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atotc-weekly · 8 months ago

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Book the Second—The Golden Thread

[X] Chapter XIX. An Opinion

Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night.

He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the Doctor’s room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker’s bench and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly studious and attentive.

Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?

It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette’s consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the Doctor’s bedroom door in the early morning?

Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.

Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual way, and came to breakfast.

So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first supposed that his daughter’s marriage had taken place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however, he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid he sought. And that aid was his own.

Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:

“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less so.”

Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once.

“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake—and above all, for his daughter’s—his daughter’s, my dear Manette.”

“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental shock—?”

“Yes!”

“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.

“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings, the—the—as you express it—the mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace himself—as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath—“a slight relapse.”

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”

“Nine days and nights.”

“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”

“That is the fact.”

“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit originally?”

“Once.”

“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects—or in all respects—as he was then?”

“I think in all respects.”

“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”

“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”

The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while.

“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I knew how.

“But I don’t know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me how to be a little more useful.”

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him.

“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort, “that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.”

“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.

“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.

“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer’s mind, and how difficult—how almost impossible—it is, for him to force himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”

“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on him?”

“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even believe it—in some cases—to be quite impossible.”

“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this attack?”

“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations would be recalled—say, under certain circumstances—say, on a particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”

“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation.

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”

“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.

“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against, and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that the worst was over.”

“Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.

“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.

“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?”

“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his hand.

“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic; he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too much?”

“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”

“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”

“I think I am quite sure of it.”

“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now—”

“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”

“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that he was overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this disorder?”

“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”

He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the last nine days, he knew that he must face it.

“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we will call—Blacksmith’s work, Blacksmith’s work. We will say, to put a case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by him?”

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously on the ground.

“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”

Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground.

“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think—” And there he shook his head, and stopped.

“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause, “it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings of this poor man’s mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”

He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry’s face.

“But may not—mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes—may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the forge?”

There was another silence.

“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old companion.”

“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good. Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter’s sake, my dear Manette!”

Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!

“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there; let him miss his old companion after an absence.”

Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no suspicions.

On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker’s bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder—for which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime.

#a tale of two cities #atotc weekly #charles dickens #august 20 #the golden thread #illustration

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renaissanceclassics · 1 year ago

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A Tale of Two Cities - Book 2: Part 25

In 45 parts.

An Opinion

CHAPTER XIX. An Opinion

Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:

Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once.

“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental shock—?”

“Yes!”

“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”

“Nine days and nights.”

“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”

“That is the fact.”

“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit originally?”

“Once.”

“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects—or in all respects—as he was then?”

“I think in all respects.”

“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”

“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”

The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while.

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him.

“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort, “that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.”

“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.

“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.

“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on him?”

“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even believe it—in some cases—to be quite impossible.”

“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this attack?”

“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation.

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”

“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.

“Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.

“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.

“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?”

“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his hand.

“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”

“I think I am quite sure of it.”

“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now—”

“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”

“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that he was overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this disorder?”

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously on the ground.

“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”

Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground.

“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think—” And there he shook his head, and stopped.

He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry’s face.

There was another silence.

“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old companion.”

Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!

“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there; let him miss his old companion after an absence.”

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lansyuan · 5 years ago

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do you love fics where wei wuxian and lan wangji parent the crap out of lan sizhui? do you want to read accidental baby acquisition fics until your eyes bleed? would you die as your heart slowly turns to mush from the softness of this family? bitch the fuck, me too. here are some of my personal favourite fics of wangxian ft their turnip son a-yuan. its a range of canon divergence, post canon, thirteen years of inquiry, raising a-yuan at the burial mounds au etc - there’ll be something for literally everyone. enjoy!

the kite string and the anchor rope by fleurdeliser (38k+)

When A-Yuan gets sick and Wen Qing doesn't have the supplies she needs to properly treat him, Wei Wuxian can only think of one place to go for help.

a crying shame by thunderwear (16k+)

Lan Wangji gets emotionally blackmailed by a toddler. It somehow fixes everything.

to recollect and long for by wonderlands (22k+) *2/3 works posted at time of posting this rec list.

a 3-part series about best boy lan sizhui and his wonderful dads who love him and each other very much.

forgetting envies, remembering your loving hold by cosmicfuss (3k+)

The first time Zewu-jun plays for him he is five and the man is trying to comfort him, playing soft songs good for soothing children. It works to a degree but he wants his gege, he wants his gege to play his lullaby. Zewu-jun apologizes and tells him that his gege is hurting right now, and needs to be alone to get better.

When he plays the xiao, A-Yuan says, "you're holding it wrong!" When he turns fourteen, he learns to play guqin, and is many years ahead of his classmates in that regard. A large factor in that is how much he has practiced Inquiry. He has grown up hearing snippets from the jingshi, of Wangji attempting to reach a spirit that never answers.

When he's sixteen, he hears a familiar tune played in the forest, he and his fellow juniors battling a stone god. It's been years since he's heard it, and he wonders why this man, Mo Xuanyu, knows it so well.

Or, Lan Sizhui grows up and learns, and remembers.

five times wei wuxian tried to embarrass lan sizhui by blackelement7 (6k+)

(and one time he realized just how badly he'd played himself)

or: In which Wei Wuxian starts a fight but Lan Sizhui (with some meddling from Lan Jingyi) ends it.

inquiry by incendir (10k+)

Sizhui cannot fall asleep for a long, long time that night. He hears the ever-familiar melody again. He thinks perhaps he has memorized it by now.

storge by respira (9k+)

Lan Sizhui is a lake.

as the warren grows in number by kore_fics (3k+)

Before Sizhui could take another step he was surrounded by black and red, loud laughter in his ears and warm fingers running through his hair, messing it up. Palms squished both his cheeks together and Lan Sizhui let out a laugh.

Lan Sizhui was home.

tell some storm* by qurbat (31k+) *the moments with Sizhui are in chapter 2, however I highly recommend reading the whole fic, it’s adorable.

"We were raised as a generation of war, A-Yuan," Xian-gege said to him. "If your generation choses to be one of love - well, I don't think any of us would be opposed to that."

In the aftermath of the events at the Guanyin temple, the cultivation world scrambles to understand their current reality. A man roams the countryside with a string of white in his hair. Another sits on the highest seat of power with a ribbon of red around his forehead. The younger generation turns out to be full of romantics. Nie Huaisang is to blame for everything, always. Jiang Cheng realizes that happiness has been more that 16 years overdue.

Wei Wuxian declares that it's time that bitch pays up.

After a generation of war - much to the consternation of the elders, much to the delight of the young, much to the pleased shock of the subjects of the tale - the world welcomes a love story with open arms.

guess we're not eating leaves today by missingnarwhal (2k+)

Baby A-Yuan has cooked up a feast, but only one lucky gege will actually get to taste it!

Set in an alternate timeline where everything is okay after Wei Ying + Wens started living in the Burial Mounds.

response by aki_no_hikari (12k+)

What if Wei Wuxian hadn't been silent to Lan Wangji's Inquiry?

love, in all its small pieces by ynvel (4k+)

Ah Yuan is brought to the Cloud Recesses and exchanges the sun and its ashes for the clouds. Lan Wangji brings a boy home, calls him his son, and renews the promises he made.

Or: Lan Sizhui is adopted by Lan Wangji and learns about his new life. Lan Wangji in turn learns about hope and living again.

child surprise by ariaste (4k+)

He huffs a sigh. “Fine. Just - let’s just make it the law of surprise, shall we? That’s nice and simple, eh? Leave it up to destiny what will bring us back in balance. Let it drop something of yours into my lap, something small, and we’ll call the debt paid.”

Three debts, three repayments.

there's a lunatic in mo village by bastetcg (11k+)

There's a lunatic in Mo Village! And to Lan Sizhui's surprise, Hanguang-Jun has decided to bring the madman back to the Cloud Recesses! How embarrassing!

A mostly canon-compliant look into Lan Sizhui's thoughts and childhood.

on being a big boy by emberloey (1k+)

“My little A-Yuan,” Dad had said the next morning, kneeling down to A-Yuan’s height with a smile, “all grown up now. Soon you’ll be hunting without your poor old dads.”

“Never!” A-Yuan shook his head and latched onto Father’s leg. He smiled up at Father, who smiled back and nodded his head. “A-Yuan always needs Dad and Father!”

in all these shades of blue (i think we found you) by fleetling (5k+)

5 times Sizhui thought about his father's white robes, and 1 time Lan Wangji wore blue.

(Or: Lan Sizhui had never seen his father in anything other than white robes.)

this is when the feeling sinks in, i don't want to miss you like this (come back, be here) by mischievousmurmurs (6k+)

Just now… the butterflies’ conversation. Where did you learn that from, Ah-Yuan?

Ah-Yuan pats his chest. In here, shushu. I feel it in here. And in here, too, he adds, pointing to his head.

Sizhui has never quite been able to remember nor forget the memory of seeing people who he knows loved each other, loved him, and whom he loved in return.

or - a wangxian story, as told by their adopted son.

yours, mine, and ours by casecous (2k+)

When they have both mostly recovered, and A-Yuan is back to his smiling, playful self, Lan Wangji presents him with a forehead ribbon. A-Yuan’s little fingers bump into Lan Wangji’s thumbs as he traces the cloud motif along it.

“You are Lan now. This is very important,” Lan Wangji tells him and A-Yuan looks away from the ribbon to meet his eyes. “You must not take it off as you please. Only family may touch it.”

A series of wangxian family moments.

innocence by snowberryrose (8k+)

In which Wei WuXian gets to raise A-Yuan.

Canon divergence from episode 31.

to recollect and long for by mme_anxious (4k+)

Lan Xichen is there when his brother becomes a father. Lan Sizhui is there when his father's heart breaks, again. Wei Wuxian is there when his son gets drunk for the first time.

Or, the GusuLan forehead ribbon, in three parts.

our little one by writedeku (6k+)

A-Yuan is here. A-Yuan, who Wei Ying loved so much. A-Yuan, who was taught to laugh just like him. Wangji hugs him to his chest and curls over him, ignoring the way the wounds on his back pull and tear. “I have to take care of you,” he says. “I will not leave you.”

(Or: Lan Wangji comes back from Yiling with a child he does not know how to care for and a black hole in his chest. Somehow, he makes it work.)

gathered herbs & sweet grasses by hansbekhart (19k+)

Later, when he’s older, it’s this that A-Yuan will remember most: the stretch of silence, the two of them both dirty and shaking with fever, as he looked at Brother Rich, and Brother Rich looked back at him.

the sacred homeland by particulate (8k+)

He has many names, and some are mouthfuls of blood.

[Or; a chronology of Sizhui, in which he does not forget.]

to the act of making noise by words-writ-in-starlight (19k+)

His father in white plays the song late into the night, and when A-Yuan wakes up confused and afraid, the guqin lulls him back to sleep.

Lan Sizhui hears his father play the same song every night for his whole life, and never, ever get an answer.

when he comes home to you by kika988 (2k+)

Home is Cloud Recesses now, and that's a thing Wei Wuxian is still getting used to. He still feels like a guest here, most days, though Lan Wangji has done everything to make him feel at home. He stands out like a sore thumb amongst the serene disciples and flowing white fabric.

Cloud Recesses has been home to Lan Wangji and Sizhui for years. It is their home, where they've built their family.

The thought warms Wei Wuxian even as it sits a little ill with him. He's an intruder here, in their homes, in their lives, the same way he had been in Lotus Pier.

five times people didn’t know sizhui is lan zhan’s son and one time they did by trilliastra (3k+)

“A-Yuan.” He repeats, reaching out for the boy, growing restless when he can’t touch him. “A-Yuan.”

Oh. Lan Xichen closes his eyes as the tears start to fall. Oh, Wangji.

Carefully, Lan Xichen takes the boy and lays him next to his brother on the bed, Wangji holds him protectively against his chest and A-Yuan stops his little cries immediately.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen tries again, running a hand through his brother’s hair softly, “who is he?”

“He’s my son.”

5 times the lan head disciple broke the rules by liji (6k+)

“I am not aware of any rule forbidding falling in love,” Hanguang-Jun said at last. There was a quiet sadness in his eye, like he was watching a scene from far away. The novelty of it gave Sizhui the courage to ask his next question.

“Have you ever been in love, Father?” he asked.

(or, five times that Sizhui broke the Lan sect's rules growing up)

the seasons change (but i love you the same) by kdkdkd (7k+)

"Hanguang-jun!"

When did you stop calling me Bàba, A-Yuan?

Lan Wangji had always promised himself that he would never become a poor father like his own had been.

Unfortunately, it feels like he has failed to keep that promise.

✨ bonus round ✨ uncle jiang cheng and nephew lan sizhui

tintinnabulum by respira (8k+)

A small bell chimes, the sound soft and pleasant like the water crashing against a pier, like low whistles in an empty cave, like a guqin playing a lullaby.

#the untamed #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan sizhui #lan yuan #wen yuan #wangxian family #wangxian fic rec #myficrecs #creations #listen i just really love this family #1k

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kpopfanfictrash · 5 years ago

Text

fu-

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook

Word Count: 1,983

Rating: 18+ (sexual imagery)

Summary: An accompanying drabble to Five Dates. This drabble takes place after the events of Five Dates and is Jungkook + accidentally teaching Namjoon’s child a swear word.

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

Staring at the phone held in his palm, Jungkook contemplated one of the most difficult quandaries of his existence, including that time you asked if he liked your new haircut.

The answer was yes, by the way. The answer was always yes, unless you hinted at no and even then, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Jungkook’s current quandary involved you but was far more serious than any haircut-related inquiry. All you’d sent Jungkook was a singular text. Five words, eighteen letters in total.

Y/N: the line is super dark [8:34 PM]

Re-reading the text, Jungkook felt utter despair. To anyone else, it might seem nonsensical, but you’d been trying to conceive for nearly three months and a dark line meant you were ovulating. This would be their third attempt at getting you pregnant; a feat certainly not helped by your irregular cycle. Ovulation tests at least gave a window of when you were fertile.

You’d tested yourself this morning and the line had been fairly light but that had apparently changed over the course of the day. Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, staring at his phone and unsure what to do. Based on what you’d written in your baby planner, he needed to drive home right now and fuck you.

Except, of course, he was currently baby-sitting for Namjoon.

Dejectedly, Jungkook plopped down on the couch. Namjoon’s daughter was around eighteen months now and had been asleep for nearly thirty minutes, but Namjoon and his wife wouldn’t be home for hours.

Shoving a hand through his hair, Jungkook let the strands fall where they may to glumly text you back.

Jungkook: I’m babysitting for Namjoon tonight, remember? ☹️ [8:36 PM]

Y/N: shit [8:36 PM]

Y/N: what time will you be home? I need to get up early tomorrow for that book drive ☹️☹️ [8:37 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon said around 11 :/ his mom gave them tickets to an opera or something and they promised to make an appearance [8:37 PM]

Y/N: 11?? That’s soooo late [8:38 PM]

Y/N: you could’ve cum inside me twice by then [8:38 PM]

Jungkook: fuck, Y/N…. [8:39 PM]

His heart raced, leaning back on the sofa. Nothing in the world made him so hard so fast as the image of your cunt, stuffed to the brim until his cum dripped down the sides. Jungkook had been treated to the image often over the past few months and didn’t think he’d ever get sick of it.

The whole ‘baby planner’ thing had thrown a kink in romance, but Jungkook tried hard to ensure you lived in the moment. You were a planner at heart and tended to get caught up in how long it was taking, why you hadn’t conceived yet – Jungkook assured you these things took time. You may as well enjoy all the sex before you had an actual child to take care of.

A slightly dreamy smile crossed Jungkook’s face at the thought. He couldn’t wait to be a dad. It was part of the reason he baby-sat for Namjoon as often as he did. Namjoon was the first of their friend group to have a kid and, as exhausted as he seemed, Jungkook had never seen his friend so happy.

It was clear from the way he looked at his daughter and wife that Namjoon was entirely smitten. Jungkook wanted that with you – he wanted a family, another player on their team.

Forcing himself to stand from the couch, Jungkook began to tidy Namjoon’s place. The more distracted he was, the less he’d think about you spread out on the bed, cum dripping from the sides of your used pussy.

Jungkook paused in his cleanup, emerald throw-pillow in hand to squeeze shut his eyes. Fuck. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes as his phone dinged again.

Y/N: couldn’t someone else come and finish babysitting? :) [8:41 PM]

Y/N: jimin, maybe? [8:41 PM]

Y/N: or Seokjin? [8:41 PM]

Jungkook hesitated, but already knew the answers to your questions. Jimin was out of town and Seokjin had posted a story on Instagram about date night. Picking up a blanket and stacking toy, Jungkook exited the room to enter Namjoon’s apartment.

Apartment was a loose term; Namjoon and his wife had the entire floor of the building. Jungkook paused outside the nursery, listening to hear if anything was amiss. The door was open partway, allowing for light to spill in from the hall. Jungkook poked his head in to see their daughter snuggled under her blankets.

Smiling softly, Jungkook stepped in and placed the blanket on top of the rocker. He set the stacking toy in the toy chest and saw you’d texted again. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Jungkook shielded the screen with one hand to open the message.

His heart lodged in his throat when he saw you’d sent a photo of you sprawled on the bed, black lingerie on. A low, frustrated whine left his throat.

“Fuck,” Jungkook said sadly.

“Fuck?” garbled a tiny voice in the darkness.

Jungkook froze.

Eyes wide, he turned to see Namjoon’s daughter standing, tiny hands clutching the bars of her crib. She had just been asleep – when had she managed to do that?! As Jungkook began to panic and hope she hadn’t really heard, she let out a bright laugh and bounced.

“Fuck,” she said, clear as day. “Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly closed his eyes. He was toast. Namjoon’s daughter could barely articulate what she wanted for dinner, but now had the capacity to absorb swear words with ease.

“No,” he groaned, opening his eyes. Rushing forward, he dropped to his knees at her crib. “No, baby, no. We don’t like that word, right? It’s a bad word. You’re not bad! You’re good! You’re a super-sweet angel, who –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly hung his head. “We’re doomed,” he muttered.

Down the hall to the front of the apartment, Jungkook heard the elevator ding. Double shit – like he’d told you, Namjoon and his wife weren’t supposed to be home for hours.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon’s voice called from far away. “Where are you?”

Starting to panic, Jungkook lifted his head. “Okay,” he whispered, giving the toddler a pleading stare. “This is just between you and me, right? Right?”

