Absolutely not.” Remus’s jaw dropped.

Sirius merely shrugged. “I was sixteen, and I’d found out that my uncle left his fortune to me. So of course, the second I turned eighteen...”

“You had an entire fortune left to you, and you bought a bike?”

“What would you have done?”

“Invested it, and books.”

“That’s it? Not some fancy holiday or something?”

“No, I absolutely love literature. I’m taking English and History, and honestly both those subjects mean everything to me.”

“What career ’re you planning to take, then?”

“I... don’t know. Lily said I’d be a great teacher, or tutor, but I’m an absolute mess around people, let alone trying to teach an entire class.”

“You’d make a great teacher. Kids’d love you,” said Sirius, his eyes filled with an indescribably emotion. Somewhere near awe, noted Remus, his heart fluttering again.

“You’ve known me for twenty minutes, Sirius. Don’t get me wrong, an absolutely beautiful twenty minutes, but less than an hour nonetheless.”

“Trust me, I’d take all the time in the world to get to know you.”

Remus caught on his words, and decided now would be an apt time to take a long sip of the tea in his hands. It was scalding hot.

“I wanted to become an artist, as a side job. So I took art ‘nd art history. And James said I’d be good at some sort of job in business or media, so i took communications too.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Not really- I mean, yeah- sort of. I- experiment a bit, and I really like charcoal, and- well-”

“I’m sure you’re brilliant at it,” said Remus earnestly, making Sirius meet his eyes.

“Thanks.”

The small smile, and the way Sirius’s eyes lit up warmed Remus’s heart. He knew he could spend hours in blissful silence with Sirius, and still stay interested.

“D’you- perhaps- want to see it? Sorry- that- that was a bit forward, but I mean, you’re obviously into- into art, so-”

“I’d love to!”

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pidayforpi · 5 years ago

Text

“Hey laddie.”

Rory McDuckula beckoned the gosling with his hoarse yet elegant voice.

Heinrich paused in his reading. How he hoped that old vampire wasn’t calling him. But without any other person in the castle room, the vampire duck must be referring to him.

Yet, Heinrich pretended that, perhaps, Rory was calling Duckula, who might had just entered the room. He tried to focus on his book, stopping his trembling hands.

“You, laddie. You.”

Rory called a second time. There’s no escape. Heinrich knew he must answer, out of courtesy, out of fear.

He slowly turned around, heart racing, eyes wide opened, and looked at the master of the house in his blood-red eyes.

“Y-y-yes, m-mister Mc-Mc-McDuckula...?”

Despite his constant self-reminder, Heinrich still couldn’t kick off his old habit of stuttering. He couldn’t blame himself - He was facing a master wampire, and his ol’ doctor wampire hunter wouldn’t let him forget how dangerous wampires were.

“C’mere.”

Heinrich instinctively followed the order, closing the book without inserting the bookmark first. He could feel his pale yellow feathers stood up, his body uncontrollably shaking. And he knew the vampire could notice this as well.

“Y-y-yes, s-sir...?”

Heinrich politely asked Mister McDuckula what his request was, to which Rory snickered.

“Jugular.”

An adjective. No noun. No verb. And Heinrich already knew what Rory was up to.

There’s only one thing a vampire wanted to do with a mortal’s jugular vein.

Heinrich felt his heart sink. He remained silent, hoping to buy some time, at least delay his suffering for a bit. Despite being a vampire hunter’s assistant (and a budding vampire hunter), he knew he was no match for Rory. Even if Heinrich refused his offer, Rory could easily force his prey to accept his request.

Seeing how reluctant his prey was to offer himself, Rory got up from his chair, and took a step forward.

“You think ‘Glen Sparrows Hotel’ accept cash? Credit card? That I would allow you two in my castle without a price?”

“N-n-n-n-n-nein, s-s-s-s-sir...”

Rory grinned, showing his sharp, white fangs.

“Then you know what to do.”

Heinrich looked down at the wooden floor, silent.

He was going to be a vampire hunter. He shouldn’t go down without a fight. After all, since he first saw the “hotel manager” and immediately knew that the manager was a vampire, he knew a fight was inevitable. He could tell a vampire just by looking at them. Unfortunately.

But a huge part of him knew that fighting was futile. Even without using force, a glance into the vampire’s crimson eyes, and Heinrich would be wilfully offering his blood to his new “master”. A vampire of this class must knew some sort of hypnotism.

Heinrich walked backward for one step.

Rory walked forward for two steps.

Heinrich walked backward for two steps.

Rory walked forward for four steps.

Heinrich could no longer walk backward. His foot had hit a wall.

Rory no longer needed to walk forward. His prey had hit a dead end.

Heinrich’s frantic eyes darted left and right, searching for anywhere to run, anyone to ask for help. Nowhere to run, no one to ask for help.

“Now, don’t try to get away.”

The old vampire loomed over the young gander.

“You run, and I will catch you. You scream, and I will make you shut up...”

Rory traced a finger up the gander’s neck, finishing with a pinch.

“...the hard way.”

Heinrich felt his pupils shrinking to an unbelievable smallness.

Huffing and puffing, as if his heart was about to burst out.

Holding onto the reading table, as if he was about to jump out of his feathers.

The old vampire duck was getting grumpy at the youngster’s “indecisiveness”.

Rory backed down for a bit, and issued an ultimatum that would push Heinrich against the wall.

“Either you, or the doctor gets it.”

With just one conditional offer, the vampire duck successfully broke the hunter gander’s will.

Pupils dilating.

Heart stopping.

Hands loosing.

Rory knew his plan worked when the gosling’s yellow feathers bleached.

“I was craving for ganders, you see. Wampire hunter ganders.”

The Scottish duck’s imitated German accent reminded Heinrich of his Doctor Von Goosewing.

His teacher. His idol. His father figure.

He could see his dear doctor fallen prey to the master vampire in front of him. Dr Otto Von Goosewing, Greatest Wampire Hunter in Ze World, lying motionless in a pool of blood. His own blood.

With Rory lying next to him, sinking his razor-sharp fangs into the old gander’s jugular vein, feasting on the fresh, crimson blood.

And Heinrich was around the corner, watching helplessly as his closest one had his life sucked out. Alive, painfully.

All because of his cowardice.

All because of his incompetence.

How many times had he abandoned his dear teacher during vampire-hunting expedition? He would hide at the entrance of the castle, or outside of the secret tunnel.

Even stay behind on the Zeppelin.

But the doctor would never blame him. He was still young, after all, and him getting hurt was the last thing the doctor wanted to see.

Out of fear, Heinrich put his teacher in danger many, many times, letting the elderly gander venture into the beasts’ lairs alone.

And now, he was given the chance to save his own life, in exchange with his teacher’s. The key to life was the doctor’s death.

Heinrich wouldn’t allow that. Not anymore.

The doctor had risked his life to protect his so many times, it’s Heinrich’s turn to risk his life.

“Don’t keep an elderly waiting, hmm?”

Rory was getting impatient.

“Keep your beak shut, and I will take both of you.”

The vampire duck crossed his arms, fingers tapping, foot stomping.

Heinrich didn’t need the warning. He had already made up his mind.

He let go of the table edge, and stepped forward.

“Take mein...”

He managed to utter without stuttering. For once.

“What?”

Rory didn’t expect such a response from the person who had just been scared for his life.

“Take mein blood.”

Heinrich repeated, again without stuttering.

Rory looked at the gander for a while. Although he was still holding his head down, Rory could see the determination in his eyes.

But a deal is a deal.

“Well, don’t mind me then...”

Rory licked his chops tauntingly. He didn’t wait for Heinrich to walk to him. A yank at the collar of the gander’s clothes, and Heinrich was within biting range.

Looking behind the vampire duck, staring at the exit to the room, Heinrich could only wish the vampire would keep his promise, and his dear doctor would use this time to run away.

And hope that his teacher wouldn’t miss him too much.

Rory pulled Heinrich into a hug, pushing away clothing around his neck. Sparing no time, Rory located the blood vessel, held its approximate area close to his beak,

and bit.

Heinrich knew he was bitten. He knew the vampire duck had started his feast.

But somehow, it didn’t hurt. Not even a little bit. And he couldn’t feel his life being sucked away. Did master vampire know some sort of paralysis techniques, that would numb their victims?

Heinrich doubted it. The doctor should had told him everything about vampires.

3, 5, 10...10 seconds later, and Heinrich still couldn’t feel pain.

That Scotsman was playing with him, biting with his beak instead of his fangs.

Heinrich could tolerate dying a prey, but not a toy.

“Just get on with it! You, you...”

Heinrich shouted the only curse words he knew.

“You wampire willian...!”

As soon as he finished his first-time cursing (sort of), he felt something covering his head from behind. Everything went black all of a sudden.

Heinrich pushed Rory away, strangely without difficulty, and tried to get the object off his head. He took it off, and it was none other than the Scotsman’s own Tam o’ Shanter.

The owner of the cap was laughing wildly, his hands holding his abdomen in pure amusement. Heinrich held the broad cap, confused, but still cautious with the vampire duck.

Finishing with a wipe of tears, Rory gave the most unexpected explanation (to Heinrich, at least).

“I was just messing with you, boyo.”

Heinrich stood still without response.

“It was a joke! A prank! Or whatever you kids call it.”

Heinrich looked down, with his eyes wide and beak slightly open.

“I wasn’t trying to eat you or your...well, guardian. Both of you are of wrong collar sizes! Not my cup of tea. Or, well, blood.”

Rory continued giving his explanation on his “harmless” behaviour just now, oblivious to the shaking gander in front of him.

Until Heinrich dropped his Tam o’ Shanter, and let out a devastated wail.

Of all the responses Rory expected, Heinrich crying was not one of them. He expected Heinrich to be surprised, to be embarrassed, or even take out a stake-and-hammer and stab him in the chest.

But no. What Rory had to deal with was a crying little gosling, traumatised from the near-death experience, scared of the monster threatening to eat him and his beloved.

Caught off guard, now it’s Rory that was panicking.

Living a secluded life, how would he know how to handle a crying child?

He wouldn’t have to now. Unfortunately.

“Wow, Heinrich! What happened?”

Duckula opened the room door to see the bizarre scene. A scenario even the zaniest duck in Transylvania found weird.

“We were off practising for the Highland Games for half-an-hour, and you are already bullying poor little Heinrich?”

