#i heard none of what my sister was saying but i was enraptured in the show so that's something??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hrwinter · 5 years

Note

pre-dating supercorp where lena knows how often kara stares at her boobs and she realises that she really enjoys eliciting that reaction from her. Basically coquettish lena who's holding back on making them an official thing bc she wants to enjoy this period of flirting and being chased after

I made this a coffee shop AU, too. I’ve never done one of those, and I feel like it should be some sort of fanfic author rite of passage.

—

“Oh shit,” Lena curses. “There she is.”

Without warning, she drops below the register, reaching indiscreetly under her shirt.

“Lena, this is becoming shameless,” Sam judges from above.

“Just block me from James, won’t you?”

The coffee shop is lax, but even Lena’s not bold enough to push their ‘uniform requirements’ to the very limit on this balmy, Tuesday afternoon.

“Why are you still torturing this poor woman? She seems nice,” Sam whines, but despite the defense, she steps in front of Lena and covers her view of their manager.

“Torture?” Lena balks, unsnapping her bra. “Please, she loves it.”

“It’s cruel.”

“Done,” she hisses a second later, ignoring Sam and plucking her bra out from under her shirt. She stuffs it unceremoniously into an empty, clean coffee cup below the counter.

Lena snaps upright just as Kara sweeps into the shop. She’s a vision in a long beige coat. Her blonde hair glows butter yellow in the dying sun. Kara’s eyes meet hers, and there’s an ephemeral smile there, a smile that’s just woken up, taken it’s first breath of something sweet, and exhaled. Then, her eyes glance down. Lena’s let her apron fall to her hips, revealing her t-shirt. It’s thin, gauzy, and borderline threadbare. It’s intentional. WhenLena poses her hands on her hips, her nipples peak through.

Kara tenses, she pinkens. She doesn’t stop walking towards the counter. She also doesn’t mark the elderly woman crossing her path. She doesn’t notice the clutched steaming hot mug of coffee, the woman’s look of rapt anticipation. Kara keeps coming, eyes still trained downward, unflapping from a clear collision course.

It’s absolute pandemonium.

“I feel guilty,” Sam says with a resigned sigh. Kara’s nearly bowled the old woman over and coffee’s splattered over the floor, the walls, like an arterial crime scene. James rushes over to help, to appease with his easy, confident smile.

“I feel like an accomplice to your crime.”

Lena merely smirks, flush with victory. She pulls her apron back up and over her shoulders.

“Your breasts need an insurance policy. Look at the mayhem they’ve caused.”

Lena watches the scene thoughtfully.

“What are the chances I could wear my apron over just my bra without getting fired?”

“Slim to none.”

“Shame.”

—

It hadn’t always been like this. It had started out fairly innocuous. Kara’s a regular. She’d been coming into The Sentient Bean like clockwork on Tuesdays and Thursdays for almost a year. She teaches for a graduate program at the campus nearby, that much Lena has figured out. She’s polite to the staff, dreamy in her comments about the pastries, and charming by all accounts. Plus, she’s gorgeous in a homegrown, corn fed, Midwest manners kind of way.

But.

Lena’s also discovered by a happy accident that Kara, the hapless lesbian, is highly prone to giving in to temptation. What started out as Lena playing absently with the long chain of her necklace on one slow afternoon at the shop quickly progressed to Lena intentionally touching her exposed collarbone. It became Lena wearing thin fabric and bright pink bras. It became mesh tops and plunging necklines. It became Kara’s complete inability to function.

What can she say? Lena enjoys Kara’s Pavlovian response.

“It’s honestly a little desperate,” Sam condemns.

“It’s called foreplay, Samantha. Understandable you haven’t heard of it, being heterosexual and all–”

“Stop talking,” Sam holds up a hand.

After that, they’re busy busing tables and whipping up cappuccinos for a few bleary-eyed, sleep deprived college students.

“Why don’t you just leave her your number?” Sam wanders back over to her, dropping dirty cups into the wash basin.

“Are you kidding? And ruin the mystery? This is the best part.”

Sam taps her finger nails on the counter, nonplussed.

“Come on,” Lena continues. “You know the second I give her my number, she’ll call, and then I’ll find out something terrible like she’s a drug addict or an art student or secretly obsessed with toe nails.”

“Or she’ll find out your last name and reject you?”

Lena doesn’t comment.

“Just let me have my fun,” she pouts.

“Fine, fine. But I’m not taking her order this time,” she shoves off the counter right as Kara enters the shop. “I feel like a voyeur with the way she watches you make her drink,” she grumbles.

Lena shrugs. Fine by her. More face time with Kara. Sam knows she’ll get elbowed in the kidney, too, if she tries to make Kara’s drink.

“Hi Kara,” Lena greets, licking her lips. Kara smiles, eyes flicking down.

“Uh-hi,” she falters hands reaching to clench at the counter as if that will keep her steady.

Lena hasn’t even worn anything too outrageous today. Just the same long silver chained necklace that started it all. It disappears into the cleavage of her tight black shirt, and she has her hair braided, all twelve ear piercings in. The sleeve of her tattoo winds up her left forearm. She’s looking innocent and modest, if you ask her.

But she can tell Kara doesn’t see it that way. There’s an awkward beat where the unfortunate soul seems to momentarily forget why she’s there.

“White mocha?” Lena supplies.

“Oh-uh-yes, please.”

Lena saunters to the espresso machine, prepping to make the drink. Her jeans are black (and tight), too. She can feel Kara’s eyes on her ass like a hot brand.

“How-how much?” Kara chokes out.

“On the house,” Lena swivels her head to smile. Kara’s eyes flick up. Lena winks.

Somewhere in the background, Sam groans.

Kara doesn’t hear it, moving to wait near the stir sticks, watching Lena’s hands work with a trained proficiency. There’s an intensity to her interest that has Lena blushing slightly, and when she goes to hand Kara the drink, their fingers brush.

“Bye Lena,” Kara waves, walking backwards. She also does a clumsy peace sign, too.

“Please put that poor girl out of her misery,” Sam whispers from behind Lena.

—

Lena’s not ready for Kara to come in on a Monday morning. She’s dressed to code. Her makeup’s not on. She’s enraptured in a heavy daytime fantasy about getting back into bed. She and Sam had gone out last night, and she can still taste the pickle shots on the back of her tongue. She has bad breath, looks like hammered shit, and probably smells like a stained bar pool table.

So, naturally, there her crush is, frazzled and positively harassed as she comes rushing up to the counter.

“Look, Lena, my sister said I just can’t wait any longer, and I was wondering if–”

Her eyes glance up for the first time, roving over Lena’s outfit.

“Why are you dressed like that?“

“Huh?” Lena asks after a beat, deciding to play dumb. “Like what?”

“You’re–you’re dressed like,” she waves her finger at the two other employees in the shop. “Everyone else.”

“What do you mean? I do work here—”

“No!” Kara nearly shouts, and Lena can’t help but let a smile break.

“So, you have been doing that on purpose?” Kara asks, sounding adorably persecuted.

“Maybe,” Lena hushes, leaning across the counter and into Kara’s personal space. She can smell a perfume then, maybe a shampoo or a lotion. Lena wants to fold herself into it forever.

Kara takes a huge breath, breathes out, and Lena can feel it on her lips.

“Go out with me.”

She smiles.

“Okay.”

#supercorp #fic #anon prompt #coffee shop AU #lena creating chaos with her assets #hr's askhole

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babylooneytoonz · 4 years

Text

Sound of Music [Pt. 1]

Sherlock Holmes! Henry Cavill x Reader

Summary : Sherlock finds himself being curious about the occupant of the estate next to theirs, especially when all they can hear during evenings is the faint sound of the piano coming from the estate. One day, the detective inside of him decides to try and find out what's going on with the neighbours.

Warnings: none

*Please reblog if you like it, do not repost, copy or claim my work as yours.

[My Masterlist]

It was that time of the year again, at Ferndell Hall, where you could practically smell the blooming of the most exotic flowers that you couldn't put a name to; there were lilacs and chrysanthemums, gladulas and orchids that lined up until the iron metal gate of the structure. The grass was uneven and unkempt, weeds propped up almost everywhere, but that didn't bother Enola. However, as the carriage entered Ferndell Hall, carrying her two elder brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, there was someone that was bothered by all this — Mycroft. He looked at everything in distaste, grumbling in a not-so-silent manner as to what a mess the entire place was.

The day the brothers returned, all Enola listened to was Mycroft complaining about nearly everything, ranging from the ornaments in the estate that had been broken and left unattended, to the fact that Enola didn't have a set of gloves and a hat on while she was out at the station to receive them.

"How improper!" He muttered to himself, and to Sherlock and the younger brother of the two couldn't help but pass on a cornered smirk to the youngest, silently addressing her with his eyes, asking her to just wait until this fit of their brother passed away and he got just another reason to begin cribbing about.

Back at the house, Sherlock only gave her a half amused smile, as he sunk back into one of the armchairs with a parchment of paper in his hands, a letter that belonged to their mother, in desperate attempts to find clues as to who could have taken her, or whether she left herself with a lover. Although, he didn't let Enola in on his second lingering thought.

It was almost evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Mrs. Hudson had laid out the tea cups, and was pouring the gentlemen some piping hot tea when Sherlock suddenly turned towards the window in the dining room.

"You hear that too, don't you Sherlock?" Enola regarded her brother, who had now stepped up and was already standing by the window, his tall frame covering up her entire view, "that music.. it's captivating, isn't it? I listen to it everyday." Enola stood up rather loudly, and Mycroft chastised her for it, but paying him no heed, she followed Sherlock to fix herself by his side, staring out of the window. Just next to the Ferndell Hall estate was spread out the Cableton Estate, and just last summer's, when Enola and her mother were out in the gardens trimming the shrubberies, they had heard heavy noises radiating from the abandoned estate next door.

"Looks like we've got neighbours," Enola's mother told her, and in her mind, she made a note to go and visit the neighbours but for some reason, it never came up, and now she was gone.

"Who are the occupants of the, what was the name again-- Cableton Estate?" Sherlock turned towards his sister, bringing his pipe up to his well defined lips, who just shook her head, "Never really got the chance to greet them properly."

The screws in Sherlock's minds were turning. Maybe, whoever lived in that house knew something that Enola didn't know, or had seen something that could give him a major clue as to where Eudoria Holmes actually was.

Maybe it was time to pay the neighbours a visit.

The sound of the music was much louder now, loud yet comforting to Sherlock's ears. The Cableton estate was not as big as the Ferndell Hall, but it was definitely lovely. The front lawn was well kept, the hedgerows trimmed timely, and the weeds pulled out. Massive flowers bloomed in a line, and the air smelled fresh and breathy.

Sherlock's curiousity was getting the better of him, and Enola was just being Enola, looking around, holding a massive silver plate with freshly baked goodies layered neatly inside of it as Sherlock rasped against the door.

They were greeted by an older looking woman with a kindred smile. She eyed Sherlock carefully, before turning to look at Enola, and then the baked goods in her hands, "Yes? Can I help you?" She asked, politely.

Sherlock parted his lips, but before he could speak, Enola began, "My name is Enola Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock," she turned towards him just for a second and regarded him through her blues before turning back again, tightly gripping the plate of goodies to her chest, "We come from Ferndell Hall. My apologies, we wanted to make a visit last summer, but circumstances weren't as such."

"Oh dear, the children would be happy to see you, come on in," the older woman stepped out of the way, and Sherlock nodded politely, waiting for her sister to be the one to enter first as it only seemed appropriate. He wondered who these children were. As if on cue, a young boy, not older than eight perhaps, darted into the hall, almost colliding into Sherlock's legs, eliciting an immediate response from the governess, "Good God, dear child, would you stop running about all over? You've got visitors? Would you let your sister know you've got visitors?"

"Well, hello there, and what might your name be?" Enola knelt down, so she was squatting on her feet, to get to the same height as the boy, "I'm Enola."

"James, James [Y/L/N]," the boy nervously replied before he turned on his tail and ran off, and Enola couldn't help hide the grin forming on her lips as she watched him disappear.

"Tea?" The older woman asked, and Sherlock nodded, running his fingers through his curls, "If that won't be much trouble?" The woman waved him off with a smile and told them she would be right back, bring the tea whilst they waited.

"And what might you be thinking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock realized he was lost in his thoughts. He wiped his palm over his face, over his well defined jaw and looked at his sister with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "A governess, a child, but no parents."

"Don't forget the mysterious pianist, Sherlock. Besides, the governess did mention the child's sister," Enola added.

While Enola had been busy interacting with the boy, Sherlock's eyes were scanning around the hall, studying the paintings that hung on the wall. They were mostly abstract but there was something captivating about them all. Sherlock clutched Eudoria's photograph tightly in his grip, waiting for the right moment so he could ask if the neighbours had seen something odd, and could tell him something when once again, the music filled up his ears.

He didn't understand it one bit, how clouded his senses became the more he listened to it. There was something raw, something painful lurking in that music, and although Sherlock couldn't put a name to it, he could sense the anguish of the person who was behind it. It became so unbearable to him, he began walking towards the source of the music, and Enola darted after him, frowning at how strange Sherlock was suddenly acting.

He didn't have to walk much farther, for the room aligned to the hall was the source of Sherlock's torment.

She didn't look much older, perhaps a twenty two if Sherlock's deducing skills were on point. Her dark tresses were short, strange for a woman living in London in that era. She was hunched over the piano, her fingers moving like butter over the keys and Sherlock, and even Enola, couldn't help but keep staring at her. Her side was towards them, so she didn't know she was being stared at. Besides, she was too engrossed in churning out the most melancholic melody to even notice that there were visitors in the house.

Her long lashes fluttered, her head gracefully thrown back, her fingers moving over the instrument without even her having to struggle to remember the notes. It had been as if she had been playing the piano ever since she was born, but she knew that wasn't the case. Slowly, the music that she was playing began dying down, and Enola, enraptured to say the most, unknowingly took a lousy step backwards, her back hitting the cabinet, toppling a vase over and Sherlock's breathing hitched.

The woman stood up, her eyes thrown wide open as she regarded them, obviously flustered and red like a freshly harvested tomato.

"Apologies for the intrusion, and for my sister's not so graceful ways," Sherlock turned towards Enola, giving her a stern eye and she just shrugged before turning to the woman, "I must agree with my brother. Um, you see, we wanted to visit last summer but the circumstances were such.. oh nevermind, we brought you biscuits?" She bit her lip, giving the woman a child like apologetic smile, and Sherlock shook his head silently.

His mouth opened to apologize yet again but before he could even do that, the mysterious piano woman turned around, towards the other door of the parlour. She pulled it open and disappeared through it.

"I scared her off, didn't I?" Enola drawled, staring at the vacant space in front of the piano where she sat, seconds back.

"I am most certain of that," Sherlock hummed.

Sherlock hadn't felt this level of unease in a long while as he sat there, his knee bouncing up and down, his eyes fixed to that one spot of dirt on the carpet, his lips puckered into deep thinking. He knew their behaviour had been way off, and was disrespectful, yet he couldn't wonder but think what had made her run away.

Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway just adjacent to the hall, until the figure of the governess emerged, a tray held in her hands. She laid the tea cups down and filled up the cups with piping hot tea. Following the governess, [Y/N] finally entered the hall, her arms in front of her, her fingers nervously toying with each other.

She lowered her head, just lightly before she glanced at her governess and gave her a slight look, a look that Sherlock quite didn't understand. Perplexed, he turned towards his sister for help. For a mighty detective, Sherlock Holmes was as clueless as a lamb when it came to women, and their thoughts and their actions, and she was a complete stranger. The nearest that the detective could bring himself to deduce was the fact that she had been offended by the intrusion.

It was only when the governess cleared her throat, the only sound in the parlour being that of the clinking of the silver sterling spoon against the ceramic tea cup as the [Y/N] began stirring the tea in her teacup, did Sherlock and Enola look up from their own respective teas.

"Miss [Y/L/N] appreciates the gesture, and might I add, she thinks that the biscuits were just perfectly done," the governess turned towards her and the woman gave her a half smile, half blush as she brought the cup up to her rosy lips and took a sip of it. Enola turned to her brother, and then back to her, and blinked, "thank you. The next time, I could try chocolate chip."

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned towards Enola, making her go quiet, as his fingers slid into the pocket of his pants and he pulled out Eudoria's photograph. He slightly leaned forward, his elbow resting against his knee as he threw out the photograph towards the two of them so they could take a look, "we did come with another purpose. We are trying to look for our mother Eudoria. She is missing." He threw out his hand towards [Y/N], and this time, she took the photograph from his hand and looked down at it, handing it to her governess as she gave him a confused look.

"Did you happen to see anything that you perhaps thought was remotely strange or unusual?"

Sherlock was quick to grasp the shock registering on the woman's face, making it known that she had no idea whatsoever and he sighed, slinking back against the comfort of the armchair, his hand resting on his knee. That's when he noted something, the woman lifted her hands in the air, keeping them parallel to her bosom, as she began motioning something to her governess in sign language. It was only then he realized why she hadn't spoken a word to him. It wasn't because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes, Miss [Y/L/N] does not have anything of importance that can help the two of you with your search. She hardly leaves the confines of Cableton Estate."

Sherlock nodded, his lips curling into the slightest of smiles as he took the photograph back, pocketing it, "Thank you for trying, Miss [Y/L/N].

[Y/N] nodded, and Sherlock noted the way her lips curved upwards, just slightly, her cheeks slightly rosy.

It was then that the governess informed her discreetly that it was time for her music lessons. Gently, she stood up, and nodded in curtsy, her head dipping just lightly as she took her leave and excused herself, slithering out if the hall from one of the mahogany doors, until she was out of sight, and the governess turned towards Sherlock, "You have questions, I suppose?"

"We don't wish to intrude," Sherlock's deep baritone went.

The governess sighed softly, flicking a glance towards the way [Y/N] had left from and she took a deep breath, "I was twenty when the [Y/L/N]s took me in as a governess for their lovely children, [Y/N] and James."

Sherlock regarded the older woman through his oceanic blue eyes, his fingers placed against his chin, as though he was deeply listening, which he was.

"Four summers back, it was a lovely afternoon, and the [Y/L/N]s were on their way to city, when they were brutally murdered. It's a miracle Miss [Y/N] survived."

Sherlock tensed, his earlier relaxed posture changing as he sat upright and glanced at Enola, before looking back at the governess again.

"Pardon me, but wasn't Miss [Y/N] an eye witness? Were the murderers not caught?"

"Unfortunately, she never spoke again. We did try our best to get her to speak, or even write but she decided against it," The governess arched herself forward, so now her voice was reduced to a mere whisper, "the police never found out who killed them, and the mystery still remains."

"The police can be.. er, incompetent but I can help if you would like?" Sherlock offered.

The governess shook her head, smiling softly, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I would convey that to Miss [Y/L/N] but I doubt she wants anyone to engage in this again. The last experience was not so.. pleasant for her."

Sherlock turned towards his sister, a weird set of expressions passing between the two of them, as Sherlock stood up, nodding courteously, followed by Enola who finally broke her own silence with a smile, "Thank you for having us, and apologies for er, our untimely visit."

The governess walked the two of them out until they were on their way to the Ferndell Hall once again, and Enola noted how quiet Sherlock was, all the way. As they reached the front gate, and stepped into the vicinity of their front garden, Enola turned towards his brother, her eyebrow raised slightly in jest, "You seemed fascinated by Miss [Y/L/N], Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth opened, and he narrowed his eyes for a bit, trying to come up with the right words, but it was as if words had failed to make a presence into his mouth and his mind. He was already thinking, his thoughts revolving around a singular thought. Who murdered her parents? "I'm not fascinated by her but rather the story that stays hidden from the rest of the world, Enola."

"And what exactly do you intend to do about it, Sherlock?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, sister, once I find where our mother is, I'm going to offer to look into the murder of her parents."

Enola smiled, a naughty one but she dared not comment. She knew what was happening, but she wanted destiny to play out its course. Enola had a hunch, and her hunches were never mostly wrong, except perhaps for one or two. But she was confident that Sherlock was somehow captivated by the stranger that lived in the estate next to theirs, and that the whole idea of trying to find out who murdered her parents were just an illusion Sherlock's mind had formed, just to get himself another chance to be able to see her again. She didn't need to let him know that though, and she decided that it would be the best to leave things run their own course.

Over the course of the next four weeks, Enola and [Y/N] grew close. Enola found herself sneaking out often, mostly escaping from her older brother, Mycroft, to shelter with the [Y/L/N]s. Although [Y/N] never spoke, Enola began seeking solace in her music. She would sit in an armchair, right next to the piano, her elbows resting against its surface as she watched the woman play. It was a sight for her sore eyes, watching the woman crinkle her nose just lightly when her hands were so engrossed in playing the piano but a loose strand of her dark locks managed to escape from behind her ear pricking against her nose. She would let out a giggle as she watched [Y/N] scrunch her nose almost immediately, and she would have to forcefully pause with the piano, and her palm would fly up to her lips, and she would sneeze lightly.