All he got in return was a round-eyed look and happy coo, so Jungkook had to hope that meant yes in baby-speak. Jungkook heard footsteps in the hall.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon poked his head into the nursery, squinting at the darkness to find Jungkook on the floor. “What’re you doing?”

Jungkook hastily pushed himself to his feet. “Nothing!” He beamed widely at Namjoon. “I just thought I heard her moving, so I came in to check and –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook stopped in his tracks at the word happily chirped behind him. Namjoon’s eyes widened in horror, his gaze darting to his daughter who stood in her crib. Jungkook, also wide-eyed, stayed where he was.

Slowly, Namjoon returned to Jungkook. “Was that…” He sounded strangled. “What did my daughter just say?”

“Uh…” Jungkook gave him a weak smile. “Funk?”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“Did you…” Namjoon inhaled. “My daughter can barely speak in full sentences and now one of those sentences is going to include that?”

Before Jungkook could respond, Namjoon’s wife appeared behind him in the hall. She wore a flowy, floor-length dress and crystalline earrings. When she saw Jungkook, she waved.

“Hi, JK!” Her smile widened. “Thanks so much for baby-sitting. Sorry we’re home early – the opera was such a bore. I convinced Namjoon to leave as soon as his mom saw us. I missed my angel,” she sighed, entering the room to cross to the crib.

Jungkook reached out to stop her, but before he could –

“Fuck!”

Namjoon’s wife halted, blinking in surprise at the crib. Then, against all reason, she started to laugh. Both shoulders shook, her right hand coming up to cover her mouth and hold in her mirth.

Both Jungkook and Namjoon stared.

“Oh my gosh,” his wife laughed, bending over the crib. “Is that what you learned tonight, hm, pretty girl?”

Jungkook watched in total astonishment as Namjoon’s wife tucked her daughter in, smoothing her hair to brush a kiss to her forehead. When she straightened and turned, she seemed mostly amused.

Finding Jungkook, she arched a brow. “Your handiwork, I presume?”

“I’m so sorry.” Jungkook kept his voice to a whisper, not wanting to wake their daughter again. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Again, Namjoon’s wife grinned. “It’s fine,” she said, waving them into the hall. “Let me guess – Joon freaked, huh?” Her husband adopted a guilty expression. “She’s a toddler, she’ll forget this by next week. And if she doesn’t, then she’ll have something for show and tell when she starts preschool, huh?”

She laughed at their shocked expressions, reminded Namjoon to pay Jungkook for baby-sitting and then left to wash up.

Namjoon stood alone in the hall with Jungkook, who frowned. “Were you supposed to be paying me this entire time?” he asked, turning to Namjoon.

“I’ll get you a pizza or something,” Namjoon said stiffly.

Despite his wife’s words, he still looked somewhat pained and Jungkook’s shoulders dropped.

“I really am sorry,” he said again. “I know your wife said everything was fine, but I am. It was an accident – I didn’t think she was awake!”

Namjoon shook his head slowly, starting to smile.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he said with a laugh. As he walked them towards the front door, he glanced curiously at Jungkook. “What happened, though? Stub your toe on one of her toys?”

“Does that happen often?”

“More times than I can count.”

Jungkook laughed. “Nothing like that. I was just texting Y/N.”

Namjoon’s brows shot upwards. “Is something wrong?”

“No, um…” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, the opposite.”

They came to a stop at the elevator and Namjoon turned to face him. He had an amused look on his face as he pressed a button. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh…” Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Namjoon’s expression became almost comical. “You are? Shit, JK, that’s amazing!” Reaching out, he pulled Jungkook into a tight hug. When he finally let go, Namjoon grinned. “Damn, I can’t wait for there to be another dad in the group.”

“I mean, we’re only trying,” Jungkook hastened. “Y/N isn’t pregnant yet. She’s actually ovulating right now, which is why I was swearing. She wanted me to come home and – you probably don’t want to know all this,” he said, cutting himself off at the look on Namjoon’s face.

A look Jungkook read completely wrong, as it turned out.

“What are you waiting for?” Namjoon blurted as the elevator arrived. He practically shoved Jungkook inside. “Ovulation is no joke, man! Get the fuck home and put a baby in Y/N!”

From somewhere in the apartment, Namjoon’s wife called, “Language, Joon!”

Namjoon turned in surprise. “Really?” he called back. “I thought we could say that word now. You know, since the cat’s out of the bag? Anyways,” he said, returning to Jungkook. “Get out of here!”

Shaking his head, Jungkook stepped onto the elevator. “Okay. Weird, but thanks! And sorry again!”

As he waited for the elevator doors to close, Jungkook heard Namjoon leave and pulled out his phone to text you back.

Jungkook: coming home now xx [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon and his wife hated the opera, left early [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: think there’s still time for twice tonight? [8:55 PM]

You answered almost immediately.

Y/N: I’ve always liked a man with ambition ;) love you. Hurry home xx [8:56 PM]

kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

#jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook writing #bts writing #jungkook fluff #jungkook drabble #bts fluff #bts drabble

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thewickedkings · 5 years ago

Text

Tell Me What You’re Thinking

jurdan7 said:

- “I don’t deserve you. I never did.”~~~ jurdan pls💕from the angsty prompts dialogue for the 600 follower celebration! Congrats luv!!! I can’t wait to see what you come up with💖

Thank you so much for the prompt!! I had a lot of fun writing this, especially for my first time writing in the canon-verse. Title is based off a random song called Misery by Michigander that came on my recommended and I kept replaying while I wrote this. I just have to say though... this is very, very angsty. Read at your own risk.

Jude rubs her eyes, picking up her pen to respond to another of the many inquiries piled up on her desk. She knows she should go to bed, but she finds herself purposefully delaying herself yet again.

In the few months that have passed since her official coronation, she has found that she almost prefers being the seneschal, where she didn’t have to hide behind the guise of formality. Being Queen comes with many responsibilities, from coordinating diplomatic relations and hosting formal banquets. But recently, there is one responsibility that is weighing her down the most, that is keeping her hiding behind stacks of paperwork avoiding her problems.

After two more letters, Jude stacks them neatly in a pile to go over with Cardan later and resigns herself to return to her room. It is late in Faerie; sunlight streams through the windows, and most Fae would already be in bed.

She silently pushes open the door to their shared chambers. The room is dark, drapes covering the windows, except for a single lantern burning softly on the side table. She slips off her gown and changes into her night clothes and turns to their bed, expecting Cardan to be fast asleep. Instead, she finds him sitting up with a book in his lap, shirtless and with his dark curls mussed, as if he’s been running his hands through them. Even in the dim light, she can see the exhaustion lining his face, the shadows lingering beneath his eyes.

“Ah, so my wife finally decides to join me.”

Her heart sinks. She responds with a forced smile, and slides beneath the sheets, turning her back to Cardan. She knows he’s going to ask her questions she won’t know how to answer. She still doesn’t know how to do this, how to talk to him, tell him what’s on her mind. She knows she should, but fear gnaws in her chest at the thought.

He grasps her arm gently, turning her around to face him. He scoots down in the bed until he’s lying next to her. His eyes scan over her face in the faint light, brows furrowed, trying to puzzle her out. She shuts her eyes against the concern in his gaze, willing herself to keep her expression neutral. To blot out the whispers that had been making their way through castle and worming their way through her thoughts, making her second guess this wondrous thing between them. “Where are you right now?” he murmurs softly.

It’s too intimate, the way he’s looking at her, laying on his side in the faint candlelight. Despite their progress over the last few months, she still finds her armor flaring up. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Cardan sits up, and she falters at the coldness in his expression. “No, you’re not.”

“What?”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve been distant. You’re not talking to me.”

“Cardan, that’s not-“

He cuts her off. “Don’t tell me I’m making this up. Your visits to the mortal world are getting longer and longer and you’re shutting me out. You wait until after I’m asleep to come to bed. You don’t-” He clenches his fists. “You don’t smile at me like you used to. I feel you going away.”

Jude knows him well enough to see that his cold exterior is covering a deep hurt. And yet she cannot tell him the truth. She cannot tell him about what she’s heard, the people wondering whether if there will be an heir, and most of all, wondering if the King would settle for a half-mortal heir. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She hugs her arms around herself, and Cardan’s voice softens. “You can tell me what is bothering you. I will be here with you, no matter the case.”

She sits up, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He stiffens. “No matter what you may think, I am not stupid, Jude.”

Guilt hits her like a tidal wave. She’s hurting him, but she doesn’t know how to fix this. She tries to think, but her thoughts are muddled. “I don’t think you’re stupid. You know that.”

“Right now, I feel as though I am.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Cardan, I can’t do this right now.”

She immediately feels his anger. “Then when, Jude? Tell me. You can’t keep avoiding this, avoiding me, forever.”

Panic fills her body, and she knows if she doesn’t leave right now, this will get worse. She stands up from the bed and walks towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Cardan’s voice is hard.

“I’m going to visit Oak and Vivi.”

Cardan gets up and moves to block the door, his voice betraying an edge of panic. “You can’t leave like this.”

“What is it Jude?” When she avoids his gaze, he pauses. “Is it really so bad you’re going to leave? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything Cardan.” She knows he won’t give up, so she lies. “I just- I need a break from all this.” She gestures her hand in the air.

Cardan rears back as if she struck him. When he responds, his voice is brittle, edged in steel. “A break. I see.”

Crap, she’s ruining this. She leans towards him. “Cardan-”

“If you need to go, then don’t let me stop you.”

“Cardan, wait.”

He steps back from her. “No, you’re right.” He laughs humorlessly. “I don’t deserve you. I never did. And I know that, Jude. I know you could walk away from me right this second and there would be nothing I could do about it.”

He pauses. “My biggest fear, Jude, is that I will wake up and you will be gone again, that you will realize how much better you can do than me. And it would tear my heart out of my chest. But if you need a break from this, from me,” he spits out, “I won’t stop you.”

Jude’s heart is bleeding, bleeding for the pain she’s causing him. Her words are stuck in her throat. She stumbles towards him, but he pulls away, again.

“Cardan, no,” she chokes out. “I was going to come back. I want to be here. With you.”

“Then tell me,” he says, not a demand but a plea. “Tell me what is wrong.”

She swallows, looking at the floor. “I can’t.”

He pulls away from her, eyes going vacant. “Then go. Leave.”

“What?” she whispers.

He turns his back on her, as if he can’t stand to look at her any longer. “Take your break. Come back if you’re ready to tell me the truth.”