Duckula rushed to Heinrich’s side, patting him on his soft feathered head, while accusing the elder vampire duck. Rory couldn’t deny it, but also didn’t want to admit it.

Just when Rory was about to make up an excuse, the last person he wanted to see entered the room.

“Heinrich? Heinrich!”

Dr Von Goosewing pushed open the door, dashing to his assistance and giving him a warm, big hug. Goosewing didn’t have time to scold Rory - leave that to Duckula - all he cared now was his dear assistant.

Among the awkward situation, Rory was a bit disappointed he couldn’t praise the gosling crying on the floor. Even if it was just a prank, he displayed great heroism for his beloved Doctor Von Goosewing, overcoming his cowardice and fear, sacrificing himself for someone else. Such quality was seldom seen in men, let alone malicious, selfish vampires.

But for now, Rory really needed to re-examine his sense of humour...

(8-5-2020 ~ 10-5-2020)

#count duckula #heinrich #rory mcduckula #duckula #doctor von goosewing #storyteller #story #short story

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ciarawritesmarvel · 5 years ago

Text

a worthwhile catfish - steve rogers x reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Language maybe, I’m not gonna check tbh and dating app usage which in itself is a goof

A/N: Welcome to Day Eleven of Hello Spring by @ibwhellospring! Here’s a little something something for ya, with Steve and tinder and all around fluffy goodness. There is scope for a part two here so let me know if that’s something you’d read. Lots of love to youse all <3

Prompt: “Where should we meet?”

masterlist in my bio and tags in the reblog! please drop me an ask to be tagged in bucky, steve or all the hello spring pieces!

---

It was just a regular day, or so it seemed. You were sat in a little coffee shop, a cup of tea at your right hand and a delicious half eaten pastry at your left. Your laptop was perched in the middle of the table and you were getting on with some work that, strictly speaking, should have been sent off two days ago. You were rather lucky your boss was so understanding.

After an hour or so, you finished off the work and sent it off with a triumphant smile, clapping your laptop shut and then looking around as if someone else had done it when a few eyes glanced up from their plates. As you were finishing off your own drink, you haphazardly pulled your phone out of your pocket and your focus landed on the little app in the top corner.

It couldn’t hurt to have a little swipe.

You had a serious love-hate relationship with Tinder. Every few weeks you’d go through a cycle of a few days where you swiped with abandon, started conversations with a variety of different people and enjoying most of them. But invariably, it always ended the same, with you agreeing to a date with the one you liked the most and it going horribly. You’d swear off the app for a few weeks and then the cycle would start anew.

Clearly it had been a month since your last disaster date and it was time for you to find a new one.

You swiped left many, many times, mostly down to people’s bios rather than their looks, a couple of right swipes thrown in here and there but nothing spectacular.

After about five minutes, you swiped left again and found yourself on a page that brought the ghost of a smile to your lips involuntarily.

Steve Rogers. 100+.

The picture was of one Captain America, in a dark blue button up and jeans and taken in front of a gorgeous lake as he smiled.

It was clearly a catfish because there’s no way that the actual Steve Rogers would have tinder of all things, you expected he was probably more of a match.com kind of guy if anything. However, the bio was interesting and even concluded with a little America’s Sweetheart joke and you couldn’t help yourself. You swiped right.

Y/N: I know there’s an age difference here but I think we could make it work.

You decided you’d probably found the best you were going to find today and clicked your phone off, stuffing it into your back pocket and tidying up your table in preparation to leave.

You couldn’t wait to get home and put some fluffy socks on. Couldn’t. Wait.

---

It was just a regular day, or so it seemed. Steve was sat on his balcony at the tower, which he’d covered in plants and climbers just to ensure he had a little more privacy. The small window in the middle of these invasive plants offered him a beautiful view that he sketched from time to time. A chance to measure his progress, and mark his ever changing style.

Bucky was sat beside him, scrolling mindlessly through his phone and occasionally glancing over to Steve’s paper with a smug smile. Steve had asked to draw Bucky for a bit of a change and a bit of a challenge, but he’d politely declined and said that he didn’t need anyone staring at him intently as he went about his business. Steve certainly understood that.

“Wanna go for dinner later? Nat suggested this new place downtown, I don’t remember the name. Just the four of us, y’know, with Sam?”

Steve looked up from his work and smiled at his friend warmly.

“I’d like that Buck. 7pm?”

“Seven it is. I really want to eat a good-”

Bucky was cut off but a buzz from Steve’s phone, a familiar buzz that had both pairs of ears pricking up. Steve fumbled in his pocket to pull it out and check it.

Y/N Y/L/N. 30.

He read your message and Bucky saw his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth perk up just the slightest. His grin was huge.

“Found y’self a pretty dame, Stevie?” Bucky teased, drawling the words in a tone that had Steve rolling his eyes.

“It’s the first match I’ve had in ages. Don’t know why you even set this up for me.”

“It’s only ‘cause people think it’s not really you. You need to get yourself out there and Sam and I can’t trust you to do that yourself,” Bucky explained and Steve’s brow furrowed.

“Why would they think it wasn’t me? Who else would I be?”

“Think about it Rogers,” Bucky said, almost but not quite exasperated, “You’re the Captain America. That’s a pretty good way to get matches. I bet there’s hundreds of Caps on there.”

A quick and frantic search from Steve had him finding, much to his horror, the hundreds of Caps that Bucky had described, each one with different photos of him and different bios, mostly consisting of things he would never write under any circumstances. A few even made him choke back a gag. He looked back at his friend with a horrified gape.

“This is theft!”

“Not much you can do about it,” Bucky shrugged, “I’m surprised someone’s actually messaged you. She must either be really gullible or really desperate.”

Steve glowered at him.

“James,” he warned, “That’s an insult to her and to me.”

“Oh, you knew what I meant, just show me what she said.”

Y/N: I know there’s an age difference here but I think we could make it work.

Bucky stood up and crouched beside Steve to read the message and then turned his head to Steve, eyebrows raised with a smug grin adorning his face. Steve’s brow furrowed.

“What?”

“She doesn’t sound gullible,” he said, an amusement in his tone that Steve couldn’t place, “Or desperate.”

“...your point?”

‘Message her back, dipshit!”

Steve elbowed Bucky away from him and he stumbled back into his own chair with an over dramatic thud. He quickly started typing though, and Bucky’s grin only grew wider than before.

Steve: 70 years is nothing. The real problem here is that you’re way out of my league.

He briefly considered showing his response to Bucky before he sent it, but he was unwilling to have him change it and then it be sent without being fully his so he hit send and then held it out for Bucky to see. He nodded slowly, eyes alight with a shine of their own.

“You’ve got more game at 100 years old than you ever did at 20.”

A pause.

“Shut up Buck.”

---

Y/N: Morning sunshine. Any plans for the day?

Steve: I’ve got a super top secret ‘hush hush’ mission but other than that, not really. You?

Y/N: Ah right, of course. A mission. ;)

Steve: Still don’t believe I’m Steve Rogers, huh?

Y/N: Nope. But I’m talking to you anyway, so I think you should be flattered.

Steve: If you say so, sweetheart.

You looked up from your phone to make sure that none of your colleagues were watching you with a silly grin on your face, the slightly flustered look in your eye. Just one text with the word sweetheart in it from your current tinder crush ‘Steve’ had you an absolute mess, whether that be at work, at home or out with your friends. So far, you’d been caught grinning twice and full on laughing out loud once. That was a low point.

Y/N: I do say so. And I’ve got the day off, so I might have a date…

Y/N: ...with Netflix.

Steve: I’d be lying if I said you didn’t scare me for a minute there.

Y/N: And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to scare you for a minute there.

Steve: If you’ve got the day off and my super top secret hush hush mission should be wrapped up early afternoon, why don’t we actually meet up today?

If it was possible, your heart completely stopped. Your eyes went wide as you read and re-read the message on your screen, making sure you hadn’t seen it wrong, hadn’t made up what was happening. You were worried. Three weeks of talking to this guy practically all day, every day and you were already slightly smitten. But at the same time, you were 95% sure you were being catfished. If you agreed to this, you probably weren’t agreeing to meet Captain America, but instead some random man who was pretending to be him, and doing a damn good job at it too.

But he was sweet. Kind. Funny. You felt there could be something there, if it was given time.

Steve: Didn’t mean to scare you off, don’t worry, it was just a suggestion.

“Did you just double text? God, Steve, I have told you before, quite a number of times, that you don’t double text.”

“She wasn’t replying Nat, what was I supposed to do.”

Nat fixed him with a glare.

“Oh I don’t know, have some fucking patience?”

He rolled his eyes and left the room, flipping her off behind his back as he did and she chuckled sardonically at his retreating form. Men.

Y/N: Didn’t scare me off. I was just double checking my calendar. Where should we meet?

Where should we meet? Where should we meet? Where should we meet?

The words played over and over in your mind as you read them back to yourself. You were really doing this. Going with your gut wasn’t exactly a common occurrence for you, but then again, your love life hadn’t been that great. Maybe it was time to change things up.

Steve: Wherever you want. Ladies choice.

Y/N: I know a place that does great burgers.

Steve practically punched the air, and considered himself very lucky that he’d gotten away from Nat when he did. He would’ve really been in for some teasing otherwise.

Steve: Sounds perfect. :)

You quickly sent over the details and agreed to meet there at seven, effectively cutting the conversation short before you lost your cool at work. 7pm. You’d be meeting your mystery man. You quickly fiddled with your phone, making a decision.

You needed to call in a favour.

—-

Now, at 6:55pm exactly you stepped out of your car and walked into the restaurant, trying to ignore the way you felt you teetered in your heels and the irrational urge to pull your skirt down. It was unnecessary, as you’d chosen a just-above-the-knee red skater skirt with a white off the shoulder top for the occasion. Not too much, not too little. At least you hoped so.

Walking up the stairs inside to the actual restaurant area, you mused that at least you felt vaguely comfortable. This was one of your go-to spots with friends and dates alike, with its range of burgers, beef, chicken and non-meat that seemed to satisfy even the fussiest of eaters. One waitress skimming past gave you a bright smile, one that you returned as best you could, and even that was enough to bolster your confidence a little more.

One waiter saw you hanging around the door and came up to you, the smile on his face just a little too manic for your liking. In fact, looking around, everyone seemed a little...giddy.