[Y/N] found herself spending more and more time in the company of Enola. She found herself on untimely walks with the younger girl, her arm in hers, as the two of them walked in the front garden of the Ferndell Hall. Although she never spoke, there was now like a deep rooted understanding between the two of them that wasn't formed on words, but rather unsaid emotions. If it were up to [Y/N], she considered Enola a sister she never had.

This led her to have another starkly contradicting thought in her mind. If she considered Enola like her younger sister, did that mean she had to think of Sherlock as her brother figure?

That afternoon, she sat under the tree, her back resting against the bark of the tree, her hair fuzzy and all over her eyes, as she used her dainty fingers to push them away from her eyes. She was listening to Enola rant on about Mycroft, as she paced left and right, her hands on her hips. She was extremely done for, eversince Mycroft had told her about his intentions to see her in a finishing school run by Mrs. Harrison,"Breeding a proper lady, he says. Can you believe that, [Y/N]?"

That afternoon she told [Y/N] about her plans to disguise herself as a boy and leave Ferndell Hall. At first, [Y/N] protested in her own silent way, grabbing her hands and tugging them down, shaking her head but when she saw how important this was for her, and when she heard how commited she was to this idea of going away, she couldn't say no or do anything about it but to accept what she wanted to do. Thus, she wished Enola good luck, kissing her forehead, and let her leave.

After Enola left, [Y/N] found it terribly hard to concentrate on the trivial things in life. She hated spending time around her piano, she hated reading, and she hated anything that was remotely not worrying about the girl. It was only that one day, when a letter finally arrived for her, from Enola, did the nervousness that had long settled into the pit of her stomach, start washing away.

Taking the letter from her governess, she ran outside, clutching the letter to her chest, pressing it hard against it as she ran up the hill, using her hand to hold her skirt up, while the other held the letter.

Once she was sat comfortably under her tree, she rolled the letter open, and a breath of relief escaped her lips. Although Enola had not told much, the letter said that she was safe, and she was closer in her search for Eudoria. That was good enough for her to get her tension and the knots in her body and her mind to melt away to an extent. And the rest was done by Sherlock.

[Y/N] didn't realize how her running up that hill had invaded the detective's privacy. He had already been up on that hill, shielded from prying eyes as he sat under another tree, smoking his pipe. When she ran up the hill, the faint rustling and the crunching of the dried autumn leaves made his attention spike, and he lifted his blue eyes, fixing it on her.

She was beautiful, sublime, her face the colour of summer, of flowers blooming in a backyard.

Sherlock stood up silently, in a way not to scare her off. He could see her read a letter, her expressions dramatically changing, from a straight face to a smile. It had to be Enola.

"Fancy meeting you here, Miss [Y/L/N]."

[Y/N] had the clearest of faces that Sherlock could think of. She was as transparent as water, and Sherlock could read her expressions like a book. This was maybe her way of communicating, through her lips and her eyes and Sherlock felt he was mastering the art of it. She bit her lip nervously, her fingers tightening around the now crumpled parchment of paper.

"I hope I'm not intruding."

He noticed how she shook her head, her nose crinkling slightly, a bit of panic in her eyes as she quickly hid the letter away, shielding it within the heavy layers of her dress. He didn't comment on it. The truth was, he had been keeping track on Enola himself so he knew he knew much more than she did.

It's only when she shook her head and looked up at him, her doe like eyes meeting his for the first time, did he realize how his heart skipped a beat. The last time he had seen her, back at her estate, she had been withdrawn, but this woman was far from withdrawn. In fact, she looked happy to see him.

The look in her eyes was enough to tell Sherlock that she was okay with him sitting down next to her, so he did, careful to keep a good distance away from her, but they were parallel, their faces drawn to the vicinity in front of them. He wondered what was running through that beautiful mind of hers but if only she could tell him.

Sherlock and [Y/N] silently sat for the next few minutes, the silence being comfortable enough for the two of them to absorb each other's breaths. It was only when [Y/N] stood up, and nodded at Sherlock, did he realize that it was getting late. Out of courtesy, the man stood up too, his eyes falling on the letter that had, unknowingly fallen from her, and was now laying abandoned on the grass.

He bent, lifting it up and slowly, without even reading it, handed it back to her.

"Miss [Y/L/N]. Can I walk you back?"

A nod of her head and a smile on his lips, Sherlock found himself walking with her in silence, with his own smile reaching his eyes, the letter clasped to her chest.

A/N- Any feedback is welcome, and appreciated 💗.

P.s Planning to write this as an extended fic because my baby Sherlock deserves some love !

Henry Cavill All Characters Masterlist:

@bitchynicole @libbymouse @petitefirecracker10 @naughty-koala07 @maan24 @pterodactylterrace

Want to be added to my Henry Cavill All Characters Masterlist? Please let me know via my ask box, DM or a comment. ✨

#henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes henry cavill x reader #sherlock x reader #sherlock henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #sherlock! henry x reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill

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sapphicwhxre · 4 years

Text

you

♥︎ pairing: ginny weasley x fem!houseneutral!reader

♥︎ summary: ginny distances herself from you because she thinks you love someone else.

♥︎ requested: yes | no

♥︎ warnings: angst, heartbreak, self hate/comparison, total inconsistency since if you're in the trio’s year you wouldn’t have class with ginny + astoria isn’t in ginny’s year but shush its a fic

pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs, and all your other favourite treats jumped around in ginny’s bag. the gryffindor girl had gone to help ron woo some mystery girl who he’d taken a liking to and stumbled upon his stash of candies. ginny had called it a fee for her services and decided she’d share her earnings with the girl she loved most, both as a friend and more ─ that girl was you and as far as ginny knew, you were completely oblivious to her feelings.

it was a wednesday afternoon so she could only assume you were having your weekly study session with the gryffindor golden girl herself, hermione granger.

the pep in her step made her red hair bounce on her shoulders, her excitement to see you growing with each one she took. ginny turned the corner, finally at your study spot and she paused. you looked emotional, to put it simply, and you clutched what appeared to be a crumpled piece of parchment that someone had changed their mind about tossing.

there was a nervous gloss to your eyes and ginny thought she should leave, letting you and hermione talk alone. but her curiosity and just the way she cared for you got the best of her.

taking a deep breath and not noticing ginny behind the pillar ─ where she wasn’t so much as hiding, but quietly observing ─ you started to read off of the parchment. “there’s no easy way to say this,” you read clearly, but your shy, quivering smile gave away how you felt about reading what was written. was it a letter? had you written it? “but i love you.”

ginny’s heart stopped. she swallowed thickly, uncertain of how to process the sinking feeling in her chest. you exhaled shakily and smiled, biting your lip and staring down at the words you'd written.

“i love your hair,” you laughed, running your hand over your own nervously. “i love your eyes when you’re happy and the sound of your voice. did you know your nose scrunches when you laugh? it’s adorable. i’ve never met someone who brights up my life like you do. i love how you always know what to say and i love that i can be myself with you. i love your heart, you’re everything i adore. i love when i can look into your eyes because mine fill with the love i’ve only ever felt for you. the only thing more beautiful to me is you. it’s that same look that i’ve never been able to tell if you’ve given me back. my thoughts go cloudy when i’m with you. i love you so much. you’re... you. how could i not have fallen in love with you?"

as she looked at hermione’s angel-like face, ginny felt hot drops of some form of sadness more intense than she even knew possible well up in her eyes. hermione’s lips were parted in awe and she was smiling.

hermione granger, brightest, most beautiful witch of her age. beside you, in ginny’s opinion, but you were right. how could you not have fallen in love with hermione?

you folded up the letter and sighed, no longer reading but still going. “even if you don't love me, it was worth every word. i’ve never regretted anything when it comes to loving you. yours, y/n l/n.”

hermione grinned at you, “that was beautiful, y/n. truly... gods, i didn’t know you had that in you.” ginny fled, not wanting to watch what came next or hear what hermione had to say about how she felt for you. she’d break like the porcelain her skin resembled if hermione said she loved you back... if hermione kissed you, like ginny had only dreamed of.

wiping away the tears that stained her cheeks, she hated herself. y/n loves hermione. she just wished she hadn’t listened. she shouldn’t have fallen for you in the first place or let herself have foolish hope. even more foolish to think she could ever win you over when you could have hermione. older, brighter, and beautiful. she was fool, and now ginny believed had paid the price for it.

but had she stayed only a second longer, she’d have heard hermione’s stunned words. “ginny’s going to love every word, y/n, i know it.” bubbling with nerves, you threw yourself to hug her and squeezed tightly, just as ginny turned to steal one last glance at you. “thank you ‘mione, you’re the best.”

you were inaudible from the distance but there you were in hermione’s arms, giggling and chattering. despite the fact that you were joking about her own crush, ron, the sight only made ginny sick. ginny lost her appetite and made her way to her dorm, instead of the great hall where dinner would be starting in just a few minutes.

the heartbroken girl probably would have thrown up right then and there, had she seen you and hermione walk into the great hall. arm in arm, you were practically shaking with anticipation. of course, she’d incorrectly imagined that you’d be parading in with intertwined fingers and smeared lipstick but through a made up mind, it’d look like all the same.

“where’s gin?” you found a seat next to ron and harry, scanning the table for her red ponytail. through a mouthful of food, ron shrugged and answered, “must have gotten held up.” hermione rolled her eyes with disgust, silently scolding him for his ill manners.

you took the opportunity to tease the two. “never invite me to dinner at your home, save the fighting for your kids.” they both blushed heavily and stammered out how they’d never fancy the other, then immediately spewing out offense at the implication. ron huffed and harry spoke over them, rolling his eyes heavily.

“what about you, y/n? i thought you and ginny would be an item by now,” harry didn't really care either way, but it did seem ridiculous for the two of you to dance around dating for so long, especially since he somewhat saw her as a little sister. and truth be told, everyone was curious about you two.

even ron perked up and hermione smirked knowingly. “leave her alone, it’s none of your business,” she announced.

ron narrowed his eyes and started, “hermione, do you know something?” hurrying to stop them from bickering again, you cleared your throat. “i wrote ginny a letter, laying out exactly how i feel for her. now if you’ll excuse me, i’m going to go find her because i don’t think she’s coming.”

you hopped out of your seat, taking some food for her, and left poor harry alone with the arguing lovebirds to go confess your feelings.

you hummed to yourself, going to knock on ginny’s dorm door. her dorm mate opened the door and looked you up and down, glaring angrily. “what do you want?” she crossed her arms and scoffed. taken aback, you blinked and searched the room for ginny, who was curled up in her bed crying.

“excuse me? get out of my way, i need to see ginny. is she alright?” the girl eyed you, as if scanning you for a lie, and she supposed you were sincere in your concern. “she’ll be fine, just give her some space.”

without another word, the gryffindor slammed the door in front of you and you were left staring at the shut dorm, filled with confusion and a harrowing worry. your hand fell and defeated, you shoved your love letter into your pocket.

you didn’t see ginny the next day in class. or the day after that. she wasn’t talking to any of her brothers, you, or harry and had even turned the other way when you waved her down. it was like she was avoiding you and after a week of it, you came to the conclusion that she must be. ginny’s schedule resided in your mind so you set to confront her after potions. a girl with a mission was a force that should never be reckoned with ─ ginny taught you that.

“it shouldn't be too hard if we get some studying in,” ginny was discussing an upcoming exam with astoria greengrass, a slytherin girl in her year. you rather awkwardly stopped in front of the two and watched them part ways, ginny sending you a scarily pissed off glare. the tension could be cut with a knife and you and ginny blurted at the same time.

“you’re avoiding me!”

“i heard you and hermione!”

anger slipping, ginny avoided your eyes. “well that’s why i’ve been avoiding you. i’m sorry, i know i should be happy for you,” she started to ramble and you stared at her, baffled. happy for you and hermione? “i thought i didn’t care, that i could just push my feelings for you aside. it’s just that when you read that letter to hermione, there was so much... love in your voice. it hurt. i want to be the one you love.”

dumbfounded, you realised that she’d thought the letter was for hermione. “oh fuck, ginny no,” you stumbled, making her step back, assuming you were rejecting her. this wasn’t how you wanted to tell her that you loved her, it was supposed to go better than this. “wait! what i mean is─”

“you made it pretty damn clear what you mean, y/n,” ginny sniffled. “i think it's best if i just─” you cut her off with a kiss. you grabbed her face, kissing her like you’d never tasted something so sweet and you just couldn't get enough. she pulled back, breath heavy on your lips. “but... but hermione,” she whispered and you laughed, eyes fluttering shut and head shaking.

“i was reading it to her to practice on you. it was always for you ginny, it’s always been you.” the smile that you missed all week finally enraptured the lips you’d be kissing as much as you possibly can now that you knew you could. “and besides, she fancies your brother.” ginny thought for a moment and then sighed in embarrassment. but she said nothing as she knew you’d only reassure her and she knew this was how things ought to be.

ginny wrapped her arms around you and melted into your embrace, burying herself in your warmth and tugging you closer ─ though with no distance between you two, the gesture wasn’t very efficient. “so you love me?” she just wanted to hear you say it.

“i love you, ginny.”

“i love you, y/n.”

──────♥︎

#ginny weasley #ginny weasley x reader #ginny weasley imagine #ginny weasley angst #ginny weasley fluff #ginny weasley x y/n #ginny weasley fanfiction #ginny fic #ginny fluff #ginny angst #ginny imagine #ginny x reader #harry potter series #harry potter x reader #hogwarts x reader

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fallin-4-ya · 4 years

Text

the wind felt different / f.w.

The Wind Felt Different

fred weasley x reader

summary: a year after the war has passed, pain still lingers in the air. y/n, a descendant of seers who runs a small divination shop in diagon alley, still is unable to shake her loss. but when she gets a vision of the man who saved her life, the wind takes matters into its own hands.

warnings: mentions of death! slight mention of vomit! dealing with a tragedy! (gif is not mine, credit to owner!) (fred lives! post war!)

words: 1.7k

requested? no/yes

memories are the worst form of torture.

The wind felt different. Diagon Alley was not the same. The breeze was shallow, cold and bitter. While the streets of the magical alley lay scarce, hurt still lingered.

Y/n walked through the cobblestone path, early that morning. One year had officially passed. One year of hurt. One year of frustration. One year of hopelessness. One year since the world she had built with her own two hands came crashing down on her.

She unlocked the door to the small shop, snugged between two tall buildings on the main pathway. It had looked the same as it had for the past however many years. Only a store, specializing in divination supplies. This was her dream, her world. Her sister’s dream, her sister’s world. Eyes flickered up to the sign that read ‘Divination Goods, A Family Run Business’. She felt everything come up. Unable to differentiate if it was vomit, tears or screams; she grabbed a potions vile and threw it at the sign. Grasping the crystal ball beside her, pitching it towards the words.

It lied.

It was all a lie. y/n tore the sign down, staring daggers into it. Everything was different, nothing was the same and her eyes welled up, tears cascading down her face. This was her dream, this was her sister’s dream. It wasn’t her dream though any more, but a nightmare. Because, now she had to live it alone.

The faded letters and drooping wall paper had been in her family for generations. A family of Seers. Yet, none of them saw it coming. It happened too quickly, too quickly to stop fate or change the past. Cries, pleads for help, that’s what y/n remembered.

A year ago, was not long enough to forget, nor would a lifetime. She sat on the ancient wooden floor, head tucked into her knees and cried.

An hour passed, two maybe. She got up and dusted herself off. This isn’t what she would have wanted, what anyone would have wanted. She would have wanted her to pick up the broken pieces. So, y/n started small, picking up the sign and gently hanging it back on the wall where it belonged. With a wave of her wand, the shattered glass of the vile became whole again and she placed it back on the shelf. Then, she looked down at the crystal ball, somehow remaining to stay whole through its plummet to the wall. y/n scoffed to herself, laughing because her sister had always said that those things could survive the end of the world.

‘You know, y/n,’ said the gentle girl. ‘They don’t only show us the future. They show us what we need to see. What we need to heal.’

She picked it up with gentle fingers, placing it carefully on its stand. y/n gazed into it longingly, searching for an answer or perhaps a way to ease her pain.

She stared at herself, her face was scuffed and dirtied, her arms were covered in bruises. A wand gripped tightly in her fist, and scowl crawn upon her face. This was a memory, only a moment in time she had lived.

Screaming faces and worried looks circled her. Unresponsive as ever, unable to move one foot ahead of the other.

“Run!” someone yelled at her, but she did not move or bat an eye. A tear slipped silently down her cheek. “Go, get out of here!”

y/n turned towards the voice that called out to her, a tall man towering over her. His eyes were warm, a sense of comfort amongst the chaos. Bright lights of spells being casted lit the night sky, and suddenly if by chance a loud explosion was heard coming from the wall next to the two.

The man though quickly, holding y/n tightly and pulling her out of harm’s way, avoiding a collision by mere inches. At the time it hadn’t occurred to y/n that her life could have been lost if it wasn’t for the man. She hadn’t even known his name. Never thanked him for saving her life.

y/n exhaled deeply. Who knows where he is now, she mumbled, if he’s even alive. Her heart broke thinking about it, too many lives were lost. Too many ghosts claimed too soon. Memories were the worst for of torture, and time heals nothing.

She walked outside, taking in the empty streets. The wind felt different, but this time it was calling her. She felt it in her bones, persuading her to walk. Nothing was the same, but it couldn’t get any worse. So, she took a step and went where the wind told her.

Her shoes clapped along the cobblestone and her hair felt free in the comfort of the breeze. She gawped at the buildings that passed, a sense of childhood nostalgia caving in her heart. This is where she grew up, this is what she knew. Yet, still so much had changed.

y/n stopped and looked up at the colorful building that lay before her, this surely hadn’t been here before. The orange and purple paint stood out against the bricks of gray and black. She heard a bell ring inside, it was calling her.

Hesitantly, she peeped her head through the front door. A joke shop. This is where she was called to. The bright colors smeared across the walls made y/n feel different. A good different.

She took a step further into the room, admiring the small toys displayed on the walls, however she hadn’t a moment of silence before tripping over her own two feet, knocking over some of the inventory. Y/n gasped, quickly picking up all of the fallen boxes when she heard a voice stir at her from across the way.

“Not to worry, love,” said the smooth voice. “Happens to the best of us.”

Y/n turned towards the mellifluous sounds, a smile on her face. She looked up, her eyes meeting the man’s who stood in front of her. Her smile dropped, gazing at him. The flaming hair and those gentle eyes.

That was the man who saved her. The one she saw in her crystal ball. Her heart shuddered and breathing halted. Surely, the wind had never meant to bring her here; and surely, she wasn’t ready for something like this. She thought she would have seen this coming, whether it be through the stars or the cards or the moon.

Y/n took him in gently, for all that he was. “I know you,” she whispered softly. “You saved me. In the battle of Hogwarts, you saved my life.”

The man who stood opposite her didn’t move. He looked at her intently, as if trying to remember in which moment their pats had crosses. y/n interrupted his thinking, “It was after my sister was killed. You pushed me from the wall. I only realized it just today, you see, I saw it in a vision. The wind brought me here.”

“I remember you. I think about you more often than not. How you looked, how brave you were.” He sighed. His heart ached for her, longing to know her. The man paused with a smirk, “The wind?”

She laughed, “I know how silly and made up it sounds, but it’s true. I’m y/n by the way.”

“Fred,” he answered back. “And just so you know, I don’t think it’s silly at all. In fact, I think it’s pretty cool.”

Fred hesitated, “I almost died that night.” His face grew almost pale, but the warmth in his eyes remained. “I just kept thinking about my family, my future. I had to get out for them. And when I saw you, standing there alone, I knew I had to live for you too.”

Fred smiled at the beautiful young woman; no matter her hurt or her heartache, her skin glowed and her smile could light any darkness. An instant connection enraptured them. A feeling of hope flooded through their veins.