Later, when Vivi opens the door to her apartment to see Jude, eyes rimmed with red and a small bag slung over her shoulder, she sighs and steps back, letting her in.

~~~

Part Two is now posted here :)

I mean... I did warn you? *inserts evil laugh* I’ll go hide now.

Also, I have a lot of people tagged for Between the Two of Us but I don’t know if you guys will want to be tagged for my other writing. I’ll probably make a separate tag list for my other writing, so if you want to be added, let me know!

#sorryyyy #but not really hehe #600 follower celebration #prompts #wow i actually wrote something #tfota #jurdan fanfic #jurdan fic #jurdan #the folk of the air #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #angst #jurdan angst

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beyondconfessor · 4 years ago

Text

Upstairs

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Zelda Spellman/Lilith

Summary: Alternate ending to Chapter IX. Instead of sleeping through the night, Zelda ascends the stairs to discover what Lilith is doing in her bedroom.

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. Remember, this is just fantasy, please suspend your disbelief.

Zelda awoke in the night. Lilith had placed her on the couch, setting it up nicely with pillows and blankets––though it was obvious that she didn’t expect guests very often. In the moments leading up to their goodnights, she’d hunted for the extra blankets and had ended up taking the extra pillows from her own bed, apologising for the fact that she did not have any spares.

Zelda hardly cared. She was an unexpected guest.

Lilith had completed some of her administration work through the evening, permitting Zelda to sit by her as they discussed the semantic difference in the work between high school and college–there was still funding to be scavenged for, boards and parents to answer to. In the fine details, it sometimes seemed very similar.

And yet, discussing their work like that had been surprisingly enjoyable. It’d been a soft ending to an otherwise hard today, and somehow Zelda had fallen asleep tasting hot chocolate on her tongue with a yearning in her chest.

She hadn’t conversed with Lilith like that before. Furthermore, she hadn’t conversed with anyone in such a matter in some time. It’d been…nice if she was honest with herself.

Stirring, Zelda turned and faced the hearth, watching the red and gold embers glow in the last remaining log. The remains of the fire would die soon, but the heat held in the house, despite its age. Zelda shifted, moving against the pillow to get comfortable again as she closed her eyes and began to drift asleep.

Just as the edges of a dream touched over her, she heard a noise.

Soft, muted, like a whimper.

Zelda turned, looking to where the stairs were in the dark of the house and wondered if Lilith was having nightmares…or if she was doing something else. Surely she wasn’t. Surely Lilith knew that Zelda might hear her if she were doing such an activity.

There was the sound of floorboards creaking, shifting, and another vocal noise.

Zelda sat up, feeling her heart thud in her chest. She should turn over and sleep again. She shouldn’t stand up or creep across the cold wooden floors, across the rug, and ascend up the stairs.

She shouldn’t…and yet she did.

On the first step, she paused, looking up at the bedroom door. A soft light, likely a lamp, poured from the partially opened doorway. Here, Zelda could hear the soft, panting breath, though it didn’t distinguish if it was pain or pleasure.

She could be having a nightmare.

And yet Zelda was certain of what was occurring as she took another step, her hand on the banister, feeling her skin brush against the polished wood.

The stairs creaked, and she paused, but the soft noise didn’t cease. Instead, they sounded louder as if to pique her curiosity. Zelda continued up the stairs, feeling her throat constrain, her breath held in her lungs. Her mouth felt dry as she made it up to the second floor, trying to peer into the room and confirm her suspicions. Lilith wasn’t trying to be discreet-–she wanted her to see.

She shifted closer to the bedroom and hesitated.

There was a swallowed noise like a moan cut off, and Zelda stepped closer, nudging the door wider. She knew what Lilith was doing, and yet a curiosity to see it, witness it for her own eyes pressed her closer.

The door opened wider, and there Lilith laid, on top of her sheets, her fingers stroking between her legs, back arching as her heels dug in, grounding her on the duvet as she gasped. It was a sight to see, and Zelda felt stuck to the floor, her body unwilling to move as she watched Lilith’s body shift, muscles tensing before easing again.

And then her head turned to face her. It went from a moment of Zelda’s voyeurism into an intentional exhibitionist activity on Lilith’s part.

Lilith’s blue eyes stared at her, her hands continuing to stroke, her mouth parted before a smile tugged at the lips. “Enjoying the show?”

Zelda went to ask, “what are you doing” but the answer was obvious, so she held those words back. She went to inquire if Lilith deliberately tried to summon her, but that too was obvious. She stepped closer, and Lilith’s hand slowed its pace, her eyes unwavering as she watched Zelda stand before the end of the bed.

Zelda undressed from the nightgown before she crawled onto the bed, moving towards Lilith on all fours until she was positioned above her. And then, with one hand, she slid Lilith’s away from between her legs.

“May I?” Zelda asked.

“It’s been a while…” Lilith whispered. “Since I let anyone touch me.”

Zelda rested her hand on the bed, her body hovering away from touching her. “We don’t have to have sex. I can watch if you prefer, or I can go back downstairs––“

Lilith leaned up, capturing her mouth as one hand seemed to curl around Zelda’s neck, pulling her closer, as the other reached for Zelda’s hand, leading her intentionally between her legs. She wanted her to stay; even Zelda could take such a hint.

Zelda slid her fingers against the sex, feeling the wetness against Lilith’s vulva as she stroked. She kissed her deeper, feeling drawn closer and closer against the woman’s body.

Lilith’s words, it’s been a while rang through her head, leading her touch. It wasn’t fair to fuck her, to treat her like she was just fulfilling a need. If anything, Lilith deserved to be worshipped, to be shown that this wasn’t only about sex.

Zelda wanted her, wanted to experience this with her––and God, that should terrify her, but right now, her mind was clouded with the feeling of Lilith’s tongue against hers and how her arousal coasted her fingertips.

She pulled back, looking into Lilith’s eyes as she slid down the bed, kissing over the woman’s collarbone, down her clavicle. She paused, pressing her mouth over Lilith’s breast as her hand continued to stroke her sex before she began to kiss down her again, over the ribs, her belly, her hips––pressing light kisses against the skin as she felt feeling the woman’s breath rise and fall, desire palpable in the air as she moved her mouth down, low over the mound. And then she slid her fingers away, pressing her tongue between the slick folds to taste her.

Lilith’s hips arched up, a small whimper breaking through the air. Zelda did it again, flicking her tongue, sliding deep over the labia, tasting the arousal before she did it again, broader this time.

“Zelda––!“

Zelda paused, slowing between Lilith’s legs as she looked up to see the woman’s brow pressed, her mouth parted as she gasped long, deep breaths, rocking against her. Her hair was cast wild around her, and for a moment, Zelda was completely enamoured by how she appeared.

She hadn’t expected the sound of Lilith’s moan to strike through her like that, to bloom in her chest like that. As she ran the flat of her tongue against her again, she felt Lilith shiver, her hips shaking as she tried to urge the mouth where she wanted it to be.

“I like you like this,” Zelda whispered. There was a soft inquiry noise, shaken with a moan. “For once, I get to see how you look when you come.”

Lilith’s noises were…explicit. They rung through Zelda’s ears, electrifying down her spine––because of this, she couldn’t help but try to summon them over and over, seeing how many different ways Lilith could keen and whine as she licked and sucked over her sex, around her clit and back until she heard the sweetest sound.

Lilith began to whimper, a soft”Please,” coming out with short and sharp breaths from desperation. Zelda obeyed the request, sliding inside of her to feel Lilith’s sex squeeze around her fingers.

She could feel the duvet shifting as Lilith’s hands seemed to claw at the material, her feet pressing at the mattress as she arched against Zelda’s mouth––and Zelda felt this moment hold in her mind. Lilith was coming undone because of her; she was pleading into the air, saying her name, crying out because of what Zelda’s tongue and fingers were doing to her.

It was a powerful and humbling feeling. One she wanted to live in for a few seconds longer.

Zelda felt as Lilith squeezed again, her body getting closer and closer. The moans had cut to bright, sharp breaths as her movements became all the more jarring.

Zelda glanced up again and then watched as Lilith rocked, her head tilting back as she came gasping, looking like some goddess in the middle of worship. And then her chest rose with breath and fell again as she dropped back against the bed, the orgasm finalising.

Zelda pulled away slowly, taking care to sit up as Lilith remained panting on the bed, her chest rising and falling before her head tilted to look at her. She gave a small laugh and then smiled, shifting up onto her elbows despite the lethargy to her limbs. “I’m pleased you came upstairs,” she said.

“I should hope so,” Zelda advised. “Otherwise, this situation would be quite awkward.”

“No, I mean…” she paused to laugh, shifting so that she sat up properly, tucking her knees underneath her, though her shoulders sagged, her body still tired from activity. “I was hurt when you left because I enjoyed our time together��probably more than I should, but who says you can’t have favourite clients?”

To that, Zelda smiled, her chest warming. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“No,” Lilith said. “I don’t. I don’t know what you’re after with me, Zelda, but if you’re honest, I am prepared to be honest, too, with what I want.” She paused there, biting her lip before adding. “For us.”

There it was, a shift in their dynamic. Zelda felt the words in her chest, the constraint pull. What did she want? She swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry, a panic rising. It was awful to feel so exposed, to be naked and tasting Lilith on her mouth and uncertain as to what she wanted. Was it a relationship? Was it sex? Was it the feeling of relief and crying and the words I’m proud of you whispered over and over?

“I’m satisfied with where we stand,” she lied.

Lilith seemed to pause, and for a moment, there was a pang of hurt on her face. With it, Zelda turned away, feeling the awkwardness pile between them. Gone was the casual relief, the fun and ease that had built between them, and now an awkwardness.

“Of course,” Lilith responded, and then, with a nod, she shifted, looking to Zelda. “And what are we? Because right now, you’re not my client. So what’s…this?”

Zelda blinked, shifting. “I–I don’t know,” she admitted.

Lilith nodded again, her face masking into the familiar expression Zelda had come to know of her dominatrix. “Perhaps you should think on what this is, and then let me know however you want to define it. But, I need to understand what parameters you’re setting when you advise that you arecurrently satisfied with where we stand.’”

Zelda swallowed and nodded. “Of course.”

And then Lilith’s expression softened. “Good. Now…did you want a cup of tea before you return to the couch?” Zelda didn’t need to read between the lines to notice that she was being kicked out.

“No, I…I can make my own way.” She shifted off from the bed, moving to grab the nightgown and tug it on. The words continued to hum in her head, the inquiry from Lilith, and what are we followed by the soft, sweetened voice. It’s been a while…since I let anyone touch me.

Zelda realised that her heart was heavy with guilt as she made her way downstairs, moving to lie back on the couch. Lilith liked her, and Zelda had essentially recoiled away from that vulnerability. She wasn’t sure what that meant for them but knew that she needed to consider Lilith’s question fairly, take the time to consider it.

What did she want?

The next morning was quiet. Lilith was polite as she made breakfast and then offered to take Zelda home. Through the drive, Zelda sat rigid in her seat, feeling the last night run through her head. What had begun awful had slowed to becoming an almost nice evening and then somehow devolved to her feeling guilty over what had occurred.

She sighed, looking out at the window.

“You’ve huffed every minute for the last five minutes,” Lilith advised. “Either you’re trying to get my attention, or you’re still embarrassed about last night.”

“Who said I was embarrassed?” Zelda asked––despite the truth of the observation.

Lilith glanced at her. “I did, just then,” she pointed out. “Did you want to involve me in your thoughts?”

“Not particularly.”

“Suit yourself. But the only reason that I have been frustrated with you is that you’re not honest with me. Which, as you recall, was the only thing I requested from you.”

Zelda was silent at that. Last night, it had been her only request. And if Zelda looked back, on the first night at her townhouse, it’d been her only request then, too.

As the drive continued in the quiet, Zelda felt the words shift in her head as she realised that perhaps she was unnecessarily complicating this. She turned and looked to Lilith. “I enjoy your company,” she advised. Lilith blinked and glanced at her.

“I enjoy your company, too.”

“I––“ she paused then, trying to find the words. “I don’t know what I want. I enjoy the…activities we involve in. The sex. But anything further than that, is difficult for me. I have a full-time job that requires out-of-office hours for it to be effectively maintained and a niece who I’m raising, which feels like its own full-time job––not to mention Hilda and Ambrose. I can’t…I don’t have time for a relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Is that the only reason? You don’t feel you’d be able to fairly share your time?”

“It is.”

Lilith’s fingers tapped on the steering wheel. “For clarity’s sake, if that weren’t an issue, are you saying that you would potentially be interested in a relationship?”

Zelda swallowed, feeling the familiar panic rise. “I wouldn’t pursue it at this stage.”

“That’s not a no.”

She turned, looking to Lilith, catching a strange hardened expression, as if Lilith was holding back something. “I enjoy your company outside of sex, too,” Zelda admitted. “But it’s not fair to dwell on maybes when my life isn’t ready for such a step.”

Lilith nodded, but she smiled nonetheless. “How about we uncomplicated this. Once a week, I’ll set a time for you and me in unpaid services on the weekend. We can engage in kink if you like, or we can just sit and talk as friends, or we can have sex. But perhaps instead of being client and service provider, we could be friends with some additional benefits.”

“Friends,” Zelda echoed, feeling the word on her tongue. “I’m happy to pay.”

“I know. It’s not about that. It’s unethical for me to continue to make you pay one half of the time and yet not the other half when I summon you for my own sexual desires. This way, I think we’ll both feel more comfortable.”

Zelda nodded. A set time she could pencil in. A friend. It wasn’t a situation she disliked, though a strange ache filled her chest––truthfully, she did want more, but she stood by what she said. There was no room in her life for a partner. The last decade of dating was proof enough for that. “I would like that,” she agreed.

“So would I,” Lilith said. “Because I enjoyed your tongue last night, and I want to see what other skills you have hidden from me.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, indeed,” Lilith said. “In fact, we’re not that far from my other townhouse. If you like…we could begin with this arrangement today. Test the waters, so to speak.”

Zelda wanted to advise that they probably tested the waters last night, but who was she to argue against Lilith offering sex? “I think that sounds agreeable––though if we’re ‘testing waters’ and checking for ‘hidden skills,’ perhaps I should take the lead this time and show you what I’m truly capable of.”

“I told you before, I’m more than happy to reverse our roles,” Lilith said before she gave her a quick glance. “But out of curiosity…what are you looking at doing?”

“Why don’t you pull off this road, and I’ll give you a preview?”

Lilith did, and Zelda showed her what she could actually do with just her hands as she fucked Lilith in the front seat, making her come as she ground against Zelda’s thigh, her hot breath fogging up the car windows to prevent any curious onlookers from peering in and seeing Zelda’s mouth wrapped around her breast as her fingers curled inside of her.

Perhaps the shift in their relationship was for the best––it at least eased the ache in Zelda’s chest, providing warmth and steadiness as she listened to Lilith make those most beautiful noises she’d ever had the pleasure to hear.

She didn’t know what the future held, but right now, Lilith was apart of that future, and that seemed to steady her.

“Just you wait, Zelda Spellman,” Lilith panted as she shifted back into her seat, adjusting her clothes. “I’m going to tie you up and fuck you hard––I know what you like.”

“And what’s that?”

“Control,” Lilith teased. “So what happens when I take that away and make you become a whimpering mess

#Zelda Spellman #lilith #caos fanfic #madam spellman #zelith

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fanworks-library · 4 years ago

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summary: youre just a completely ordinary college student living in a post monster world

pairing: dr w,d gaster/reader

tags: reader-insert, reader with a vag, noncon

You had never been very lucky in life. Some days, frankly, you wanted to give up. But you had determination and held on.

Recently, you were starting to feel like your determination was finally, finally paying off.

Even though you had bottom barrel grades and a shitty attendance record all throughout high school, you had gotten into your first choice university. On top of that, you had got a full scholarship that included room and board. You were sure there had been some mistake but you weren’t about to pursue that line inquiry.

Even this dorm of yours was a dream come true.

You had applied for a single person room; on a whim, really. There was no way someone like you would get it. But just a week before the move-in date, you received a letter from the school saying that under recommendation of your doctor a single person room was needed for you and your request was approved.

Well, you didn’t have a doctor. Like, maybe you needed one; sure, but you sure as heck couldn’t afford one.

You were benefiting from someone’s mistakes and it took you a few weeks to be okay with that.

While you had never been to the city the university was in before your move-in day, you had for, some reason, always wanted to live there. Your inexplicable feeling was right; you absolutely loved it. Not that you got out much, but you loved every quaint small business and aged building fronts. You loved the ancient trees, the fields of flowers and the cobblestone roads. It was like traveling back in time and made you feel, for once in your life, at home.

This was an opportunity of a lifetime and…

You were on the precipice of fucking it completely up every single day.

You had absolutely no idea what to major in so you applied under Undeclared. You had until the end of Sophomore year to make a declaration but you were already feeling like trash about it. Everyone else in your class had drive, had goals; knew exactly who they were and what they wanted to do. Except you.

You’d tell anyone who asked that you just wanted to get all the electives and gen ed courses out of the way, to which you often got mummers of support and “Good idea, I should have done that,” but you were fairly certain that your lie was transparent and others were mocking you with fake sympathy. You hated it.

Your classes were simultaneously overwhelming and under stimulating. You were struggling keeping all your grades above failing. Well, all except for one;

This semester you were taking Introduction to Monster History as an elective.

The speed which the overworld had gotten use to the monsters being back was nothing short of incredible. It was like they never left. By the end of the week, it was old news.

Especially in the city you were in. It was the first one monsters reached when they came down from the Mount Ebott. The outskirts of the city wrapped around the mountains base; civilization petered out, the last road turned into a dirt path that led to the woods that went all the way to the top.

You knew because you had walked it before. The barrier may have been broken but a fall like that sounded pretty good at the time. Last semester’s finals had been particularly killer on your self esteem.

But now, you finally had a class you were actually good at.

Even on your very worst days, you still dragged yourself to this class. You weren’t afraid to be called on randomly, to raise your hand or just blurt an answer out.

Sometimes, when you did your reading assignment, it felt like you had read them before. And even when you winged a test you basically got everything right.

Was this what it was like to be good at something? You were sure you had never felt happier in your entire life.

But you were still, unfortunately, you; so when the final project was assigned you waited the last minute to do anything about it. The final was in three parts; part one was your typical test, part two and three went hand in hand. You had to write a research paper and do an interview with a monster that later had to be quoted in your paper with proper citations.

At first that third part sounded pretty impossible but many of your classmates were monsters and most of them were really eager to share about their lives in the underground.

The professor had kindly set up a suggestion board for theses. But, as aforementioned, since you waited until the last moment, every last one of them was gone. That’s when you panicked and realized you better kicked it into high gear.

So, you spent the rest of the week pouring over your class books. Then over books in the library that were written by monsters (you were surprised how unorthodox and laid back the nonfiction books were written).

The more and more you read, the more you realized how absolutely in love with monster history you were.

You had to write a paper that would blow your teacher away. If you got a good grade on this…yes, if you get a good grade on this you would absolutely declare your major to History with a focus on Monsterkind!

You exhausted the library’s resources with speed that surprised you. You scourged the internet. Your interests jumped from one topic to another. Your notebook was filled with notes and thesis ideas. Many you deemed too boring after an hour of reading up on it.

You needed a way to narrow everything down and make a choice. So, you decided to make a timeline with different color highlighters, each color representing an important monster to their culture and then in their colors you’d highlight your notes and the one that monster or that time period had the most interesting facts you would write about.

Maybe something even ridiculously specific, like trade of monsterfood during such and such time. You didn’t know what you were looking for until the third or fourth time you had to start the timeline over.