“Hi, can I help you?” he asked, almost excitedly and you smiled kindly, if a little worriedly.

“I’m here for a date, he booked the table so…” you paused, unsure whether to say this but going for it anyway, “It might be under the name Rogers?”

The man gasped. Audibly. Incredibly loudly, in fact, to the point where other people eating in the vicinity looked up at you and you felt yourself getting more and more anxious, dropping your gaze to the ground. The moment you heard the giggles and whispers around you, though, your head snapped up again and your brow furrowed.

What the everloving fuck was going on here?

The man seemed to collect himself with a stern cough and a deep breath.

“Right this way, madam,” he said, in a far more deliberate voice than previously and your mind was going a mile a minute. You followed him through the restaurant, taking a right and then a left and then one final right before…

You were lead outside onto the terrace that nobody was ever allowed to eat on, the one reserved for VIPs and ridiculously rich people and there, through the double doors, sat a man who quickly stood up as soon as he saw you and in doing so, knocked his chair over.

You bit your lip to stop your giggles as he mumbled apologies and leaned down to pick the chair up. Huge biceps, broad shoulders and an incredible a-

He turned around.

“Holy shit!”

The expression was an involuntary one and you clapped your hand over your mouth in utter shock as you stared at the Captain America, who was looking equal parts embarrassed and smug. Capt- Steve, rather, asked the waiter to give you a few minutes and though he looked reluctant, he hastily left the balcony area. Just the two of you.

“Sorry about the balcony,” Steve said after a few moments of silence that you couldn’t fill, “I tried to stop them but they insisted.”

He still looked kind of embarrassed by this and you decided then and there that whatever strange awe you were in had to stop, for his sake rather than yours. The way in which he spoke was so familiar due to his texts, anyway, and it gave you a much needed reminder that this was the man you were developing a crush on.

“Probably for the best,” you said, taking your hand away from your mouth and smoothing out your skirt just to give it something to do, “There’s a lot of whispering going on in there.”

Steve winced and you realised that probably wasn’t the right thing to say but before you could apologise and change your story, he made the few steps over to you and the words died in your throat.

“You look-” he trailed off as he looked you up and down and you actually shivered, “-even more beautiful in person.”

His words sounded genuine even if you were in a perpetual state of disbelief that this was really happening. You spoke before you thought.

“And you’re actually Captain freaking America so this is going well so far.”

He laughed then, a freeing and somewhat gorgeous sound that didn’t look quite right coming from the lips of a man you had seen in such a serious light so many times on the TV or in the news. You quite liked it.

He moved over to pull your chair or for you and finally you moved, thanking him softly as you let him tuck you into the table. Once he had taken his own seat on the other side, he spoke up.

“So,” he began, and already there was a teasing note in his voice that had you smiling, “You agreed to come out on a date with me even though you were that sure I wasn’t who I said I was.”

You bummed thoughtfully, beginning to see where he was going and your lips parted, smile morphing into a grin.

“I did.”

“Well, it begs the question: why?”

You sat further back in your chair and pondered how to answer it. But truly, the only way you could answer was honestly.

“Because I liked you, whoever you were. You were sweet and funny. We had a lot in common. I had to find out whether this could be…”

You trailed off, unsure of how to finish but by the look shining in Steve’s eyes, you decided that maybe you’d said the right thing after all.

“Nice,” he said, sincerely though, not just as a throwaway comment, “Although this won’t be anything if these burgers aren’t good.”

And just like that, you were out to dinner with Steve and not Captain America.

And, as it turns out, you liked Steve an awful lot more anyway.

#IBW: Hello Spring 2019 #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #captain america x reader #captain america #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers drabble #captain america imagine #captain america oneshot #captain america drabble #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #hellospring #ibwhellospringday11

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someonestole15 · 5 years ago

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Another chapter to the book I will likely never write.

So we have arrived to this point of my writings. My creative chest for Scifi running a bit dry, I was trying to sleep when I came up with an idea for an man simply named Bob walking up to the demon lord in search for his wife.

4 pages, 2317 words, it’s a long one again, so I will likely take a break until next week.

Grab a cup of tea, perhaps a few biscuits and enjoy the story, I will see you all next week.

Thanks for reading. Fifteenth_

The ways people react to thievery and crime differ based on the person.

One might take it upon themselves to get revenge on the criminal, the other would simply report it to the guard and let the gears of law enforcement work it out for them. Bob chose the road less traveled after a bunch of evil creatures raided his farm and kidnapped his wife, he chose to go to the man who he knew was responsible, the demon lord known as Argoth. The tales about him range from evil to devious, as you might expect from a servant of the dark lords. Many have challenged him in combat, so why would Bob, a simple farmer by trade, even attempt to get to him?

Even with his sturdy frame, being a farmer has allowed him to train his strength ever since he was a child, supplanting his lack of gear and gold. A rusty little sickle, a beaten up lantern and a coil of rope along with a piece of bread in his backpack, he gets on his trusty horse and starts his journey towards the demon lord’s castle.

A dark and gloomy castle, Argoth sits upon his throne, bored out of his mind. Seven adventurers have already stepped through the castle doors; all seven have fled with their tails between their legs. A soft knock on the door, he raises his head from the slump he has taken.

“Come in?” He says with a tone, as level as ever. “This visitor is polite enough to knock?” He thinks to himself, crossing his fingers as the doors slowly creek open. The visitor carefully looks through the gap between the doors before walking into the room and taking his cap into his hands. In his full form, the demon lord towers over the visitor, a shadow cast over him.

“Why are you using my time, Mortal?”

“I am sorry to bother you sir, but a group of monsters kidnapped my wife. I would wish to get her back.”

Argoth leans back in his throne, a request he has never heard before, from a man who looks far too kind to walk the path needed to enter the castle. He shook his head at the man, still trying to wrap his mind around on how he got there.

“Please? I don’t have much left in this life and she is the sunlight I need to carry on.”

“You say there were monsters, I would need more information before I can even begin to assist you.”

“Green skin, shorter than I, faces ugly enough to make women scream.”

“Goblins… They never listen.” A raven landed on Argoth’s hand, small drops of blood dropping from its beak.

“Ah Raven of mine, haven’t you learned? No blood before our guests. I have a mission for you.”

The raven cawed once, lowering its head as Argoth wiped the blood off its beak. He stood up from his throne with bird in hand, changing his form to match the man before him. Bob stepped back as Argoth walked over to him.

“Don’t be scared. She is quite docile in this form.” The raven had matched the size of Argoth, now faintly sitting on his finger. Bob looked over Argoth’s shoulder and rubbed his eyes in misbelieve, the throne was still massive, but the man who had sat on it was now on equal ground with him.

“This way, if you’d be so kind.” Argoth extended his arm out to his left and flashed a friendly smile, as friendly as a demon can be.

Bob felt tense, but calm enough to keep himself from drawing the scythe off his belt and planting it deep within the demon lords back. He simply could not; the sheer aura of the lord was nightmarish to him. The lord stopped at an open window and turned around.

“Now then, Mortal. Tell me about this wife of yours, what does she look like.”

“Brown hair, a smile to light up the skies. Blue eyes as blue as sapphires.”

“You got that Rose?” The raven cawed twice and flapped its wings. “Good. Now remember, he needs her alive. If you come back with blood on your beak, I’ll rip off your pinions.”

The raven held its head down and silently sat still as Argoth moved her out of the window and whispered something, his eyes glowing with red as the bird took off, gliding across the sky.

“Every rose has its thorn, she has plenty.” Argoth said while looking after his bird as the glow from his eyes grew stronger. He whispered a spell and opened the locket around his neck.

“She matches your words, doesn’t she?” An image formed on the locket. Brown hair, no smile but the face matched, her eyes giving off a glint as she looked up at the bird. Bob grabbed the locket and stared at the image, a tear forming in his eye.

“That’s her. Where is she?”

“Near the edge of the forest.

Bob turned around on the spot and started marching towards the door. Argoth walked up next to him and could see the vengeance in his eyes; it sent shivers down Argoth’s spine for he had not expected a man like Bob to have this vengeful side to him. A devious idea in his mind, Argoth stepped in front of Bob.

“Would you kindly step out of my way, I need to safe my wife.”

“I doubt you get there fast enough alone, so I offer you my assistance.”

“No, I know of the stories from people who form deals with you. Either dead or serving you until that. No, I won’t take such, now please, step out of my way.”

“Oh but I am not offering a deal here. Opposite to my usual self, but… I think you could use the hand here. Let me be clear, this is no deal, just an offer to help you and I wish to see what you do to those goblins…”

Bob thought about the offer for a moment, something didn’t feel right in his mind, but alone he would end up dead at the hands of those monsters, he was no fighter. Not enough gold nor time to hire a mercenary from the nearby town, his options were to accept the lords help or die trying.

“The door remains open if you wish to leave, I’ll be watching via Raven, but from what I have heard, you deserve to keep living happily. No tricks, no hidden contracts, this one is off the books. A personal favor as you might call it.”

“What would you get in return then? You are giving a lot, but not gaining a lot for it.”

“Does everything always have to come with a benefit? This is like taking a break from turning adventurers to ash and turning… less dangerous creatures to ash.”

“So you want to do it for… fun?”

“You could say that, clock is ticking, shall we go?”

Bob extended his hand out to shake the lords, a strong hand against a pale, cold skin; he felt a slight shiver down his spine. Bob looked back at his hand to see a small mark appear on to the back of it.

“Wait, you said there would be no contract. What is this then?”

“That’s a temporary ally marker; it will disappear once we complete our mission. Come now, we are running out of time.”

A concentrated energy sweeps over Bob as he feels a slight burning within him, a portal appears before the two as the lord signals for him to step through. With a bit of hesitation, he enters the portal, one hand at a time until he is completely through it.

The skies above the castle are dark and stormy, the lightning strikes several times at the metal rods planted around the towers, charging up whatever is hidden within. The lord steps through the portal, walking to center of the tower, a marking appears underneath him as he turns back to Bob.

“Communication won’t be easy in this form, so if you wish to say anything, say it now.”

“I never thought I would be saying this to someone like you, but… Thank you.”

A smirk on Argoth’s face, he nodded before turning back to chanting something up to the skies above. A lightning struck him as the impact sent Bob off his feet; he pulled the scythe from his belt and held it in his quivering hands.