Fred voiced in the silence, “Would you like to go out sometime?” A lopsided grin spread across his face paired perfectly with the warmth crawling up y/n cheeks.

~~~

The pair sat on the steps of the small run-down divination shop. It was holding in tact by nothing but a string, just as the two of them were. But, with each breath spent together, their tiny string became a rope and from their rope a metal beam was built. They picked up each other’s piece and carefully placed them back together.

Y/n’s head rested gently against Fred’s shoulder, watching the children run along the cobblestone pathways happily. Her had placed softly in his, holding as if it were their last moment. Y/n pondered in thought. She thought about the way the sun still rose everyday and the stars still formed in he sky, yet her pain remained the same.

“They say that time heals all, but I think they’re lying,” y/n stated, twiddling her fingers.

Fred let out a soft chuckle, “I think memories are the worst for of torture, and only with time are they put into perspective.”

She looked up at him, tears embracing the corners of her eyes. It felt like she had known Fred the entirety of he life, she trusted him. She felt like she was home.

y/n laughed, “You know what’s funny? My sister always told me that crystal balls don’t just tell us our future, but show us what we need to heal. And I can’t help but to think it ironic, how I saw you on the day I needed help the most.”

Fred turned to face her, a glimmer in his expression. He smiled and his heart glowed, he forgot for just this moment the hurt and the sorrow. Fred placed his hand gently over her, her cool fingertips, complimenting the heat absorbing his body.

“You are the strongest woman I have ever met, y/n,” he whispered weakly, his feelings too overjoyed to form words.

“And you, Fred Weasley, and the greatest man I have yet to know,” she smiled softly back at him, locking their eyes. y/n brought their intertwined fingers to her soft lips, tightening her grasp.

“Thank you,” Fred stated.

“Whatever for?” y/n shyly asked.

“For finding me,” he spoke softly.

She smiled dearly at the man bestowed upon her, “My love, we have the wind to thank for that.”

And the wind felt different that day. Diagon Alley was not the same. But perhaps this time, in a bit of a better way.

#Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #Fred and George #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley headcanons #fred lives #george weasley #divination #post war #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley x you

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ikingsley · 3 years

Text

Ina x MC: My Star

Summary: Ina and Luna take their relationship to the next level.

Warnings: Fluff! So much fluff.

Tag: @samanthadalton @domakir @kulaykape @hellyeah90sbaby @dopeyouth @kwaj05 @thedaft1 @swimmingshoebakerydreamer @kaitlynliaofanxx (Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed)

Author’s Notes: Events after the gala in QB Ch 16. Unfortunately, I have been busy with school and work, but I’ve still been writing. I’ve been working on a new series, one that tells about Ina and Luna’s future together. Here’s the start to their future relationship.

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May 3 @5:42 PM

Ina: Hey. I have a little something for you. Do you want to swing by my place and pick it up? Maybe stay for dinner too?

Luna picked up her phone, reading the message. They had been together officially for a few months now, but the gala had in a way halted their progress. It’d been a few weeks since Ina and Luna had truly been together for a date. Conversations through texts and FaceTime calls that lasted well into the night did occur frequently, but nothing of the romance the two had grown used to. Neither one knew how to approach the delicate situation they found themselves in.

Luna: I’ll be there.

Luna walked quickly to her dorm, grabbing a hoodie. She trudged over to Ina’s apartment and waited patiently on the other side of the door. Ina opened it and gave her that million-dollar smile.

“Hey,” Luna breathed out, her breath hitching after seeing Ina physically after weeks.

“Luna. You’re looking as radiant as ever. Come inside.”

Ina’s glance to the outside world did not go unnoticed. It was if she was searching for someone watching her. Not finding anyone who caught her attention, Ina closed the door and bolted it as she welcomed Luna inside.

“You know, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“You finished your first year at Belvoire. I think that deserves some celebration.”

Luna looked around, taking in Ina’s apartment once more. Then she smelled it. She looked around the kitchen and saw the oven light on.

“Is Ina ‘I-Burned-Pasta’ Kingsley cooking?”

“Well, attempting to. I have some chicken in there.”

“Color me impressed. Does that chicken happen to be for me?”

“No,” Ina chimed in, turning around to attend to her food. “It’s for a twin sister you never knew you had that I also happen to be going out with.”

Luna only rolled her eyes at Ina in reaction, but reached forwards to hug her from behind.

“I missed you,” Luna whispered into Ina’s ear.

Ina spun Luna around and stared intensely into her eyes. “And I, you. Our FaceTimes weren’t enough for me. I don’t know what happens next with my future at Belvoire, but I know I want my future with you.”

Ina pressed a kiss against Luna’s temple. The timer went off and Ina pulled the chicken out of the oven.

“Me too. I-” Luna stopped.

Ina stopped and swiveled around waiting to hear those three words. “I…what?” Ina questioned. And how she longed to hear those words uttered from Luna’s mouth. Ina heard them frequently from Lilian and Charlotte, but she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d heard it from a partner. Excluding Luna, it’d been so long since she’d felt that kind of intimacy.

“I…I wonder what we have to accompany this chicken!” Luna diverted.

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. I have some broccoli in there too. Maybe I have some…wait- this went bad.” Ina dumped the rotten spinach in the trash. “Yeah, only broccoli.”

“That’s perfect.”

Soon, Ina placed a full plate in front of Luna and settled beside her. They took their first bite and surprised was only one way to describe the taste.

“This is uh…interes-” Luna remarked as she politely forced herself to swallow a portion of the food.

“You don’t need to-”

“Thanks.” Luna ejected what was left of the chicken from her mouth like it were a toxin.

“So, pizza?” Ina said and sputtered out the chicken. It was bone dry and there was too much seasoning of all sorts. Too many things had been combined.

“Please. No offense.”

“None taken. It’s the thought that counts, no?”

“You’re improving every time I see you cook, so let’s call it progress,” Luna smiled as she patted Ina’s shoulder. She stood up to grab her phone and order pizza.

Ina sighed and flopped on the couch. She so desperately wanted this night to go well. She herself was nervous. Ina had spent the previous nights tossing and turning. It finally had dawned on her that she was in love with Luna. Ever since she met her she’d slowly been falling more and more under Luna’s spell. Now she was completely enraptured by her. The simple facial features that morphed into an infectious smile. The way her nose crinkled when she laughed at Ina’s horrible jokes and witty banter. The way Luna caressed her face as she swept her into a kiss. Everything had been coming together.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Luna asked while she sat down next to Ina indicating she had just gotten off the phone for pizza delivery.

“Just...contemplating everything surrounding us. I’ve come to understand what’s truly important to me, which ultimately boils down to Lil, Charlotte and you of course. I don’t dislike my job, but maybe this is an opportunity for me to try and search for a more research-based career rather than actively teaching.”

Ina stood up, grabbing a small, elegantly wrapped rectangular box.

“I care for you too, Ina,” Luna smiled. “You so did not wrap this by the way.”

“Hey! I’ve gotten better at gift wrapping.”

“Not this good-”

“Oh hush, you. Open it.”

Luna meticulously pulled off the wrapping. Inside was a small framed poster. The poster had a big circle right in its center with some stars in it.

“Ina, this is beautiful. Is this-?”

“The stars on the day we met.”

“I don’t know what to say, babe. It’s...it’s perfect. I love you. I mean, I love it! Yeah! I love it.”

The silence that followed was highly drawn out. Both - who could talk a mile a minute when they were excited or passionately ranting - were dead silent. Ina replayed the moment in her head over and over. Had she heard right?

Luna was more bewildered with herself. She’d been too used to toxic, quickly-ending high school relationships. But as more time passed since she’d let the cat out of the bag, the more she realized that this somewhat spur-of-the-moment confession had more truth in it than anything she’d ever said before. She did love Ina. She loved the way Ina would tell her about her day, getting particularly loud during both the best and worst parts of the day. She loved the way Ina made her laugh or actually kept up with her nerdy discussions. She loved the way Ina would leave anything she was doing if Luna needed something. She loved the way Ina cared for Luna during her stressful finals and tended to her every need. She loved the way Ina balanced her so well.

But deep down, Luna was scared. Scared of being hurt again. Scared of loving someone who only loved her if she acted in a certain way. But that someone wasn’t Ina. She’d found more of herself through Ina. And she’d found something she deserved in a relationship - a mutual respect.

“Can I crash here? I’m pretty tired.”

“Yes, but Luna...”

“Good night!”

“Wait-”

Ina’s urgency made Luna swivel around and she finally met Ina’s eyes. They were full of admiration, love, happiness.

“Did you mean it, Luna?”

“Mean...what?”

“You know.”

“Well, words are a tricky thing. After all, there’s a whole branch of anthropology that focuses on linguistics. It’s very complex!”

Ina hummed softly. “Yes, well...good night.” Ina pressed a chaste kiss on Luna’s forehead and Luna began to turn around to the bedroom. “I love you, Lu.”

Again, Luna stopped in her tracks. “What?”

“I love you, Garcia,” she grinned. “Come here.”

Luna ran towards Ina as she swept her in her arms. Luna jumped into Ina pressing her lips against Ina’s. Ina carried Luna’s small frame and paraded her around the apartment, often breaking their kiss with more admissions of love.

“I love you, Ina. With all my heart. You know pieces of my past and so I was scared to say it. I know we haven’t officially been together for long, but what I feel for you, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. I am...deeply in love with you, however scary it may seem.”

“Read the caption under the stars, my love.”

Quietly, Luna descended from Ina’s arms and picked up the poster she’d just been gifted. Under the stars was a small quote.

I love you, what star do you live on? - Conrad Aiken

Ina Kingsley and Luna Garcia

The Day the Stars Aligned. September 6, 2020 | 4 AM | Dreams Diner, New York

“I love you so much you big nerd,” Luna beamed and wiped away the tears that began forming at the corner of her eyes. “I love you, Ina Kingsley.”

“Sol.”

“Sun? My name, Luna, means moon in Spanish. But I guess I’m your sun too.”

“You are. By the way, I know that, Lu.” Luna gave her a ‘really? are you sure about that’ look. “I am fluent in Spanish thank you very much! I learned it before English!”

“As did I,” Luna retorted.

“Right, well. My middle name. It’s Sol.”

A few months later...

“I can’t believe I’m here,” Ina laughed.

“Honestly, same.”

“What? You basically coerced me into coming!” Ina exclaimed. “I thought we were going to the museum.”

“We will after if you’re up to it. And you would’ve come regardless. You love me too much.”

“Touché.”

“Such a little simp.”

“And?”

“No, nothing,” Luna said quickly. She proceeded to whisper simp once again under her breath.

A strong, tatted man opened the dark curtains, letting the establishment soak in the sunlight.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“We’re here for tattoos!” Luna said happily.

“Yes, well, we are at a tattoo parlor,” Ina retorted.

“Sorry. Don’t mind her. She’s just grumpy all the time.”

Ina made a face at Luna, her brows furrowed in frustration. Just through that look, Luna knew not to pester Ina once more. She gave her a ‘you’re in trouble when we get home’ look.

“You both are willingly getting tattoos?” the man asked. It was definitely more directed towards Ina.

Bashfully, Ina nodded. Never in a million years did she think she’d do this. A tattoo. Jesus Christ. Luna was right. If she pulled out a Merriam-Webster dictionary, she knew she’d find a full page photo of herself next to the word simp - a word they’d specifically added just for her.

“What are you guys looking for? Something small, something big? Something plain, something colorful?”

Who was this man? Dr. Seuss’s son? Ina thought to herself.

“Just something small. Maybe on my hip or something,” Luna answered for the both of them as Ina nodded in agreement.

As fun as this little bonding activity was, both women were professionals. Nothing could be too blatantly obvious. Potentially hypothetically, Ina couldn’t have her students ask her about her new tattoo rather than anthropology.

“Do you guys have any designs you want me to copy?” the man asked as he put on gloves.

“Umm...I didn’t have anything in specific in mind. Maybe her name or something that reminds me of her? A rose maybe?” Luna began rambling as her thoughts took over.

The two women stood aside in silence, pondering what they would get. It was unlike them - they were always prepared for everything.

“Hey, Luna,” Ina turned to face her partner. “Why don’t we get a sun and moon?”

“Aww, Ina,” she smiled.

Goddamn those heart eyes, Ina thought.

“Okay, why don’t you get a moon and I’ll get a sun,” Luna said. “That way I’ll always be reminded of you, and you me.”

“I’d like nothing more, my love.”

And after being called a baby multiple times by Luna and a few blaring yelps - mostly on Ina’s part - they were permanently linked by ink.

“I love you but I am never ever doing that again, Luna.”

#ina x mc #ina kingsley #queen b #luna garcia

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noneatnonedotcom · 4 years

Text

Accidental villain jaune: judgment

Jaune took a deep breath as he walked into the light of the stage, he barely heard the sounds of his introduction or the sounds of the audience’s polite applause. This was too important for someone like him to handle and yet here he was the only person who had actually tried to do this. He took a deep breath, letting the memories of his time with yang filter through calming him. Reminding him that even if everything went wrong, that even should the worst befall him and his enemies destroy all he built.

They’d still be there, they’d still love him.

All that was left to do was show them the levels of devotion he had for them and build a better world for them to live in.

He smiled at using their memories for strength and opened his mouth, his voice clear and confident, a little deeper than natural but hey he was a ruler, and lords were known for their lies.

Even the small ones.

Thank you for that introduction, Elbasan, and thank you for the invitation to speak in defense of my ideals. It is a privilege to be here, as a representative of Patch to offer my thoughts on a topic that is vital to Patch’s future: how institutions and individual citizens can work together to strengthen the rule of law and make Vale a more just society.

First, let’s define the terms. We often talk about “rule of law” in Vale, and I think the dictionary definition is pretty clear: the principle that all people and institutions are subject to and accountable to law that is fairly applied and enforced.

In democracies like the Atlas and Vale, writing, interpreting, and enforcing the law is the formal responsibility of the government, the council, but it is also the responsibility of citizens to participate in ensuring that—I will say it again—all people and institutions are subject to and accountable to law that is fairly applied and enforced.

The glory of justice and the majesty of law are created not just by the King– nor by the Council – nor by the officers of the law – nor by the lawyers – but by the men and women who constitute our society – who are the protectors of the law as they are themselves protected by the law.

But I submit to you that following the law is only one element of justice. Now, what do I mean by justice? Try Searching the word, as I did while writing this speech, and you’ll find some vague and unhelpful definitions. For example: “Justice is the quality of being just.”

Jaune smirked as the audience chuckled, he was on a roll now he had to do was keep up the momentum

“So “justice” is hard to define, but having seen many kingdoms, I’ve come to realize that attitudes about justice often deeply reflect history and culture.”

“In some places, history and culture dictate an emphasis on strict administration of written laws—written by a legislature or perhaps derived from religious texts—to ensure fairness and impartiality.”

“Citizens are expected to accept a court ruling, even if it is negative. In other places, people view the law more as a general guideline, but if a court rules against them, they are quick to dismiss the decision and assert their own definition of fairness.”

“This is frequently true where a minority group believes, perhaps with good reason,” Jaune quickly emphasized as he raised a hand in a placating manner to stave off the shouts and arguments that were sure to come

“That their government does not offer them equal protection under the law, or even that laws which were written specifically to disenfranchise them and deny them equal justice. And in some places, people are raised with the idea that providing opportunities for family or friends is more important than any responsibility to an abstract law or to society as a whole. I’ll be coming back to this point in just a moment, trust me when I say that it affects that greatly.”

He took a breath looking out over the masses of people all waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“This would be a good place for me to say that The Kingdom of Vale, the birthplace of democracy, is still struggling to build a society where all citizens and residents can be confident of equal protection under the law.”

No one spoke too enraptured by his speech, by the confidence in which he spoke the truth, to offer an argument

“So, I don’t want to give you the impression that building a just society is easy, or that Vale has all the answers. But we understand the importance of the goal of equality under the law, and we keep fighting to make it a reality.”

He took a breath drinking a glass of water even as his thoughts went back to his girls, to the women he loved more than anything. To the people who gave him a home after he had lost everything save his sister

“Let’s talk about Patch for a moment. I submit that an expansive view of justice, a concept that includes equal rights and opportunities, equal protection under the law, and confidence that government officials will be held accountable to the people, would create hope for Patch’s youth and confidence among Patch’s partners.”

“This view of justice expands its benefits to all of society, but what are the benefits of living in a just society with equality for all?”

“I believe that a just society is a more peaceful society, not without disagreement, but with established, non-violent means for working out differences among groups, and between citizens and government. In a just society, people feel that justice has been served when they understand how decisions are made, even if they don’t agree with the final result.”

“Finally, a just society is the foundation of a peaceful, prosperous society. A society in turmoil—a society without the predictability that rule of law brings—is a less attractive place for entrepreneurship and job creation.”

“Justice—the kind that protects all citizens equally—requires consistency and predictability, and respecting and implementing court decisions is an obligation of government agencies. Where rule of law is respected, court decisions are not open to negotiation or personal interpretation.”

“But, by embracing justice based on equal rights and opportunities, rule of law, and accountability for all of Patch’s citizens, you can ensure Patch achieves a brighter future. A future in which people succeed based on merit and talent. A future in which all citizens, faunas, and humans, enjoy equal opportunity. A future in which no person is above the law, and no person fails to receive the protections of the law.”

“The first step in this is the idea that I have put before you. The ideals of a trial by a jury of your peers, and that all defendants are innocent until proven guilty.”

I won’t lie to you on this, these ideas are radical,” he stressed, making sure to get across the trepidation that even he felt at moving so far so fast.

“but these are the first steps, and every individual citizen has a role to play in upholding the rule of law.”

“Expect more from your elected officials, the establishment of democracy in Vale was a gift from the last king.” “Expect politicians, police, prosecutors, and judges to meet their responsibilities of providing justice fairly, equally, and with honor.”

“Engage in formal legal processes, even if it takes more time and effort. Invest in justice institutions and hold them accountable to ensure that they live up to the ideals enshrined in the bedrock of your rich and multi-ethnic society.”

“Finally, expect more from your fellow citizens in building a just society.”

“I thank you for your attention and look forward to a frank and open discussion of these issues. If you’ll allow me to, I’d like to close with one more statement that I hope will stick with you.”

This was it, the final blow

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.”

Jaune bowed as rapturous applause moved through the auditorium he’d borrowed from signal, due to the government building of patch being too small for his conference. But as Jaune flashed a brilliant smile to the cameras and waved to the crowds before him, he couldn’t help but wonder what Yang and Ruby had thought of his speech.

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“you know I figured you'd be more impressive up close" said a voice from within the hallways of signal, the steady rhythm of her heals signaling her approach

jaune raised an eyebrow at the declaration "while I do hate to disappoint a lady, I'm not sure what you're talking about" he said with a small smirk as he turned to look at none other than weiss schnee.

"you," she said standing a little straiter "there's been much talk about you, how you're an up in comer but all I see is a man spread thin, you have the start of a business, you have the start of an army, you're a powerful combatant I'll grant you. definitely the best of our generation. but that's it. I find myself..." she trailed off for a moment "wanting more"

jaune chucked "well, that's the business we're in I suppose but I think you've made a pretty large mistake on where my capabilities lie." he leaned back against the wall relaxing as he saw the Schnee grill raise her eyebrows

"and just what abilities am I overlooking?" she asked in a huff

"I'm very good at making friends"

a scoff was her response "you think that will make a difference? having friends? you're a child"

jaune smiled "no, I'm a realist. recent events have stressed that I have no real ability to do everything myself. I can hardly protect the people close to me as is. so I need more power. the best way to do that is to make friends. not just for political power, or economic power, but for personal power. for peace of mind. I have been... arrogant, I'll admit. I thought myself an island untouchable by all around me due to my power.” “but the loss of a friend has shown that I am still only a man." jaune stood to his full height "miss schnee I hope you understand what I'm saying. perhaps I am above others, they have made it apparent that they want me to be there, but I have long since moved past the childish ideals of doing everything on my own. Do you want to know why the world has been watching me? it's because when I listen to others. while your father has traded the respect and good name of your family and company for the short term gain of lein, I have garnered a reputation. it alone is not enough but I do have plans," he let loose a little further with his aura, reveling in the power he had over others "when I speak people listen, that is far more than a spoiled child like you can say"

there was a long silence before jaune turned away walking past the watching girl

from over his shoulder jaune called out "if you're interested, you may tag along. I can only imagine you'd learn far more from me than from your petty dictator of a father"

he didn't need to look back to know Weiss was angry, but that was a victory too.

she'd be thinking about him all month.

next chapter we go to beacon for real, i’ve already got it written up.

#accidental villain jaune #rwby #rwby au #Jaune Arc #weiss schnee #[email protected] fics

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bidnezz · 3 years

Text

Revenant [1/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary:

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Something to note: This fic is extremely AU. I've fitted a lot of events that we know to be canon (such as dates of events happening) to fit my story, and the past events happened around the early 1900's, until present canon time. There are also many mentions of blood and wounds and lots of death in the fic, so please be wary if that's a no for you!