You had been, up until that point, ripping out the notebook pages, crumpling them up and tossing them on the floor because you had believed you were messing up.

But it wasn’t you that was messing it up (for once), it was something about the source material that was messed up.

Dates weren’t lining up right. Birth dates, death dates, dates of important events. Your yellow highlighter was frequently going over the purple one. And there there were gaps that none of the highlighters could fill.

You knew what your paper was going to be about.

Going back through all the books you had taken from the library and all the books you had for your class, you went through the text with laser focus. You returned to the internet until you were on the tenth O in the google.

Due to how long monsters lived and how peaceful they were, they didn’t really have that much history to get all tangled up in, it wasn’t like it was with humans. Everything flowed smoothly from one year to another, a clear and easy to see timeline like a 12 piece puzzle, except…except for one thing.

One piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit into any of the groves right yet came in the box with the others.

Armed with actual notecards and a notebook filled with actual honest to god research for once you were ready to start your paper at the final hour.

The blank word doc started at you and you back at it.

You attempted to pluck out some kind of a title:

Who is W.D Gaster? (You deleted it.)

Where is W.D Gaster? (You deleted it.)

When is W.D Gaster? (You deleted it.)

Your eyes were feeling kinda heavy. When was the last time you slept? Days likely but you couldn’t sleep yet not now that you were actually working on something. You still had to interview someone and this thing was due on Monday at 12:00 am on the dot and it was Friday.

Maybe it was time for a change of music, you thought but forgot what you were doing after opening the tab.

Time to throw in the town for today, there was no way you could work like this. You still had two full days to do this which was one day extra than your usual poor planning cram sessions. So, instead of whatever screaming metal you were going to turn on, you turned a nature sound generator on instead.

(You set it to rain on roof at 79%, wind in leaves at 62%, thunder at 100% with the second option in the green bar drop down menu) and forest ambience at 79%)

Your muscles relaxed the moment you hit the bed, falling back on it with a triumphant umph. Lulled by the sounds coming from your computer, you fell asleep before you could even get under the covers.

Something woke you up.

Your computer which should have been emitting the soothing sounds of a rain storm was now making an awful garbled static. It had cut through the quiet of your dorm so suddenly and loudly that it had woken you up. There was a strange rattling sound you recognized but you knew you shouldn’t be hearing. Your brain was too tired to worry too much about any of this.

It was dark outside, dark in your room. You didn’t bother looking at your clock to see what time it was.

You didn’t feel like getting up and investigating that strange sound, or fixing the awful sound coming from your computer. You were so tired that the discordant sounds couldn’t stop you from closing your eyes and getting back to sleep.

Something grazed your cheek gently and in your half asleep state you reflectively leaned into that something without a thought. Whatever was touching you gave off the feeling of being shocked, like static electricity; only low and cold and constant. It wasn’t entire unpleasant. And the feeling of deja vu rattled in your sleepy head. Was this a dream?

Maybe one you’ve had before?

And then you felt your hair get mossed about, which caused you to open your eyes. You didn’t turn the ceiling fan on before you went to bed, there wasn’t like a breeze or anything in your room.

You felt it again, more distinct this time, like someone running their fingers through your hair.

Startled, you went to get up as quick as possible. You mind rationally jumped to There Is A Massive Spider In My Hair. And you were going to get it out, only—

Your movement was met with resistance. Your shoulders weren’t even a half an inch off the bed before you found yourself pushed back down. Pinned.

There was that rattling sound again.

You attempted to move your legs. You could wiggle them a bit but not get them up. The same with your arms. What…? What was this!? Was this sleep paralysis?

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the room felt big and dizzy. The static from your computer was barely audible over the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ear drum.

There was another noise, that weird rattling sound again.

It clicked in your brain finally. It was the sound of your keyboard. It was missing a leg so it hopped up and down, rattling against your desk, when being typed on.

You had just seen the screen of your desktop for a half of a second when you had jolted up. Just enough time to see a line of new type on it before you had been pinned down to the bed.

Something brushed against your neck causing you to yelp. You turned your head even though there was no way you could angle your face to see what it was.

Outside the corner of your eye, you could see another line being added to your semi-blank word doc. From your bed you couldn’t make it out but it didn’t exactly look like letters. You could see a third line start just as something that most definitely felt like hand push your head so that you were looking at the ceiling.

You heard your keyboard rattle again.

You tried to jerk your head out of the invisible grasp but it held firm, the feeling of large unseen fingers dug into your jawline.

Another invisible hand settled around your throat, this one squeeze for a second and you panicked. Maybe you were having a stroke, people choke to death then don’t they? You were having some kind of strange stroke and you were going to suffocate on your own organs.

The pressure on your neck grew tighter and tighter while was felt unmistakably like hands ran across your chest. It then let up completely, suddenly, while the hands on your chest explored your shape. You gasped for breath.

While you were busy getting air in your lungs the hands left your chest and started to navigate south. They ran along your sides, stretching down to your stomach.

With what limited movement you had, you struggled against whatever force was keeping you on the bed. It was moving under the shirt now, you tried to get a look at it but you couldn’t get your head out of the vice grip.

Struggling only made the unseen force hold onto you tighter.

When what felt very much like hands reach your bare skin again you gasped, the touch was cold yet electric and you could feel goosebumps being raised. And you could feel two new hands run down the sides of your hips to your legs.

They just barely touched your thighs as they rans down your legs, finger tips spidering over your skin. Harder, they pressed against your calves and then again up to your thighs, on the inside now before pulling your legs farther apart.

You were starfished; pinned on your bed like a frog waiting to be dissected.

What felt unmistakably like a finger pressed itself against your lips as the sensation of hands returned to your chest, this time under your clothes. You weren’t going to let whatever this was in your mouth. You kept your lips such even as the fingers were massaging your chest, roughly then softly, pulling and digging in.

The energy they were giving up almost had you gasping but you kept your lips good and shut, that is; until whatever this was pressed down on your clit,phasing right through your clothes.

The sudden shock made you gasp and the fingers invaded your mouth. You gagged against the intrusion, attempting to push what really felt like two large fingers from going farther into your mouth, your tongue was overpowered and they slid down with ease, pushing to the back of your throat, where you started gagging anew, just when you thought you were going to throw up the fingers moved back. Your face was already beginning to feel sore from how stretched your lips were across the fingers.

The tip of an unseen finger was rubbing circles against your clit at a painfully slow pace, the movement felt almost mechanical; lacking any sort of variation.

The low static hum being pulsed into you from the touch caused your hips to buck and you were mortified at yourself, trying to gain purchase, trying to urge whatever was happening to you to happen harder and faster.

This hallucination, this nightmare, took the hint and picked up speed. You whined, your steadily heavy growing breath muffled by the fingers that were running the length of your mouth. Drool was slipping passed your lips, being pushed out by the friction of the fingers, running down to your chin.

You hips were jerking, everything was so overwhelming, hands were at your side running slow, tips of fingers barely grazing your skin, hands ran from your neck over to your chest, giving you the vague sense that your pulse and heart beat were being checked upon continuously.

Your hair was being touched; gently. Lovingly. Your checks being brushed upon by backs of invisible hands, and just when you thought you were at your limit, a finger was running the length of your vagina.

Only now did you realize how wet you were, feeling your own fluid being rubbed against your folds.

You were attempting to mentally ready yourself for what was going to happen next. You knew it was coming. The finger pushed itself to what you assumed was the knuckle on the single go, the length filling your limit. It knocked the wind out of you. The silent moan was caught in your throat and the force of the entry caused your upper half to lift up, braced against the hands that were holding your shoulders down.

You fell back on the bed and bucked your hips, which pushed the massive finger further in. You had thought there was no way that there was more to it, but you were wrong. It hit up against the farthest part of you and freed the muted cry.

Your moan was muffled by the fingers pumping away in the same slow mechanical pacing.

You were focusing now on keeping your body as still as possible but you were shaking. The feeling of electricity ran through your cunt and you couldn’t take it.

Another finger joined in and, as wet as you were, you were feeling uncomfortably stretched. What was being inserted into you felt like burning against your clenching walls.

The fingers curled, keeping their steady pace. You sobbed against the fingers that were once again pushing the limits of your gag reflexes.

You heard your keyboard rattle again.

Losing yourself now, your hips rose and fell; desperate for more speed so you could just finish already.

A new set of hands held your hips firmly in place while the fingers worked. This time your movements didn’t prompt them to work faster.

You let out a panicked cry when your lower half was suddenly lifted up. You were being supported and your mind was scrambling for logical explanations.

None came to mind.

Two hands were gently spreading your ass and you gave a half-hearted struggle, you didn’t hand the grip to tighten but you wanted out of this. You could barely form complete thoughts at this point and you were dizzy from trying to make sense of what was happening.

The two fingers cried out and, despite yourself, you cried out at the loss in desperation. One of the two fingers pushed into your anus completely, your own fluids weren’t enough to make that entry comfortable. If you weren’t being muffled you were sure your dorm neighbor would have heard the noise you made.

The finger was slowly working in and out of you, just like it had in your pussy a moment ago.

A new finger had replace the two that had left and started at a sudden, quick pace, curling just right against your g spot. The pace was unbearable and the fingers holding you in place were gripping hard as your body attempted to curl up on itself.

The finger on your clit was coming down hard on you now. You could feel it bruising already and yet it wasn’t enough. You weren’t surprised to feel tears running down your face but you couldn’t remember when you had started crying. Your choked sobs and moans were muffled by the fingers in your mouth. Your were just barely aware of the keyboard rattling.

You were so close to cumming, so close, so close…!

You knew a flood of feelings would hit you. Fear, shame…satisfaction, but for this moment your mind was blank as your own liquid ran hot down your ass. You heard yourself drip on your bed and the first thought you had when your mind returned was what a pain the laundry would be.

As you came, one of the hands on your chest travelled to your centre. You were still being held up by the hands which you had hoped without reason would just vanish after you came. You had your entire weight on them, limp and a final moan was shaking from your throat.

The hand at your middle pushed into you. The horrible sensation of been punched through like a fork stabbing through the plastic in a microwaved meal. Your moan turned into a scream.

The sensation not necessarily painful but frightening and wrong.

There’s a squeezing pressure all around your chest, all around your entire self. Were you dying!? Was this dying!?

You feel yourself lose consciousness.

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egoludes · 5 years ago

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need.

note: so...here we are. my first marvel piece, and it's just bare filth, LOL. @feminarrie and i were tossing around this idea about reader touching herself while steve is gone and bucky overhearing/ratting her out, and kaitlin said one (1) thing about bucky maybe getting too into it and this is the result. it’s a long off the cuff concept with some minimal, clean-up-sleepy-typos editing, so i'm sorry in advance for anything that doesn't flow like my full-fledged fics do. i just had a ton of fun musing about this in k's messages and wanted to share! hope you enjoy!

warnings: nsfw (18+), masturbation, voyeurism of a sort, grey-ish bucky, hints of dom!steve. to be direct, if you don’t like the concept of someone listening in on someone else without their permission -- understandably, a little creepy -- please don't read. this is a departure from what i've posted in the past, so it's okay if you pass!

well, we have to start at the beginning: steve dipping down and kissing you hard in the quinjet hangar. he takes his time, like he's memorizing the depths of your mouth for the journey ahead. and when he pulls away, it's with a smile hidden in his beard, fingers pressing hair out of your eyes to see you. "you gonna be okay without me, baby?" he‘s gotten into the habit of asking that before he goes, your considerate, earnest man. but today, he's especially worried -- he'll be gone longer than usual (and even a small mistake could keep him away longer than that) and he hates the thought of you alone all that time.

your answer is a nose to his jaw, a gentle gesture that makes him tip into you. "i am, stevie, promise -- you just worry about getting home safe to me." he nods, curt and quick, before smiling again, this time a little more deviously. you know what's coming next, but the hands skimming over your ass still make you squeak, a sound he eats up with that wolfish grin. "and you'll be good too?" his eyes flash a darker blue, heat rising between you from that question alone. again, you know exactly what he's asking --- less inquiry and more reminder of the one rule you aren't to break when he's away.

keep your hands to yourself.

it's hard sometimes, but you always make it through, too eager for his praise for anything else. so, when he asks, you have no qualms nodding, pulling him down to meet your mouth, and swiping your thumb over the cut of his jaw. "yes, sir."

only, you're an absolute liar. for one reason or another, steve's away longer than you ever could have prepared for, hours turning to days and days to weeks at a snail's pace. the first half of it is easy enough ---- nothing you haven't done before between his days at shield and now. but, by week three, you're so wound up it's dizzying, ache making a mess of you with an almost laughable intensity.

and it only gets worse as the days go on. you start to dream about him; the weight of his cock on your tongue, or how it feels twitching and leaking against your thigh just before he cracks you open. you dream about the way he'd fucked you the last night he was home, fingers in your mouth so you can taste yourself while he filled you. he'd taken you a few times over -- "need something to think about out there," he’d said -- and kissed you long and sweet afterwards. it's all you want now. all you need now. need, need, need licking at your heels like flames.

you crack on week five.

it happens after a particularly rough day of training, body hypersensitive after hours of being tossed about like a rag doll. you feel the tension ripple through you even as you tuck yourself into bed, hair damp from a long shower, and even longer bath. you decide then and there that whatever punishment steve might dole out if he finds out -- how could he, you think -- is worth the relief. still, you start slow; fingers tentative as they slip between your legs because it'd be just your luck for him to come barreling in, right as you deliberately defy him. but, when you press your pointer to your clit through damp panties and jolt at how good the simple touch feels, you start to forget about the risk you're taking. start to lift your hips to meet your hand and let sounds rise out of you, because you're convinced you're completely fine. there's no way he will ever know.

unless bucky barnes has something to say about it.

bucky would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued by your and steve's sex life. being one room over, he hears so much of it as it is, moans, whines, and filth, filth, filth spilling into his room at all hours of the day. the curiosity has gotten so large at times that he finds himself asking steve outright what it's like ---- what you're like. the question only comes when he's had enough asgardian liquor to laugh it away if steve rejects it, but he never does. if anything, steve is eager to share; a content, almost proud look to him as he gushes about his sweet girl. his baby doll. his hot, wild, insatiable little minx.

bucky just nods usually -- 'ooh's and 'aah's and quite genuinely at that, because who would have thought that you behave so well behind closed doors? but, he never takes it further than that. never admits how much he leaks just at the sight of you now, or that he imagines you over him when he fucks his hand at night, whimpering in a stupor. it's his dirtiest little secret, something to do in the dead of night when there's no way you or steve could catch him.

it's what makes this so dangerous. the last thing he should be doing is listening to you. as far as you're concerned, he's completely asleep -- had told you goodnight hours ago now -- and this is your time to chase relief in private. but like most nights, actual slumber is hard to come by and bucky is fully awake when the first whimper leaves you.

immediately, he's blinking past his weariness, eyes darting towards the wall that connects you and narrowing as though scrutinizing what he heard. there's no way...

then, you do it again. this time, more broken, more breathless and his cock twitches because fuck, did you just put a finger inside yourself? there's no way to know, but he could guess. he could see it vividly now. legs spread with your panties at your ankles; pretty and wet with your fingers rolling over your clit and between your folds to get yourself started. he licks his lips, swallows thick thinking about how good that room must smell because of you; heat and musk hanging thick in the air for men with even weaker senses than him. and before he can stop himself, his cock is in his hand, throbbing and angry red with beads of precum already at the tip. he strokes lazily at first, taking his time because you are, too -- mewls still soft and exploratory.

but desperation is a funny thing. for you, it's filling yourself with three fingers almost as soon as you start. the stretch isn't nearly enough --- not nearly as good, but for tonight, it'll do. for tonight, it's just right, urging your hips up and forward at a steady pace as your free hand scrambles for your breasts. you'd meant to take your time, but the momentum is hard to taper after so long without release. you thank god bucky had gone to bed so early because you know you're getting loud. you know you're getting out of hand, rocking the bed all on your own with how hard you're chasing climax, and whining out loud for steve as if it'll make him come home faster. you try to muffle yourself with a bite to your lip, but your teeth come down too hard and end up breaking the skin. brine and copper burst onto your tongue and in a way you can only describe as primal, it spurs you on -- even if steve gets mad about you breaking his rules, you hope he could appreciate how much you need him. how much he unravels you, even without being there.

for bucky, it’s rising from his bed to press his forehead to the wall so he might hear you better. there's a low lying shame at it ---- he knows he's invading your privacy, and crossing an unspoken line between him and steve, but god, if you don't make his head hazy. he can't even think straight now that he's going, bucking into the warm flesh of his right hand while the other scrapes and whirrs against the wall. he meets each of your moans with a grunt of his own, managing somehow to keep his volume controlled. but that doesn't make this any less animalistic, any less wild. no, if anything, there's something especially dangerous in his focus; quiet but needy movements that speak to nothing but this rising urge to feel you, just once, if you and steve would let him.

you're both at the brink before you know it, fingers tightening, twisting, pulling, tugging until you're arching off the bed with a whimper and bucky's crumbling forward, spilling hot white all over his fingers -- the most spent you've ever been.

come morning, it'll be like nothing ever happened. not for him, and certainly not for you. especially when you both wake up to an alert from FRIDAY, clear and crisp: "good morning - captain rogers has just landed."

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve x reader #bucky x reader #mcu fanfic #steve rogers fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #this is the nonsense k gets on a daily basis asldksjaldkja

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grapefruitsketches · 5 years ago

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Untamed Spring Fest 2020 - Days 24-30: Chapter 3, Nest, Part I (Day 26)

Part of my Songxiao post-canon fix-it fic series:

Also available AO3 (I finally remembered to post first so I can add the link here): link

2,824 Words

Chapter 3: Xiao Xingchen awakens to a sudden sound.

A quiet hillside. A light rain. A familiar taste of sesame which he delicately licked off his fingers. Brushing Zichen’s hand as they both reached for the fruit laid out on the blanket at the same time.

A shout, and Xingchen snapped into consciousness. He was in a bed. His bed. His bed in the Cloud Recesses guest house.