What had been a silver haired demon lord, was now a dragon. Scales are red as fire, wings reaching across the entirety of the towers roof. Breathing heavily, he lowered his head and wings to allow Bob to climb on to his back. Bob lowered his scythe and placed it back on his belt, stepping closer to the winged creature, admiring it as he climbed on.

With its red eye, the dragon looked back at Bob as he strung his rope around the creatures neck, tying it tight around his waist to avoid falling off. He nodded and held on tight as the dragon spread its wings back out and begun his flight. For a common farmer like Bob, he had never even thought about leaving the ground, nor like this. A mix of fear and joy filled his mind as the dragon flew across the skies, closing in on the forest where they would find Bob’s wife.

A trail of smoke from the little camp the goblins had formed right on the edge of the forest, their scouts had sighted the pair even before they had seen the smoke. An arrow flew past Argoth’s tail as he roared with an angered expression on his face. Wings drawn back to his body, he dived rapidly as Bob barely managed to keep his hold on the rope. He could almost feel the grass on his boots as Argoth kept his speed, and landed outside the view of the goblins. Bob lowered himself to the ground and packed up his rope, Argoth watching over him as the dusk begun to settle.

“Can you see my wife? Is she alive?”

Argoth nodded, and drew an image on the dirt. It resembling a cage.

“Caged?”

Another nod, Argoth seemed to think about something until he took off once more, leaving Bob behind as he roared into the night skies. Bob waited for a moment as he saw Argoth fly away, rage filling his mind by the minute. Betrayed by the demon lord, he should have known… He kicked the dirt and looked back over to the camp. The campfire the goblins had made could not produce flames like that. An orange glow lit up the night as Bob could hear Argoth roaring above once more, a metallic cube hanging below his feet. Bobs eyes lit up as he realized what Argoth had done, a distraction enough to get their attention, he had grabbed the cage and flown up before lighting up the camp with hellfire. Screams of burning goblins echoed throughout the area as Argoth lowered the cage next to Bob, his wife inside huddled up in the corner, staring at Argoth as he landed back to the ground next to the cage.

“Bob? Is it really you?” The woman asked, Bob walking up to the cage door and looked at his wife.

“Rosa… Oh how I worried about you, I thought I would never see you.”

“I was worried too, Bob, I thought I would die as the dragon flew in… Why…is he not attacking you?”

“Long story.” Bob said, pulling on the door to open it.

Argoth placed his claw in front of him and placed one claw over his chest.

“Oh, right. Go ahead.”

A small tap on the lock melted it down as the door flung open, Rosa leaped into Bob’s arms as the pair were reunited at last.

“Mind if we have one last flight, sir? The night is dangerous to walk through.”

Argoth lowered his head and wings, Bob helped his wife on board as she looked upon him in disbelieve.

“How…how did you manage this?”

“As I said, long story. I’ll tell it to you once we get home.”

Argoth looked back once more, as Bob held his wife before him. As carefully as he could, he took off and followed the directions that Bob whispered into his ears.

Back at the start of our tale, Bob had found a new friend and gotten his wife back from the goblins who would not bother them ever again, but as Argoth said his goodbyes, he felt he was forgetting something…

Argoth returned to his castle and landed in the yard, as the moon loomed overhead. Changing back to his former form, he still had questions for Bob. How had he gotten there, past all the traps and obstacles laid along the path? As he walked through his garden, he could see that someone had eaten away at his exotic plants. A neigh in the bushes, Argoth smiled as he knew he would see Bob again soon enough.

The morning after as Bob woke up to the sound fire crackling in the kitchen, he found Argoth sitting there, a newspaper in his hands.

“Morning dear, this man came around looking for you, saying he found your horse.”

Oh, that was what he had forgotten. Argoth turned the page and took a sip from the cup of coffee before him.

“Right then, long story behind, but another awaits. Where was I…?”

So ends this story about Bob and the Demon lord he ended up befriending in the progress. Many might call him evil, perhaps he is, but that is only a part of him. A book has its covers, but judging it by those is only seeing a part of the reality around it.

The end.

#writing #story #fiction #fantasy #stories #medival

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imagine-loki · 6 years ago

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Loki and the Witchling

TITLE: Loki and the Witchling

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 18/?

AUTHOR: nekoamamori

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you’re a healer working with the Avengers when Loki comes to join the team

RATING: T (so far)

NOTES/WARNINGS: Also on AO3 click here

“I should send a babysitter with you two,” Cap commented at breakfast the next morning. You weren’t even doing anything, just minding your business eating your pancakes.

“I thought I was the babysitter,” you replied between mouthfuls of pancake.

“That’s a terrifying thought,” Tony quipped. You threw a dagger at him across the table. He fell out of his chair, even though you had vanished the dagger again before it even touched him. “They fight the same now,” Tony grumbled while Loki gave you a proud, pleased look.

“You guys weren’t invited, Cap. Strange only wants to meet with the sorcerers who caused the power spike,” you reminded Cap logically, returning to your pancakes.

“Y/N, whatever you two do, do not make this man our enemy,” Cap ordered firmly.

“We won’t, Cap. We’ll be polite and see what he wants,” you replied. “All he said was that he wants is to meet us.”

“Just be careful,”

“I’ll be careful, and armed,” you reminded him.

“Don’t go looking for a fight,” Cap added.

“Cap, I’m going in a dress and heels. Believe me, I do not want to fight in these clothes.” You finished your pancakes and got up to deal with the dishes. You were wearing a black and white dress that usually lived in Nat’s closet. It was more professional looking than most of your dresses. It also somehow gave you an innocent air, especially with your hair loose. You were going for the innocent, mischief-free look when you went to your meeting with Doctor Strange. Loki was Loki and wouldn’t be able to get away with an innocent act no matter how he dressed, so you were hoping Strange would underestimate you instead if things went poorly.

“Are you driving, Loki?” you asked. He usually preferred to do the driving when the two of you went out. He nodded and stood, vanishing his own breakfast things into the kitchen. He was wearing his perfectly tailored all-black suit.

You took his hand and squeezed it as you both walked to the elevator. You were nervous about this meeting. “Darling, it will be alright,” Loki reassured you in the elevator. That didn’t stop you from leaning up to kiss him. “Kisses are always pleasant, witchling, but we do have a meeting to get to,” you sighed, but walked with him to the car you always took. You weren’t quite sure who the car actually belonged to. You had a suspicion that it was Tony, but it didn’t much matter.

It was a short drive over to the address Doctor Strange had provided. It was a huge building with a giant circle window at the top. Loki offered you an arm and you placed your hand on his arm in a now-familiar movement. You dropped Loki’s arm when you reached the front door of the place and raised your hand to knock when you suddenly saw a circle of golden light under Loki’s feet. “Loki?” you asked, staring at the circle.

“That is not me,” Loki replied dumbly. You both knew that. You knew the feel of his magic quite intimately after saving Spiderman. You reached for him to try to pull him out of the golden circle, but before you could get a hand on him he fell through the circle with a yell.

“Loki!” you yelled at the spot where he’d been. You whirled, a dagger drawn and blue magic gathered in your other hand, when the door opened beside you.

“Miss Y/N,” you were greeted by a tall gentleman in a blue kimono tunic and bright red cape. “No need for such dramatics,” he added, eyeing your dagger and the magic bolt gathered in your other hand.

“Where’s Loki?” you demanded, figuring this man had been the one who created that golden light circle.

“He’s safe. Come inside and we can discuss this without all of New York watching,”

You glared up at him. “Your word that Loki is safe?” you demanded.

“I swear it on my medical license,” he replied. You could hear the truth in his voice, another trick you’d picked up from Loki. You vanished the dagger and bolt of magic and stood straight again, rising from the fighting stance you had automatically assumed. Nat would be proud that you had automatically assumed the stance. You straightened out your skirt and stepped inside the building. The door closed behind you. The next instant you were sitting in a comfortable chair facing him across a desk. “Tea?” he asked as a cup of tea appeared in your hand.

“Doctor Strange, I assume?” you asked as you sipped on your tea. He inclined his head.

“I am the Sorcerer Supreme, a wizard, if that explanation makes you happier. I keep a list of people and beings in all the realms that may be a danger to Earth,” he continued, not one for long introductions it seemed.

“And you think I’m on that list?” you surmised, setting your tea down.

“I know your boyfriend is, and he is the one teaching you magic, is he not?” You heard the threat in his tone. If Loki was on the list, you were on the list.

“He is the one teaching me to use my powers,” you replied carefully. “He’s also working with the Avengers now, or did you miss the press conference?” you asked with a touch of temper in your voice.

“But you’re human,” he replied, looking at his notes. You shrugged.

“Apparently my magic is close enough to his for him to teach me.” You weren’t going to tell him that at least one of your parents was Asgardian. It wasn’t something you wanted to advertise, and was none of his business. “Besides, my primary power is healing. I really don’t think that qualifies me for your list. I’m also one of the few things in this realm that Loki actually likes and one of the few people he’ll actually listen to, which are both excellent reasons for me to continue being alive,”

“You misunderstand, I have no intentions on killing you, Miss Y/N,”

“Then what are your intentions?” you asked, trying to remain polite. Cap had made you promise to be polite.

“First, I wish to give you a tour of this place and an explanation of what we do here,” Doctor Strange stood. You got to your feet and weren’t terribly surprised when you were in a room full of books of magic. “This is a place of magical learning.” You were next in a training yard of people practicing that golden magic. “We are all here learning to defend the Earth from outside threats.” You were suddenly back in the entryway. “You’re a strong enough sorceress to be a true asset to the Earth. I know you wish to work with the Avengers, and I won’t try to convince you away from that goal, but I will offer that you are always welcome to stop by to study here. Provided you stay off of my list,” he added with a smile. “I will even allow that boyfriend of yours to study here as well…as long as you’re here with him, fetterer,”

That was the second time that word had come up recently, and you felt the pendant on your necklace warm under your shirt. It was another word to add to the list of weird words that kept coming up recently. The other one was Kærasta which you still hadn’t had the chance to look up the definition of.

The door to the outside opened in front of you.

“I’ll be needing my boyfriend back,” you reminded Strange.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he replied as if he’d actually forgotten that he’d stole Loki. With a small circle of his hands a golden circle appeared in the ceiling of the room. Loki fell through it and crashed hard to the ground.