Chapter One

Rushing residents and evening traffic fills the bustling streets of New York as the surrounding sky begins to darken with the dusk of the setting sun. Nightlife begins as shadows emerge from the alleyways, and doors that lead to no good open with the creak of bad decisions. The Downworld rises to the occasion, drinks in-hand and smiles plastered. So, too, do the Nephilim of the New York Institute who patrol the streets to keep tabs on those unknowing of the dangers that lurk in the dark.

Alexander Lightwood stands alone, weighted with shoulders heavy and nervous energy surrounding him in his new office.

Head of the Institute.

The words roll around his tongue, foreign in his mouth but synonymous with him now. It feels… odd. But welcome.

A knock brings him back, a light rapping of knuckles on the thick wooden door, followed by ebony hair and dark red lips encasing a grin that could only belong to his sister. “Alec,” she calls, her grin turning wry. “Or should I say Head of the Institute?”

“I’ve seen the position lost to better people than I, let’s not jinx this.”

“People? Yes. Leaders?” Isabelle pauses for effect as she strides towards Alec, a dramatic flair he knows to always expect. “I haven’t seen a leader yet, more deserving than you, dear brother. You can be happy for yourself, Alec. Smile, gloat, live a little. Even in the confines of this tiny room.”

Hard as he tries, Alec can’t reign in the small smile that curves his lips. He won’t gloat, he won’t yell and cheer and celebrate. That’s not him. But he will allow himself to feel pride and happiness in this small moment in time with his sister, and he’ll lock it away as a cherished memory to strengthen their bond. This is a turning point for him, a chance to uphold the Lightwood name and make his parents proud. Finally, a chance for them to see exactly the type of leader they raised, a chance to prove that it was all worth it - will be worth it. A chance for him to look upon his mother’s face and for once see something other than barely concealed disappointment and contempt.

“Hey buddy,” A low rasp calls from the opened door to the office. Jace rests against the curved door frame, arms crossed and wide smile dimpling his cheeks. “Oh,” he starts, adjusting his posture to stand perfectly upright as he offers a small salute to Alec. “I guess I should be more proper in front of our new leader, eh?”

The twinkle in his eyes and the way his smile devolves into a shit-eating grin only pulls a small chuckle from Alec, and he reaches his arm out to grip Jace’s as he’s pulled into a rough, brotherly hug. It’s warm, comforting, and when Isabelle joins in - complete.

Right here, right now… this is the turning point for Alec. No more failing, no more letting anyone down. This is where his new life as a leader begins, where everything he’s worked towards shifts into what it was always meant to be. This is what he was born for.

So then why does it feel so empty?

There's a gnawing inside of his chest, a cavern of muddled introspection and half understanding. The goal was always this, the finish line has been crossed and his direction never clearer. But under the anxiety of being freshly anointed, if Alec were to peel away the layers of doubt and worry until he’s viewing his own satisfied ego, what else would he see? Happiness, of course, to some extent. Nothing more, and nothing less. Unfulfilled pockets inside of him that yearn in wonder, and desire for something more.

A mother’s love, perhaps. To be accepted and finally seen as enough.

Yes. An affirmation from Maryse Lightwood herself, and Alec’s sure he’ll feel that last puzzle piece locked into place. ‘But for now,’ Alec thinks to himself as he watches Isabelle and Jace enraptured in a hilarious conversation no doubt at his expense, ‘I’ve got all I need right in front of me.’

With his day just beginning in the blossoming night, Alec prepares himself for the duties and responsibilities that lie ahead of him.

On the other side of New York as the darkness creeps heavier, something more sinister begins to tear at the fabric that separates their realm from the rest.

---

A chime echoes through the halls of the Institute odd hours later, only a precursor to the dull bang as the wooden doors slam open to reveal a crowd of people in disarray. Alec, bent over a table in the main hall with the city’s layout and a small group of Shadowhunters, turns at the commotion brow raised and senses on alert.

“There’s a demon!” someone in the jumbled mess of bodies hurtling towards Alec proclaims.

“He’s strong - too strong,” another one says with a gasp.

Jace steps forward, hand on the hilt of his seraph blade, the other on his stele. Prepared for battle, ready for a fight. “Where?”

Three voices begin to clamor all at once in a disastrous explanation that prompts Alec to step forward and raise a calming hand in the air. The voices stop, and Jace turns to him with a question at the ready. “One at a time or we won’t get anywhere. You,” Alec points towards the least frantic Shadowhunter of the trio, “what happened?”

The man winces as he takes a step forward, favoring the right side of his body. Red stains his clothes; it paints his pale face and each of his limbs. It’s blood, Alec notes easily, dried and congealing in some spots no doubt from the cold autumn wind on the way back to the Institute, but some of the wounds still bleed fresh. His blond hair is matted to his face with sweat and ichor and his lips are caked with a mixture of all three, none of it enough to hide the burgeoning purple bruises that are blooming on his face. If the man’s body trembles, Alec says nothing of it.

“We were patrolling near Williamsburg,” the man begins, a slow nervous lilt to his voice. “There was an unusual spike in demon activity at dusk. We overheard residents saying it was a minor earthquake, but we didn’t believe that. We suspected it was related to the demons. And it was,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Alec and the room now filled with curious Shadowhunters. “There was a horde of them, Ravener demons. We thought it was just a basic attack, we didn’t know why they were there, but we prepared to get rid of them anyway. It was in the middle of our fight with the demons that someone else showed up-“

“Magnus Bane!” sputters the man in the middle, specks of red flying from his mouth and smattering the floor. “He’s back. He’s back and he’s here for revenge! That's what he told us!”

A gasp echoes in the silent halls of The Institute, followed by the low thrum of chatter as Shadowhunters begin to talk. To the side, Alec catches Isabelle’s gaze, stony and reserved in thought, but sparking with worry for the day’s sudden turn of events.

“Let’s get you guys cleaned up and healed,” Alec steps forward, stele in hand and iratze on his tongue.

“I-It doesn’t work,” the blond man whispers, shaking his head and peering up at Alec with furrowed brows. “We hid in the alleyways and tried to heal. Perhaps it’s the poison from the ichor, but I suspect it’s tied to the magic that Magnus Bane hit us with that makes our healing runes null.”

More chatter from the crowd of people, louder this time, and Alec nods once before turning to the person on his left. “Clary, see to it that they’re taken care of and bandaged properly. Triple check healing runes and make sure we get a full analysis report on all your findings.” It’s an order given with a tone Alec hopes conveys exactly what he’s thinking. He needs to know what’s causing the iratze’s to not work, he needs to know if it’s just a reaction to the ichor or something altogether more threatening. More than that, however, he needs discretion. Kept under wraps, with only Alec and trusted company to know the answers. With the way Clary keeps his firm gaze and offers a single, silent nod, Alec’s sure she understands.

“Everyone else,” Alec speaks, loud and commanding. “Back to your duties.”

The room pauses, wary and hesitant with the new information discovered and seeping into every conspiracy forming in the back of their minds. They want answers, they want clarity, they want knowledge that Alec doesn’t yet have. Resigned to knowing they won’t get any more than this, they file out slowly with soft whispers and bowed heads towards one another.

It’s only several seconds later when he notices the hesitation spread across the injured Shadowhunter’s faces, a look shared between the three of them. They’re brimming with the words they want to speak, information they’ve withheld, just barely. Only, they’re scared and Alec’s not sure if it’s a result of the situation they’ve just encountered, or the consequences they think they’ll have to face. Quietly, Alec steps towards them and grants a reassuring nod.

“Sir, Magnus Bane-” the Shadowhunter’s words catch in his throat. Alec hasn’t heard this name in years, not since training, and it already feels exhausted. “He didn’t let us leave with our lives for nothing. He gave us a warning.” There’s another pause, ominous in nature and the patience Alec composes himself with is waning thinner and thinner by the second.

“Go on,” Alec presses, voice carefully neutral.

“He wanted us to relay to you that this is a Downworlder affair, and for the Shadowhunters not to meddle unless they’re prepared to begin a war with Edom.”

The words come out in a single breath, rushed and trembling. He suspects it was infinitely more intimidating and terrifying than it sounds coming from three battered and bloodied Shadowhunters, but the message is clear: Don’t get involved.

“Thank you,” Alec finds himself saying, thoughts already trailing into a plan of action, mind already gearing for only two options. The first, to take an observer's role in this newfound issue of Downworld battles. The second, to raise alert to the Clave and begin to fortify the Institute for the foreseeable attack once involvement is inevitable. Or perhaps a third option is available, Alec speculates to himself.

Diplomacy.

There’s very little he knows of Magnus Bane, what scraps of information left of him are withheld in Clave documents. He’ll gather up what he can find, form a case to present to an angry, vengeful Greater Demon, and see if some sort of reasoning can be made.

With a sigh, Alec thumbs away the blooming headache from his temples and heads towards his office, doubt already sprouting up in the corners of his tenuous plans. Nothing is for certain, of course. Who’s to say Magnus Bane will be a reasonable man with the quivering display he left for Alec at the doors of the Institute. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s going to get to the bottom of what’s going on and take care of it personally, Greater Demon or not, New York is Alec’s city now.

---

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn for decades until his banishment to Edom at the beginning of the 1900’s, was frequently described as a hedonist. Reports on him vary from year to year. Some decades he remained under the radar, shielded from the eyes of the Clave. Others, he became notorious for begetting impish troubles between the classes. The only consistency found in any and all reports of the former High Warlock is the tendency towards extravagance and self-indulgence, with a craving for social gatherings.

Leaning back in his seat, Alec traces a finger along the case of his device and focuses on two words.

High Warlock.

He was obviously well-liked at some point in time, formidable enough to be deemed a worthy leader, and charismatic enough to be seen as an ambassador for other Warlocks. There must have been great strength at his hands, and greater support backing him to attain the level of priority that he gained.

So… what happened?

Power, clearly, and too much of it. The same Warlocks who hoisted him up petitioned to get him banished, cried his name in the streets of Brooklyn and swore his downfall.

And they made it happen.

Warlocks from all parts of New York flocked and rallied towards Brooklyn in hopes of seeing the demise of one Magnus Bane. Clave reports account for groups gathering outside of his apartment, banding together to peel away any protection shields cast up in defense. Among them, a leader: Lorenzo Rey.

The Clave watched from the shadows, vowed to not get involved in affairs they deemed less than worthy, but insisted on documenting it all. And Downworlders are the definition of unworthy in the Clave’s eyes.

There’s a nagging in the back of Alec’s mind, a wonder if anyone tried to help, tried to stop it. If there was another way.

But no, Downworlder affairs need not be meddled in, especially when Shadowhunters were never involved in the first place.

With a sigh, he sets down the reports and rubs at the bridge of his nose. What makes this situation any different? Magnus Bane threatened for Shadowhunters not to get involved. He sent a message back in the form of barely living soldiers who were just doing their duty, a message sent loud, but not so clear.

“Are you going to report this to the Clave?” Isabelle’s voice pierces through his thoughts, and Alec prides himself on only showing a fraction of surprise when he turns to face her.

“Of course I am, Izzy. It’s my duty.”

His sister peers down at him from her spot on the corner of his desk, eyes scrutinizing every emotion that flickers across his face. She doesn’t seem appeased with whatever she finds. “You can wait if you want, Alec. You can see what happens next. Try your plans first and go to the Clave later with your findings.”

Alec scoffs. “And have my position rescinded for failure to uphold the most basic understanding of status? The Clave will know everything I know, because that is what is right. They’ll know the best course of action, because they know Magnus Bane and what he’s capable of.”

Isabelle watches him for several long moments, trying to read for any hint of something to give away any of the thoughts running through Alec’s head. When she receives nothing, she nods and reaches for the handheld with the last report Alec was reading, and holds it in front of herself. She skims the words on the page, traces a slow finger from picture to picture, before settling on one that she sets down in front of Alec with a smile.

“You know, for a Greater Demon who’s here to enact his revenge on the Downworlders, he’s actually quite handsome.” Her lips pull into a smirk, and her eyes await a reaction, but Alec gives her none. He simply shrugs and locks the screen of the handheld. “He was, at least. Who knows what he looks like now after a hundred years in Edom.”

And honestly, the last thing Alec wants to focus on is the physical features of a Demon here to cause chaos. He doesn’t want to think about the picture of Magnus Bane in Clave documents, drink in hand and that perfectly tailored suit fitting his body, smiling at the photographer with his dark-rimmed eyes. It doesn’t matter what Magnus Bane looked like then, or even now. The only thing that matters now is the information he’s managed to scrounge up from every instance of this Demon’s name in Clave history, and how he can use that knowledge to his advantage.

Magnus Bane was cunning, sneaky, and smart in the early 1900’s. He was dangerous then, and Alec’s not going to believe that Edom did anything but magnify that danger after a century of letting his anger fester.

---

Moonlight spills through the windows, casts soft light along the path Alex takes as he makes his way, resigned, towards the infirmary.

The halls of the Institute are sparse with Shadowhunters now gathered in the training hall and library in hopes of strengthening themselves for whatever battle they foresee coming. It’s all for naught, Alec thinks to himself as he recounts the lackluster conversation that transpired between him and his parents just an hour ago, accompanied by Inquisitor Herondale.

“You’re to remain on the outside and cease any and all involvement in these Downworlder... squabbles.” Herondale’s voice had cut sharp and left no room for questions. Squabbles. That’s the extent that the Clave had watered this threat down to. A Greater Demon, capable of stripping away their ability to heal without the use of mundane technology. A Downworld squabble.

“Alec,” his mother’s stern voice had cut in, low and severe, “you need to make it absolutely clear to everyone that they are not to expose themselves to any fight that Magnus Bane chooses to partake in. Any patrolling Shadowhunters are there for one reason, and one reason only. To observe and record.”

Yes, to observe and record. To keep an account of what happened for Clave history. More ammunition for Shadowhunters to keep themselves separated from Downworlders, and information to add to the files of warlocks the Clave already suspects are dangerous. Fuel to the fire, all wrapped up in the innocent guise of history.

It doesn’t sit well with Alec, being a bystander to the havoc a furious Greater Demon might cause. The Clave won’t step in, they won’t be a helping hand in all of this, and Alec hates to sit on the sidelines of what could possibly be the worst decision in the history of the Accords.

But the Clave has the final say on any Shadowhunter involvement in Downworld affairs. The Clave is every bit as responsible as Alec for whatever presides in Brooklyn in the coming days. The Clave doesn’t want to stop Magnus Bane, so why should Alec?

Alec’s fingers wrap around the cool metal of the door handle when he remembers his mother’s face, the expression she wore so unabashedly in front of him. Disappointment so thinly veiled underneath all of that carefully crafted apathy. Disappointment for the way Alec offered his solutions to Inquisitor Herondale? Disappointment in the way Alec questioned the motives of the Clave for hiding in the background when they could find an alternative to be part of the solution? Disappointment in Alec, for becoming Head of the Institute, clearly unprepared and unwelcome by even his own mother?

The smile that graced his mother’s features when he first saw her had been enough for the newly awakened pride inside of him, seeking the tiniest shred of affirmation from his harshest critic. How short-lived it was. How quickly had that pride deflated into embarrassment when he began to speak of the attack from Magnus Bane and his mother’s eye shrouded themselves in disapproval.

Perhaps he could have done something differently today. He could have proceeded with a different plan of action that would have appeased Herondale’s thirst for non-consequential knowledge, if he had only known. But now he does, and though redemption is not far off, it’s going to be an uphill battle.

He’ll do better.

With a steadying breath, Alec pushes open the wooden doors to the infirmary and steps in.

There’s the distinct sterile scent of Iodine, and far more lines of IV that are hooked up than Alec is used to seeing. They’re a back up, mostly, for when an iratze isn’t enough, or the wounds are too infected with ichor to properly heal, but even then…

The click-clack of heels on tile brings his focus to the lithe redhead who steps towards him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

“It’s not the ichor,” Clary begins, wasting no time. She’s worked with Alec long enough to know he doesn’t think highly of beating around the bush or dawdling. “I was able to analyze the blood samples enough that I could detect a magical signature on all of them. Bane, of course, but it seems that the magic is keeping the wounds from healing. They’re not re-opening, so to speak, but they aren’t clotting and the stitches I’ve made don’t seem to be helping the process either. They just,” Clary inhales a deep sigh, and expels a shaky breath. “They just bleed. Not enough to drain them completely, but enough to cause substantial blood loss. With how much they’ve already lost and how much more they’re going to lose, they’re going to need several transfusions just to stay alive.”

Alec turns to face one of the Shadowhunters laying on the cold, white bed. There are bandages around his arms, patches of gauze scattered across his body and face and butterfly bandages to keep small wounds closed. But for every bandage, for every strip of white, there’s red that blots it. Small beads of blood that pool at each line of cuts until they brim over and cascade in a slow and steady spill of red that stains the sheets beneath.

Three Shadowhunters in critical care, while not a huge blow, only paves the way for bigger hits in the future if Alec chooses to stand in the way of Magnus Bane. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take, to bet it all on the unknown, to subject the very same people who put him in this position to the torturous death sentence of blood loss.

“What are we going to do, Alec?”

Clary’s voice is soft when she speaks, uncertainty replacing the confidence and assertion he’s so used to hearing. Yes, three Shadowhunters isn’t a big loss, but it’s an omen chilling enough that he doesn’t want to cause panic and worry within the Institute.

“We stay quiet about this. If anyone asks, the ichor and magic is causing a unique reaction that you’re working on a remedy for. They’ll be fine.”

They’ll be fine.

Even to himself, Alec sounds scared.

“Maybe we need to find Magnus Bane, we could talk to him and ask - “

“Ask what?” Alec snaps his attention towards Clary, who frowns up at him.

With a calculated pause, she surveys the room’s occupants. “We can ask him what he’s here for, what he’s trying to gain from this.”

“He wants whoever sealed him away in Edom to pay.”

Clary’s brows crinkle together, and her eyes focus as she undoubtedly tries to recollect any information on Magnus Bane she’s heard of over the years. There’s not much to remember, not much spoken through word of mouth besides cautionary tales and warnings on why Downworlders must always be watched. The real meat of the situation is hidden in the files of cases over the years. Cases that litter Alec’s desk, pages of text that have been ingrained into his mind.

“Maybe we could help him,” She offers, timidly.

“Help him?”

“I know it sounds crazy, us helping a Greater Demon,” Clary begins. “We work on keeping the Downworld in order so to speak, right? We make sure that danger doesn't seep through into mundane territory, and so far it is. We can seek out Magnus Bane, see why he’s after these people, who they are, and what he’s trying to achieve. Maybe… Maybe helping him will bring more peace than leaving him to his own devices.”

Clary’s not wrong, at least to Alec she isn’t. It’s the better option, to help Magnus Bane with whatever mission he’s steering towards so he can be done with it. Get him out of the way before it becomes a bigger issue with the Clave.

But the Clave.

“The Inquisitor doesn’t want that,” Alec explains tersely.

Clary rolls her eyes and wears a common expression of distaste so many around him always do when the Clave is involved. “They aren’t here, Alec. The Clave only cares about the Law, with no regard to how it actually applies to all of our lives in the Institute. You’re our leader now. I understand you report back to the Clave, but they don’t have to know. At least not yet.”

It’s a temptation Alec won’t entertain for longer than a brief second. Going against the Clave is not an option. They’ve been given orders, and he’ll make sure they follow them.

“We will not go-“

Alec’s words are interrupted by the high-pitched ringing of his phone that he answers immediately.

“Isabelle?”

“Alec,” There’s a loud crash that crackles through the receiver of the phone that instantly sets him on high alert. “Alec, he’s here. Magnus Bane, he’s come to Hotel DuMort with an army of demons. You need to come!”

“Hotel DuMort? What are you even doing there, Isabelle? You were told to stay out of this, you shouldn’t be anywhere near other Downworlders with Magnus Bane around!”

“Jace and I came to -“

There’s silence as the phone loses connection, and Alec can’t help the involuntary reaction of slamming his empty fist into one of the unoccupied beds of the infirmary. “Fuck,” he spits out, before shoving the phone into his pocket and making his way towards the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Clary shouts as she rushes to his side.

“You will stay here and stick to the plan, Morgenstern,” Alec grits through his teeth.

“There is no plan, Alec! I’m not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs, giving people false hope when I can go with you and help.”

A moment of silence. A moment where Alec feels the heavy thud of his heartbeat in the palms of his hand where his fists are balled so tightly, before he exits the infirmary in quiet anger with Clary trailing behind him.

---

There are screeches and screams that surround the Hotel DuMort as Alec and Clary gather closer. To mundanes, only quiet calm and the sounds of cars honking with idle engines fill the late night streets, but behind the screen of blissful oblivion lies something much darker, something far more inauspicious.

Sparks of red shoot from one of the top floor windows, and Alec and Clary dodge the shards of glass that sprinkle down on them as they search for an entrance. Magic enchants the walls and tingles against Alec’s hand as he pushes through one of the side entrances not blocked off with deadbolts and hanging locks. It would be almost too easy for any mundane to just waltz in, and he’s sure under different circumstances this would be a red-flag for Hotel DuMort’s compliance with the Accords to be taken into question.

The room inside is dark and empty at first glance, but a gasp from Clary and the tip of his boots hitting something raised against the floor shows him that they’re not alone.

A handful of lifeless bodies litter the floor in front of them, surrounded by darkness and sparks of electricity from the light sources that have been shot out and electrical wires exposed. Vampires. Demons. Nothing left alive.