“Mmn, Zichen?” Xiao Xingchen pushed himself up to sit up on the bed and rubbed his temples, trying to wake himself up. As the fog of sleep left him, he was able to register what exactly had woken him, and cut himself off mid yawn, jolted into high alert. A shout? In Cloud Recesses? He patted the around next to him. First close, then, further from his side, becoming more and more desperate. He found only empty space. No Zichen.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled, legs still asleep even if his mind was wide awake, towards the far side of the room, where he kept Shuanghua. He longed for the days he could comfortably sleep with Shuanghua within arm’s reach, but the first (and only) time he had tried to since his reawakening, he had been unable to sleep, kept awake by images of unconsciously reaching for it in the night. Swinging it. Zichen once again becoming its innocent victim. He had remained stiffly awake for the better part of an hour, exhausted, frustrated, until he had finally given up and moved the sword to its new resting place. A place that now seemed foolishly far from where he slept. He chastised himself for his own weaknesses, leaving him less able to protect himself, find Zichen, because of his own fears and lack of control.

Traversing the room seemed like it took an eternity, his ears still straining for any hint of what that shout had been, where Zichen was, but only catching a faint rustle of wind as it caught the branches outside. He finally reached the sword. Even now, though, he found himself unable to pull the sword from its sheath, not trusting it or himself to correctly identify a threat. Not until he knew where Zichen was. Despite this, his hand still gripped the hilt firmly.

What time was it? It was not a morning where they had Inquiry lessons, Xingchen knew. Was it a day when Zichen had guqin lessons without him? Had he gone to library to read poetry, as he had taken to doing recently? Those days when all he did was practice scales, precision, dexterity, no hint of the language Xingchen would one day understand? Leaving the room so as to let Xingchen sleep in, as he worked to extinguish the exhaustion that had haunted him since he reawakened? That would explain Zichen’s absence, but he usually at least woke Xingchen up to say goodbye before he…

The sound of the door sliding open, footsteps, and it slid closed again. Xingchen focused on the sword’s hilt, ready to draw but not wanting to until he was absolutely sure whoever (whatever?) entered was a foe, not a friend.

“Who is it?” he sounded far more confident, stern, than he felt. He was rattled. His voice was able to resist any effect, it seemed, but he received no answer.

The door slid open once more. Another sound of footsteps, Xingchen started to pull the sword from its sheath, not far, just enough to shorten the time it would take to free it, to swing it at any danger in one fluid motion. The shaking in his hands became apparent as the loosened sword struck the sides of its sheath, though it wasn’t clear whether the hand holding the sword or the sheath was more at fault. Memories of the last times it had been drawn. Against him, against Zichen. He shook his head. If Zichen was in trouble, he would get over that, he would draw the sword again, he just had to be sure that that was truly what was going…

“Xiao-xiong!” the voice was loud, urgent but cautious.

Xiao Xingchen huffed out a relieved breath, with several more breaths following in rapid succession. It was the unmistakeable sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice. He let Shuanghua fall comfortably, innocently, back into its sheath and dropped it, the sound of the sword clattering to the floor loud in the room’s quiet. Two hands met his now sagging shoulders as he caught his breath, boosting him so that strong arms could wrap around his chest. Xingchen let himself lean into them.

“Zichen,” he sighed, able to recognize the shape of this embrace anywhere.

“Wei-gongzi,” Xingchen added, panting, grateful for Zichen’s support, “I am sorry for… the disturbance.” He was ashamed to think of what Wei Wuxian must have walked into - Xiao Xingchen, poised to strike, (lethal) sword half-drawn, no threat in sight. And… had that been Zichen who had walked in at first? Had Zichen once again been met with the sight of the man who supposedly loved him prepared to attack, without any way to safely and vocally reassure him that he was no enemy?

“Xiao-xiong…” the sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice came again, still from the opposite side of the room, near the door, softer, apologetic, “I’m sorry we woke you - Song-xiong tried to quiet them in time but…”

“It’s… fine.” Xingchen replied, his heart pounding from the whiplash. Zichen was here, he was ok. No need for a sword. They were both safe, he swallowed, turning his face towards the sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice, “Who was it you were trying to quiet?” he was grateful that he was able to keep his voice mostly to its usual even cadence. Zichen didn’t resist as Xingchen lightly pulled away, gently releasing of Xingchen from his grip, apparently satisfied that Xingchen was now able to stand independently. There was a light caress, Zichen’s hand on his cheek, before Zichen’s hand dropped, reaching instead for one of Xingchen’s hands. The added comfort of fingers interlaced, palms touching, calmed his heart.

Xiao Xingchen thought he detected a smile in Wei Wuxian’s voice as he replied, “The shout was because Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen just arrived. Jingyi couldn’t contain himself.”

Xingchen nodded, “I am sorry to have interrupted their reunion.” His mouth was dry, his relief had become pure embarrassment at having overreacted so severely to an excited childish shriek. He displayed nothing more than his usual reserved smile, however.

Song Zichen squeezed his hand before letting go entirely. Xingchen heard the shuffle of papers, the gliding of a brush across a page.

Wei Wuxian read Zichen’s message aloud, “They should have known better, not to shout in Cloud Recesses. It’s not your fault. I am sorry you didn’t get the chance to sleep.”

Wei Wuxian added, “Song-xiong is right, you know. Jingyi’s just lucky he’s growing up now and not twenty years ago when the punishment would have been… more severe.” Wei Wuxian chuckled darkly.

Xiao Xingchen nodded, familiar with the Lan clan’s disciplinary reputation. “Jin Ling is… the Jin Clan Leader now?” he said slowly, trying to remember Zichen’s thorough briefing on current affairs through Sizhui’s patient voice, “And Ouyang Zizhen is… I’m sorry, I don’t remember that name.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, “Don’t worry about it. For all intents and purposes, right now all either of them are treated as here are as Jingyi and Sizhui’s close friends…”

He was cut off by a wail at the door, “Gentle Breeze!” an unfamiliar, sobbing voice shouted, in open defiance of any of the Cloud Recesses’ noise restrictions, “You’re a-a-alive!”

A pile of voice fell in after the sobs.

“I’m so sorry for the intrusion-“ Sizhui’s voice.

“Hey! You can’t just go bursting in on-” a second unfamiliar voice said, huffily.

“You’re one to talk. What if you had woken Xiao-xiong just now?” Xingchen knew that to be Jingyi.

“Shut up, you were the one shouting not two minutes ago even after Song-xiong-!” the huffy voice retorted.

A sharp exhale escaped from Xingchen, then another, and another in short succession. Zichen’s hand found his arm again and squeezed in concern as Xingchen raised his free hand to cover his mouth. But as the gasps became more obviously laughter, Zichen’s hand once again relaxed. Xingchen couldn’t stop laughing. Minutes ago, he had been in a panic, ready to fight any enemy that dared harm Zichen, only for this apparent foe to have been revealed to be merely a boy excited to see his friends. He shook with laughter, trying to breathe deep to stop his outburst, but taking longer than he should.

After the laughter finally subsided, Xingchen regaining his usual composure, Wei Wuxian introduced the two new voices in turn, Ouyang Zizhen still sniffling as he gave his name, Jin Ling primly stating what an honour it was to meet him. They both already seemed familiar with Zichen, who they each greeted with variations of how nice it was to see him again, and how well he looked.

“It is an honour to meet each of you.” Xiao Xingchen answered, smiling as he bowed in each of their directions, feeling awkward at the reverence with which these youths spoke to him. He was sure their golden cores were younger than even the most recent of his worthwhile deeds, “May I ask where you and Zichen met before?”

“Ah, Xiao-xiong,” Wei Wuxian cut in nervously, before any of the Juniors could speak, “these disciples… they were there when we met with Song-xiong four years ago.”

Realization dawned on Xiao Xingchen, “With Zichen… in… Yi City?” his blood froze at the town’s name, words he hadn’t spoken since his revival, thoughts he didn’t want to let in. A link he knew existed (Song-xiong… Yi City) but that he didn’t want examine too closely because of the further associations that town’s name would inevitably bring. He’d gotten only the bare minimum of an explanation of what had happened, and was vaguely aware that Sizhui and Jingyi had been there, based on minor corrections Sizhui had made while interpreting Zichen’s recounting of the events to Xingchen. He must have wavered, because suddenly he was aware that he was leaning on Zichen’s hand not just for comfort but for support.

“Yes.” Wei Wuxian answered slowly, carefully.

Xingchen nodded slowly, mind drifting off to another time… he tried to bring his mind back to the present, breathing in deep. He focused on the smell of tea, which was never quite absent from any place he and Zichen occupied for more than a night. The feeling of his feet grounded on the floor. Zichen’s hand on his arm. The faint sounds of breathing, his own, and more importantly, Zichen’s beside him. He breathed out, his shoulders relaxed as he remembered to bring back the smile that had fallen off his face at some point.

“Of course,” he said, taking a moment to purse his lips, subtly wetting them after his mouth had become uncomfortably dry, “I am glad you were all there to help Zichen.” When I could not. He left unsaid.

The sound of a brush being dipped in ink, writing on the page, but this time, the message didn’t seem to have been for him, because instead of translating, all Wei Wuxian said was, “Come on, you four. Time for lunch. Xiao-xiong, Song-xiong, you should join us for dinner, near the Western guest rooms where Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen are staying. Jin Ling claims his cooking is not to be missed. I don’t believe it, but you should come anyway.”

The minor protests Xiao Xingchen heard about how they were still full from breakfast quieted quickly. Xingchen could only assume Wei Wuxian, or more likely Zichen, had cast quite the warning look at the young cultivators.

“I hope to have more time to meet each of you later.” Xingchen bowed, earning a variety of cheerful responses as the five pairs of footsteps shuffled out.

He sighed as the door slid shut, carefully pulling Zichen’s hand off his arm. He made his way back to the bed and sat down, head in hands. The young cultivators’ enthusiasm was infectious. Xingchen hadn’t laughed like that in a very long time. Their pure joy at seeing him had been hard to resist. But… He rubbed his temples. They had been louder than anything he had been confronted with since his revival, and he wasn’t sure if his current headache could be credited to their volume, his lingering exhaustion, or that they reminded him of another young one he had once taken under his wing (a girl who probably would have been better off without him, one whose sacrifice could be credited for any life he or his partner currently led).

He felt tears again paint his face and he wanted to scream in frustration. Today was a normal day. He’d woken up alone but only because the one he loved was trying to help him get some more sleep, despite the excitement of close friends reuniting. These were good things. Safe things. So why did he feel so battered?

He pressed in on the sides of his head, as though trying to force its contents into a shape that made more sense. He was safe. He was, against all odds, alive. He was supported. He was someone who was - who had always been - so composed. Able to weather anything with a smile and gentle words. Now, here he was, once again breaking down into what were becoming daily tears over basically nothing. He had experienced some tragedies many years ago, but who had not? Hanguang-Jun. Wei Wuxian. Lan Sizhui. Zichen. All had lost so much, had suffered so much, had had to live through years, hard years, which he had blissfully bypassed, only vaguely aware of his self. But now here he was, unable to hold himself together because he had been treated poorly just one time. Because he had permanently lost just one person who was close to him. No, not lost. Had killed them himself through his own blind trust. He should mourn A-Qing. He knew that. She deserved at least that. She was a hero, and had been so innocent, wandering into a conflict that should have been Xiao Xingchen’s alone to deal with. But she, not Xiao Xingchen, had noticed the danger first, even though he should have known. He had been so foolish. Was he even grieving her in the way she deserved, or was he only using her to fuel his own meaningless self-pity? His sobs grew harder, now audible.

A gentle hand on his thigh. Xiao Xingchen shook his head, moving himself away from the touch. He wanted to hide away, isolate himself from those he might harm, those he might worry. He was not worth it. Not if even here, now, he cried. Not when he felt so sorry for himself despite being shielded from the world, supported.

A clumsy plucking of strings of a guqin in the corner of the room. Safe, the chord said. The second and most recent word Zichen had asked to learn. And then, the first he had studied: Love.

Xiao Xingchen’s breathing choked, his sobs now impacting his breaths. I know, he thought, So why am I acting like this? Feeling like this?

After Xingchen had drained his supply of tears, once his breathing had returned to something more normal and the hiccups had subsided, Zichen went and got them some food. Xingchen assumed he was not gone long, but he could not be sure since he had fallen into a doze (that might have been sleep) shortly after he left.

Despite not having eaten anything since last night’s dinner, and understanding that it was now mid-afternoon, Xingchen found he had little appetite upon Zichen’s return. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware that his stomach called out for food, had even heard it growl not long ago. But the bun wouldn’t slide down his throat like it was meant to. The dough stuck as it went down.

Still, he tried, sipping slowly at the broth provided, clenching his fist and jaw as he managed to mechanically get the soup down, bit by bit.

After far longer than it should have taken to eat this fairly light lunch (breakfast?), he finally finished his meal and carefully piled the bowls in the middle of his tray, feeling no better, just maybe slightly nauseous.

“Thank you,” he whispered, laying his hand out on the table, an invitation, and apology after pulling away from Zichen so violently earlier. His hand was picked up gingerly, as though it might break, and lifted, lifted, until he felt Zichen’s lips brush against the back.

Safe. Love. The touch said, just as clearly as the guqin’s chords, but just as hard to swallow as the meal he had just finished.

Next: Chapter 4, Nest, Part II: Dinner, featuring Jin Ling's cooking and a much needed conversation between Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian (also Wen Ning appears, finally).

Chapter 4 should be posted within a day or two! It was meant to be part of this chapter, and is already written but unedited. This chapter became so absurdly long I just had to split it.

#the untamed #mdzs #cql #songxiao #xiao xingchen #song lan #wei wuxian #the junior quartet #untamed spring fest #still tagging that for organizational purposes sorry!#my writing #songxiao fix it series

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knifeshoeoreofight · 6 years ago

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He keeps dreaming of snow.

It’s July. The weather is warm and sticky, and the sun has been blazing hot for weeks. And he dreams about snow.

It’s the same every time. A lake fringed with dark trees, the ice covered in a flawless expanse of white. Blank and perfect. In the dream, he has a pair of skates slung over his shoulder by the laces. When he swings them down to untie the knots and get them on his feet, they’re always a different pair he recognizes.

The first pair of good skates he’d received as a child, still able to fit him in the boundless logic of dreaming. He’d fallen asleep clutching them to his chest when he’d gotten them that Christmas. Stuffed dog under one arm, skates under the other.

The beat up pair he hid in Rimouski, so that he could practice even after they took away his regular skates. The same ones he’d take to play shinny in the park, just to feel a little normal. Free.

The pair he wore to win gold in Vancouver, gleaming and perfect.

In the dream he sits on a snowbank and pulls the skates on, and then he’s on the ice. You can’t skate on snow-covered ice, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Dream logic again.

The dark trees around the lake never grow closer, no matter how hard he skates for the opposite shore. Always, he ends up standing in the middle of that blank, unsettling expanse of white, frustrated. When he looks behind him, there’s never a mark in the featureless snow to show where he’s been. Nothing.

And he wakes up then, usually, disturbed and wondering why the fuck he’s dreaming that dream again.

***

He’s busy enough.The flurry of early summer weddings has petered out, finally. He loves his friends’ happiness, but the annual glut gets…old. Exhausting.

He has a few media obligations, some pre-planned get togethers with Nate and any of the boys who happen to be in town. He’s ramping up the training. But he still has too much damn time to brood in between it all. You’d think he’d be able to get the bad taste of last season out of his mouth by now, but it lingers, their ignominious playoff exit following him like a shadow.

He fishes, he paddleboards. He golfs. He trains some more. He tries going to the farmer’s market and has to leave after fifteen minutes because of the commotion his appearance causes. He teaches himself how to make gluten free parmesan chicken from the Internet.

He checks social media, liking pictures of babies and dogs and summertime shenanigans on Instagram. He uploads a photo of his dock at sunrise to his private one, to a flurry of likes and chirping about being a boring old man, fishing all day.

It’s a little funny but it stings a bit too. He doesn’t like to think of himself as old. He’s not, by ordinary standards. But he is in hockey years, and it terrifies him sometimes.

He should post more often, then maybe he’d get less shit from the guys. He’d only made his account in the first place so that he could follow the people that mattered to him.

He wakes up early to find that Geno commented a string of parentheses and a couple incomprehensible emojis.

He’s given up trying to interpret what Geno means by them; he’s 90% sure he just picks the weirdest ones possible just to fuck with people.

Sid ponders what to respond, and finally settles on turtle, Brazillian flag, paperclip. There, let him have a taste of his own medicine.

i dont get it, jake posts underneath. Probably sex stuff, replies Flower. better not to ask.

Asshole, Sid replies, and feels his face flush. It’s all meant as a joke, but thinking of sex and Geno too close together is always a problem, and he buries the well-worn thing he doesn’t acknowledge like he always does.

***

The next time he has the dream, there’s someone else there. He doesn’t see them, but their presence behind him lies on him like a weight.

He stops in the middle of the lake like he always does. The presence behind him stops too.

“Hey,” Sid says, more as an inquiry than a greeting.

Some small bit of dream-awareness slots into place, and he knows that it’s Geno, behind him.

“Three years Superleague, huh?” Sid says. It’s good, and right, Geno standing behind him.

***

More training. A podcast recording with Biz and Whit that actually ends up being a lot of fun. Just shooting the shit and swapping stories.

They ask him about Geno, of course, angling for some dirt, some “ha ha he’s so Russian” and “what a bully” kind of shit. Sid doesn’t give them anything.

Geno, Sid has always thought, is more just like an enormous cat. A little moody and opinionated, liking things to be just so. Affectionate and friendly only on his own terms. He’s always wondered if that was mostly due to the language barrier, or if it’s just how Geno is. He used to watch whenever Geno spoke to Gonch, or his friends on other teams. Listen to the faster cadence of his voice, the expansive movements of his hands, the expressiveness of his face. Trying to figure out who Geno really was when he was comfortable and at ease.

He used to watch Geno way too much in those days.

It’s still a problem sometimes.

Geno always treated Sid a little differently. All of his brash pushiness is tempered a little. He always looks into Sid’s eyes when Sid is trying to tell him something, leaning in and listening with his whole body. Sid has never taken that deference and respect for granted, treating Geno’s fierce loyalty as the precious honor it is.Geno gives zero consequence to people he’s decided he doesn’t like or respect. He isn’t like Sid, he doesn’t bother to reign in his colossal emotions or attempt a veneer of politeness or charm. If he’s done with you he’s done with you.

Geno is Geno, and Sid, god help him, has always loved him for it.

***

He has the dream again, and it’s accompanied by a creeping sense of dread. He and the Geno-presence take to the ice. In the middle of the lake, instead of smooth white, the snow is broken by a series of jagged cracks, dark water sloshing malevolently inches from Sid’s skates.

“Fuck, look out–” he tells Dream-Geno, but Dream-Geno steps past him, for the first time.

“Geno!” Sid tries to scream, but he doesn’t have the air. In the disjointed way of dreams, Sid just knows that Dream-Geno is in the water now, even if he didn’t see anything happen.

He drops to his knees, and reaches out. The water looks liquid, but his fingers scrabble along it like it’s ice. He claws at it, horror and desperation cresting over him. He’s trying to scream Geno’s name, but he can’t- he just can’t-

When he wakes up, he’s gasping, heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. He’s disoriented for a split second, grief crushing, until he wakes up further and realizes he was dreaming.

He sits up with a groan, shreds of the dream and its dread slowly fading around him. Fuck. He hasn’t had a nightmare like that in years.

He checks the time on his phone, curses to see that it’s three thirty in the morning. He drags himself up, flinching as he flips the bathroom light on. He takes a piss, and splashes water on his face as if he can wash away the lingering awfulness of the dream.

So weird. He hadn’t really seen anything, but the emotions themselves had felt so real.

Back in bed, he almost doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He feels wide awake anyway. What he wants to do, is.

Incredibly stupid.

Good for a lifetime of shit-talking if Geno tells anyone.

He does it anyway.

You up? He texts Geno. It’s nine-something am in Moscow, so who knows. Geno’s not exactly a morning person.

There’s no answer, for long enough that he starts to feel even more colossally lame than he already did.

Then his phone rings, making him jump. Fuck.

“Sid?” Geno says when he picks up. “What’s happen? It’s night for you.”

God, his voice. Deep and rumbling right in his ear. Accent thick like it always gets over the summer when he doesn’t use his English for months. Sid feels something in him let go, soothed by a living, breathing Geno at the other end of the line. But, then, he realizes that he now has to come up with an explanation that isn’t just, “hey bud, just had a real bad dream, wish you were here to fucking tuck me in, eh?”