“I have been falling for thirty minutes!” Loki snarled as he jumped to his feet with daggers in his hands. You rushed over to him and placed a hand against his chest.

“Loki, it’s ok,” you told him gently.

“It is most certainly not ok,” he glared over your head at Doctor Strange.

“Loki…” Your tone was exasperated as you touched his cheek. He finally took his attention off of Doctor Strange and back to you. “It was a misunderstanding, you can drop the daggers.” He glared at Doctor Strange one last time before vanishing the daggers. “The Doctor is very sorry for the confusion and offered to let us study magic from his shiny rare books. Right, Doctor?” you asked, turning to face Doctor Strange again, your arm around Loki’s waist in case he decided to cause trouble.

“Of course, Miss Y/N. Apologies, Loki for the confusion,”

“C’mon, Loki, I think thirty minutes of our presence is all the Doctor can handle for one day,” you teased. Doctor Strange looked like he agreed with your sentiment and was glad to see the two of you go.

“You are planning on telling me exactly what happened in there, right, witchling?” Loki asked as the door slammed shut behind the two of you.

“Duh,” you replied. He laughed as you linked your arm with his to walk back to the car. You told him everything that happened with Doctor Strange.

“You would not prefer to study with the Sorcerer Supreme, instead?” Loki asked softly, his tone had that bruised scared edge to it that you thought you had kissed out of him by now. In reply you grabbed his tie and pulled him down gently to kiss him. He chuckled and let you so he wouldn’t get choked by his tie.

“Of course not, silly Trickster,” you replied after a couple of kisses.

“Report!” Captain Rogers demanded the second you and Loki got off of the elevator on the common floor. You should have been expecting him to wait for you. Your hand was in Loki’s, you tapped one of your fingers against the back of his hand, a silent warning for him to keep his mouth shut. You didn’t want to tell Cap about the falling for thirty minutes incident. You gave Cap a very abbreviated version of events where Doctor Strange wanted to meet you, verify what side you were on, and offer the use of the sanctum for magic studies.

“He’s an ally, Cap,” you finally concluded

“Good work,” Cap answered, not questioning your story, for which you were grateful. You didn’t want to tell him about Loki being kidnapped by Strange. Loki apparently thought it wise not to bring it up as well.

#Loki #Lover #Imagine #Submitted fic #submission #loki and the witchling #chapter 18 #nekoamamori

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ellanainthetardis · 6 years ago

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This was part of the 52 weeks challenge I never finished so… Have it! Week 13 : a story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle {x]

The Unforgettable Plane Trip

It wasn’t that Haymitch was scared of planes – because he wasn’t – but he hated the lack of control that came with flying to the other side of the country. He had to trust not only that the plane would hold but that the pilot knew what he was doing and not only that but that there were no idiots on shift at the control towers all over the country that day.

Trust was difficult for him.

Trust issues ran in the family or so Katniss claimed.

In any case, it was why he found himself signaling the stewardess as soon as they were up in the air and free to release the security belts. She hadn’t started rolling the cart down the narrow alley yet but she immediately came over with a professional blinding smile on her lips and a swing to her hips.

There was definitely something to be said about flight attendants fantasies, he decided, as he distractedly glanced her over. The legs were firm and endless even though the regulation uniform reached the knees and was perfectly decent. The blouse and the jacket didn’t fit her upper body as well, he couldn’t really tell how curvy she was up there, but her features were so delicate and she looked so pretty it was almost a shame for her blond hair to be tied in such a severe bun at the back of her head. The cap was just as ridiculous as it was cute.

He registered all of that but his hands were shaking and he had more urgent preoccupations than how pretty the stewardess was – they were always pretty anyway, wasn’t that the point? He was pretty sure it was a requisite to get the job.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked with a high-pitched voice that immediately made his head throb. He hated women with high-pitched voices.

“A whiskey. Neat.” he demanded.

She waited for a second and he only understood why once she had murmured a “Certainly, sir.” and had left, presumably to fetch it. A please in there wouldn’t have hurt, he decided with a wince.

“Thanks.” he mumbled when she brought him the glass. He stressed the word in an apology of sort, a little embarrassed because he didn’t make a habit of being an ass to people who had done nothing to him.

Her smile relaxed into something more genuine when he gulped the whiskey down in a few mouthfuls.

“Nervous flyer?” she asked with a hint of teasing.

“Just an alcoholic.” he retorted. She recoiled a little but recovered very quickly, her professional smile still stretching her lips. He handed her the empty glass back. “Another one then I’ll be good to go, sweetheart.”

She didn’t like the pet name, he could tell, but she didn’t let it show too much. He figured she had heard worse. He couldn’t imagine flight attendants were treated very respectfully, never mind when they looked like her.

He only realized he hadn’t bothered with a please again when she came back with his refill and politely moved along to another customer. He caught a glimpse of the badge on her chest. Her name was Effie.

Probably a nickname, he mused, slouching in his seat, resolutely ignoring the snores of the young man who had fallen asleep his head against the window as soon as he had sat down, even before they took off. It suited Haymitch. He hated it when strangers tried to make small talk.

He focused on his whiskey for a while, trying not to obsess over his watch, how long they had been in the air and how much longer it would be before they landed. After a while, he grew bored with watching the hues the electric lights gave the whiskey and he started looking around. There was a couple on the other side of the lane who was very busy fooling around, lost in their own little world like only young love could be. There were a few kids further down the cabin but, thankfully, they weren’t too noisy. Yet.

Eventually, his gaze fell on the blond stewardess who was rolling her little cart down the lane, answering requests with a dazzling smile and a cheerfulness that must have been faked. Being behind her wasn’t such a bad view and he discreetly watched her ass for a while before quickly redirecting his eyes to the carpeted floor when she turned around.

He wasn’t sure if she had caught him ogling her or not and he wasn’t sure he cared altogether. She was attractive and he was only looking.

At least that was what he told himself until a pair of black high heels came into view and he could do nothing but look up, gaze trailing up a long expense of legs before reaching the hem of the skirt. Her lips were pursed but she looked more amused than offended. “May I help you with something, sir?”

There was a touch of sarcasm in there that made him smirk. “Pretty sure you could, sweetheart, yeah.”

The look he gave her left no room to interpretation about what she could have helped him with.

“May I interest you in a lecture about sexual harassment?” she delivered in the very same professional but slightly sarcastic tone.

He chuckled, surprising even himself. “Guess I deserved that.” And because he wasn’t that asshole who pressured women or made them feel uncomfortable – or at least he liked to think he wasn’t – he shrugged. “Sorry.”

She looked him up and down under thick eyelashes and licked her lips. “My name is Effie. Not sweetheart.”

“Haymitch.” he offered, outstretching a hand that she shook after glancing around. He supposed she wasn’t supposed to socialize with customers too much.

He also revised his earlier judgment. She wasn’t pretty, she was gorgeous.

“Would you like another glass, Haymitch?” she offered, nodding at the empty glass sitting on the console in front of him.

“Yeah.” he smirked. “But not right now.” The plane hit a small turbulence and she grabbed the back of his seat to steady herself. For a second, they both waited to see if there would be more but when the plane stabilized they relaxed. It was only then that he realized he had reached for her waist in a reflex to help. He took it away slowly. “So… Travel often?”

The joke had the desired effect and she grinned. The genuine smile lit up her whole face and he found he couldn’t look away from her twinkling eyes.

“You are a little rusty when it comes to flirting, aren’t you?” she mocked. Her gaze darted down to his left hand as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her and she looked relieved not to find a wedding band or the telling mark of one that had been recently removed.

“Don’t usually have to bring out the big guns.” he admitted, his smirk widening.

“Arrogant.” she concluded, lifting a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

He shrugged. “Realistic.”

He was tolerably handsome for his age and women in bars who were only looking for a one-night-stand were usually happy to go with it. It had always been that way. He wasn’t sure if it was arrogance or just habit but it had certainly made him develop a taste for women who played hard to get. He liked feisty. He had always liked feisty.

“Is that your big gun?” she asked. “Feeding a line about traveling to a flight attendant? I must admit it is a little disappointing.”

Grey eyes twinkling, he turned a little in his seat so he could face her properly without straining his neck. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t handle my big gun.”

“Now, that’s just vulgar.” She wrinkled her nose. “You will have to do better than that. Please, excuse me.”

She hurried to the harried mother five rows down who had signaled her. It was at least half an hour before she walked past him again and he didn’t lose an opportunity to call her.

“I could use a drink.” he declared.

She looked a little disappointed but nodded. “Another whiskey?”

“Whatever your poison is.” he dismissed. “I’ll meet you at the airport’s bar, yeah?”

She blinked and then lifted both eyebrows. “Was that an invitation?”

“Too subtle?” he snorted.

“Too confident.” she replied with a grin and sauntered away.

She didn’t come back again but he bumped into her on his way out of the restroom and he couldn’t help but smirk. “If it ain’t fate.”

She chuckled but shook her head, tilting her head to the side to study him better. He had the unpleasant feeling of being assessed but given that he had spent a fair amount of time staring at her ass, he supposed it was only fair. With her heels, she was almost as tall as him and he wondered how much tinier she would be without them, wondered if it was something that attracted her: the size difference, how small she would probably feel in his arms…

She must have liked what she saw because she licked her lips again, a telltale flash of something briefly darkening her eyes.

“Is the airport bar the best you can do?” she challenged.

“There’s always the hotel’s bar.” he teased.

“How about dinner?” she retorted.

He winced. “That sounds like a date, sweetheart. I don’t do dates.”

“And I do not sleep with customers. I guess we all have to make concessions when we really want something, don’t we?” she hummed and walked away again.

He followed her into something that looked like a kitchenette, resolutely ignoring the staff only sign on the wall.

“I ain’t gonna beg you to sleep with me.” he warned.

“Isn’t that what you are currently doing?” she deadpanned, reaching in various cupboards to fix herself a cup of tea. “And you are not allowed to be here.”

He wanted to say something, to snatch the last word, but nothing snarky enough came to mind and he ended up turning around and walking back to his seat, furious that she had gotten the better of him and more than a little aroused because of it.

He was pretty sure she avoided him for the rest of the flight because another stewardess took care of their cabin next.