It makes the fear of Jace and his sister being one of these figures all the more real, and he finds the weight of his feet carrying him faster towards the staircase door. Logically, he knows that’s not the case. He’d feel it through their bond if something happened to his parabatai, and he knows that Jace would throw himself into the line of fire first before he let anything happen to Isabelle. With Clary hot on his trail they race up the stairs, stamina and speed rune lighting up and fading quickly with the wave of their steles. It’s only a few quick minutes before they’re paused at the door to the 7th floor, only stopped by the body of a dead vampire blocking the entrance from the other side. With a grunt and a shove, Alec pushes the door open and they step through into a fight that’s already begun.

The sight of vampires greet them; teeth bared, claws sharp and blades in hand fighting off the demons that surround them, ash covering the floor they fight ont. Clary whispers his name, but he doesn’t turn to her, focused critically on the threats in front of them. Alec takes one step forward, close enough to the nearest vampire that he can almost get a word in, before he’s swiped at suddenly by a Ravener demon.

He dodges the first attack with several hurried paces back and reaches for an arrow from his quiver, before the demon fizzles out before his eyes. The final blow in question is dealt by Clary, who heaves a breath and grins at Alec as she pulls her seraph blade back from the fading particles of the dying demon. It’s one miniscule victory short-lived, however, because in its place pour in three more from the broken windows that line the walls. Alec nocks an arrow into his bow quickly and chances a glance towards Clary out of the corner of his eye, who curls her lips back in a grimace and readies for a fight.

Together, they take them out. One after another, an onslaught of demons rush and growl and shriek in attack. None of them get close enough to injure, though all of them try, and it’s not until the remaining few pull back and crawl through the windows that Alec realizes they’re not retreating for the sake of defeat.

“Upstairs,” Alec breathes, ragged. “Isabelle and Jace must be upstairs.”

“The demons are no-doubt being called back by Magnus Bane. We need to get up there.”

A hiss from the side catches their attention, a wounded vampire covered in blood and ichor. “Going up there is a death sentence. Your other Shadowhunters were already doomed before they’d even reach the top floor..”

There’s only a brief look of worry shared between them, before Clary and Alec are racing up the next staircase in search of Isabelle and Jace. Jace isn’t dead, he knows for a fact, but the possibility of Isabelle being injured fuels him up the next flights of stairs that tug at his parabatai bond. They’re close, he can feel Jace and the feelings being pushed through the bond right now. Confusion, anger, worry… Fear.

Fear of Magnus Bane?

They’re close, so close now, and Alec knows he’ll finally get answers to all of the questions and worries pouring through their minds as he and Clary push through that final door that leads them to the top floor of Hotel DuMort.

Relief overcomes him, spreads warmth through his body as he sees the golden blond of Jace’s hair, and his sister right beside him across the room. But it’s replaced, almost immediately, when he spots the scene that surrounds them.

In the middle of the room are two figures, Camille Belcourt who Alec knows to be the leader of the Brooklyn Vampire Clan, and someone he can only presume to be Magnus Bane.The pair of them ensconced in a circle of high red flames that prevent anyone from leaving or entering. There’s a conversation happening inside of it, screaming and yelling from Camille that Alec can’t hear through the roar and heat of fire, and wild gestures from Magnus Bane, whose back is turned to he and Clary.

Scattered around the room are clusters of vampires fighting off the unending horde of demons, unsuccessful in their endeavors. Jace and Isabelle are with them, the crack of his sister’s whip snapping louder than the crackling of fire that licks at Alec as he steps nearer. There’s no way around the fire, no way for them to get any closer even as he and Clary fight their way through the demons rushing towards them.

So they fight, continuously with only precious seconds in between each attack for them to catch their breath and gather their strength, but Alec doesn’t tire as the ichor mingles with the sweat soaking his clothes and coating his skin. He won’t give up until he finds a way to Isabelle and Jace, and he’ll die trying if he has to.

Another demon jumps at him, and this one catches Alec at an angle that his arrow can’t quite reach in time. The knowledge of being cut hits first, followed shortly after by the pain in his shoulder. It stings and burns, not from the fire, but from the magic laced and infused deeply within the demons themselves.

It’s a minor inconvenience, he tells himself as he reaches for the seraph blade holstered to his thigh and jabs it into the back of the demon as he dodges a second attack. It hurts, but it’s nothing he can’t stand, nothing an iratze won’t heal.

It’s a lie he knows to be true. He can feel the magic tingling against his skin where the blood begins to seep from the shallow wound. He’ll be fine for now, at least long enough to get them out of the building and back into the safety of the Institute.

A grunt beside him brings him back into the fight and he turns to see Clary swing her weapon into the skull of the demon closest to her, while kicking another into the fire beside her that consumes the demon with a sizzling crack. It’s almost more effective to use the fire to their advantage, Alec realizes as he and Clary share a knowing look. They change tactics quickly, rushing towards the demons from the outskirts of the room, boots thudding heavily against the hardened exoskeleton of the demons as they rush towards them. The vampires nearby take note, exhausted and battered far more than the two of them, and begin to follow suit.

It’s not long before the flocks of demons that pour into the room fade into a more sparse area of coverage and everyone involved in the small battle can take longer than a moment's breath.

Whispers and speculation fill the silence when only a few demons are left remaining, being fought off by courageous vampires with a sudden need to direct their adrenaline. In the middle of the room the fire howls fiercer, brighter and hotter as Camille and Magnus continue to occupy the center, closer than ever to each other.

There’s discourse, still an argument being had if the curl of the Magnus’ fist and Camille’s bared teeth are anything to go off of. It’s still too loud to hear the topic at hand, something unsettling and stormy brewing between the two, but then suddenly something shifts in Camille’s incensed demeanor.

It’s as if a switch has flipped, as if the anger has evaporated with the heat of the flames, and left in its place a barrage of tears that trickle down her face. She’s frustrated, Alec can see it in the square of her shoulders, but she’s given up the fight to Magnus. Part of him knows it’s not his place to care about the outcome of the events that are unfolding before them, that he has other more pressing matters at hand, such as getting to Jace and Isabelle. But the flames don’t give an inch of slack, and the path to them is blocked almost entirely by dead bodies and debris.

A pale hand reaches up, contrasting shockingly to the deep tan of Magnus’ cheek where it rests, color that Alec can see isn’t just the result of the shadows from the fire. From Alec’s spot behind Magnus, he can’t see the expression he wears or the effect this gesture has on him. What he can see, though, is the tense of his back through the black blazer that fits his body, and the way he straightens out the length of himself when presented with the vulnerability of Camille.

And Camille, for all her false innocence and shrewd manner over the years, seems genuine for once.

With rapt attention, Alec watches every step closer she takes.He can feel rather than hear the staccato click of her heels along the marble floor for every inch of distance she closes. He should look away, he thinks in a moment of polite weakness.

But, no.

This is a deliberate display, a show the two of them are putting on for any Downworlder, Shadowhunter, or Mundane who will watch. And so he does.

He watches, enraptured, as Camille raises herself onto the balls of her feet, black stilettos lifting and pale arms encircling the strong shoulders of the Greater Demon before her. He watches still, as the bright red lipstick that stains her lips also colors Magnus’ cheek and smears against their skin when she ducks her head into the junction of his neck. It’s almost too intimate for him to continue watching, the moment surely too much for them to all be allowed to partake in. It feels sinful, in a way. Alec almost averts his eyes, guiltily casting his gaze downward, when he catches Magnus’ hand reflecting back to him the brightest flames through the rings that adorn the fingers curling into the dark long locks of Camille’s hair.

Most importantly, in his bashfully thorough scrutiny of the scene before him, he watches Magnus’ other hand, unnoticed and dim in the shadows of their two bodies. A hand that ignites a soft blue nearly unseen through the fire, magic that produces a wooden stake to spear straight into the unsuspecting heart laid out before him.

A gasp, a lungful of staggered breathing fills Camille as she cries out in the same silent shock Alec feels vibrating through him. Her body, lithe and slender and her deep burgundy dress darken with color as she twitches and fades before them into slow settling ash on the floor, graceful and beautiful in ways that only the leader of the New York vampire clan could manage. But Alec pays her no mind as her memory slips lower beneath the line of his vision, all the while his eyes remain steadfast on the Demon before him. On Magnus Bane.

The fire lets up minutes later, and the surviving vampires rush towards Camille with their inhuman speed, crying and bemoaning the loss of their leader with wails that echo in the silence now befalling the room. There’s a tug in the pit of his stomach, a pull that he recognizes clearly as his parabatai bond. He should follow it to Jace, to Isabelle and undoubtedly Clary who is likely already with them. He knows, logically, what he should do now. He knows what’s expected of him, and he knows what’s right. And yet…

Now that he knows for certain his siblings are safe, there are more important matters at hand. Like the fact that Magnus Bane now stands in front of him, piercing Alec with golden eyes and the hardened exterior of a Greater Demon who shows no remorse for having just killed someone.

Time seems to move slowly as Magnus lifts a hand and summons a portal, an endless swirl of darkness that will release him from the destruction he’s leaving behind, that will take him further from the answers Alec seeks. Magnus turns then, takes one step into the void and the flow of time accelerates so quickly that in that instant Alec doesn’t realize he’s stepping through the portal with him until the roar of magic deafens him to the sounds of his sister’s call.

#shmb2021 #shadowhunters #malec #malec fanfiction #Magnus x Alec #magnus bane #alec lightwood

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fanfictionaries · 4 years

Note

Giiiiirl, I am CRAVING some baking with Bucky. Like some good old recipe from his mom or sisters, eating half the batter, being all innocent and goofy. Maybe Reader introducing him to the world of cupcakes with a second batch of batter they make. Just a sweeeet baking day ❤️

I made myself happy sad with this one. XD

Might be a little more angsty than you were looking for, but all the sweet fluff is there as well!

Inspired by my own great great grandmother’s recipe.

Orange Rolls

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Words: 3k

Warnings: None, just the fluffiest fluff you can imagine; slight angst.

Author’s Note: I loved doing this, so please people. Send me more requests! ALSO this is an actual family recipe of mine. I recommend trying it!

I recommend listening to this song while reading this: https://open.spotify.com/track/7pR7yPgbYcipmTUHT5g68p?si=nQZeCOmoTcm43qOI1YRPNA

***

Step 1. Dissolve 2 yeast cakes in ¼ cup warm water.

The room was alight in the glow of soft warm sun. Nestled in your blankets, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and yawned widely, stretching and turning to snuggle into the familiar warmth of Bucky. Firm muscle, soft skin, ticklish arm hair – all missing. Instead only cool sheets, drawn back on his side of the bed. You didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but you rolled over to the bedside table to check your phone anyways. Five AM. Much too early to be up on a Sunday morning, even for your early bird of a super soldier. Rolling onto your back, you stayed quiet, attempting to hear any signs of life in the small apartment. Perhaps he’d only gotten up to use the bathroom. The sound of heavy items falling and a string of curses coming from the kitchen brushed away the thought. Jumping out of bed, you pulled one of Bucky’s large sweatshirts over your head and stepped into your slippers.

When you rounded the corner, the first thing you noticed was the expanse of your pantry laid out onto the floor. The second thing you noticed was Bucky, sat cross-legged in the middle of the array of flours, sugars, and spices, head in his hands. You knew this look. This crumpled, defeated look that so few had the privilege to witness. Everyone saw the stoic, cold Winter Soldier. So little saw Bucky Barnes, a kid from Brooklyn. Tiptoeing around the spilled bags of sugar, flour, and sprinkles, you stood beside him, leaning over and placing a gentle hand to his back, rubbing soft, slow circles.

“Nightmares?” you asked, moving your hand up to thread through his freshly cropped hair, scraping your fingernails against his scalp. Bucky tilted his head back, leaning into your touch like a cat leaving its scent. You could see the telltale signs; red rimmed eyes, pink tipped nose, raw bitten lips.

“No, no nightmares. I uh…I had a dream about my mom,” Bucky answered, the end of his sentence biting off in a short, harsh laugh. You held your breath. It flattered you that Bucky felt comfortable enough with you to share the gory, ugly details of his past – the things that kept him up at night. The things he thought you couldn’t love him for. But never had he talked about his family. The only memories of his past life you ever heard were the ones Steve brought up, the rowdy stories of two young men up to no good in 40’s Brooklyn. Yet on his own, Bucky remained silent about his life before the war. You never pushed him. It would be cruel of you to press a subject that was most likely too painful for him to think about. Now, the waver in his voice and the tears that welled in his eyes told you that that assumption had been correct.

“I was sittin’ in my old kitchen and uh—” he sniffed, taking a moment to clear his throat “—it was Easter. I know it was Easter ‘cause ma made orange rolls. She only ever made them on Easter. And it—it was the best damn orange roll I’ve ever had. I woke up and I remembered Steve brought over some boxes of my family’s old things, stuff Rebecca left behind I guess, and I found this.”

In his hand he held an aged recipe card, stained from years of use. The yellowed card stock was bent and torn, but the writing still held clear, thick and messy in some places as if it had been traced over multiple times. It was well used. Well loved. At the top, clearly labeled in large looped font, were the words ‘Orange Rolls’.

“I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth. I figured I’d try to make them, but I wasn’t much for the kitchen back then, let alone now. And—and you don’t have any yeast cakes. I can’t make them without yeast cakes (Y/N). It’s the first ingredient and I can’t—” The words broke off, catching in the back of his throat. He wrapped his arms around your legs, clinging to them like a broken child. Rolling off of him in waves, the permeating sadness and longing washed over you, breaking your heart with each hit.

“I don’t think they make yeast cakes anymore Bucky—” you spoke slowly, choosing your words carefully. At the statement, you felt his arms tighten in a panic. You were quick to placate him “—but I have some dry active yeast that I think should work. Why don’t we clean this up and then see what we can do, yea?”

Step 2. Warm 1 cup milk, add ½ cup sugar, 3 Tbsp shortening, 2 tsp salt.

Turns out, a single yeast cake is equal to approximately 4 and ½ tsps of dry active yeast. After this joyous announcement and your internal praise to Google’s ever living library of knowledge, Bucky was up on his feet, standing in front of the stove over a saucepan of milk.

“How do you know when it’s warm?” he asked, looking curiously down at the pan of milk in front of him.

“Stick your finger in it, if it feels warm, then it’s probably warm,” you answered sarcastically, reaching into the depths of your pantry for the Crisco. A rarely used, but very important staple for any kitchen.

“What? I’m not sticking my finger in it,” said Bucky, watching with rapt horror as you walked up beside him and dipped the tip of your pointer finger into the warm, white liquid.

“I think it’s warm enough to put the sugar in. What?” you asked him when you saw the look of exasperation on your boyfriend’s face.

“You put your finger in the milk.”

“And? My hands are clean. You watched me wash them. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of catching cooties. Cause I hate to break it to you but, you probably already have them.” Lifting on your toes, you placed a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. Catching you around the waist before you could drop back down, Bucky kissed you back with slow purpose.

“Is that right?” he asked teasingly, breaking away from your lips ever so slightly.

“Afraid so,” you murmured against the soft, heat of his mouth.

Step 3. Beat in 3 eggs, 2 cups flour, and add dissolved yeast. Let rise for 1 hour.

The wet dough sat on the counter; a kitchen towel draped lightly over it. By this time, the sun had fully crested over the city skyline, pouring blinding light into the small space of your kitchen. The two of you sat at the kitchen island, sipping your coffee as you waited for the dough to rise. Your bare feet sat, propped in Bucky’s lap, the thumb of his metal hand absentmindedly rubbing the arch of your right foot as he spoke animatedly.

“You should have seen her. Becca was so mad; I thought her head was going to spin all the way around!” laughed Bucky, the creases at the corners of his eyes making a warm and welcome appearance as he regaled a story that you had never heard before.

“Well that’s what she got for touching your stuff,” you said, taking Bucky’s side in the long forgotten sibling argument.

“Thank you! See, you get it. I wish I could say the same for my parents. My pa gave me such a lickin’ and then ma sent me off to bed with no dinner. All for putting worms in her bed!”

“Did she get in trouble for letting your pet frog loose?” you asked, enraptured by the story.

“No! Do you know how hard it was to find a frog in Brooklyn?”

“Impossible. I don’t even know how you did it.”

“Well, really it was Steve that found him—”

“Him? Did he have a name?” you interrupted him with a cheeky smile.

Bucky scratched the back of his head, a light pinkness appearing on his cheeks, “He might of…”

“Aaaand?” you pressed, wanting to know the name even more at the prospect of it being embarrassing.

“I don’t know if I wanna’ tell you. I think you’re just gonna laugh.”

“I won’t! I promise!” you exclaimed, drawing an invisible cross over you heart.

Bucky looked at you skeptically, a raised eye trained on you before answering, “Fine. It was Mr. Ribbits.”

You tried your hardest, really you did. But a snort escaped your nose before you could stop it and then Bucky was playfully pushing your legs off of his lap and turning away from you, “See! I knew you’d laugh. You’re such a bad liar!”

“I’m sorry!” You reached for him, still attempting to stifle your giggles as you pulled at Bucky’s arm, turning him back towards you. “Really, I am. I think Mr. Ribbits is a respectable name.”

“Thank you. It is.” His tone was resolute, but it didn’t take a trained eye to spot the small smile working its way onto the corner of his lips. “But no, Becca didn’t get in trouble. In fact, my pa said I was too old to be picking up animals off the street anyways.”

“How old were you?”

“I think I was about ten.”

Step 4. Add 3 cups flour and beat in with spoon. Let raise 1 and ½ hours.

“We have to wait again?!”

“Yea, we have to let the dough rise, otherwise the rolls will be tough and there won’t be enough to roll out,” you explained, placing the towel over the bowl once again and reaching for your empty coffee cups.

“But I thought we just did that,” said Bucky in confusion. You tried not to smile at him, but the cute little scrunch of his eyebrows made you a weak and gooey fool.

“Baking is more of an art in patience than skill. Especially any kind of bread, babe. Don’t worry, once they’re done, they’ll be more than worth the wait,” you reassured him, patting his cheek gently.

“Well…can we make something else while we wait? What’s your favorite thing to bake?” Bucky asked, his innocent tone making him sound like a wide-eyed child.

You smiled, big and happy, and walked over to the recipe box that sat atop the fridge. Taking it down and setting in on the counter in front of you, you dug into the baking section and produced a handful of recipe cards.

“Take your pick soldier.”

Step 5. Roll out dough and spread on icing – 2 cups sugar, 1 orange: rind grated and juiced, 6 Tbsp melted butter. Roll, cut, and place in muffin tin. Cover and let raise 20 mins.

“Stop eating all the batter!” you scolded, whacking the back of Bucky’s hand with a spatula. The impact had no effect, the sneaking man having had the forethought to use his metal hand.

“If I wasn’t supposed to eat it this way, then why is it so delicious?” he argued, sneaking another finger into the chocolate concoction and bringing it to his mouth.

“Because it’s five pounds of sugar and fat,” you laughed, grabbing hold of his wrist and bringing the chocolate covered finger to your mouth instead. “Also – how is it gross for me to dip my finger into the milk but you can have these grubby little paws buried deep in my brownie batter?”

The question caught Bucky off guard. Raising his hand up, he wiggled the vibranium fingers in your face, “Metal arm – they’re, uh, sterile.”

You guffawed, absolutely tickled by the lame response, “Sterile. Okay. Well, preheat the oven Mr. Sterile.”

Using the spatula, you scraped the double chocolate chip brownie batter into the greased pan. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and a head came to rest on your shoulder, watching you scrape the sides of the bowl. Nuzzling his face into your neck, he placed a gentle kiss just below your ear.

“You know, you’re getting pretty mouthy these days. I have half a mind to take you over my knee,” Bucky growled playfully.

Before your brain could connect with what your body was doing, the spatula had already lifted away from the bowl and made contact with the side of his face. The wet splat of batter to skin sounded plainly through the kitchen. Releasing you from his hold, Bucky stepped back, his expression vacant and shell-shocked. Dropping the spatula back into the bowl, you covered your face with your hands as you tried not to lose it. He looked positively ridiculous. Chocolate covered the left side of his face, dripping down from his brow bone to his chin. You watched as he brought a hand up slowly, touching his face and bringing it back down to examine it. He stared at the chocolate proof on his fingertips for a few moments as you waited with horrific anticipation.

“Oh, that’s it, doll. You better run.”

The menacing words sent your heart rate soaring. A playful shriek escaped your lungs as you bolted from the kitchen, Bucky on your heel with a growl in the back of his throat.

Step 6. Place in the oven at 375 for 10-15 minutes. Makes around 3 dozen.

The brownies, already baked and cooling on the counter, were long forgotten as Bucky sat in front of the oven. Arms wrapped around his bent legs, he watched as the orange rolls slowly rose in their muffin tins.

“When are they gonna be done?” he asked you, staring into the depths of the oven like a fortune teller stares into their crystal ball. Like if he looked hard enough, he’d find all the answers to the universe.

“About five more minutes.” You sat down beside him, leaning into his side as the two of you watched his long-forgotten memories rise. You were excited to try the rolls. It was a recipe you had never heard of, which was a rare thing. But most importantly you were excited to try a little piece of Bucky’s life. A piece of the man, the boy, that he used to be before life happened. It felt special and intimate.

“What if they’re not as good as I remember?” The words were soft and honest. You could feel the same sadness and apprehension as earlier that morning drift from him to you. Leaning against him firmer, you took his hand into yours. Threading the warm flesh into your own, you continued to stare into the heat of the oven.

“They will be.”

Step 7. Enjoy.

The rolls were a beautiful sight. Small, golden brown swirls in a neat, compact shape. The sugar filling had melted down into the bottom of the pan, creating and thick and chewy caramel layer at the bottom of each one. A delicious detail that Bucky said was supposed to happen, but also made it incredibly difficult to pry them from their tins. Still, with the help of a butter knife and a lot of patience, the two of you were able to get most of them out unscathed. A buttery orange scent swirled through the air, causing your mouth to salivate as they sat atop of the wire cooling rack. The two of you sat at the kitchen island, staring at the rolls in silence – you with a look of anticipation, Bucky with a look of confusion.