“Uh. I’m okay it’s just… I was thinking.”

There’s a judgmental silence on the other end of the line. Sid pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“You’re gonna chirp me forever, man. I, uh. I’ve been having this dream.”

“Whaat?” Geno draws the word out, somehow conveying both amusement and disbelief.

“I know, I know. But I’ve been having this stupid dream about skating on a lake, yeah? Just over and over. It’s fucking weird. And you were there? I think. The last few times, anyway. And this time there were these cracks in the ice, and you fell in. You know how even if it doesn’t make sense, for a second in a dream your brain doesn’t know the difference? Well. You, you were dead.”

He pauses, realizing he’s babbling, how stupid this is. Shame washes over him.

“Okay…” Geno says, clearly trying to take all of that in. “Sorry for dream?”

“Not your fault,” Sid says automatically. “So, yeah. Pretty much I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Geno huffs out a laugh. “Okay. I’m doing good, so.” There’s a pause, like he’s considering something.

“It’s little bit cute, you know? Call me for scared.” His tone is amused but not as teasing as Sid would expect.

Still. Cute.

“Oh my god,” Sid groans, and flops back into his pillows.

“So stupid,” he says, more to himself then to Geno.

“No, no,” Geno says, and he’s definitely laughing now. “It’s fine, most cute. Can call me, I can give you some story, for sleep. Maybe some song.”

“Fuck off,” Sidney gripes, but he’s kind of smiling at the ceiling now, like a dweeb.

Geno yawns, then audibly settles back into the bed or couch he’s probably lounging on. “So, keep having dream?”

“Yeah, over and over. No idea why.”

“Stress?”

Sid is quiet for a moment, wondering how to answer. “Maybe. My birthday, the season coming up. You know.”

“You captain,” Geno says. “Lots things for worry.” The matter of fact way he says it is comforting, somehow. “You need come here. Have fun in Russia.”

“Naw. The visa would take too long to get,” Sid says, wondering if Geno means it, if he’d really like to show Sid around Moscow.

“You know how long it’s take?” Geno sounds amused again, like he’s smiling. “You think about?”

“Oh, off and on,” Sid answers. “Over the years, you know.”

“Should do, Russia best.”

Sid laughs. “Oh, for sure.”

“You do, you come. We go to banya, we eat Russian food. You can go to some museum, so boring.”

It sounds… really good. It makes an old ache start up behind Sid’s ribcage to think about it, but it sounds good. Especially if…

There’s always been an expiration date on Geno’s time in the US. And if this season is as bad as the last–

Sid tamps down the urge to surrender to the loss he can sense hovering on the horizon.

“That sounds amazing, G. I want to, I really do. What about next summer? I can make sure the paperwork is all set up ahead of time.” Something to look forward to in that summer, no matter what. A way to delay Geno from slipping through his fingers if Geno decides he’s finally had it.

He’s being irrational, he knows. Geno has a contract. And yet.

“Yes, we do,” Geno says, with finality. “You come.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then there’s a bit of rustling on Geno’s end, like he’s sitting up. He sounds more awake when he speaks again.

“I can come early, now. Go to Canada first.”

Sid blinks, his lips parting in surprise. “Come here? To Nova Scotia? You’d want to?”

“No more bad dream,” Geno coos mockingly, and Sid has to laugh.

“You gonna tuck me in at night, eh?” Fuck, no, what is he doing. That sounds like he’s trying to flirt, or something. He needs to backpedal.

“For real though. I’d always love to have you visit, you know that. I just thought, it’s a little quiet, maybe. Boring.” His voice, damn it, is a lot softer than he meant it to sound. Maybe revealing a little too much. He hopes Geno isn’t paying attention.

“Mooost boring,” Geno drawls. Then, firmly: “I come. You can show me fishing. No golf.”

Something stupid and anticipatory flutters in Sidney’s gut. “Sure, okay. Let’s uh, work out the details.” Fuck.

***

Geno plans to go to Miami for a week, then to Sid’s, then to fly together down to Pittsburgh for training camp. He grouses a little at needing to be early because Sid is the captain and always shows up in town first.

He grumbles but then he’s there in a week and a half, tanned and insolent with a backwards SnapBack on his head, rolling a lollipop stick between his teeth and disturbing Sid’s whole universe.

He pulls Sid in for a one armed hug and a backslap, right there in the terminal. He smells like airplane and very nice cologne, and Sid wonders why the hell he allowed this to happen.

He’s exhausted but looks around avidly as they take the 102 down to Dartmouth.

“Flat,” he says thoughtfully. “Big sky. Like Russia.”

Sid feels disproportionately pleased about that.

It’s so strange, looking at home through Geno’s eyes, or trying to. He wants him to like it.

“Halifax is across the harbor from where we are now,” Sid explains. “We can take a look around tomorrow.”

“I’m look Google Earth,” Geno says. “Little bit. Pretty.”

“It is,” Sid agrees.

There’s a strange little smile playing around Geno’s lips as he takes in his surroundings. Sid isn’t quite sure what it means.

When they get to Sid’s place, Geno unfolds his long legs from the car and shoves his sunglasses up on his head. He just stands there for a minute, looking at the house, the sliver of lake visible through the trees.

Then he looks at Sid, like he’s fitting Sid into this place in his mind. That wry little smile is back.

“Looks like you,” he says, and Sid isn’t quite sure what he means.

***

Sid takes Geno out on the lake to fish. He takes him to the rink for training, where Geno imperiously nods once at Nate and then proceeds to ignore him for the rest of the drills. He stands in the lobby for a long time, looking at the display of Sid’s jerseys and photos. He takes a picture of one of Sid’s Timbits photos with his phone.

Sid takes him around Halifax, as promised, then to his parent’s house, where Geno is all charm and bashful politeness, helping Sid’s mom in the kitchen and talking hockey with Sid’s dad.

In every place, it’s a strange collision of worlds. Sid has to stop himself from just, staring all the time. Geno, here in his life. Lying on the floor of his parents’ living room to fuss over Sam. Rifling through Sid’s cabinets to judge his lack of acceptable tea. Strapping on his pads in the locker room of the rink where Sid learned to skate.

He fits easier than Sid had imagined, and that ache seems to sit in his chest all the time now.

***

Geno’s been there nearly a week when Sid has the dream again. Same thing, with Geno disappearing into the dark water.

Sid wakes up drenched in sweat, and swears before stumbling as quietly as he can to his kitchen for cold water from the Brita in the fridge.

“Sid?”

Sid yelps, sloshing water all over the counter. “Fuck!”

Geno’s lying on the couch in the living room, awash in the blue light of the muted television.

“What are you doing up? Did I wake you?”

“Still little bit jet lag. What’s happen? Dream, again?”

Sid takes his glass of water and stands pointedly by the couch until Geno pulls up his knees and frees a space for Sid to sit.

“Yeah.” Sid sighs. “So stupid.” He rubs at his eyes.

“I’m die?”

Sid stares ahead at the silent TV. It’s showing an ad for Canadian Tire. He’s not sure how he feels about talking about this, least of all talking about it with Geno. “Uh huh.”

Geno scoots partially upright, and regards Sid with a surprising amount of gravity.

“What you worry about, Sid?” he says, and it’s quiet, his voice low.

Sid can’t look at him. He takes a long swallow of water and sets his glass carefully on the coffee table, trying to decide how honest to be.

He’s too tired, on too many levels, to say anything other than the truth.

“That if we have another season like we did, you’ll decide you’re done.”

Geno whole face seems to go soft, his mouth dropping open a little.

“I know,” Sid says quickly. “I know, this is so stupid, but I just—”

Geno swings his feet to the floor, and suddenly he’s right there next to him, so close their thighs are almost touching.

“Sid,” Geno says, and waits to continue until Sid looks over at him.

“Until I’m hurt or you leave, I’m not leave Penguins.”

His voice is softer and more reassuring than Sid has ever heard it before. What is happening.

He can’t speak for a moment.

“I, uh. Fuck, G.”

Geno is just. Sitting there so close Sid can feel the heat of his body, looking at Sid with dark, serious eyes.

Sid wants to kiss him. Wants to push him back onto the couch and mark him up. Something must have shown in his face because Geno tilts his head, brows drawing together in puzzlement.

“Sid?”

Sid shakes his head. He has to get It together, in so many ways.

“No, yeah, sorry I just.” He sighs. “Thank you, G. I can’t tell you how much that means.”

Geno makes a hum of agreement, and stands, extending a hand to Sid. Sid shouldn’t take it but he does, let’s Geno haul him to his feet, and lets Geno…pull him in for a hug apparently. Oh no.

This time Geno smells like the body wash Sid keeps in the guest bedroom, and his worn t shirt is soft against Sid’s cheek.

It’s a curiously long embrace, and when Geno’s arms tighten Sid allows himself the indulgence of relaxing, letting himself melt into it.

Geno raises one hand and lays it heavily on the nape of Sid’s neck. He eases back so he can look into Sid’s face.

Sid can’t tell what he’s thinking. And he himself can’t think at all, not with Geno’s hand pressing onto his neck and his everything so, so close.

He realizes, slowly, that Geno’s hands are shaking.

“G?”

“Sid,” Geno says, husky and so low.

Sid feels outside of his body, incredulous that this is really, actually happening as Geno, very slowly, leans in, pausing just a hairsbreadth from Sid’s lips.

“Sid?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and tilts his head up to cross that final bit of separation.

Geno’s kiss is soft lips and hot mouth, gasped breaths and possessive sweeps of those huge hands.

Sid shudders in his arms as Geno moves to his neck, trailing kisses across his jaw and down to the skin bared by the vee of his sleep shirt.

Sid tugs them backwards, folding when the couch hits the back of his legs and pulling Geno down over him.

He’s greedy, he’s starving. He can’t touch enough skin, he can’t get Geno close enough. He sets his teeth where Geno’s neck meets his shoulder and nearly keens when Geno moans and responds with a slow, devastating roll of his hips.

“Geno, is this— are you—“

Geno pushes himself upright enough to look Sid in the eyes.

“Won’t leave, Sid. Can’t.”

“I’ve wanted this,” Sid confesses. “I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

“Good,” Geno says, and rolls his hips again.

“I can’t just do a, a one time fuck or—“

“No,” Geno says sharply. “No.” He leans on one elbow so that he can lay a hand on Sid’s cheek. “We’re like this, you know? Mine.”

Sid feels too bright and expansive for his skin. He fists a hand in Geno’s t-shirt and tugs him closer.

“Mine,” he echoes, and Geno groans, responding to another tug and taking Sid’s mouth in a deep, demanding kiss.

Hands and mouths and the greedy rocking of their bodies bring them to completion within moments of each other.

Sid lies there after, stroking his hand over Geno’s head where he’s laid it on Sid’s chest. He’s sprawled over Sid like a gigantic, clingy octopus, and Sid is feeling the kind of incredulous elation he normally associates with Cups and Olympic gold.

“Thanks for coming, G,” he says, and although he meant “coming to Canada,”

Geno snorts.

“You know what I mean, dickhead,” Sid says, laughing.

“I mean it,” he says a few minutes later. “I’m just, yeah.”

Geno smiles at him like that made perfect sense, and doesn’t protest when Sid prods him upright and tugs him along into Sid’s bedroom.

***

Jet lag or not, Geno falls asleep with Sid spooned up behind him, and is still asleep when Sid wakes up to the mid-morning sun streaming in the windows. Heart impossibly full, the old ache released and gone, Sid presses a kiss to the sun-gilded skin of Geno’s shoulder.

He had dreamt of the lake again, but this time, as happened for him only rarely, he’d lucid-dreamed.

“No,” he’d told Dream-Geno, and turned his back on the lake. Which suddenly was a completely frozen Monongahela River.

He points up the bank, towards the arena. “We’ve got a game to get to.”

Dream-Geno put his hand in Sid’s, and leaned down to kiss his hair.

“Let’s go,” he tells Sid, and they walk up the bank together.

#sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #sid/geno #pic challenge #dana writes a thing

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am-imagines · 6 years ago

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Legendary Pt. 2 Morgan!Reader

Here we go, guys! Fluffy route for those that want a proud AM.

Warnings: None.

Italic is the broadcast of the game. Something R doesn’t hear but I thought it was a nice touch to the story. I hope you guys like it!

Legacy.

You’ve heard that word a thousand times over the last few weeks. It appeared for the first time when the roster was announced and it has followed you all the way to Australia. They want to know if you can keep the Morgan legacy alive, and you wonder how it can die after the things your mom did.

Nervous energy fills your body while you stand in line for the National Anthems. It seems like forever before you’re ready to start the game. You shake your shoulders and everything is left behind; the doubts, the questions and inquiries about this team or your preparation.

The entire world is looking at you; the stadium is filled to the brim and you have no doubt this World Cup will shatter past audience records. Some people believe in you, others don’t. By the end of the tournament, they will. You’re gonna make them believers.

“Let’s give it all, ladies!” Krash shouts from the goal.

This is your moment.

All the attention is on the USWNT on their first game and you’re gonna take this chance to prove yourself. It’s time to show who you are on your own, and make the Morgan name rise again along with a whole country that is just as hungry for this cup as you are.

“Number thirteen returns to the field for the USA and I’m sure everybody is waiting to see if she follows the steps of the great Alex Morgan. Only time will tell, and it’s time for the first 90 minutes on this World Cup for the dream team.”

You kick the ball into action and the game begins.

Running on the field is part of you by now, and you turn into a totally different person then. You follow the ball, plan the next pass before it gets to you. You’re not just a player, you’re a planner and have an innate ability to see plays no one else does.

Germany is a tough team; a challenge on itself and it’s almost impossible to crack their defensive line. Not a single ball makes it through them for the first twenty-five minutes or so, but that doesn’t stop you.

You try new things and observe how they react. You analyze their strengths and weaknesses, by the thirtieth minute you have a plan.

“Pick and roll, Press!” You say when she jogs past you.

The term belongs to a completely different sport, but that’s the strategy. Press knows exactly what you’re talking about, and so does Long when you give her the same instruction a minute later. You stay close to each other as you move forward, passing and moving, never keeping the ball too long to be tackled.

It’s a triple threat and Germany doesn’t know how to stop you.

Press moves with the agility you’ve seen in old Tobin Heath’s videos. She creates space between two defenders and Long takes her chances. Her shot is deflected and the ball finds you almost by accident.

Time seems to slow down as you shift your body for the perfect shot. You have just enough space and the right angle so you don’t overthink it. You have a mean left foot and don’t hesitate to use it. When the ball leaves your boot, you have a great feeling and you follow the arch the spheric makes through the air.

“That’s a goal! Oh, what an amazing goal from Y/N Morgan to open the score! An incredible play by the USA finished with a delightful shot. Buckle your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen! Morgan is back in the building, and she brought pure magic with her.”

You don’t even know if the roar on your ears is the crowd cheering or your heartbeat going haywire. It doesn’t matter when your teammates reach you and jump into your open arms. That’s all you can do to celebrate.

Two minutes later the excitement of the first goal is forgotten to focus back on the game.

This team is hungry for victories.

You want to win it all; the match, the group, the cup.

It’s a constant grind lived minute by minute. Relaxing too much after a goal can be a lethal mistake; one you don’t make. You’re back on your A-game when the match resumes and you’re still in that mindset after half-time.

Germany adapts to your game quicker than you’d have liked it. Chances are few and far between without a clear look. They win most of the balls in the air and the physical aspect of the game starts wearing you down at the 70’ mark.

If there’s a thing that defines you is that you don’t give up, ever.

You wouldn’t be a Morgan or a part of this National Team otherwise.

The clock is running out fast so you do whatever you can; run faster, play harder, don’t give up. You draw a foul. It’s not the first one you receive, but you’re going to make this one count.

Take a deep breath, you tell yourself when O’Hara is ready to take the free kick. You call for the ball, and then show the world why you’re a forward. You jump with all your might; timing it as much as you’re able to, and it’s just an inch higher than your mark. It’s just an inch but it allows you to connect a header and the ball finds nothing but net.

“Goal for the USA! Morgan with her second goal of the match with only a few minutes to spare on this encounter. The dream of America is more alive than ever, and I’m sure this game feels like a dream to Y/N.”

You can’t believe it.

You can’t believe it even when the crowd goes wild or when your teammates tackle you by accident before hopping on top of you. You can’t believe it when you look at the scoreboard. You shout “Yes!” as they laugh with you.

O’Hara; Janice, helps you to your feet and you take it all in.

People are jumping up and down in the stands, cheering louder than ever for a team they believe in. You pat the number on the front of your jersey before pointing to the stands. You wear the thirteen because Alex will always be watching your back, and she’s somewhere in that stadium; as proud as a mother can be.

Pinoe subs you out with five minutes left, and if the ovation you receive is any indication, she wanted you to have that moment of glory.

“Great game, Morgan.” Sonnett says as you make your way to the bench.

Exhaustion doesn’t compare to the thrill of your first World Cup game and when the whistle is blown to end the match, you run to meet with the rest of the team.

This is one of those moments you wish you could share with your family. You’ve been on camp for a small eternity, or at least it feels like that, and you miss them terribly.

“Morgan!” A reporter calls when you make it to the tunnel. “Could you answer some questions for us?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Harris gives you a high five when she passes by and then you’re in front of a camera.

“Y/N, what a delightful way to start the tournament, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Germany is a really good team. They made us think out of the box and challenged us to find new ways to play when our initial tactics didn’t work as well as we wanted. It was an exciting game and we’re glad to get the win. But, we also understand that this is just the first step, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. We haven’t won the cup yet, and ultimately, that’s what we’re here for.”

Even the post-game interview feels out of this world, and you can’t stop smiling.

“There was a lot of expectations about having you on the field today. Should go without saying that you didn’t disappoint. Two goals for you today, how do you feel?”

“I was fortunate enough to score twice on this match, but it was a team effort. We’ve worked really hard to be the best we can, and it paid off. Hard work, consistency and determination were on the field today. I couldn’t have done that without Press, Long and the rest of the girls by my side, you know?”

“Do you think Morgan is back as some fans call it?”

“I’m proud of being a Morgan and proud of wearing the same number my mom did. I understand people want to see the next Alex Morgan, but let me tell you, I’m not. Mom is a three time world champion. She won gold medals at the Olympics, golden boots everywhere and broke endless records. I’m just starting my journey. But she taught me to work hard and to never give up. That’s what you can expect from me.”

“Thank you for your time, Y/N. Enjoy your victory.”

With one last smile and a wave, you finally make it into the locker room.

***

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby.” Alex says from the screen of your tablet. “You did an amazing job today and I couldn’t be prouder. You are exceptional, Y/N. Don’t forget that.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“You should get some rest now. World Cups are really tough on the body. And hey, I’m always here if you need me. No matter what happens, I’m here.”

“I know. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You snuggle further into your pillow; tiredness taking over, but you want a few extra minutes with your mom. She’s so close, but camp has some restrictions. You knew it, and this is not too different from college. Still, you wish she could hug you right now.

“Of course, my darling.”

“Love you.”

She waits until you’re fast asleep before disconnecting the call but not before muttering: “I love you too, my sweet girl. Goodnight.”

#Legendary #Alex Morgan imagine #uswnt imagine #BabyMorgan!Reader #fluff route #Next generation

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rivet-ing-titanic · 5 years ago

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May 25th, 1912 - American Inquiry Day 18

Day 18: The last day. You would think that it being the last day and being off of work, I could get this one done on time. But life gets in the way. SO, here we are, to cover the final day of witness testimony, submitted affidavits, letters and “process-verbal” entered into record. Are you tired of these posts? Did you read or like them or find them interesting? Well if you are tired of them, it is just this and a Final Report summary post left to go. Jury is out on whether I will be back next year to do the British inquiry, day by day. (Maybe I should just do it now so each day will be on the correct day, protect me from my own laziness, personal issues and procrastination.) Enough about me, let’s dive in.

Today, testimony was taken on board the RMS Olympic, in the New York Harbor.

Witnesses:

Herbert James Haddock, Captain, RMS Olympic;

E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic;

Frederick Barrett, Leading Fireman, RMS Titanic;

Submitted: (All submissions are linked)

Proces-Verbal – E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic;

Affidavit – James McGough, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic;

Affidavit – Catherine Crosby, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic;

Affidavit – Imanita Shelley, Second Class Passenger, RMS Titanic;

Affidavit – Eleanor Widener, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic;

Correspondence – Letter from Stanley Lord, Captain, SS Californian;

Correspondence – C.C. Adams, Vice President, Postal Telegraph-Cable Company;

Correspondence – H.C. Wolfe, New York World;

Correspondence – P.A.S. Franklin, Vice President, IMM;