He didn’t see her again before they landed and they boarded off the plane. He told himself he was lagging behind just to avoid the hassle of being pressed in the middle of the crowd. He told himself he wasn’t going to do it because she was clearly annoying and high maintenance and it wasn’t worth a night of sex. He told himself all that very firmly.

“I hope you had a good flight.” she told him in that professional but slightly sarcastic voice as they both stood on top of the stairs leading off the plane.

“I’m hungry.” he blurted out despite his best intentions.

“Oh, I bet you are.” she grinned and she wasn’t talking about actual food.

He rolled his eyes. “So? Want to grab something to eat?”

Her grin was blinding and it tugged at things in his chest. He should have been worried – hell, he was worried – because that one… Oh, he was ready to bet that one could get under his skin very fast and very discreetly so that he would only notice once she was already there and it was too late. But when she smiled at him like that, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I will meet you in front of the airport in half an hour.” she offered. “I need to change.”

As sexy as the flight attendant outfit was, the prospect of seeing her in normal clothes was enticing and he nodded his agreement.

Somehow, he had the feeling he would never forget that plane trip.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #thg modern au #first meeting #not established

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m-oana-archive · 6 years ago

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Heartsease: A Wolfstar fanfiction

Part Four: “So Help Me God”

read part one two three

Warning: This chapter contains rather constant, semi-graphic descriptions of physical and verbal abuse towards LGBTQ+ characters. If you are an individual that identifies as LGBTQ and would feel triggered, someone who has a past with abuse, or someone who is generally discomforted by reading stories of abuse, I highly suggest skipping this chapter. Because this is entirely composed of Sirius' flashbacks, you will not miss any plot. However, I will summarize a few important points at the end of chapter that may come back in later chapters.

POV: Sirius | Words: 6108 | Beta: @inflictionofopinions | read on AO3

To be raised in the most noble and sacred house of Black was to enter the world thinking it was some kind of battlefield. At least, that’s how Sirius experienced it, being reprimanded for his horrible posture since age three without fail, never being able to talk out of turn or without a tone of calm distance if he didn’t want to get beaten for it later, having his parents’ explicit threats scare away all of his friends if they were not from sacred, pureblood families. But nothing, no amount of abuse, physical or verbal, could extinguish the fiery gleam in Sirius’ chest, the unquenchable urge to undermine his parents at every turn. If anything, their treatment just continued feeding flames to the fire.

It was obvious why Regulus was their favorite. “Sirius, would your brother do that?” “Sirius, even your brother knows better than you, and he is two years younger.” “Be more like Regulus.” If Sirius got a Galleon every time his parents said that to him, he would have made more than double the money than he inherited from the infamous Black wealth. But what they didn’t see was the brother that snuck into Sirius’ bedroom late at night after his skin was assaulted with belts, brought him tissues and tea and food and would lay in Sirius’ bed with him until the sun rose then move back into his bedroom as to not get caught. That was the difference: the exposure. Regulus was as imperfect as Sirius but wasn’t even a fraction as obvious about it. So, although there were small alleviations, Sirius remained, for the greater part of his childhood, utterly alone.

To attempt to fill this void, Sirius began sneaking around Grimmauld Place once the sun set, trying to find something to distract him. He stumbled upon his father’s study, a room he was not allowed in unless invited, and found himself face to face with a bookshelf that spanned the entirety of the wall. He skimmed his hands against the bindings of the books, feeling their rigid spines and the indents of the titles on hardcovers, considering each carefully. But he kept finding titles like, “Philosophy of Blood Status,” or “A History of Giant Wars, volume 2,” which either bored him or disgusted him to no end. He wanted a story, something with peaks and plots and characters and distant worlds, something that could transport him from his life into another.

The next day at breakfast, Sirius asked his father in the polite manner he only used when he wanted something, “Sir, can we go to the bookstore in town today? I would like to purchase some books.”

“I have an extensive collection in my study, Sirius,” his father responded without looking up from his plate. “I’m sure we have no need to go buy more books. There should be something of your liking there.”

“I looked last night and didn’t see anything,” Sirius responded casually. He felt his family’s faces on them, knew without looking there were two expressions of disgust and one of fear staring at his face, which fought back a proud smirk.

His father pounded his fists on their mahogany table, and Sirius stared at his cup of tea as large ripples ran through it, almost spilling over, but not quite. “Sirius, how many times do I have to remind you the rules of this household? I know you know them, but you continue to break them and tell us about it. We should just lock you in your room and shove a plate or two of burnt food underneath your door until you learn your lesson.”

Sirius was about to make some crude remark, something like, “I’d probably like that better, since I wouldn’t have to see your faces everyday,” but Regulus spoke first, spoke first with that same silky tone of pureblood placation that made his blood boil.

“It was my fault, Sir. Sirius came into my bedroom unable to sleep, and I suggested he find something to read in order to help him along. I am so sorry.”

And of course they bought it, Orion patting Regulus on the back and congratulating him on being the best example of good behavior, even though he admitted to inspiring the action Sirius was reprimanded for just seconds beforehand, while Walburga got up and offered him a fresh cup of tea. Sirius wanted to scream, scream at his father for his favoritism and contradictions, his mother for going along with it thoughtlessly, his brother for being able to sleep soundly knowing his heart was in the right place without having to live in a horror story for it. Even Regulus offering to walk with Sirius to the bookstore “to make sure he doesn’t go out of hand” and Orion agreeing was not enough to cap Sirius’ rage.

“You know that if I didn’t do it, you wouldn’t be able to go,” Regulus mentioned once they were a safe distance away from Grimmauld Place, the foggy skies of England high overhead.

Sirius was reluctant to look at his brother as he responded. “That doesn’t mean it’s fair, that just means it’s helpful.”

They did not speak to one another for the rest of the way there, the first sound after Sirius’ response being the small bell that rang as Sirius opened the door into the bookshop. He smiled at the worker behind the counter who greeted the pair of them, before going straight to the romance novels.

“Sirius, are you kidding?” Regulus asked. “Dad will never allow you to step across the threshold of our house if you bought these.” But nothing could stop Sirius from grabbing a book titled Madame Bovary before heading to the section titled “American Classics” and selecting two from there, all whilst listening to Regulus’ pleads that he reconsider.

“I know dad won’t like this,” Sirius admitted after paying for the books. “That’s why you’ve got to help me.”

When they returned home, Sirius took off his jumper before walking through the door, wrapping his books around it to disguise their presence. He winked at Regulus and entered to the booming voice of his father, demanding to see what Sirius had purchased.

“Nothing, actually, Sir,” Sirius responded as he and Regulus stood in their sitting room and Orion sat, cross-legged, on a black armchair with his glasses sliding down his nose. “All those Muggle books aren’t nearly intellectual enough. I think I should reconsider your books, father.”

Sirius swore his father almost choked in shock at Sirius’ words. But he never asked Regulus for affirmation on the verity of Sirius’ statement before responding, with more excitement than Sirius ever heard in his nine years of life, “I would be glad to, Sirius. Come along, then.”

“Could I– Sir, could I put my jumper in my room first?” Sirius asked with the most charismatic smile he could muster. He was really giving his all into this performance, even “forgetting” to call his father his formal title in order to make it seem as if he cared that he forgot, all the while slipping his finger in between the soft fabric of his jumper to feel the edges of pages, reminding himself of what this all was for. Orion graciously allowed him to leave and as Sirius did so, he swore he heard his father mention how well Regulus was doing with Sirius.

After hiding his books deep into his closet, behind suits he only wore when some distant relative died, Sirius accompanied an optimistic Orion to his study, selecting three books of similar sizes to the ones he purchased to read. He made some lie about needing to go up to his room in order to properly focus on the material and had to restrict himself from running up the stairway. Sirius collected the books he had purchased, taking their cover slips off and replacing them with the ones from Orion’s books. He put his new books on his nightstand, the old ones into the closet hiding space, and opened up the first pages of Madame Bovary, into a world that would change his.

Sirius almost forgot to eat a meal, he was so engrossed in the book. Usually, such lateness would warrant half of his serving being scraped off so Sirius had to go to sleep hungry whilst knowing how good the food he could have had tasted, but after he explained why he was late, Orion only smiled. The dinner was filled with artificial smiles and even more artificial conversation. Sirius returned to the book after, finding himself utterly fascinated with the character of Charles. He seemed sweet and loving, albeit being clumsy and awkward, and Sirius knew he was tall and handsome. This caused an insurmountable reaction of rage when the author decided to switch the perspective of the book, going from Charles to Emma. But Sirius never considered it as a crush, per se, until three days later when Emma cheats on Charles, and Sirius throws the book across his room. “I would never cheat on Charles,” Sirius said to himself gruffly, a pout on his face and arms crossed over his chest.

Sirius expected the knock on his bedroom door to be one of his parents wondering what that noise was, but instead, he found a smiling Walburga, reminding him that they were hosting a dinner party in a few hours and that it was time for Sirius to begin getting ready. So he put on his funeral suit haphazardly, ran a brush through his hair, and went back to reading.

The guests were as stuffy and pompous as his parents, everyone talking in that same smooth tone, only to be interrupted by dry yet honest laughter. Honest laughter except for Sirius, who acted the part perfectly, aching to begin eating in order to make an excuse to leave and continue reading. Until, three people entered, obviously two parents and their son, and Sirius nearly collapsed when the boy with slicked-back brown hair and a tall build introduced himself as Charles.

They spent the evening together, laughing actual laughter in the corner of the sitting room while impersonating the party’s guests. Sirius felt his chest flutter when Charles’ hand accidentally brushed part of Sirius’ or when he leaned in to whisper something derogatory about a guest in Sirius’ ear. When he left Sirius was deliriously happy, finally finding someone that understood him that his family would approve of, finally having a friend, a friend that could turn into something more. But Orion smashed his dream without even knowing what it was.

“You cannot associate with that Charles boy anymore, Sirius,” Orion demanded the next day. “And we must stop inviting that family to our parties, Walburga. Apparently he is a homosexual. Can you imagine? How did a pureblood family with traditions and customs knowingly raise a homosexual without trying to do anything to stop it. It’s really laughable, truly.” So he proceeded to laugh, spurring Walburga’s laughter, spurring Regulus’, spurring Sirius to ask a question.