“What is it?” you asked, wondering if he still doubted that they would hold up to his dream.

“I’m pretty sure they had frosting.”

While the recipe didn’t call for it, Bucky insisted that they always had a frosting on them. After a few minutes of questioning about what kind of frosting it was, or at least what it looked and tasted like, you came to the conclusion that it was most likely a simple glaze. A few minutes later, you each had a plate in front of you with a single, gooey, glistening orange roll sat pristinely on it.

You were starving. You’d been up for nearly five hours and you hadn’t eaten anything yet. But you didn’t dare dig in until Bucky had his first bite. Reaching out tentatively, he picked up the roll, twisting and turning it, inspecting it with a warry expression. Holding your breath, you watched as he brought the baked good to his lips and took a generous bite. He chewed, and chewed, and chewed – each second leaving you with more consternation than the last. When he finally swallowed, he set the rest of the roll down onto his plate and heaved a heavy sigh. Your heart dropped.

“No good?” you asked, fearing you already knew the answer from the way his shoulders bunched over the counter.

Looking to you, tears once again welling in his eyes, Bucky did something unexpected. He kissed you. A firm, chaste kiss that lasted only a moment but formed butterflies in your stomach before he pulled back.

“They’re even better than I remember.”

The proclamation sent your heart soaring. You let out the breath you’d been holding, feeling your own tears of relief and joy begin to well. Blinking them back, you smiled at him, blinded by the dazzling smile you received in turn.

“Well then, let’s eat them all because I am famished,” you replied, picking up your own orange roll and taking a giant bite. The mix of soft, warm bread, zesty orange, chewy caramel, and sweet frosting set your taste buds alight. As you chewed, you envisioned a ten year old Bucky sitting in his mother’s kitchen on Easter morning. Curly brown hair, all teeth and dimples in his Sunday best and as happy as a kid could be. Why?

Because this was the best damn orange roll you’d ever had.

Marvel Taglist:

@caffiend-queen

@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

#requests #fan fiction #fanfic #fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #memories #baking #angst

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walkingchemicalfire · 4 years

Text

The Stray: Luca

Taking another stab at @whumpmasinjuly Day 12 prompt: “do it”

A/N: My brain just would not let this scene go. This story will be connected to the overarching storyline for “The Stray” but I want a different title in order to split Lyra’s timeline from Luca’s. If you have any ideas that you’d like to share, feel free to drop them into my inbox! For now though, Luca is the subtitle

CW: death, gore, blood, death threats, kind of suicidal ideation (that’s where the “do it” comes into play), dehumanizing talk, wetting in fear, use of needles, guns, knife, and a electrified snare pole

The first thing Luca did after the first bitch took a shot at him, was laugh. Oh humans, such imbeciles. Taking a shot at a werewolf was ballsy enough, but to not even use a silver bullet? Fucking moronic. So Luca just had to laugh when the completely human made (read: useless) bullet sailed over his shoulder and gouged a hole into a nearby tree. He spared it one glance before erupting into a deep belly laugh. The sound boomed through the surrounding forest and he was almost positive the human locked up from fear, if the bitter scent was anything to go by.

Luca descended onto all fours as his wolf broke free seamlessly. He had the scent on lock and tore through the dense forest in a adrenaline fueled rage. On the outreaches of his singular focus, he noticed that all the other creatures in the wood were madly dashing out of his path. Much wiser than the two-legged wretches in his sights. These weak, stupid, shitty cowards could never stand a chance against his might. What could they possibly have hoped for when they provoked him? A swift death surely, one that he would gladly grant them. Although it would be much bloodier than they were imagining.

Luca pounded into the small clearing where the scent trail ended. There were five of the motherfuckers. The bitch that took the shot hadn’t even risen from her prone position in the dirt, her rifle still pointed in the direction of where he had been walking. Luca watched with satisfaction as this one turned her head and immediately the blood drained from her face. She opened her mouth to scream but the sound never passed her lips. Instead, the last thing she saw was the dark depths of Luca’s gullet.

Luca crushed the skull in his jaws, removing it from the body with a quick yank and a twist. He tossed it over the short cliff ledge the now headless body was slumped atop. The explosion of blood in his mouth and the scent of it filling his nostrils heightened his senses to new levels. The wolf reveled in the hot liquid dripping from his maw. It invigorated him. Sent sparks of heat zipping through his veins. Igniting the hottest fires along his nerves.

The next moments passed in a blur of decimation. A flurry of pulverized flesh, shattered bone, and more blood than Luca could swallow. His entire front, from jaw to claws, was sticky with it. His fur was matted with it as well, and yet he could not find it in himself to care. All that he wanted was to rid his territory of these dipshit creatures.

Speaking of, the final bastard was making a desperate scramble to retreat. He was on his butt, crawling backwards while facing the massive wolf currently stalking toward him. Luca took in the human’s unadulterated terror with gleaming eyes. This scent was unparalleled in the overwhelming sense of panic and...the of foul smell ammonia. The wolf’s nostrils twitched at the burning stench of human piss. The wolf felt amusement at the realization. The human should be terrified of him. Perhaps it would teach him to stay away from him and his Pack.

Luca was never one to play with his prey, but this was much too inviting. The piss soaked human had backed himself into a tree. Panic took an even tighter hold over him as he realized he was trapped and facing his imminent doom. Luca was enraptured by his chest moving up and down in desperate heaves for his final breaths. He could just hear the blood rushing through his veins, the heart pounding in an almost continuous gallop. Luca licked his chops, savoring the anticipation of having that heart in his stomach.

He came to a halt before this poor excuse for a hunter of his kind, prepared to make his end quick with a slash to the jugular. He had just raised his paw to make the swipe when he felt the knife pierce his side. At first it felt like a normal knife, like the one he had practiced with back home and, more than once, had slashed himself with accidentally. But when the searing burn of silver made itself known, Luca knew he was in a bind.

“AAWWWOOOOAAHHHHH!!!” Luca’s howl morphed into a cry of anguish as he Changed to protect his wolf from the majority of the unbearable torment. He could already feel the silver digging its way through his connection. He wanted to mourn the loss, but he still had his anger to sate.

“You motherfuckin’ shitstain! This how ya fight? Stabbing us with silver ‘stead of facin’ your end with dignity?” Luca hurled the words at the human still backed against the tree before him. This one seemed to get some sort of sense back and he made a mad dash to his feet, only to face plant two seconds later. Luca barked a laugh at the idiot’s desperation. The sound broke off into a gasp as the knife shifted inside him. The human did a strange mix of stumbling and running, like his brain and legs did not agreeing on what speed was appropriate for the situation, and ducked into the surrounding woods.

Luca snorted at the retreat and a slight breeze provided him just enough assistance to catch the new odors of humans. There are way too many for him to overpower in his injured state so he resorted to a new goal: ride it out and slaughter them when the silver had run its course.

The Change had left him on his knees and it’s as good as a position as he can hope for with the knife still lodged under his ribs. He called out to the assholes hiding behind the trees all around him. “Come on out, fucking dickless shitheads! There’s a goddamn silver knife in my side so I ain’t Changin’ for a while. You’re safe, I promise.” And that assurance is as empty as all the bodies splayed out over the clearing.

It certainly got him what he wanted though. The humans move as a group, all with firearms at the ready, surrounding him on all fronts. Luca smiles gleefully when one to his left gets too close. He gnashed his teeth in their direction, beyond pleased when they stumble over their own feet and nearly fall. They make it too easy for him to thrive off their terror.

“Tell y’all what, if you lower your weapons and clear outta my territory, then I won’t gut you like your brothers in the dirt around you.” He remembered the first kill being a female and tacks on, “Hmm, and sister. Which I have to say, pretty shitty of your kind to have women fight your battles.”

“That’s quite enough, dog.” One of the humans breaks off from the circled group and stands in front him. This one has their hands tucked behind their back and is more or less in a relaxed posture. There are no defining outward traits for Luca to determine if this one is male or female. It’s then that he notices his senses are becoming too dull to even pick up a scent on the human.

He mentally shook himself and returned his focus to what vulgar term was just used. “What the hell did you jus’ call me?” He growls out.

“Dog. Spelled D-O-G. Of the Canidae family in the Animalia kingdom. The first animals to be domesticated by humans. Known as a lower species to, as you referenced a moment ago, our kind. Often found in the wild as unhinged, blood thirsty, carnivores that require correction to subdue.” The human paused to gesture between Luca and the lifeless bodies nearby. “You certainly fit the bill a few minutes ago.”

Luca snarled in response. He knew that was not the wisest response in proving that he is not an animal, but the silver was putting him down for the count at a rapid pace and all his remaining energy was going towards keeping himself upright. He has to face off this enemy before he can get away, he just doesn’t know if he’ll have the chance to get far enough.

The Leader scoffed softly and nods to one of the others in the circle to Luca’s right. Before he can even think to look over to see what’s coming, something goes over his head and encircles his neck. It’s a thick band of wire and Luca jerked in outrage and shock, the accompanying adrenaline rush providing enough clarity for him to ignore the sharp twinge as the knife was jostled. He moves in a twisting motion but the wired band is already too tight around his throat. There is no burn like the knife so he raked his nails over it, trying to find a gap he can use to his advantage. When none are found, he yanked his head to the side so the human who was tightening this wire would be thrown off balance. It worked, but he was also caught off guard as the human dropped a heavy pole that is connected to the contraption around his neck. The wire remained secure and he grunted as it pinched his skin.

Luca heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked above him. He looked up at the Leader to find they had a pistol leveled at his head.

Luca snorted and leveled his own glare at the human. “I sure hope ya got a silver one in the chamber there, motherfucker. Else I’m gonna tear your bleedin’ heart outa your goddamn chest and make you eat it.”

The Leader’s eye twitched just slightly, but it was enough incentive for Luca to shift forward and press his forehead to the barrel of the gun.

He never breaks eye contact with Leader. “Do it.”

The Leader pushed back and brings their finger over the trigger. Luca smiles at their hesitancy, making sure to show all his teeth that will make quick work out Leader’s throat, even without his wolf’s fangs.

The shot never comes. Instead, fire burns him from the inside out, branching out from his neck until all his muscles are spasming uncontrollably. He realizes in a daze that this is almost worse than the silver. The current continued surging through him until he could barely breathe.

Somehow he ended up face first in the dirt. He smelled fresh blood and it’s so close he can taste the tang of it. All his senses are under a trance. It felt like he’d been put in a vacuum and everything is being overrun by the ringing in his ears. He feels a prick of something near his neck and, belatedly realizing it was a needle, tried to extricate himself from the tight seal of the vacuum in his head. It does not release him and he groans as his vision darkens further and a sweep of cold rushes through his veins.

“They’re all dead when I break out of this.” Luca vows as he fades out.

Tag Team: @whump-tr0pes @sableflynn @whumpywhumper @0idril0 @cursedscribbles @mymoon199 @endless-whump

**Since this is a new OC, please let me know if you only want to be tagged on Lyra’s story**

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simmeredsalmon · 5 years

Note

idk if requests are /officially/ open, but could i request sanemi blurb w some fluff. i love this babe so much istg-

they’re definitely open, thanks so much for the req!! i went hard on this one but that’s only because sanemi loves you so much…

As the Star Pillar, there’s no dismissing your strength—or the imposing presence you give off. Affable and charming, you’re adored by your peers (but perhaps the lower rankings more so).

But everyone easily agrees that Sanemi is attached to you the most. Even if he doesn’t always outwardly display his affections, it’s lucid he’s fond of you; especially when he shares portions of ohagi with a neutral expression or chases after you when you’re injured to confirm for himself that you’re alright.

Yet Sanemi never could pinpoint whether these ‘secret’ feelings he harbored were reciprocated or not, but a twinge of hope flourished in his chest when you asked, “Sanemi-san, if you’re willing… would you like to accompany me to a festival in my hometown? I already got permission from Oyakata-sama for my absence, as well as yours!”

Sanemi could clearly see the wishful hues swimming in your eyes, and he only truly accepted after reaffirming his prefecture was well taken care of and that you’d both be alerted immediately of trouble. When Sanemi told you he’d be coming along, he swore he never seen your face lit up as much as then.

It was thrilling to visit your roots; also exulting as you didn’t ask anyone but him to take part with you.

On the way there, Sanemi questioned you about your hometown and the traditions of the festival. Of course he was only met with aloof remarks about ‘waiting until you got there’.

When you arrived, your family ecstatically welcomed you, proclaiming they were worried you weren’t going to make it!

“Oh, is this Shinazugawa-sama? We’ve heard so much about you in her letters!” your mother gushed, giving him a bow. “We’re [first name]’s parents.“

“Letters?” Sanemi iterates, turning his head towards you for clarification.

Your complexion flushes and you’re visibly flustered, having assumed he’d have of skipped over that tidbit of information. “N-Never mind that! Where’s my sister?”

And that’s also how he learned you had a little sister, around Genya’s age, too. You had kept that aspect similarly hidden, but for differing reasons.

Your hometown was lavished with history of night-related worship; believing in the primordial god of darkness—which, at first glance, seemed out-of-place.

“After my childhood friend died, I realized that I wanted to take the night back from demons. Nighttime is my origin, my family’s; I don’t want anyone wrongfully stealing that anymore,” you explained softly, scrutinizing how Sanemi soaked in your words. “But I didn’t bring you along to only talk about that. I’m also this town’s priestess, so I wanted you to see me in action… a different way than normally.”

Traditionally, your town held a festival that started at sunset and climaxed at midnight. The activities continued until sunrise, but the main event of a dance began at exactly midnight. Usually, the priestess would be the one to dance… but you wanted to give that gift to your little sister who loved dancing. Rather, you’d participate in the musical aspect on the flute.

Sanemi couldn’t disprove the appreciation he felt at your sacrifice of customs (which were, clearly, important to you) for your younger sister.

“Come, Sanemi-san, I’ll show you to my home. We’ve prepared an outfit befitting the festivities for you.” And Sanemi went along, gazing at the ornate decorations beginning to adorn your quaint town until he reached your abode.

After he got changed, Sanemi simply waited for you to be finished as well. And, well, when you ambled out… he was immediately enraptured. Bewitching was surely an understatement, with how your hair was done-up and how the equally resplendent kimono tautly fitted your form.

With a pensive note in his voice, Sanemi praised you, “You look beautiful, [last name].”

“Oh my, should you be saying that about a priestess?” you teased lightly, before adding on, “Thank you, Sanemi-san. I don’t want to be treated like one by you, really.”

Your vague words left room for interpretation, but before Sanemi could press further, your parents came inside to beckon you both out onto the streets to enjoy the festival.

As you left your home, the skeins of sunset illuminated every crevice in gorgeous color; evoking a nostalgic and captivating feeling.

When you twined your arm around Sanemi’s, he almost froze. He wasn’t expecting you, someone who just joked about their status in the town, to unabashedly link arms. He wasn’t complaining, mind you.

You blithely guided him around, the gentle and pale lights from lanterns growing more and more prominent as time passed.

The two of you often got questionable remarks on marriage, the folks who watched you grow up surprised at your authority with a man, and whenever you found yourself overheating from it all, you’d suddenly suggest a trip to gather shaved ice.

“Again? Are you sure you’re not getting a fever?” Sanemi naively (or so you thought) asked, although he was somehow still willing to eat his third helping of strawberry-flavored ice.

Delicately situating yourself on a bench, while patting the seat beside you, you helplessly shovelled a spoonful into your mouth. Your one inelegant habit was your pleasure for anything sweet, and you could become greedy with it.

But that was also something Sanemi found endearing. If there’s anything he made note of tonight, it was that you were comfortable with him—you didn’t feel judged, hence why you were able to shamelessly eat.

“Is a priestess suppose to get married before a certain age?” He nonchalantly brought the topic up, having grown weary of the incessant comments from everyone.

You shook your head. “Not necessarily. The title is more relaxed than that since I’m mostly in-charge of looking after the well-being of dreams, I suppose. Repelling bad energy so that everyone can achieve what they want… or sleep peacefully during the day. It’s truly a system that originates purely from my ancestors.”

“What about you? Who helps you with your dreams?” Sanemi’s question almost sounded silly, but it wasn’t. He knew you alone were in charge of that… yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were also subtly hinting at him.

There was a short moment of silence, before you pursed your lips together and shyly said, “You?”

“Answering a question with a question is unbecoming of a priestess,” Sanemi smoothly declared, his heartrate bursting. “And that’s why everyone’s bugging you? Because you want to marry me?”

“E-Eh? Where did you get marriage from what I said, may I ask?!” you stammered out, flummox and embarrassment melding together within your chest.

“I originally asked about marriage, dummy.” Sanemi tricked you, didn’t he?

Bringing a hand to your cheek, praying the frigidity of holding a cold cup would cling to your fingertips and alleviate the warmth, you confessed, “I have talked about you in my letters back home, but never did I mention marrying you.”

You thought you weren’t being obvious, but you were. In how your overall posture exuded yearning and bashfulness, it was pretty clear to him that you didn’t view him as only a fellow Pillar. That’s what his instincts were telling him, and he wasn’t wrong more times than right.

“Would you marry me?”

The question made your heart palpitate, the white-hot sensation following your leaping heart suffused through you so quickly it almost made your head spin. “In a hypothetical situation where you would have me, I would,” you admitted as boldly as you could.

Sanemi made you so comfortable that the grace embedded so deeply in you felt fleeting.

With red dotting the outlines of his cheeks, Sanemi brought his hand forward and placed it over your own. “I’ll help you with all your dreams than. None of this hypothetical bullshit, I will.”

Incapable of suppressing your smile, you coyly locked your fingers between his; adoring the scars and callouses rubbing against your skin in the process. “It’s a promise. If you break it, I’ll use my priestess powers to curse you!”

“Oh, shut up! You said it yourself you didn’t want to be treated that way by me,” Sanemi retorted, his lips kissing the corner of your mouth. The hot breaths emitted from his parted lips fanned across your lips shortly, but he pulled away—still as serious as he was before. “But I’ll accept any curse. As long as you don’t leave my side.”

#shinazugawa sanemi #kny x reader #kny headcanons #kny scenarios #long post #(bc tumblr formatting hates me LOL)#i hope you like it!#my headcanons #my scenarios

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jentrevellan · 4 years

Text

Believe Again: Chapter Five

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo

MASTERPOST:

A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER->

CHAPTER Five - Elsie

...so I met the Herald of Andraste this morning. She’s already becoming pretty famous around these parts but after meeting her, I was struck by how normal she was. A woman just shy of thirty, and a mage. I watched as she helped drive away the apostates and rogue templars from the Crossroads and I was impressed. Her magic is scary, like all mages, but from the little I know of the art I could see that she had immense control and I felt like I was witnessing something special to see her wield it. I know that contradicts what I said about her being normal. Maybe that’s why people like her already - myself included

- Part of a letter sent by Scout Lace Harding to her mother

5. Elsie

Although horse riding was in her blood and she had been on horseback more in the past year than most of her life put together; Elsie was still desperately out of practice, especially when travelling roads she didn't know with a mare who was almost as stubborn as she was. By the time they had made camp that first evening on their journey, Elsie was no closer to getting on with her horse who had the most ridiculous name of Buttercup. Normally such a name would not offend her, but Buttercup was so unlike her namesake in both looks and temperament that Elsie couldn’t help but resent it.

Perhaps she was projecting her bubbling anger unknowingly on the poor mare. For most of the day, Elsie’s thoughts had been consumed with that of Commander Cullen. Cold, calculated, emotionless ex-templar, she thought bitterly as she set up her tent by a stream with the others.

“I think I’m going to pitch my tent away from the Herald,” Varric said with a wink. “She looks like she’s about to set something on fire, and I’m rather fond of my chest hair.”

Elsie rolled her eyes but managed a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

“Brooding?” Varric interjected.

She frowned at him. “I wasn’t brooding,” she muttered.

Varric laughed. “Believe me Dimples, I know brooding when I see it. I learnt from the expert also known as Fenris.”

Elsie didn’t reply and continued to pitch her tent in silence but tried to act more calmly. She was annoyed with the Commander and frustrated about how they had left things: she would much rather resolve the conflict upfront than sit and stew, which she had done for most of the day. Also, considering he had stayed in Haven, his obvious resentment towards her would no doubt be exacerbated by her absence, especially as she was not there to defend herself.

She heaved a sigh and instead turned back to Varric who was now reclining on a blanket outside of his tent.

“You’re from Kirkwall, right Varric?” she asked slowly, taking a seat on a log near him.

“Well if that’s not a loaded question, I don’t know what is,” he chuckled. “Out with it Dimples - you know I’m from Kirkwall...for better or worse.”

Elsie spread her hands as she searched for the right words. “Alright - Commander Cullen was from Kirkwall too, yes? Did you know him? Was he part of the mage uprising?”

Varric looked at her closely before shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll tell you Herald… but you’re not going to like it.”

The ride the next day was even more subdued as Elsie mulled over everything Varric had told her. Oh, like many apostates she had read his ‘Tales of the Champion’, whilst on the run, with the desire to know more about the mage couple who had started the rebellion. Her sister Evelyn had even been stationed at the Gallows before the trouble really started and had once mentioned in passing that she had met the Champion. Not for the first time, Elsie wished she could speak to her sister again, to ask her if she knew Cullen - surely their paths would’ve crossed on occasion, especially if he had been a commanding officer? She made a mental note to ask him about Evelyn once they were on better speaking terms… if that were to happen.