Correspondence – B. Brooks, GM, Western Union Telegraph Co.;

Statement – Mrs. Lucian P. Smith, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic;

Notable Quotes/Lines of Questioning or Summarized Testimony:

Smith starts by questioning Captain Haddock, about where they were, when and how he heard of the Titanic situation, and what his actions were. He is also questioned about any notifications of ice sightings they received, of which the first they heard was from the Asian on Saturday morning.

“Fear absolutely no hope searching Titanic's position. Left Leyland S. S. Californian searching around. All boats accounted for. About 675 souls saved, crew and passengers, latter nearly all women and children. Titanic foundered about 2.20 a. m., 5.47. GMT in 41.16 north. 50.14 west; not certain of having got through. Please forward to White Star - also to Cunard. Liverpool and New York - that I am returning to New York. Consider this most advisable for many considerations.” – Rostron (read from the record by Haddock)

Haddock then reads for the record, the exchange of messages between himself and Captain Rostron of Carpathia. They discuss location, ice, particulars of letting the appropriate channels know what has happened, Ismay and that they believe it best that survivors do not see Olympic, that no transfer take place.

Haddock continues to read from Moore’s report, detailing how the names of passengers were passed on by a “half-asleep” Cottam, who asked to be excused for his sending. Moore wrote in his report, “during the transmission of names it was evident the operator on Carpathia was tired out”. Cottam had testified earlier in the inquiry that once he heard Titanic’s distress call on the night of the 14th, he got about a handful hours of sleep over the next few days until they reached New York. He was working the wireless non-stop, with and without assistance from an immobile, frost bitten Bride.

Moore relates to Smith that he received seven or eight messages to the effect of a request for compensation for the story of Titanic. Moore makes note of these in his report, however did not reply to any requests from papers such as the New York Herald, the Sun and the World. He also indicates that he was never told not to give out any information, however he and the captain held information back in a desire that it be more accurate.

In addition to answering Smith’s questions, Moore submitted his wireless report (listed above as process-verbal) that both he and Haddock referred to during their testimony.

The correspondence from Stanley Lord that was submitted into record is a letter to Smith in which Captain Lord corrected a statement he made while testifying, which ultimately is inconsequential in my opinion, and probably more of a formality correction than anything.

As you all know, I love a passenger story or affidavit. So instead of pulling a whole bunch of quotes, as I am so wont to do, I now have just linked all submissions above, for you to peruse at your leisure. Is it being lazy? Maybe a bit, but I wanted to end this day, with a sprinkling of quotes, (of which I hope to have not included any similar before) a few thoughts in regards to any submissions or quotes, and my conclusions prior to the final report.

McGough asked a dining-room steward whether there was any danger, shortly after he left his stateroom. At that time the steward told him “not in the least” and suggested he return to bed. Fortunately for McGough, he did not. This seems a theme throughout this inquiry, where immediately after or even some time after, Titanic crew members, such as stewards, were not totally sure of what was going on or, if they were aware, the severity of it. Personally, I believe part of this to be due to the inability to inform due to technology limitations of the time, solved by walkie-talkies and earpieces today. Additionally, if a steward were on watch, and had not heard anything yet, he or she would have no reason to say anything other than everything is fine. I would also consider the desire to not cause panic had some impact as well. Clearly, it would have been helpful if some sort of light or alarm or notification had been in place, for passengers and crew alike, but word of mouth, on an incredibly large ship, with over 900 crew members, some of whom are sleeping, would be time consuming. Time, unfortunately the Titanic and the souls on board did not have. This does not even take into account the time that would have been necessary to figure out the extent of the damage. So while I personally feel, there should have been some better systems in place, criticism of stewards who only passed on what they knew at the time, or what a higher up told them, should be discouraged. (As you might know, I am currently learning more about crew hierarchy and things of this nature in my new book)

“It was reported on the Carpathia by passengers, whose names I do not recollect, that the lookout who was on duty at the time the Titanic struck the iceberg had said: ‘I know they will blame me for it, because I was on duty, but it was not my fault; I had warned the officers three or four times before striking the iceberg that we were in the vicinity of icebergs, but the officer on the bridge paid no attention to my signals.’ I can not give the name of any passenger who made that statement, but it was common talk on the Carpathia that that is what the lookout said.” – Crosby (hearsay)

Imanita Shelley has an interesting story about her accommodations and slight mishap of rooms that happened upon the start of her journey. See above for a link to her affidavit. I would be interested to see the rooms which were referred to. It does not seem in her affidavit that she makes any mention of actual room numbers. This is also the first, I have read, mention of issues with the heat onboard Titanic.

“Afterwards, on board the Carpathia, a first-cabin passenger a Mme. Baxter, of Montreal, Canada, told Mrs. Shelley that she had sent her son to the captain at the time of the collision to find out what to do. That her son had found the captain in a card game, and he had laughingly assured him that there was no danger and to advise his mother to go back to bed.”- Shelley (a very strong accusation that if true is concerning, however others have testified that this was not the case)

“I borrowed money from a gentleman and took this Marconigram myself and asked the operator to send it for me… it was not received… This is the only complaint I have to make against the Carpathia… He also said it was not necessary to pay him, because the White Star Line was responsible. I insisted, however, because I thought that probably the money might have some weight with them, as the whole thing seemed to have been a monied accident.” – Mrs. Smith

“On the night of Sunday, the 14th of April, 1912, my husband and I gave a dinner at which Capt. Smith was present. Capt. Smith drank absolutely no wine or intoxicating liquor of any kind whatever at the dinner.” - Widener

Conclusions prior to the Final Report:

You could really get into the weeds with the last 18 days of testimony, what people/boats had drinking water, saw her go down and thought she broke in half vs. went down in one piece, who was afraid of suction, who heard explosions, I could go on. Part of me wants to do this, I think it would be quite interesting, especially diving into the distant light/boat testimonies. However, I do not have the time for that these days, and you probably don’t either (if you do please share what you find). What I will say, on my last day-by-day summary post is this: If you are a Titanic crazed person like I am, and love the history, the nuances of what went wrong, what went right, specific passenger experiences directly from their hand or mouth, do yourself a favor, and dive into this. The Titanic Inquiry Project is the most complete, well organized, and informative Titanic site I may have ever had the pleasure of using. They link out to passenger and crew and witness bios, they have the particulars on every ship mentioned, and it continues to add more and more. I am not done with this site now that I am done with this inquiry, I still have the British, and if you remember my post about liability, they now have those hearings. I cannot sing the praises of this enough. So if you have a rainy day, and an inquisitive mind, check out titanicinquiry.org . You will not be disappointed. And, if you like, you can use my American Inquiry posts, all under one link on my page, to help navigate, or pick and choose what you want to read.

SEE American Inquiry Day 17 post HERE.

#mypost #titanic inquiry #rms titanic #passengers #may 25 #US Senate Titanic Inquiry #rms carpathia #white star line #history #limitation of liability #sinking of the titanic #one last american inquiry post #i hope #and a kick ass laundry post that has taken way too long #1912

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distressedpanda · 5 years ago

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Her Song (Loki x OFC) Part 11

Warnings: No real warnings, mentions of blood maybe?

A/N: I am just going to preface this with the fact that I am not a scientist, lol. I did do quiet a bit of research and just followed it the best I could. (Trust me if anyone has any knowledge what so ever on the subject, you will know what I am talking about.) Also this chapter is fairly short compared to my previous chapters. Soooooooo. . . . . . . . . you get two chapters today!

I know I did this last time I posted but please don’t get used to it.

As always if you wish to be tagged just let me know.

Tags: @whosaidididthat @thenatallie

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Iloa had to admit as she made her way down the hall to the lab, she did feel much better. Still grinning after daringly challenging Loki with her kiss, she entered the airlock leading into the Biochem Lab.

Banner sat hunched over a microscope, at a table near the back of the lab. Running her fingers through her now wind swept hair from the sterilizing blast in the airlock, she waited until he lifted his head from the scope. He leant to write something in a notebook and she cleared her throat softly, hoping she wouldn’t startle him too much.

He spun on the stool to face her immediately. Smiling broadly, he spoke in a concerned voice, “You are awake already.”

It wasn’t a question but Iloa nodded slowly in response, “Yeah Doc, I was kind of awake before you left. Or at least I was waking, or something like that,” she stumbled over the end of her sentence, hoping she made some sort of sense.

Banner’s smile grew impossibly wider as he chuckled, “I understand,” he raised a reassuring hand, then turned it palm up, asking, “Is he ready?”

She sighed heavily, feeling suddenly bone tired again, “Honestly, no. But I have to find Thor and figured now would be better than later. That way you can do what you need to with privacy,” she felt the heat return to her cheeks, remembering Loki’s comment about maintaining his dignity.

Banner shook his head at her, chuckling lightly again, “Sounds good. Let me finish up here.”

Grabbing a small glass dropper with a translucent yellow liquid inside, he lent back over the microscope. He squeezed one drop on the slide, to join the crimson liquid already there. Gazing into the lens, he clicked his tongue making more notes in the notebook.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Iloa stepped closer, “What are you working on?” she asked, watching the liquid mix, temporarily becoming a clear red before returning to its earlier crimson.

Banner sighed watching the reaction through the lens, “I am trying to find a pain medicine that will be effective for one of your kind,” He lifted his gaze to hers, adding, “Unfortunately, I am not having any luck. This isn’t really my area of expertise.” He admitted with a shrug, before continuing, “Your chemical make-up attacks any drugs introduced and kills it immediately. I have been lucky with the ointment I use for Loki’s treatment. The silver stops the spread of infection, but it still isn’t absorbing enough to stop pain as well.”

Iloa scrunched her nose up at this, “Is that my blood?” She couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten it.

“No, it’s Loki’s,” Banner clarified.

“Oh,” her face relaxed before she added, “But Banner, Loki isn’t one of my kind.”

Banner clicked his tongue, “True, but your blood seems to work in the same ways. I have tested Thor’s blood as well, with the exact same results, unfortunately.” He slid the chair back, gesturing toward the microscope, “Would you like to have a look?”

Iloa eagerly stepped forward in front of the scope. She licked her lips nervously, “You are going to explain what I am looking at, right Doc?”

Banner chuckled nodding, “Of course,” he reached forward, fixing a fresh slide. With the fresh drop of blood placed carefully in the center, he switched slides explaining, “This is an unaltered drop of Loki’s blood. Go ahead and take a look.”

Banner leaned back and Iloa lent forward, pressing her eyes against the lenses. She watched with rapt fascination as Loki’s blood cells danced on the slide before her eyes. She was certain there was another name for the movement, but to her it was simply a beautifully elegant, graceful dance made visible to her eager eyes. She couldn’t help but think how much this inside specimen matched the outside him as well.

“Wow,” she breathed. She couldn’t say that she would ever be one to go into the field of medicine, but she couldn’t deny the appeal.

With her face still pressed against the lens, Banner reached around her for another dropper. This one contained a clear liquid, “Watch this,” he instructed, squeezing a drop onto the slide.

She watched the cells dance as the new substance was added to their space. Immediately their movements became panicked and erratic, attacking the liquid until it disappeared leaving them to continue their before steady pace.

“What was that?” she asked tucking her hair behind her ear and pulling her gaze to the man at her side.

“That was morphine. Which should have made the cells calm or even still. Instead,” he waved his hand at the scope as his explanation. “I have tried codeine, fentanyl which is what I was using when you came in, hydromorphone, meperidine, and even choose something as mild as acetaminophen. All with the exact same results.

“I am honestly at a loss. I can’t seem to find a way to ease Loki’s pain, nothing works. With him awake now, it is imperative that I find a solution. Changing those bandages and applying a fresh treatment will be excruciating otherwise,” he threw his hands up in exasperation, “But I have nothing.”

He sounded so defeated that Iloa didn’t even think about stopping the words suddenly slipping from her lips, “That’s not true.” Banner quirked an eyebrow at her. She sighed heavily, knowing she should have just kept her mouth shut. Fighting a losing battle to keep her trap shut this time. She wasn’t ready to see Loki any more vulnerable than she already had. But knowing that he would indeed be in agonizing pain without her holding him through the experience, made her heart clinch and twist violently in her chest. If she could provide him comfort, she knew she would. She had been so scared that he would never wake up. That even if her ears finally healed, it would end up being too late for him. She knew what she had to do. Blushing fiercely, she finally whispered, “You have me.”

“But Iloa. . .”

“No,” she cut him off quickly. “It’s the only thing I can do for him right now. With my ears injured, I can’t heal him. But I can keep him from feeling pain.” Banner stayed silent, obviously awaiting further explanation.

“When I fell asleep with Loki earlier,” she began, casting her eyes down to her feet, hair falling around her face. Her hands wringing together frantically in her embarrassment. “He said he no longer felt any pain. I don’t know why that is, but I know I can use it.” Her cheeks heated to an uncomfortable temperature. She had one more detail she needed to add, “It just. . . umm. . . has to be. . .” she swallowed thickly forcing the last words past her lips quickly, “Skin-to-skin contact.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look up at him, but she still caught his hand fly up to his mouth. He covered his lips with the back of his hand, an obvious attempt at hiding his amusement. After a moment of silence that was quickly slipping into uncomfortable territory, he cleared his throat. “Al. . .” he made a noise like a hiccup and cleared his throat once more before trying again, “Alright, you go find Thor and come back down to the recovery room. I will get everything ready and I could honestly use Thor’s help, if you are okay with that?”

Iloa nodded, finally looking up at the man that was still very obviously trying to hide his mirth. Spinning on her heels, she made for the airlock quickly. Her mind, just as tired as her body now.

She found Thor in the living room on the first floor of the building. Talking animatedly with Steve about something she didn’t care to pay attention too. As soon as he caught sight of her, his story immediately died on his lips. He jumped up from the couch he had been lounging on, his before boisterous features turning stony and worried, “Iloa?”

Her name a simple inquiry that held so many different questions without needing any further words. She smiled cautiously, “He is awake,” she stated, answering every unvoiced question.

Thor bonded to her, wrapping her tightly in a back breaking embrace, “Is everything alright. Why are you crying?” he whispered into her hair.

She was unaware of the tears that streamed steadily down her cheeks, “He is fine, well as fine as can be expected.” Her lips quivering, voice shaking, she shook her head against his shoulder, “I don’t know why I am crying.” She sobbed quietly, burying her face in his chest. Now that she had been made aware, the tears poured freely. Unrelenting sobs ripping from her chest, she clung onto Thor’s back, fisting her hands tightly in his shirt.

“Relief,” Steve’s voice filtered into her ears. She chuckled wearily, turning her face to see him now standing beside her and Thor. He reached out placing his hand gently on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

She nodded at him, the sobs calming to small hiccups, “I think you are right,” she whispered. He smiled and she returned the kind expression. Letting the hiccups fade, she let her two friends comfort her for a moment longer, before leaning back from Thor, “I am ok, really.”

Reluctantly, Thor dropped his arms grasping her hands in his instead. “Actually, Banner and I need your help changing Loki’s bandages.”

Thor nodded eagerly, “Of course, I would be happy to help.”

She freed her hands, rubbing her eyes and cheeks trying to clear the evidence of her tears. “Let’s go then,” she turned making her way back to the elevator.

“Do you need anymore help,” Steve called.

Iloa stopped abruptly, Thor almost barreling into her. Her cheeks heated and she tried to push down her chagrin when she answered, “I think we should be fine with just Thor,” her voice quavering with her unease.

Thor reached for her arm trying to turn her around, “More hands could always be helpful. If your voice is any indication you still aren’t fully recovered.”

She flinched at the mention of her altered voice. He was still trying to turn her to face him, but she stubbornly fought his hold. She knew her face was as red as a tomato, “I just think the fewer people the better right now, Thor,” her voice a low warning.

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would the doctor need my help if fewer hands are better?”

“It’s not Banner making this request,” she snapped, finally spinning to face him. She let her irritation light to anger, as she spit out, “I have to do something with Loki that feels extremely intimate to me and the less people to bare witness, the greater chance of me keeping my sanity and decorum intact.”

Thor’s brows met with his hairline and glancing over at Steve still across the room, she saw the mirrored effect there. Burying her face in her hands, she groaned loudly in humiliation. Thor chuckled, “Oh I have to know what is happening now.”

Spinning around again, she yanked her hands back to her sides, forming fists as she stomped away from him. “I will explain in the elevator.” She continued her spite filled exit, feeling much like a petulant child and not caring in the slightest. She didn’t even bother to wait and see if he was following her.

#loki fanfic #loki x ofc #tom hiddleston loki

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james-bucky-barnackle · 7 years ago

Text

Frostbite (Part 3)

Requested: can i request a fic between y/n and steve where they’re secret lovers but y/n chooses team iron man in civil war and then fast forward to infinity war she finds out about steve has moved on with nat. -@anon

Part 2 | Frostbite Masterlist

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: ANGST???

Word count: 4,623

A/N: I’m sorry it took too long! I’ve been a little busy I’m defending my thesis next Friday (wish me luck?)

There was a man in her room.

It’s been almost 15 months since the incident, and as strange as it feels, things have gotten back to normal. Months of planning and careful execution was done to alter the events through time travel, and everyone who’s blown by the wind was back in their solid physical bodies, but their lives will never be the same. Especially for the man in her room. As she laid there, her eyes closed and her breathing slow, he visited her every day, not knowing what to say but just wanting to be there when she finally woke up. Y/N’s body has crept into a deep sleep since the infinity war, her powers saved her from dying, but with her in what seemed like a never-ending slumber felt like it was all the same. Steve placed his hand on top of hers as he held it up to his cheeks, a thin layer of ice blanketing his skin. He’s gotten used to the cold. If pain was how it felt to be near her, he wouldn’t care. All he wanted was for her to wake up. He kissed her hand and left the room. He remembers that day, soldiers taking the bodies of the survivors, Y/N was picked up by the medics, taken into Shuri’s lab immediately as he looked on. He would never forget the first three days they waited for her to wake up, back then they wouldn’t have thought it would last months, thinking she would just wake up and go. Shuri did her best to treat her and it took her days to create a new device that will control her body temperature, but even so, she was still asleep. But the scars on her body were untraceable, seamless, better than they looked before, the wound on her head had disappeared. Everyone was mourning for the loss of the half that the titan wiped out, all of which were half of the reason they kept on living. When Tony found her, his heart sank, that same day he found out from Happy that Pepper was taken away by the snap. He didn’t even bother going back to the compound and went straight to where she was, Y/N was the only family he had left.

“I can take her back to the compound, I’ll monitor her health there,” Tony looked up at a surprised Shuri, his voice low. It didn’t take him long to get back from that foreign planet, a long story as to how he got back, no one will ever know, but there he was with a complicated request. His hair disheveled, face covered in dirt, clothes ripped, and his eyes we’re pleading.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. The device is already working, her body temperature has gone up and is almost in a normal level, she should wake up in a few days,” Shuri assures Tony, as she gently hands him a towel which he gladly accepts. He hasn’t bothered cleaning himself up, knowing that she’s gone through this without him around to protect her, but he couldn’t have done anything else, he’s been through so much himself. Little did they know, she wouldn’t be with them for more than a year.