“What does being gay have to do with being a pureblood? He still meets the main requirement.” Sirius spoke carefully, in that tone he loathed but depended on, not wanting to have his room searched and his books burnt in the grand fireplace.

When Orion responded, it wasn’t with anger, but with a tone of a teacher educating Sirius on what is right. “Because gay men aren’t pure, Sirius,” he informed. “So they musn’t be pureblood.” Orion turned his head to Walburga. “Take them off the list, please. I don’t want us forgetting.”

So the parties rolled around, and Sirius found good company and real laughter with a few girls, a few boys, and sometimes no one, depending on the guest list. But he always found himself staring at the door, hoping for Charles’ return not primarily due to missing him dearly, but in order to make sure he isn't receiving the kind of treatment Sirius used to. Sometimes he faked illness to go and reread Madame Bovary, underlining passages he liked, both for their beauty and in wishing it was the life he got to live. One with someone like Charles, both the real and fictional one, where he got to ride on horse-pulled carriages while being kissed.

He continued the stream of buying books and switching out the covers, doing whatever necessary to tiptoe around intellectual discussions with Orion, who still believed his son was making a considerable dent in his study’s bookshelf. Sirius fell in love so many times during his year before Hogwarts he couldn’t keep count, between the princesses and knights, noblewomen and men, wives and husbands. But, too afraid to lose his books and certain that he was quite possibly romanticizing these characters, he never said anything, just quietly defied comments his father or mother made in discreet politeness.

It wasn’t until his trip to Hogsmeade for school supplies that he knew, for a fact, he was not romanticizing, that he “not pureblood” gay purebloods. Because, while staring into Honeydukes’ window, among the rows of pastel sweets his stomach craved, Sirius noticed a wiry boy with a crooked smile and short yet messy hair. He looked about Sirius’ age, and Sirius prayed he was so they would meet at Hogwarts, because his father would not allow him to speak to strangers while out. Sirius’ heart beat deeply and loudly all during the afternoon, constantly looking around him in hopes of seeing that boy again.

It was at dinner that Sirius said it. He had eaten so they couldn’t take his food away from him, and eaten a lot in case they decided to use that usual punishment of food deprivation for a few days, alongside being beat, of course. Sirius didn’t know that people could speak while not breathing, but that’s what it felt like when he came out.

“I have something to tell you,” he said to his family, all looking at him with a concern he wished he could have unconditionally, instead of conditionally. “I… I like girls and boys. Romantically.”

Sirius almost wished the reaction was different, the reaction of full-bodied laughter by all three of them that shook the table and the plates and the cups of tea. Orion wiped tears out of his eyes. “What a jokester, my son!” he wailed between beats of laughter. But when their laughter died down and Sirius’ never began, a tangible shift of energy occurred into the room. Anger set in, hot and loud and terrifying, but Sirius didn’t flinch.

“My own son?” Orion asked, quizzically at first, but then seizing the front of Sirius’ button down shirt over the table. He looked so deeply into Sirius’ eyes, Sirius felt violated. “Tell me the truth! You know you’re lying! No son of mine is a homosexual!” Orion shook Sirius wildly, but Sirius did not respond, causing his father to push him back into his chair, which toppled over so Sirius landed on his back on the dark hardwood floor.

In a flash, Orion was standing above Sirius, his dress-shoe clad foot pressing into his son’s chest. “Walburga, search his room. I want it stripped clean of anything homosexual. Any bright colors that could be part of that rainbow thing. Any letters if he was secretly corresponding with Charles.” She leapt into action, her lips pressed together in distaste, but following through nonetheless. “Regulus, if I could have your belt. I want this to be a lesson to you, too, my son, my better son, on how to stay good, how to live by pureblood rules and integrity.” Regulus, face also scrunched, obviously hating every minute of it, still followed through, unbuckling his belt, slipping it off, handing it to his father and watching his brother writhe about the floor while the leather ripped apart his skin.

“I found something!” Walburga yelled, running through the kitchen in a manner that was not Black family standard at all. “Your books, Orion. He replaced the covers to them and put them on his own. Look.”

Orion stood up, leaving his son’s bruised and heaving body on the ground, to look at the novels that Walburga put on the table. “Madame Bovary. The Scarlet Letter. Emma. Jane Eyre. Not only are these Muggle books, but they’re romances! I cannot believe you could read this, defile your mind with such useless and feminine text.” A silence broke up his rant, all but Sirius’ heavy breathing falling silent. “Walburga, start a fire.”

And they were burnt. They were burnt into ashes, words that comforted him, worlds that saved him, characters who he loved, all scorched into black dust. Sirius didn’t cry, but he wanted to. He wanted to jump into the fire and save them, not caring that his raw skin would get horribly scorched. But Orion had him tied to the sitting chair, so he was helpless at the clutches of his evil father, useless mother, and condescending brother.

“Walburga, bring him up to his room,” Orion said. “There’s one book left, that Bovary one, but I can tell he loved it. He underlined parts. I don’t want him to see it burnt. He doesn’t deserve to be able to see it get turned to dust. But know, the second you leave, Sirius, it will go in the fireplace, never to be seen again.”

“I hate you!” Sirius screamed, aggressively thrashing in his chair, trying to break the ropes that tied him to the wooden chair. “I hate you! All of you!” He kept fighting, even though he knew it was useless, hating the grin it lit up on his father’s cheeks, the tears it spilled onto his. So Walburga requested Regulus’ help to move Sirius, grabbing him by his arms and legs while Orion removed the confines. They dragged Sirius up to his room, sobbing and thrashing even still, threw him on the ground of his bedroom, and locked the door behind them.

“Reg, I don’t want you hanging out with your brother anymore,” Walburga said, outside of Sirius’ door, loudly enough so he could hear it. “I don’t know if this is infectious if he’ll try and make you gay. But you have to be cautious, alright? So you are forbidden to interact with him unless your father or I can oversee it.”

Sirius had never been lonelier in his life. He did not only count down the days until Hogwarts, but the hours, the minutes. He ripped his wallpaper to shreds and broke the plates that his burnt half-servings of food came on. When the day finally came, his hopeful heart returning as the Hogwarts Express pulled up onto Platform 9 and ¾ , he did not say goodbye to his parents and made a point to ensure the two boys he sat within the train car were not pureblood wizards. Their names were Remus and James, and Sirius swore he had seen Remus before.

He walked to the Sorting with them, Remus’ sly comments and James’ horrible jokes healing his heavy heart, lifting it, making it soar. When it was his turn, the hat chuckled while being placed on his head. “You’re a Black, I see. A pure Slytherin family through and through. But– oh, I see you don’t want that fate?”

“I want Gryffindor,” he said, looking at a smiling Remus and James as they sat at that table. “To get a rise out of them.”

“Well you’re braver than anyone I’ve seen,” the hat complimented before screaming out Gryffindor, causing the table to erupt in claps, and James and Remus to shout happily. Sirius was almost unphased by the Howler that arrived the next morning at breakfast, his father’s voice shouting at him for defying his family, yet again, and so soon after coming out as a homosexual.

The entire room fell silent, so silent Sirius thought the gulp of his throat could be heard by the Ravenclaws that sat so far away from him. But Sirius had an idea, so he stood up, got on the bench, then stepped onto the table. “It’s not true,” Sirius announced to his schoolmates. “I’m bi, actually.” He smiled at the students, whose mouths were all agape.

It was James who broke the silence, hooting, and hollering, which Remus joined in on, which the entire Gryffindor table joined in on. Soon Sirius couldn’t see a face that wasn’t supporting him– of course, he denied looking at the Slytherin table– and continued his breakfast with a smile on his face after patting James’ back appreciatively.

To be bi in the most accepting school of wizardry was freeing. Sirius finally was able to exhale a breath he did not realize he had been holding, ask boys out alongside girls, flirt with both. James was his designated wingman, which Sirius reciprocated by putting in a kind word about James to a spunky, redheaded Gryffindor named Lily, whose annoyed but bashful reaction made Sirius instantaneously like her. But Remus, who Sirius constantly found himself staring at, was not as brazen about his love life. Even though he said all the right things, read all the best books, and had the most infectious smile, he never seemed to have a girlfriend. Sirius urged him to ask people out, but, somewhere deep within his heart, was grateful Remus never went through with the requests.

Summers were the worst. Sirius decided to grow his hair out when he got to Hogwarts, and every summer it had gotten so far along in the process, but every summer, his mother cut it despite his pleads not to. He barely got fed, his door was always locked and his window got a lovely addition of a wrought-iron fencing, in order to restrain him from sneaking out. When Walburga got notice that the Potter’s were happy to let Sirius live with them, Orion applied an invisibility serum to Sirius’ scars, unable to let them show, so there was no concrete proof Sirius should live somewhere else. Sirius would count the days, minutes, and hours until he got back to Hogwarts. And, when the train arrived, he would never say goodbye to his parents before seeking out his best friends’ company.

But the summer before fourth year, that summer required an entirely new word to be created to describe the mixing of emotions, the heavenly highs and hellish lows. Sirius had asked out a classmate named Riley at the beginning of third year, Riley who was gorgeous and funny and smart and liked to wear both jeans and chucks and flannels with a binder on some days and dresses with heels on others. That didn’t stop Sirius from becoming entranced. During the walks to Hogsmeade, picnics at Black Lake, long Common Room cuddle sessions, Riley was able to teach Sirius about so much more than he ever knew, growing up in a pureblood household. Riley explained what being genderfluid meant, and helped Sirius along the way in the spectrums of both sexuality and gender. After Riley first spoke the word gender fluid, in the long conversation that followed, Sirius realized the label pansexual fit him better. Being able to talk to Riley made Sirius feel so free like he was living as opposed to going through motions assigned to him since birth. And he constantly thanked Riley for it, with hands running through their short hair or snacking in between their fingertips.

So Riley didn’t understand why Sirius wouldn’t invite them over for the summer, even though both of them spent the months before daydreaming about walking around London together, falling asleep in the same bed, making one another breakfast in the morning. But Sirius’ heart closed up quickly after those perfect pictures were painted. If he was barely allowed food, how would his family treat his genderfluid significant other? With the vaguest of explanations, Sirius pleaded Riley to stay as far away from Grimmauld Place as possible.

So, when Riley showed up on their doorstep a few days into summer, Sirius wanted to scream.

“Riley, what are you doing here?” he said, trying to keep his voice down, while his hand ran through his hair. “You have to go before they see you. Please leave. Now.”