“So the Commander of the Inquisition just… turned a blind eye? Let things escalate and did nothing?” Elsie asked Varric that following evening.

Varric blinked at the sudden change in subject but recovered quickly. “I suppose that’s something you would need to ask him yourself. But he stood up against Meredith with us in the end.”

“In the end,” Elsie repeated slowly. “Some of what I’ve heard from mages who escaped the Gallows-”

“Are exaggerations, no doubt,” Cassandra interrupted, walking past them on her way to her tent. She looked down at them, her hands on her hips. “None of us were truly there in the Gallows or in the ranks. A Templar doesn’t question orders - that’s what makes them excellent soldiers.”

“But people died because he chose to look the other way!” Elsie replied heatedly, getting to her feet. She had been sitting and stewing on this fact for most of the day, and could feel her hands shaking.

“I think he knows that, Dimples,” Varric said quietly.

“Indeed,” Cassandra continued. “What matters now is that he made the right choices and was invaluable with the relief efforts in Kirkwall. That’s what I saw when I sought to recruit him - a brilliant soldier and swordsman, unafraid to admit he was wrong and more than willing to atone.” With that, Cassandra retreated into her tent without another word.

Varric and Elsie lapsed into a companionable silence, and the dwarf plucked at his crossbow idly whilst staring into the campfire, his mind obviously back in Kirkwall or someplace. Elsie thought over Cassandra’s words and offered a small smile to Solas who sat down opposite her and pulled out a book. She watched the elf set his staff down carefully on the ground by his feet and flick open a couple of pages before finding his place where he had left off. A prickle of magic she was now becoming familiar with and Elsie knew that Solas had just returned from setting wards around their little camp. She felt his soft magic flow silently around them and that’s when she remembered something that she had been sitting on since her talk with Varricc the previous evening.

She peered over her shoulder at Cassandra’s tent before leaning in closer to Varric, her voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already have, but I guess you have another question?” he grinned, and Elsie gave him a gentle swat on the arm in response.

“Just something you said about Commander Cullen yesterday that’s been on my mind… does he really not see mages as people?” her mouth felt dry as she asked and Solas looked up from the book he was reading.

Varric’s good and contemplative mood evaporated and he looked down at his feet, rubbing his chin as he decided how to answer.

“You don’t forget something like that,” he admitted slowly. “But Curly has changed an awful lot since then; you would have to ask him yourself.”

Elsie rolled her eyes. “Sure, because we are such good friends.”

“Perhaps we need to give Cullen the benefit of the doubt,” Solas said, ever calm. “It’s the least we can do if we don’t want him to judge us as much as we are apparently judging him.”

She noted the quiet rebuke but didn’t comment on it. “I just feel like he’s watching us all the time - like when we were training before we left Haven.”

“With all due respect Elsie, it wasn’t me he was staring at,” Solas said, a wry smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

“Oh really?” Varric said eagerly, threading his fingers together. “Do tell me more. Would you say he was ‘enraptured’? Besotted?”

Heat coursed through Elsie. “Really Varric,” she shook her head.

Varric ignored her. “Is the Commander Templar pining for the Herald mage I wonder? Opposites do attract after all.”

Elsie crossed her arms and regarded him coolly, hoping her warm cheeks didn’t give her away. “The journey must be making you weary for you are delusional,” she said calmly, although her gut twisted at the thought of him watching her as a person, as a woman, and not because she was a mage. “Besides, I don’t think the Commander could manage friendship with a mage, let alone be intimate with one.”

“Who said anything about intimacy?” Varric grinned, and Elsie wanted to put her fist in her mouth. She looked over at Solas for some support but the elf was smiling down at his book, refusing to meet her eye.

“Come now Dimples! Curly isn’t exactly hard on the eyes now, is he?”

He’s right about that , she admitted silently, thinking of his strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones.

“Don’t forget the thrill of a forbidden romance,” the dwarf continued.

“What are you, a smutty romance writer?” she said, playing close attention to her gloves.

“I have been known to dabble.”

“Maker’s balls,” she swore. “If you are quite finished, I’m going to bed before you say any more ridiculous nonsense and start naming children or some other hogwash,” she said, waving a hand.

“That’s some pretty strong denial there,” Solas smiled.

Elsie glared at him. “Traitor,” she mumbled, hiding a smile as she got to her feet. “This conversation is over. Goodnight!”

She strode to her tent, the sounds of the elf and the dwarf’s laughter following her. “Have pleasant dreams of Curly!” Varric called after her.

Oh, how she wished she could slam a tent flap shut.

Needless to say, Elsie took a few moments to collect herself, although the taunting words of Varric and Solas rang in her ears. Cullen was a troubled, complicated man with a dark past and perhaps she had given him too little credit. And yet, as Elsie undressed and slipped into a simple nightdress, her hands lingered on her collarbone and her waist and she wondered what it would feel like if his breath tickled her neck and if it were his hands on her instead of her own -

Abruptly, she snatched her hands away, as if scolded. Maker, am I that desperate for comfort? So eager for the touch of another person that she would fantasise about a man she barely knew and antagonised her so? Stupid handsome Commander , she thought. It was his fault being - as Varric had said - not so bad on the eyes. She wasn’t sure if that made her dislike him more or less.

Despite her self-scolding, Elsie did dream of the Commander and as was typical of the Fade, it distorted the reality. She saw him as a Templar in Ostwick, walking the hallways she had known so well for many years. And in her dreams he was softer but strong, and pressed her quietly up against the library shelves, tucked away in secret corners, giving in to temptation.

A cold dip in the river the following morning chased all heated thoughts away, and as their journey continued, she sobered greatly as they faced demons and closed a rift which had already taken the lives of a small farming family. The next few days were much the same, which gave the small group a chance to practice working and fighting together. As they finally descended into the Hinterlands proper, Elsie was too full of simple wonder admiring the luscious green landscape to even complain about her saddle sores. The tall trees, the long grass and the tame fennecs were enough to calm her soul and soon all confusing thoughts of the Commander of the Inquisition had fled her mind.

The beauty of the landscape was a sharp contrast to the bloodshed they soon encountered.

The Crossroads were a mess. They left their horses to recover at the forward camp with Scout Harding and descended into the valley on foot. As the screams and shouts became louder, Elsie exchanged a worried glance with Cassandra, who nodded grimly and drew her sword. They rounded the corner and saw the scuffle between Inquisition soldiers, Templars and mages; so the foursome prepared themselves as they had practiced: Solas set a ward over them all, Varric slung Bianca from over his shoulder and Cassandra braced in a warrior pose whilst flames licked Elsie’s fingers.

Despite their plans to not fight them, both the Templars and apostates refused to listen. Elsie wrapped her flames around a Templar who boiled in his metal armour screaming in agony. She then felt a dreaded tingle of blood magic from behind her and spun on her heel, twirled her staff and shot a fireball at an apostate before they could finish summoning a demon. Their robes were set alight and the blood mage screamed in both pain and frustration as she summoned an ice cloud over her to douse the flames. However, she was too slow as Cassandra skidded on her knees past Elsie and lunged upwards with her sword to dig her weapon into the mage’s gut.

She spluttered blood from her mouth, her eyes wide, before she grinned sadistically at Cassandra. In a pool of blood and magic, the mage transformed into a hideous abomination and Elsie shuddered involuntarily as it screeched at them. It swung its huge, unnatural arms down at Cassandra, who quickly blocked with her shield, but she was too slow, and the abomination ripped it away from her arm, causing the Seeker to cry out in pain with what Elsie quickly summarised was likely a broken wrist.

Instinct took over and Elsie summoned fire to wrap around the abomination as she ran forward and reached behind her back to grab her dagger. As her flames distracted the creature, she lunged up with her sharp blade and slashed its throat. It screeched in agony, but the cut wasn’t deep enough to be fatal. Elsie spun on her heel and swung her staff over her head, which was alight and burning with her magic. She went to strike again, aiming her dagger for the gut this time, but the abomination reached down and grabbed Elsie by the throat, dragging her off her feet. She dropped her dagger from her left hand and her staff from her right, and both fell to the cobbled ground with a clatter. She clawed desperately at the creature’s grossly malformed hands that were squeezing her throat, but her vision began to blur, even when the abomination leaned closer and whispered, with rotted breath ‘traitor’.

Elsie almost stopped struggling as she processed the word it had uttered. Fear groped her and she tried to gulp for air but its grip was strong -

Shuck.

She fell to the ground, suddenly free and sucked in as much air as she could with large, rasping gasps. Confused, she pulled herself to her feet and peered over at the now still abomination. A crossbow bolt was embedded between its rolled, bloodshot eyes. She turned to see Varric give her a quick wink before he turned and helped Solas with the final stragglers.

Cassandra stood leaning against a fence post, cradling her arm. “It’s over,” she said, looking around them.

Elsie nodded, unable to summon her voice. She looked around and saw body after fallen body litter the ground. Almost all the deceased were rogue templars or apostates and yet she did not feel particularly relieved about that fact. She didn’t really feel much of anything and went over to heal Cassandra’s wrist with a flick of magic she barely had to think about.

Traitor

Rubbing her neck sore neck and shrugging off Cassandra’s thanks, Elsie walked between the bodies as Inquisition soldiers began to sort and pile them up. Cassandra and Varric followed her every move like her shadow, but Solas remained apart and went to help with the physicians and offer his healing magic. Elsie knew she needed to join him and offer her limited skill of healing, but for her at that moment, it was important for her to look down on the faces of the people who had died - the people she had killed. Faces of men and women, elves and people passed her by, but the body of a blonde elven mage in tattered Circle robes gave her pause. The elf’s eyes were open, her green gaze staring at nothingness. She had no markings on her face, save for the bruises and blood from the skirmish and her ashen hair was clumps of blood tangled in it. She had one lone earring in her right ear and the metal was worn, as if regularly rubbed. Elsie wondered if it had been given to her by her mother, or a friend or a lover?

“It is war,” Varric mumbled from beside her, as Elsie let out a ragged breath. She reached forward and closed the elf’s eyes, her skin already cold.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she replied bitterly. How many did I kill today? She thought. How many fellow mages? How many of my sister’s comrades?

“Herald,” Cassandra said, crossing her arms. “Elsie?” she said quietly when Elsie looked up at her. “We should report to Corporal Vale-”

“No, not yet,” Elsie said, regaining her composure and turning her back on the dead elf. “I need to help heal the wounded and speak to Mother Giselle. The rest can wait.”

“But-”

Elsie strode on past the Seeker and headed towards Solas who was crouched by a row of stretchers. “By all mean go and see the Corporal - but I’ve got work to be getting on with,” and with that, Elsie knelt down next to Solas and downed a lyrium potion before setting her hands on a soldier’s thigh and applying pressure.

Three days after the skirmish, Elsie had spoken to Mother Giselle, but she had still not left the Crossroads, much to Cassandra’s agitation. The injured were many and everyday more came in the hopes of being seen by a healer or someone who could help them. Broken families and quiet children became a common sight to Elsie as she helped heal those in the greatest of need.

It was on the fifth day that Cassandra finally dared to approach her directly. They had not spoken to one another since Elsie’s cool dismissal and she had barely spared a thought for the Seeker - Elsie’s primary concern was helping those in need and she said as much to Cassandra when they spoke as Elsie finished wrapping a bandage around a young man’s arm.

“I spoke to Mother Giselle before she left for Haven,” Cassandra said levelly, watching Elsie work.

“Did you indeed,” she replied, not looking up from her task as her fingers worked deftly to complete the dressing.

“Yes and she said she spoke to you about appealing to the Chantry directly in Val Royeaux-”

“And I will,” Elsie interrupted, tying a knot, and tugging on it to test the strength. “But I cannot even think about journeying to Orlais when my work here is not finished.”

Cassandra frowned and crossed her arms. She was silent for a moment as she considered her next words. “You are needed elsewhere, Herald. We must return to Haven at once to plan with the others about how we approach the Chantry in Val Royeaux!”

Elsie remained silent as she checked her handiwork and smiled at the soldier. “How does that feel?”

The young man nodded gratefully. “Much better, thank you, Your Worship.”

She got to her feet and wiped her hands on a cloth. “You’re welcome. Now, make sure you rest and you’ll be back swinging a sword in no time.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes.

Elsie walked into the main cabin and approached the desk where she made a note on the patient’s care on a ledger. She idly rubbed her neck as she wrote, as the bruising there was still painful and was turning a grotesque shade of purple. Cassandra followed her and waited as patiently as she could, which Elsie knew she was pushing. Finally, she turned to the Seeker.

“I’ve spoken to Corporal Vale - there is much work to be done here: much more than healing these people.”

Cassandra bristled. “So let the healers and physicians take over and let us return to-”

“No, I cannot,” Elsie said sharply, cutting Cassandra off. “Whilst the healers can now cope with the wounded here, what about outside of this valley? Cassandra, the King’s Road is not safe for these people to leave and return to their homes. We need to stop the Templars and apostates, not to mention the raiders and mercenaries, otherwise our leaving would just undo all of the work done thus far and endanger the lives of those we have already saved!” she exclaimed. Her voice had risen unintentionally and a few patients in the beds around them looked over at them both curiously. Closing her eyes, Elsie took a breath before continuing more calmly. “Don’t you see? If we alleviate the threat in the Hinterlands, word will spread of the good and sustainable work the Inquisition is doing - which will hole more sway and influence when we eventually do go to Val Royeaux.” Elsie’s hand’s shook, so she clasped them together, hoping the Seeker had not noticed. “And I know it must be me that helps - you must’ve read the reports from Vale: there are rifts all over the Hinterlands only I can close.”

The two women stared each other down for a moment until Cassandra finally spoke begrudgingly. “It seems you’ve thought a great deal about this.”

Elsie shrugged. “It helps to think and keep the mind busy when you’re wrapping bandages and the like,” she replied, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Cassandra signed and conceded. “Very well. Your theory is sound, even though I don’t fully agree. I know for sure the others back at Haven won’t approve either.”

Elsie smiled faintly. “Well I am sure they will cope,” she said dryly, just knowing the reports the Commander would receive about her stubbornness to cooperate to his orders would drive him mad. “In any case, I will write to them - personally - to explain our plans.”

“That would be helpful, I suppose.”

“Excellent,” Elsie grinned, rubbing her hands together. “Now, will you help me give these poor folk some lunch?”

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

#Believe Again #Fic: Believe Again #my writing #writing #long post #fanfic #fanfiction #cullen #cullen rutherford #elsie trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #cullen romance #cullen stanton rutherford

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banditthewriter · 5 years

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Choose Your Fate - Logan Delos - 4

Well here we go, part 4! Date night won by very, very tight margin!

Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists!

*gif not mine*

Enjoy!

*****

“Miss Y/L/N, it’s your father,” Amelia said with a look to your desk phone which was blinking with a call on hold.

“Thanks Amelia,” you said with a tight smile. When the door shut, you huffed out a breath and picked up the receiver. “Hey dad.”

“Hey cricket,” he greeted affectionately, but you could hear that undercurrent that told you a lecture was coming. “We haven’t talked in a while. Thought I’d try you at the office since your personal phone seems to not be working.”

Oh it was working. You’d just been ignoring his calls.

“Bad reception,” you lied.

“Mhm. Now Y/N, I’m sure your sister has given you the third degree already about this snafu with Delos, but I think I need to remind you that we don’t mix with that company well. Oil and water, remember?”

“No, dad, I don’t remember. Because every time I’ve asked about Delos, you tell me you’ll explain and then you never do.” Your eyes darted to the door and then back to your desk. “Why do you hate them so much?”

You heard your dad sigh over the line. You could picture him in the home office, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his glasses dangling from his fingers.

“Before James Delos joined forces with the other companies to create the parks, the ones that had the technology for the hosts, him and I were actually kind of partners. I’d invested in his company at one point actually. And once Delos was about to break onto the scene with Westworld and their other parks, he found a loophole to write me out.”

To say that you were surprised was an understatement.

“That’s why we stuck to the east coast, isn’t it? To stay away from Delos.”

“There was enough business for the both of us. While Delos Inc and their subsidiaries stuck to the parks and hosts, we worked on VR and communication. We work with the government and Delos, well, they pander to the sick and depraved.”

That sounded about right. You leaned back in your chair and shook your head.

“So what happened to your investment? Loophole or not, if you have proof of transaction–”

“He paid it all back, plus interest,” he said before you could explore that idea. “He knew better than to leave any connection to Y/L/N, knew that we could have claim to some of the ideas that came through during the time I invested. Plus we each have non-compete clauses with our companies so it’d get too messy if we tried to pursue it.”

Yeah, that made sense. And it did paint a picture as to why your dad didn’t like James Delos, but there was still something you didn’t understand.

“We’re doing fine without Delos,” you said slowly, “so why are you so pissed that he cut you out? You’re not power hungry and we’re definitely not wanting for money.”

That made your dad laugh.

“It wasn’t for the money or the prestige, we don’t need that. It was for the sake of the science. With our resources combined, think about what we could have accomplished. Those little projects of yours would have been launched ten times over by now.”

You bristled a bit by him calling them little projects, but you knew he didn’t mean it like that. Probably.

The two of you talked for a while longer, about your mom’s garden and how your dad had accidentally stepped on one of her flowers so she was giving him the cold shoulder. You even talked about Jo and how she was expanding the European faction of the company quite well.

When you hung up, you realized that you hadn’t talked about Delos for the rest of the conversation. He would think that it was dropped and maybe that was for the best. You didn’t need to tell your dad that Logan Delos had given you numbers for investors. Or that you’d called them and the moment you gave Logan’s name, they all pledged way more than you actually needed.

Since you had denied Marco’s unorthodox request to steal from Delos Inc, you’d need another way to make up the difference. This was your best bet.

Marco had tried to persuade you to see things from his point of view but you didn’t need to. The moment he had said the words, you knew it wasn’t what you should do. If somehow they never figured it out, you’d always know that your company was tainted. That wasn’t what you meant by any means necessary. You weren’t willing to sell your soul just yet.

It meant working harder, but you weren’t afraid to roll your sleeves up. You had the money, thanks to the investors from Logan. Now you just needed the science to work in your favor.

A glance at the clock on your desk had you wincing. It was getting late. And at this rate, you’d miss your date with Fraser. Your sister had finally talked you into sending him a text and both of you had this evening free.

One date; most likely you’d be able to make up an excuse after thirty minutes and go home. That would keep Jo off your back for a while at least.

With that in mind, you packed up your office for the evening.

------

You weren’t actually sure what Fraser looked like, but when you got to the restaurant, he recognized you almost immediately. He waved you over, calling your name to get your attention.

He was attractive. He had a look about him that said he put effort into his looks but not that he was vain. When you got to him, he offered his hand for a handshake.

“Jo had pictures of you in her office,” he explained when you asked how he recognized you. “I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.”

The two of you made small talk while you both looked over your menus. You noticed that he was looking at you over the top of his menu about as much as you looked at him. He was attractive, personable. He didn’t immediately start talking about his work but actually talked about current events with you.

“Jo said you were a scientist,” he said conversationally after you both had your food delivered. “That had to take a lot of time in school.”

“I’m a bio-engineer,” you explained with a shrug as you picked up your fork. “It gives me the best of both worlds; working with technology and the human system.”

He seemed enraptured as he asked questions about your work. You kept it light, not focusing on any project in particular. Every time you thought he’d get bored, he’d ask another question.

“Surely you don’t want to hear about all of this,” you said with a laugh. “It’s pretty boring to people who don’t work with it every day.”

“Hey, I work in finance. Just hearing about this stuff is the closest to cool I’ll ever get,” he joked. Then with a grin, “I actually am a little scientific myself.”

“Oh really?”

“Hell yeah. I can recite the whole periodic table of elements in order,” he said with a grin, leaning forward over the table. “I taught myself in college and oddly enough, it wasn’t the type of skill that made the girls line up outside of my dorm room.”

You snorted out a laugh, picking up your glass and taking a sip.

“Oh I need to see this. Come on, impress me.”

It took him a while because both of you started to laugh, plus some of the names were difficult to say after three drinks, but he made it to the end. You gave him a round of applause, laughing and toasting his ability.

“And that didn’t make you the stud of campus? College girls are weak,” you joked as you sipped your drink.

The meal hadn’t been that bad. You’d actually missed the notification on your phone that you had programmed as a reason to leave, but you didn’t mind. You’d actually enjoyed yourself.

“I was starting to wonder if maybe you’d changed your mind about this,” Fraser admitted as he motioned between the two of you. “It’d been so long since Jo had said you’d be interested in meeting up. I figured you decided to just, what’s the term, ghost me?”

You laughed a bit and ducked your head. You didn’t want to admit that you had been thinking about that. Instead you told him something else that wasn’t exactly a lie.

“With my work schedule, sometimes I forget to have a life outside of it. I’ve been on the west coast for a few months and honestly, I don’t know anyone that doesn’t work in my office.”

You saw a smile start to spread over Fraser’s lips. He opened his mouth to respond but you heard your name from the side. You glanced over and found yourself staring at none other than Logan Delos.

“Y/N,” he greeted with a grin as he approached the table, completely ignoring Fraser. “Fancy seeing you here twice in one week.”