And now she’s laid in the same bed ever since. Like a princess in a fairytale, with no one to kiss her to back to reality. The other avengers would walk past her room and feel a little ache in their hearts, she was alive but it felt like a funeral, for a beautiful being, gone too soon, and has taken too long to wake up.

Today it was gonna change.

The moment Steve left the room with the door lock clicking behind him as he closed it, her eyes fluttered open. She looked straight at the ceiling, breathed her first warm breath, and pulled herself up balancing her upper body on her elbows. She looked around and saw no one in the room, she looked at the bed and at her hands. There was something different about her, her heart beat faster, she was nervous. She carefully pulled the blanket away from her and stood up. A red light blinked on top her bed as a loud beep suddenly rung through her ears. Immediately, her head whipped to the direction of the door, the knob twisting and the door opening to reveal Steve. Her lips parted, but nothing came out, as he immediately ran towards her and hugged her tight. He felt like he was in a dream, Y/N felt like she was in a nightmare. Her hands stayed beside her legs.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to say. Steve was smoothing his hands on her back, telling her it’s gonna be okay. But he stops as soon as she continues.

“I don’t know you. C-can you tell me where I am?” she said almost a whisper.

Tony immediately runs to her room after being notified by the alarm. “Okay, who moved the body this time? I told you guys to st--- Y/N.” He stopped in his tracks, the moment he saw Y/N standing enveloped in Steve’s arms. She looked on, eyebrows furrowed, Vision was behind him, too many unfamiliar faces where registering in her brain. Her body was tensing up, Steve pulled away, violently, and when she looked to find why, she saw his shoulders covered in ice. She couldn’t understand what’s in front of her, where she was or who these people were. She stared at her hands, she was shaking, trembling in fear. The temperature in the room dropped, her body felt like it was gonna explode.

“I’m sorry, what… What is wrong with me?! Did I do that? I didn’t mean to! What is happening?!” She was backing into a wall, Tony was holding his hand out, like he was taming a wild animal. Her chest was raising up and down, tears uncontrollably falling on her cheek. “Don’t go near me! Please! I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Sweetie, you’re alright. It’s gonna be okay, you’re just shocked is all.” Tony was nervous, he didn’t want her to shut him out, but he wasn’t as scared as she was.

“I don’t- who are you? Do I live here?” She shook her head, she didn’t think this place was something she would be living in. “Am I a monster? I don’t know what to- I don’t know where I am.”

“I think my appearance would fit more for that description,” Vision remarked, he’s smile was soft.

“Come with me, I’ll help you, it’s gonna be okay.” She looked at Tony’s hand, as he nodded back to reassure her it’s gonna be fine, but she was afraid she’ll hurt him just like she did with Steve, who’s looking on, his eyes gentle not wanting her to think she’s hurt him. And when she saw this confirmation, she took it. A sigh of relief escaping her when ice didn’t appear on Tony’s hand at her touch.

-----

The afternoon was restless, news broke out that Y/N was awake, everyone was concerned and eager to see how she was doing, but they were still waiting for updates. They didn’t want to just barge in and bombard her with inquiries, after all, she wouldn’t even have the answers to any. Dr. Helen Cho detected she had post-traumatic amnesia, after losing consciousness in the battle in Wakanda, her head injury being the cause. After that incident all they were concerned about was when she would ever wake up, this was something they had forgotten was a possibility. Finally, after hours of waiting, Helen came out of the room and handed Tony her vitals, stating she was stable and her body temperature was back to normal.

“I’ve filled in her in with basics, her name, where she is, who you guys are. Well in a general sense, I just told her you guys are people she can trust.” Steve was silent, with Nat right beside him holding his arm, she looked up at him to see how he took the news in, as he mustered up a smile. He didn’t know if he was happy to have her back, or if it was a sign to let her go. She doesn’t even remember him. “You guys can come in, one at a time, for now. Tell her about small things from her past, to try to trigger some memory. Just try to be gentle with it, we don’t want her first memory to be violent, her powers might take over her body, just like what happened earlier, and she might fall into another sleep,” her last words are with caution, “or worse.” She nods and leaves the hall.

The rest of the week has been amusing for Y/N, everyone came in once a day to check up on her, introduce themselves and tell her stories about what she was like. It was confusing at first, but she quickly warmed up to everyone, well, with the exception of Steve, who she hasn’t seen since waking up, and Bucky, who thought his presence would trigger something negative and kept his distance. He didn’t even consider the idea of visiting her, since he wouldn’t have anything to say about her. Bruce and Tony have been visiting her often, telling her jokes and cheering her up with their crazy science talk. Wanda stopped by once with Vision to bring food they’ve cooked, and Y/N couldn’t wait for them to get back and taste what meal they’ve prepared next. Natasha has dropped by and she kept very much to herself, but Y/N figured she was just as confused as she was, having to talk to a friend with them not knowing who they were, it was unnerving. Today, Y/N was reading a book when she heard the door open.

“Hey there, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

“Are you sure you’re not my father?” She asked, a smirk on her lips. His visitor looked up and pretended to think.

“Uhm, let me think, yep, positive.” Tony replied as he sets down a tray of food for her.

“Whatever you say,” Y/N puts her book down and grabs one of the plates. “Uhm Tony,” he looks up at her as he takes a bite of the apple from the tray.

“I’m ready,” Tony slows his chewing, thinking of what to reply but she continues. “I’m ready to leave this medical room and live in a real bedroom. Besides, it might help speed things up a bit if I get to see the people I’ve lived with before, every day.” All Tony could think of was how she might react to living back in the same floor with the rest of the avengers, this has been the most peaceful she’s ever been, not thinking about the problems she’s had in the past, or the heartache she felt from Steve. But he knew better than to take that choice from her. What peace could she be in if she doesn’t even know her past? All he could do was give her a smile.

“You’re right, we’ll get you settled in the morning. After I get your room defrosted,” Y/N laughed, but those powers never really made sense to her. She couldn’t remember anything about the existence of enhanced species, it felt too fictional. She feared herself, and what she could do, but she’s never been able to freeze anything since she’s hurt Steve’s shoulders. Helen has told her it’s okay to trust her senses and let her powers slowly come out so she could learn to control it, like she’s used to, but it’s never come out no matter how hard she concentrated, she almost felt like it was a blessing, she didn’t want to risk hers or anyone else’s life. It felt like that morning where Steve’s shoulders were covered in ice didn’t even happen at all, like a practical joke. But him not visiting her became her confirmation.

“Thank you,” she replied, “it feels kind of weird talking to people I don’t remember and being told to trust them.” She immediately wanted to take the words back, but Tony knew that wasn’t what she meant. “I’m sorry, it just – feels like I’m back at zero, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Tony grabbed her hand and nodded. He didn’t know the exact words to say or the things to do, but he knew that whatever she needed he’ll support her, just as she’s done for him all those years. That same night, he had the monitors taken out of her room, the medical machines and all the things that made it look like a hospital. He’s gotten used to her room filled with all those equipment that when they were taken down it felt like someone else’s room. Maybe it was, she still couldn’t remember anything from her past but at least she was still with them.

The morning she arrived back at the floor wasn’t celebratory, the avengers were out on a meeting with the council, she had the floor all to herself. She walked around and looked at the place, familiarizing herself with the surroundings. It felt so new, like she was moving in to a new loft. She wandered through the kitchen, checked every cabinet like a kid, walked around the dining table figuring where she usually sat. Who was she kidding? She was gonna have to start fresh, which seat she sat on wouldn’t matter. After thinking to herself for hours, she found herself in the balcony, hugging herself as she looked at the sunset. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, she felt alone. Not knowing who she is, where she belonged, and anyone. Sure, there were these people who’s been taking care of her, and helping her remember, but she was slowly losing faith. What if she couldn’t remember? It was too soon to be concerned about, but she felt an undermining fear hoping there was at least one thing she could wrap her head around that she wasn’t completely gone. She felt small, and indifferent, what did she live for?

“Lady Y/N,” she heard a voice call out which made her jump a bit. She turned to see a tall man wearing a suit of armor with a red cape, he’s never visited before, she tried to look at him, analyzing his features but nothing came. When he saw her bewildered expression, he walked closer. “Apologies, I was told you have a problem with your memory. I’m Thor, son of Odin.”

She put her hands in her pocket and pressed her lips tight. It was embarrassing to meet people who probably know her more than she does herself. “Hey, I uh, still can’t wrap my head around my name…” she chuckled. “But yes hello, nice to meet you again- Thor.”

“I’ve brought you these, I remember you had a lot in your room.” He handed a small bouquet of flowers, they didn’t look store-bought. They looked beautiful, and Y/N felt an urgent recognition. She didn’t know what, but something about these flowers felt familiar.

“Thank you, Thor.”

“You’re welcome, I’ve also come here to ask if you wanted to join the rest of us for dinner, if you’re ready, that is.” She looked up, surprised, but this was the plan, she reminded herself not to be too overwhelmed when she sees all of them at the same time and for a moment looked at her hand. They felt warm she let a deep breath out and bobbed her head. Here we go, she thought to herself.

The table was full of chatter, as she walked towards it, it felt like she was intruding in a family dinner. But weren’t they her family too? She could do this, she will. Everything paced slowly as she looked around looking for an unoccupied chair. It was next to Wanda, thank god it was her. Wanda’s face lights up as she sees Y/N walking towards the dining table and points to the seat next to her. Y/N gave her a shy smile, never reaching her eyes, she felt like the new kid, and maybe she was.

“Y/N! Hey, nice to see you join us.” She didn’t reply, but only sat in her chair. She didn’t know what to say, she was still taking everything in. Luckily Sam was engaging her in his stories making her feel less awkward. This was one of the few times they appreciated his talkative mouth. He was talking about one of their first missions together, how she always forgot where her post was. Great, so I was already forgetful back then, she thought. Steve was there, sitting next to Natasha as she squeezed his hand. They were still together, he’s never gotten to fully process everything after Y/N was taken by the medics that day in Wakanda. And Nat was there to help him get through things. He waited for Y/N to wake up, days became weeks and weeks became months and months became a year, and he felt tortured, like it was his punishment for all the things he did to her. Nat knew he still visited her every day when Y/N was still asleep, but trusted him enough to not think anything of it. Steve thought the opposite, he knew he was being selfish being with Nat and being in anguish waiting for Y/N to wake up, but now that she has, she doesn’t even remember him. It was a slap to his face, she’s back with no idea of what happened in the past and here he was with all of their memories, and his guilt drowning him. She was back, and Steve didn’t know what to say or do, he only ever was ready to see her again, and now that she’s here, he felt shut in the dark.

He ate slowly, ever so often stealing a glance at her. She was smiling at Sam’s and Thor’s stories. Before he raised his eyebrows and shook his head, Bucky looked at him, and without any words, understood what he felt. Dinner finished and it was his and Bucky’s schedule to clear the table and wash the dishes. He felt a little conscious when Y/N insisted on staying out to help them.

“It’s okay, I want to do this. I haven’t been here in such a long time, a little housework could- I don’t know, domesticate my brain here.” Her eyes were bright, the eyes he loved looking at every morning and every night. Steve tried so hard not to stare too long, and turned his head to the sink.

“You need to rest, we got this.” Steve proceeded to pile the plates on the sink as Bucky started washing them.

“I’ve been asleep for months, I think I can handle a few more hours.” She bit her lip, she felt guilty around him, but she had to try. “I want to apologize for what happened last week.”

“It’s okay,” I deserved it, Steve thought. “I’m fine, a little bit of ice wouldn’t hurt anybody. Besides, it was a hot day.” Y/N let a laugh out but her eyes immediately went back to concern. She thought twice before she approached him, but she mustered up the courage to reach for his shoulder. He shivered under her touch.

“I hope we can be friends, again.” He couldn’t hide his agony. Bucky looked at his friend, he didn’t know how to make the situation better for him. Steve looked back at her, faking a smile.

“Of course, doll. Like always.” She beamed at him, she was a ball of sunshine. Steve was intoxicated with her, but he thought the last thing she needed was a reminder of her heart break.

“I figured you hated me, since I didn’t see you at the medical room,” he tensed up, “I didn’t mean to sound conceited, you didn’t have to. I just, really feel bad for what I did to you.” It didn’t sound right in his ears, he’s been visiting her every day, not minding the frost she gave his skin when he made contact, but here she was apologizing for physically hurting him, when he’s hurt her so much more. He stupidly considered her amnesia to be a good thing, maybe it freed her from him.

“No one could ever hate you,” it was true, she was too precious for this world.

“I would,” she shook her head, “falling asleep for 15 months and then waking up and not remembering anything? It’s like I’ve played myself.” She knew it was dumb to smile, but it was an expression she hid beneath and felt comfort in. He wanted to hug her, tell her to stop blaming herself for everything that’s happened, but he stood frozen in his place, thinking his feelings would only confuse her, it was too soon, or maybe it didn’t really matter anymore, she’s gone. This Y/N standing in front of him has no recollection of him, telling her anything would only ruin the bliss he saw she was feeling.

“That’s not true, Y/N. None of this is your fault, it was an accident.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve heard that before?” and before she could talk about it, Bucky interrupted to tell Steve to move on to another plate. He didn’t realize he’s been drying the same plate he first started out, he didn’t even realize it until his pal pointed it out. He let a low laugh and wrinkled his nose at him.

The night ended and Y/N went back to her room, it was a small step, but at least she’s gotten to sit down with everyone all at the same time. Her worries about being left out were out of the window. Maybe she’d be okay, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe not remembering anything from her past wasn’t such a bad thing, nothing seemed to be missing, although it would always come to haunt her. She’d have to face it another time, for now, she’ll have to deal with the present, and learn what it’s like to live again, she’s been given another chance at it.

As she walked up to her bed, she saw a book on top of her nightstand, the cover wrinkled and blurred, like something melted on top of it. She smoothed her fingers on top of the covers, reminiscing on what memory it could possibly hold. A yellow shade cast over its white cover, like a flower. She felt an instantaneous rush to be at the balcony, she picked the book up and walked out of the room. Her steps were ardent. It felt like she was chasing after something that might escape as soon as she gets there. Her breathing accelerated and her chest was pounding, Y/N couldn’t understand what she was feeling, but she found herself back in the balcony with the book in her hand, seeing no one there. Her eyes flickered, and every time they would blink she would see a shadow of a man standing in the balcony, moonlight hitting his skin just right, but his back was turned and before she could call out to him the visions disappear. She coughed, she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She felt physical pain in her chest, and she didn’t know why. It was sudden, she gripped the book tighter, maybe she was ready to let go of her past, but her past wasn’t done with her yet.

Days had gone by, she still felt a little awkward waking up in her bed. She stopped joining the others during supper, she stopped coming after the first week. It’s not that she didn’t want to be around them, she just couldn’t bear another story about her. They all kept talking about who she was, or what she liked, disliked, but it only made her feel like they all wanted someone else. She couldn’t recognize the person they described her to be. It didn’t feel like her, or at least, not anymore. She felt like she was living under the shadow of herself. She hated her. They would go on missions without Y/N because she didn’t have any skill to offer. Her powers have yet to make an appearance, and her muscle memory didn’t pick up on any hand to hand combat. She felt useless. The only reason she thought was good enough for her to stay was that even with the absence of her powers, outside factors might trigger it and she wouldn’t be able to control it. Y/N wished she just stayed asleep, she was living a life in confinement, it was prison. At night she would walk to the balcony just to cry, it felt like a blanket.

“Why did this happen to me?” she huffed as she hugged her knees, wrapping herself underneath a huge sweater. She started smacking her head, she wanted to scream. Crying almost felt like an addiction, she was comforted by torment, her self-loathing had become her refuge. Every time she would fall into another episode, she would embrace it and pour her heart out into buckets of tears. She would wake up late in the afternoon, eat by herself, and went back to her room. She survived on one meal a day, having a messed-up body clock. Wanda stopped by her room once, her kind eyes curious to find out what was going on, but Y/N insisted she was fine and that she needed time alone. The only meal she’s shared was with Tony, who’s noticed her behavior, but she still couldn’t open up to him, even though he was the only one who hasn’t spoken about anything from her past self. She appreciated that.

The rain came swiftly, Y/N was covered by raindrops, masking her tears as she kept in the same position on the rooftop. She didn’t bother standing up, the water hitting the concrete was the noise she needed to drown her thoughts out. She couldn’t stop thinking about the man from her visions. She would stay in the balcony for as long as consciousness allowed her, like he might suddenly show up. But so far, he’s only ever lived on her mind.

“Jesus, Y/N! You’re gonna catch a cold.” a figure stood in front of her and pulled her up. Rain pouring on his back. She was stoic, her gaze locked on his electric blue eyes. He was speaking but she couldn’t hear the words, she just kept staring into his eyes. She searched his face, taking his features in like she was gonna fall into another deep sleep, like the last time she’ll ever get to see them. Something about his eyes felt magnetic, it was suddenly hard to look away. Her thoughts were fuming like static. Her chest was throbbing, her eyes were washed in fear and confusion.

“Steve?” He looked at her the moment his name rolled off her tongue, his eyes now reflecting the same confusion. Something about her tone felt all too familiar. Her hand lifted to touch his face, and he just kept still. Before her skin could ever touch his, she felt frost on her fingertips and quickly pulled away, a loud gasp escaping her lips.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Y/N?”

She held her hand with tiny specks or ice settling on top of them wiped it on her sweater’s sleeves. Why did her hand frost just as she was about to touch him? Why did looking into his eyes send a sharp pang of pain? The same pain she felt that night she found that book in her room. Why did his stare look like something she knew like the back of her hand? Who was he?

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PART 4 | Check out my other stuff too? | M A S T E R L I S T

Permanent taglist!!! @gracielou0518 / @memory-of-a-goldfish / @thatbitchsaidhi / @xxashy999xx / @queenlouisa2001 / @shliic / @speggehi / @blackdaisybitch / @hiddlestannn / @tuliptx / @m-a-t-91 / @milkshakeslou / @fireboltrose7559 / @justmesadgirl / @makloveswriting / @cococola-cocaine / @impalatobakerstreet / @laochbaineann / @justakpopfan4 / @kiramotherofsnails / @crist1216

Frosbite taglist closed!

@holykryptonitekitten / @lovely-geek / @mia-at-work / @mala-firebringer / @buckyhalf / @art-estrange / @queenropagrim / @benedrylcumbersnatch / @deaniebean / @slytherinbratt / @samwinchxtr / @dontbeabadwolfblinker / @fuckinghurricanesoul / @geekyyears9 / @salty-buchanan / @siniestromil / @ikittiekat / @marvel-gives-me-feels / @starkillazz / @psychoredpanda / @escapetheshackles / @btsendnudes / @requested-memory / @thegirlalmighty01 / @7minutes-tomidnight / @perfectdolans / @sergeipoluninfans / @valiantwombatfreakpizza / @imamotherfuckingstar-lord / @cyrellle / @kahlonsana / @luisadevitt / @broadwaysprincess / @didrae / @marvelrose / @fangirl-with-a-mission / @spacemarkimoo / @talannalew / @kimmiestrawberrykiwi / @sprinkleofhiddles / @keep-calm-and-omfg-jensen-ackles / @astrid345 / @petals-sunwards / @koizorahana / @smollyssa / @fangirlingiscooler / @voidrivaille / @seababystan / @thebagginsofbaggend / @marvelislove10 / @thewritten-angel / @imagining-shawn / @the-trap-is-set / @presidentmaggie / @nat-the-dancer / @gryffinbooks / @seenax / @i-lost-my-shoe-down-a-drain / @ayee-style / @coolkimchijoy16 / @daughterleftbehind / @the-kylialovesyou / @dlb113 / @hista-girl / @roomx304 / @the-starlight-otaku / @princess-of-skaia / @destielwinchester09 / @nanna022 / @sallyp-53 / @educationalandphysicalmess / @grantward3 / @chrisevans1fan / @natashax-romanoff / @bethanyv10 / @ned–leeds / @coffeebooksandfandom / @janeyboo / @inkedhalfblood / @eignopip / @renesmeeharelds / @rap-game-winona-ryder / @frickin-bats / @xceafh / @flopmalum / @whooolemilk / @multireality / @5sos-wdw / @teamfreeavocados / @morganwdarius / @the-blue-haired-boy / @edaalltheway / @captainsteverogers-68 / @marianafrizas

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