Riley pushed back against Sirius’ grip on their shoulders, Converse skidding across hot summer pavement. “I don’t care if they disapprove of me, Sirius. I want to be with you.”

“It’s not… it’s not just about disapproval, Riley. Listen, I’ve never told you this, but my father belted me when I came out. He belted me and all my mother and Regulus did was stand and let him. And… and…” Sirius had to take a deep breath before continuing, “I can’t let you into that household knowing what that man was able to do to me, his own son, because God only knows what he would do to you. I’m sorry, Riley. I’m so sorry.”

Sirius’ head hung down. He felt deflated and pathetic, wanting to live up to the brave Gryffindor standards his father resented him for having, but finding himself unable to. This wasn’t his body, his skin, his welfare he was putting at risk for blood and bruises. This was Riley’s. So he fell into their grip on Sirius, sniffling tears away while feeling the soft press of lips on his forehead.

“I wish I could take you with me,” Riley said. “I know you can’t write me. So please, just promise me you’ll be as safe as possible. And then I’ll be on my way, I guess.”

So Sirius did what he was asked and Riley did what they had promised, leaving Sirius to enter 12 Grimmauld Place alone and withering to the floor. He wished he could bask in the beauty of it, the fact that for the first time in his life he was wanted by someone else for being who he was, not what someone wanted, but rather found the reciprocation frustrating, unable to act on it fully. His negativity was obvious as he entered the living room with his head still down. This contrasted greatly with the energy bursting out of Orion’s pores.

“My boy! You’ve done it!” he yelled, shaking Sirius by the shoulder, right where Riley had touched. The thought danced upon Sirius’ thoughts, making him shudder. His father had no right to touch him in the same places as Riley, being that it was his homophobia that pushed them away from one another. Sirius struggled to get out of Orion’s grasp but was unsuccessful. “You’ve done it!” he kept yelling, far too loudly for how close he was to Sirius’ ear. In exasperation, Sirius almost asked Orion what he had finally done, but Orion beat him to it. “You’ve found a girl to date! Walburga, get the wine! It was a phase after all! He’s healed!”

Suddenly, he no longer struggled. Sirius escaped his father’s grip within seconds. He backed up to where the entryway met with the living room, distancing himself from his father.

“What’s wrong, Sirius?” Orion asked, smile still brightening up his features in a way Sirius had never seen. “This is a cause for celebration! You’ve been saved!”

Walburga entered with two glasses of wine, both of which were handed off to Orion, who approached Sirius, outstretching a glass to him. Sirius took one look at the delicate crystal before knocking it over with his hand. It broke into a thousand jagged islands amongst a vast purple sea. “I don’t want your fucking wine,” Sirius spat. “And Riley isn’t just a girl. Sometimes, Riley chooses to dress up and act more masculinely. Riley doesn’t go by she, but goes by they. And I find them absolutely fascinating and beautiful regardless.”

Sirius was expecting shouting or that chillingly quiet version of anger. Sirius was expecting large hand gestures and to be thrown to the ground. What Sirius didn’t expect was the laughter that followed as Orion’s response. “I can’t believe that you could bring home someone that’s more of a freak than you!” Orion shouted. “You should get some kind of reward for herding freakshows. You’re either a man or a woman. And if you’re a man, you love women, and if you’re a woman, you love men. It’s so simple.”

“Do you know why your world is so simple? Do you?” A combination of anger and sudden courage caused Sirius to lunge forwards, inching his face close to his father’s one, which smirked at Sirius in question. “It’s because you’re so closed-minded, it would be impossible for anything to be complex. Your mind would probably explode if you were gay because you wouldn’t be able to handle how complicated parts of it is.”

“No, Sirius,” Orion whispered. “My mind explode if I was gay because my father would hit me to the floor until I realized I was being a fool, which is exactly what I intend to do with you. Because, as long as you live under the roof of a Black House, you follow the rules of pureblood integrity and tradition, and if you do not, you feel the repercussions.”

And so Sirius’ ribs contracted at the feeling of Orion’s fist, his knees buckled, leading him cheek-first onto the hardwood floor. Sirius’ eyes opened minutes after, face level to the pool of wine and glass. The first thing he felt wasn’t the ache in his stomach, but a harsh and ceaseless stinging from his cheek, whose blood was intermixing with the pool of wine. Sirius watched as the two reds swirled together, unable to do much else, his body positively winded from the blow. He tried to move his cheek out of the glass, but something heavy dropped on his head, making him unable to move. A piercing cry left his throat as the glass lodged deeper and deeper into his skin.

“You know, Sirius, I always wondered from when you were young what your greatest failure would be. No matter what your mother or I did, you never grew out of your need to spite us. But this is a new low, son.” Orion physically punctuated the end of his sentence by releasing his foot off of Sirius, just to kick him with it moments later.

Without a word, Orion left his son, his oldest son, the one whose middle name was his first, bleeding and whimpering against panels of wood that covered the most ancient and most noble house of Black. It took an hour for Sirius to find the strength to set himself on his knees, one hand on the wall and the other on his bloodied cheek. In time he stood, legs wobbly but heart steady, and made his way through the darkness of his home for the last time. Because if he would feel the repercussions for as long as he lived under a Black house’s roof, then he was leaving as soon as possible.

After he drug his trunk along the long hallway of Grimmauld Place and had a hand on the doorknob, a voice whispered Sirius’ name. One that made Sirius heart snap and remember all of those nights in his bedroom where food and water and company was brought to him.

“Siri, where are you going?” Regulus asked, voice exposing he was on the brink of tears, and Sirius would be lying if he said he was in any other condition. But Sirius still moved away from the faint light at the tip of the candle Regulus held.

“James’, probably.” Sirius saw his brother’s face fall. “Please, Regulus. You heard what he said. I know you were in the kitchen, being a good boy, listening. I’ll be safer if I leave.”

“But Sirius!” He felt his brother’s hands trying to find a robe or jacket or scarf to hold onto. Sirius contorted his body so Regulus would miss every time.

Sirius scoffed, staring down at his little brother. “If you wanted to help me, you could have. But I’m leaving now, because the Potters will actually take care of me, and I will never cross the threshold of this house again, so help me God.”

The candlelight was dim, it didn’t show much, but Sirius could see the vague shapes of tears falling down Regulus’ face. In a moment of weakness, Sirius felt his hand twitch, felt it beg him to at least touch his younger brother’s shoulder or hug him or wipe away a tear. But why should Sirius clean Regulus’ cheeks when he did nothing to help prevent the blood from dripping from Sirius’? So he opened the door to a starry sky.

“I’ll see you at school, Reg.”

Sirius arrived at the Potter’s, suitcase full and eyes heavy, via Knightbus early the next morning. James was the first to greet him, running outside and capturing Sirius’ face in his hands. “What did they do to you?” he mumbled, tears filling his eyes, before hugging Sirius so tightly. “Don’t worry. We’ve had a spare bedroom ready for years.” It was the first summer Sirius didn’t need to count down the days, hours, and minutes until Hogwarts. When the train came, he didn’t say goodbye to his parents, but hugged the Potters tightly, promising to write as often as possible.

Riley found him on the train, hands filled with letters and eyes filled with shock. “You wrote,” they said. Sirius just nodded and smiled, offering them the empty spot in the train car.

Riley was ecstatic about the move, spending the train to Hogwarts with the boys, helping James and Sirius plan out how they would decorate their shared bedroom while Remus made perfectly-timed witty comments without raising his head out of his book. Even with his hand on Riley's, fingers twisting in and around one another, Sirius couldn’t help admiring Remus from across the train car. He had grown considerably, both in height and in muscle, his thin frame filling out in an obnoxiously attractive way. His hair had gotten longer, too, just long enough that a few curls were forming at the top of it, and Sirius had to restrict himself from touching it.

Those inclinations kept happening throughout the first weeks of Hogwarts, and although Sirius only indulged in a few of them, like cuddling with Remus after particularly straining full-moons or fluffing his hair, Riley took a notice of the affection in how he interacted with Remus, and how that lacked between him and Riley.

“Sirius, I know you and Remus and James have been best friends forever and are touchy and I’m fine with that,” they told Sirius one night when the common room was empty except for the two of them. “I’m just wondering why, if you’re dating me, you touch Remus more often.”

Sirius felt like someone just shoved him down a flight of stairs. His response was said as if something similar had knocked the air out of him, “Are you accusing me of liking him more than you?”

“Well, if so, I won’t be mad. I just want you to tell me. Because I want to respect your feelings. And if you’re finding yourself more attracted to Remus than me, I understand. I just don’t want to be played around with.”

Even though the fireplace was barely burning, Sirius suddenly felt very hot, feverishly so, like he was going to explode into lava and burn everything around him. He sat for a long time with a patient Riley, never asking him to speak before Sirius was ready to, considering how it felt like sitting with them, and comparing that to the concept of sitting here with Remus instead, possibly laying his head into Remus’ chest, playing with those godforsaken curls, feeling Remus’ widening chest and strong heart beating underneath his fingertips. And when Sirius’ began pounding at the thought, he knew Riley was right.

Though the breakup was as amicable as they come, followed by a warm friendship that was never awkward, even when they were left alone, Sirius still felt absolutely fucked. Because he was constantly dying to be underneath Remus’ touch, his lips, to be sitting next to Remus and feel his body breathe. He had to fight back a blush when Remus touched him accidentally, or when he just woke up and his voice was deeper than usual. And Sirius hid it. But he was fucked. He was so fucked. Because Remus was straight, so nothing could ever happen between them. But Sirius couldn’t stop dreaming about some hypothetical universe in which Remus loved him back, but it was useless, utterly useless. Because Remus was straight. Right?

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notes: important things *CONTAINS SPOILERS* 1) Sirius reads Madame Bovary and wants a horse-drawn carriage date 2) Sirius dates a genderfluid Gryffindor named Riley who helps him discover his sexual identity as pan 3) Sirius runs away and moves in with the Potters in the summer before year four 4) Riley and Sirius break up a few weeks into their fourth year, but remain friends

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KEEP READING: Part Five: “I Wish”

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#wolfstar #wolfstar fan fiction #remus lupin x sirius black #hp fan fiction #harry potter fan fiction #carlysfamily #moonlit members #my writing #heartsease

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