Your eye twitched as you tried not to react to that. You gave him a tense smile, your eyes darting over to Fraser who looked politely curious at the interruption.

It was the first time Logan had said your name. At the meeting with William, he had called you Miss Y/L/N with such derision that you were surprised William hadn’t noticed, but he hadn’t called you by your first name. Hearing it made a shiver go up your spine.

“Logan,” you said through gritted teeth, “pleasure seeing you. If you don’t mind…?”

Logan looked between the two of you and you knew the moment he realized it was a date. His mouth was turned down for a brief second and then he was grinning so wide that you were sure he was going to have cramps in his cheeks.

“I don’t mean to be rude. I’m Logan Delos; I’m good friends with Y/N here.”

You were about to discredit that, but Fraser had already held his hand out for a handshake.

“Fraser Coomes,” he introduced with a quick look at you.

“Fraser,” Logan said, eyes wide. He looked at you and repeated the name. “Fraser? Really?”

“Okay Logan, I think you were just leaving?”

His hand went to the extra chair at your table and you had a split second to appreciate the fact that you’d probably be thrown out if you threw your drink in his face right then. He must have noticed the impending violence on your face because he let out a laugh and moved to stand beside you instead.

“I’ll let you two kids continue with your dinner. Just wanted to stop and say hello,” he said as he leaned down until he could whisper in your ear. “We need to talk. Soon.”

His words were more serious than he had been so you gave him a quick nod before you purposefully turned your attention back to Fraser. Recognizing that your attention was gone, Logan shook his head and drained the last of his drink before he turned to leave.

You weren’t sure how you’d get in touch with Logan since you apparently needed to talk to him, but you were sure he’d find you.

Fraser had a strange look on his face as he watched Logan saunter off. Then he turned back to you with a slight upturn to his lips.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone out here,” he said conversationally.

“I don’t, not socially. I know Logan through our companies.”

Fraser didn’t look convinced.

“Delos Inc and Y/L/N are rivals; that interaction looked a little more personal than that.”

How did you explain your relationship—if that was even the word—with Logan Delos? But you also didn’t need to explain anything to Fraser about how you knew Logan. Something told you that his curiosity wasn’t coming from a place of polite interest.

Instead of giving in to his game, you reached into your bag and swiped your thumb over the screen of your phone. You pulled it out and angled it just enough that he’d see that it was your office calling.

“I have to take this,” you said as you put the phone to your ear. You pretended to talk to the machine on the other side for a moment before you gave Fraser an apologetic smile. “Something’s come up at work and I need to get back to the office. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as you tried to pull out your wallet.

“This is on me,” he said as he gestured to your empty plates. “I’m sorry you’ve got to go. I’ve been having fun.”

Until Logan showed up, your mind supplied.

“Me too. We’ll have to do it again soon.”

After you gave him a quick hug, you turned on your heel and headed out of the restaurant. It honestly wouldn’t surprise you if you never heard from him again.

------

The light of your Orpheus device was glowing. You went over to where it was stationed and swiped a finger over the display, but it didn’t show that anyone had tried to contact you.

“Orpheus off,” you commanded but the light didn’t recede. “Voice accept?” Nothing.

You lifted the device and hit the button to turn it off manually. The light faded and you sighed as you put it back down. There must be some glitch that the beta testing hadn’t caught. You’d fill out a report and send it in to Marco to be looked at.

That in mind, you went across your living room and towards the stairs so you could go take a shower.

Out of sight of the device, you didn’t notice the light start to glow on the device once more.

A post will be up right after this for voting.

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darisu-chan · 5 years

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Through Your Eyes

Here I got y’all a treat for Ichigo’s birthday. A day late but what else is new.

You can also read it here.

Please enjoy!

Summary: “You really don’t see how you two look at each other?”

It was a typical day with his friends. That is to say that it wasn’t typical. Not at all. In fact, it was pandemonium. His human friends weren’t all that normal to begin with ─ and not only because half of them had some type of supernatural power he hadn’t yet grasped how they came to get, but since he, himself, was a weird combination of several beings that weren’t supposed to exist, long ago he had decided to drop the subject ─ but paired up with his Shinigami friends, it was as if an asteroid had collided straight into a house party filled with drunk, drugged and hormonal teenagers shooting fireworks up from their asses. Wow. Studying literature had truly made him more hyperbolic.

In reality, what was happening was that word got out in Soul Society that Ichigo had just turned twenty (he blamed Renji for that one), which meant that he had reached the official legal drinking age, aka he was old enough now to get plastered with the lot of them. Not that Rangiku-san hadn’t tried to get him drunk at some point. He still remembered that roughly a few days after turning eighteen, the older woman had spiked his otherwise non-assuming tea with sake. One sip and his face had become flustered as he stuttered and yelled bloody murder. The others thought it was funny. Ichigo was sure the situation would have escalated hadn’t it been for a very pissed off Toshirou who had crashed their little reunion with the express intent of collecting his lieutenant. The whole place froze over faster than on the coldest of winter days.

But, now, Ichigo wasn’t protected by neither the country’s rules and regulations nor Toshirou’s aid. (“Well it seems you’re finally an adult, Kurosaki. Take care of Matsumoto for me.” The young captain had told him briefly after congratulating him for his birthday. Ichigo didn’t have the heart to point out he had been an adult for two years already, and that he had always looked older than Toshirou himself, even when he was only fifteen.) Rangiku, sanctioned by the Captain Commander, had taken advantage of this and had dragged her drunk buddies plus Rukia to Karakura, where she had basically trespassed into his room. The rambunctious group had asked him for the best bar in town. Ichigo had no idea where that could be and here’s where he made the first mistake of the night.

He called Mizuiro.

His friend was older than him by about two months, and had been hitting the bars ever since. It’s the best way to meet ladies, he had explained. Though Ichigo was pretty sure he had been drinking since before his twentieth birthday. Now, though, Mizuiro, to his credit, did recommend them a nice place. It certainly didn’t look as shady as the places the Shinigami tended to frequent. The problem in itself was that after giving him directions to get to the place, he had added a cryptic “See you in 20.” And truth to his word, twenty minutes later, Mizuiro was at the bar… with the whole gang.

There was Keigo, who frankly already looked tipsy, Chad, as silent and calm as always, Tatsuki, who had just turned twenty as well two days before, Inoue and Ishida. Now, most of his friends were already twenty, except for Inoue and Ishida, who were the youngest ones, and weren’t going to be twenty for a few more months. That didn’t seem to matter to Mizuiro or the owners of the bar. Not that his friends were drinking alcohol or anything. Ishida was sipping what looked like a grey earl and Inoue was happy with her glass of lemonade. Tatsuki and Chad seemed happy with their beer pint. And Keigo and Mizuiro had gone all out, ordering two bottles of sake before they even could arrive. Rangiku-san’s eyes sparkled after noticing this fact and declared Mizuiro was the best human in the world. The other Shinigami cheered in return and from then on things took a wild turn.

First of all, even though Keigo had had his eyes on Rangiku-san ever since he saw her about five years before, the flirty woman seemed enraptured in whatever tale Mizuiro was spinning. His friend was still very much attracted to older women, and who better than a woman that was more than a hundred years old and that didn’t look a day past twenty five. That, of course, made Keigo insanely unhappy and had started to retell his woes to Hisagi-san, who was also not fairing any better at seeing a mere human flirt with the girl he had been after for decades. Needless to say, after a couple of sake shots, the two of them soon burst into tears and drunkenly sang their laments out loud. On the other side of the table, Ikkaku had become hell-bent on getting Chad drunk. He still couldn’t believe the gentle giant hadn’t once been drunk in his entire life, an outstanding feat for someone who got hammered almost daily right after work. He had, then, dared Chad to drink shot after shot of sake in the hopes he’d get more than a little tipsy. Tatsuki immediately jumped at the chance to defend her friend, her competitive streak appearing as she claimed Chad would never lose. This spiked Renji’s interest, who immediately backed Ikkaku up on his dare. As for Yumichika, although he had declared early on that betting on alcohol was ugly, he still seemed pretty interested in the outcome. And so it began the worst competition ever, in which the rest managed to get wasted before the challenger could even complete his shots. Even Inoue and Ishida, who legally weren’t allowed to drink anything, had somehow gotten roped into the whole affair. He had certainly never heard Ishida laugh so loud ever. Inoue was also a sleepy drunk, who had ended up snoring on top of Chad, who, by some miracle, was still very much sober and still doing all of his shots.

Talk about a fucking nightmare.

The only thing that could have made this any worse was if, somehow, Kenpachi and Grimmjow crashed the place, wanting to fight him then and there now that he was a grown ass man. Or Byakuya suddenly appearing, claiming he stepped on his pride one way or another.

Thankfully, none of that happened, but his friends were embarrassing enough for him to dutifully brood in the only hidden corner of the table, nursing his half-full pint of beer. There was no way he would get drunk. The only other sober, and dare he say it, sane person in the table was Rukia. She had taken a couple of sips of sake, but despite her small stature, she had a high tolerance for alcohol. “That’s what happens when you grow up in Inuzuri.” She had once told him, smiling even when the memories must have been painful to her. Currently, the small Shinigami seemed more amused than she should’ve been at watching the mess their friends had created.

“Your friends are so lively.” She suddenly said, in that annoying voice of hers.

Ichigo snorted. “I’d use another word for them.” He answered and waited a few seconds until his mind processed the whole phrase. ��Hey! Whaddaya mean my friends?! They’re yours too!”

Rukia just laughed at his accusation. “I suppose they are. Although they definitely didn’t go all out for my birthday.”

Of course they didn’t.

Byakuya would kill them all if they somehow got his precious sister drunk.

Besides, they preferred messing with him for whatever reason. Rukia had once told him it was because he was easy to annoy. Ironically, her comment had annoyed him. Not like he would ever tell her that, anyway. It would only rile her up, and give her more reasons to pester him.

Scooting closer to her, Ichigo took a sip of his drink and then turned to look at her. “Next year, let’s do something fun.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at that. “For my birthday or yours?”

He made a show of considering it for a moment, before simply answering, “Both.”

Rukia laughed at that, the sound tingling in his ears. Somehow, even with the loud music blasting from the speakers and their friends’ boisterous laughter, he had heard her clearly, as if the only people in the world were Rukia and he.

“Greedy.” She muttered as a reply.

“How’s that greedy? I’d say it’s rather generous.”

“How so? Isn’t that just an excuse to party twice?”

Ichigo shook his head, amused. “It wouldn’t be a party. Just the two of us.”

That got her attention. Rukia looked down, as her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and then right back at him. She bit her lip, as if contemplating something. Then her eyes darkened as she smiled coyly at him. “Oh? So you want me all to yourself, Kurosaki-kun~?” She said playfully, barely containing her own laughter.

“Tch.” He grumbled. What a tease. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“What did you mean, then?” She was unwilling to let all this matter go, not that Ichigo would give her the satisfaction of falling into her obvious trap.

“Well, it’s just you don’t really like parties that much, and to be honest they’re not my scene either.” He replied, gesturing at their table and the shenanigans their mutual friends were currently engaging in. Most were singing, very badly might he add, a birthday song for him.

Rukia giggled. “I suppose you’re right.”

“’sides, we hardly spend time with each other… just the two of us…like old times…”

Ever since the end of the Quincy War, there had been long periods of time in which he had hardly seen Rukia. And, make no mistake, Ichigo got it. He knew they were all busy picking up the pieces of their destroyed world, and trying to put it back together. In many ways, they were putting themselves back together. The horrors they had all gone through were enough to traumatize even the most seasoned warriors. He had tried to help as best as he could, but there were many things he had to take care of himself, back home. With high school ending and his college life starting, and Rukia pretty much becoming the whole leader of her squad, there was not much time left to just hang out together. And he missed that. He missed their adventures or just casually being able to sit next to her. He loved all of his friends, sure, but there was something special about his relationship with Rukia, and nothing else could ever compare to it.

Sensing his distress, Rukia leaned closer. She searched for something deep within him, and when she found it, she breathed intently. “So you really want me all to yourself?” She said the words so lowly he couldn’t have heard her with all the noise around them, but he had.

“Maybe…”

He left his words hanging as he stared right into her eyes. Under the bar’s lighting, they seemed to glow and burn. It might have been his imagination, but Ichigo could have sworn she had gotten closer. From this position, her hair tickled his jaw in a way which made him shiver. Their breaths mingled together and the temperature in the room skyrocketed. He was suddenly very aware of his heart beating ferociously as he noticed Rukia licking her pink lips. He imitated the gesture, and it was then it dawned on him that, if he moved down just a little bit, they would kiss. The thought wasn’t as frightening as he would have thought it to be. Had this been four years before, he would have pulled away immediately, denying what he was feeling in his very core. But Ichigo was no longer a boy. He was now a grown man, and he couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull he felt where Rukia was involved. He saw her close her eyes and he followed suit, the connection between them not breaking even once. He leaned down and he felt her breaths come faster and then slower. He was so close he could already feel her softness and the taste of her─

“Kurosaki-kun!” Inoue shouted from the other side of the table, swaying side by side on her seat, her right armed wrapped around Ishida, her left on Chad. “Sing with us!” She exclaimed.

The spell broken, Ichigo sat up straighter, but didn’t move far from Rukia. “No, absolutely not!” He refused his friend, praying they were far too long to see how red his cheeks looked. Next to him, Rukia also straightened.

“Too afraid to sing, Kurosaki?” Ishida taunted him, even though nobody could have taken him seriously, giving the fact his shirt was stained and his glasses were in disarray.

“Shut up.” Ichigo retorted without much bite.

Renji cackled. “He knows he can’t win against us!”

“Let’s show him!” Ikkaku exclaimed.

Next thing they knew, they were all singing again, except for Chad, who remained impassive, Keigo, who had long since passed out, and Mizuiro, who was recording the whole affair. Ichigo would have liked to feel mad at them, but he knew he couldn’t. At the end of the day, no matter how embarrassing they all were, his friends wanted to see him happy. That’s why they were celebrating his birthday to begin with. Next to him, Rukia chuckled at them and her laughter was contagious. Soon he joined in, followed by the whole table, his friends erupting in laughter all around him, even Chad cracked a smile.

To no one’s surprise, they were soon asked to leave the place when their impromptu singing competition got too out of hand. The chore of extracting their drunk friends and getting them home safely fell to them. Thankfully, Urahara had let the Shinigami crash in his store. The man had probably had a hand in orchestrating the party to begin with, so Ichigo had no qualms in dumping five wasted death gods at his doorstep. They were his problem now.

Now the problem was that they had to get his human friends to their respective homes.

“I’ll get Inoue and Arizawa home.” Rukia told them.

“You sure?” Ichigo asked her, feeling worried.

“It’s no problem. I’ve got this.” Behind her, Inoue and Tatsuki were giggling as they held each other. It seemed like a pain, but perhaps Rukia was already used to dealing with drunk people on a daily basis.

“Alright. Chad and I’ll get the rest home.”

With that said, they separated, Rukia gently pushing the girls in the direction of Inoue’s apartment, Chad carrying Keigo in his arms, while Ichigo put Ishida’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk. The journey was mostly silent except for Mizuiro typing on his phone and Ishida saying nonsense.

“Oi! How come you’re not that drunk?” He turned to his friend.

“Hmm?” Mizuiro muttered, blinking away from his phone. “I don’t get drunk that easily. I just pretend to be wasted so that the others keep drinking too.”

Ichigo got goosebumps after listening to those words. “Man, you’re scary.”

The young man only smirked at him. “Well, my apartment’s that way. See ya.”

“Hey! You’re not gonna let Keigo crash with you?!”

“Nope. Happy birthday, Ichigo!”

Happy birthday his ass.

Groaning, he nodded to Chad and they decided to continue forward, in the direction of Ishida’s place. Thankfully, nothing remarkable happened on the way, except for his friend tripping once or twice. Using the spare keys Ishida had given him at one point, (“In case you mess up and need my help,” as he had told him) they went in and left the former Quincy sleeping on his bed. Sighing, he turned to look at Keigo, whom Chad was still carrying. Only one more.

The two friends resumed walking, this time towards where Keigo lived. Ichigo thought it wouldn’t be any different to all the other times he had walked beside Chad. There was always an amiable silence engulfing them, one Ichigo rejoiced in as his life was often more chaotic than not. Chad brought him this peace, not only because he was a quiet person himself, but because he understood all the disturbances Ichigo faced day by day. This time, however, Chad was the one to speak first.

“You really don’t see it, huh?” He wondered out loud, his voice resounding in the empty street.

“Don’t see what?” Ichigo asked, thinking that there was danger looming all around them.

“You really don’t see how you two look at each other?” Chad tried again, this time looking at Ichigo.

Bewildered, he blinked once, then twice. “Huh?” He said at last. “Who do you mean?”

“Kuchiki and you.”

“Oh.”

Silence was present once again, as Ichigo mulled over his thoughts.

“I’ve been observing you two for years.” Chad said, not pausing to let his friend speak. “At first, I was intrigued by your relationship with her. You’re not the type to open up to people in such a short amount of time, then again, you act different when it comes to her. You don’t treat her like you treat Arizawa or Inoue, or even your sisters. And then, when we went to Soul Society to save her, I think I finally understood.”

That made the two stop walking. Ichigo did not know what to say. He couldn’t deny what Chad was saying, because all of it was true. Yet, he didn’t know where he was going with this. What was it he wasn’t seeing?

“Through the years, I’ve wondered if you were aware of how you look at her when you think no one’s watching. Your eyes acquire this softness, as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. You’re soft with her. You smile tenderly at her only. Your eyes just light up when she’s next to you. Even when you fight, you end up looking at her in that same way.”

Chad’s words flustered him. He hadn’t thought he had been that obvious. No one had pointed it out before. His other friends could have used this knowledge as an opportunity to pester him, to embarrass him and admit things he didn’t wish to, and yet, they still hadn’t said a thing. Even his father had remained silent on this matter. Only now Chad was confronting him. For whatever purpose, Ichigo didn’t know, but he felt as if he needed to explain himself.

“I…”

“And you don’t even notice she looks at you in the same way.”

Ichigo stopped dead on his tracks and looked at Chad, wide eyed.

“Kuchiki’s more difficult to read, but I can see it. She’s just like you. Hard around the edges, but soft and tender on the inside. You bring out that tenderness. She looks at you as if she’s seeing the sun for the first time after a long winter. You can see how proud she is of you by how her lips curl up in a smile when she’s watching you. Even when she’s annoyed at you, the fire gives way to warmth. It’s like ice melting. And it only happens when she looks at you.”

He felt like he had stopped breathing, his throat drying. Was that how it was? He had never noticed, too preoccupied with looking at her, just taking in her overall presence, that he had forgotten to actually look at all the little details. Ichigo had never been the most observant, as his friends could attest, but now even he felt like an idiot for missing something as momentous as this. For how long had this been going on? Another part of himself, the darkest, most self-deprecating part, wanted to argue that this couldn’t possibly be true. That Rukia would never look at him in a special way. Surely, he would have seen it.

“But Ren─”

“It still amazes me how neither of you has noticed.” Chad interrupted him before continuing down that path. “All of us know.”

“What?!”

“Possibly even most of the Shinigami you’ve met.”

That left him gaping.

“While you two are clueless… Well, maybe not so clueless anymore.” Chad said as he scratched his beard. “You almost kissed tonight after all.”

Ichigo’s cheeks somehow grew redder. “You saw that, huh?”

“It was impossible not to see. I was sitting right in front of you.”

His words made him feel sheepish. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve been waiting for some progress all these years.”

He sputtered. “Chad!” He yelped, feeling beyond embarrassed.

“Ichigo.” Chad called him, now growing serious.

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t said anything because I thought you’d sort it out eventually, but this has been going on for far too long and it’s bordering on being absurd.”

Ichigo laughed at that. Way to put it bluntly.

“I just… I’m scared, y’know? That it won’t work out. That it’s not what Rukia wants…”

“Believe me, she wants it. And after everything you’ve gone through together, I think it’ll work.”

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good, now go home.” Chad said, motioning towards the direction of his house.

“Wait, what? Don’t you want me to go with you?”

“No. I can handle this.” The man said. “And Kuchiki is nearing your house, you should probably go to her.”

Ichigo sighed, finally relaxing. “I’ll go then.”

His friend grunted, returning to his silent self, and continued walking with Keigo in his arms, still blissfully unaware of everything that had happened.

“Oh, and Chad?”

The man turned around.

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“No problem.”

Waving Chad goodbye, Ichigo walked on the opposite direction, when he started running. He didn’t know why but feeling Rukia’s reiatsu flowing so close to him, spurred him on to go to her as fast as he could. He found her halfway, eyes widening at seeing his disheveled state.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, standing close to him, possibly to inspect his body for potential injuries. It was in that moment that he saw exactly what Chad had told him before.

He shook his head, laughing a little. “Yeah… I was just in a rush to get home.”

Rukia chuckled, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. They never lost their warmth.

“Then we should go.”

“Yeah. We should.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a full minute, an inexplicable message passing between them. Satisfied, they pulled away and started walking back home, their hands brushing with each step they took.

“Happy birthday, Ichigo.” Rukia suddenly told him, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Thanks, Rukia.” He answered, his hand reaching to grab hers. She didn’t pull away.

With their fingers entwined, they finally went home.

#ichiruki #pro ichiruki #ichiruki fanfiction #my fanfiction #happy birthday ichigo

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