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daedalusdavinci · 4 months ago

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29. Favourite fanfiction(s) of your ship(s)?

you may not know this already, but i have a recs tag where i post exactly this in depth! but i LOVE to boost my favorite fics, so ill do it all again, just for you anon <3 if you want more recs for any of these ships, i promise there are TONS in that tag, (or you can send me another ask for something more specific,) but ill stick to just my absolute top reads in this post

my favorite fanfictions of my favorite (homestuck) ships

starting under the cut bc it got long slkdjnfsjdfn

for halquius, the funniest hs ship-

Second Chances by @mtjester

Lil Hal never said anything about what it meant to be the AI avatar of the God of Heart. After he and Equius had split, everyone had assumed he would go back to Dirk and serve as a sort of spirit companion, the hyper-perceptive Shades of the God of Heart. But to that, he had simply responded, “Nah.” He stayed firmly on Equius’s face, and Equius asked him no questions about it.

this fic is so in character. it captures some of my favorite things about this ship, like how obnoxious they are and the very specific ways they click and enable each other. it also has an absolutely fantastic sequel! its short and funny, and always the first rec i drop for this specific ship.

(the second rec i would drop is my own fic, Hold Me (Accountable). its a space au with mechanic!equius and bounty hunter!AR, and i maintain that its hilarious and a must read if you like this ship at all.)

my resident favorite ship, eridave-

Lee Shore by @jumpingjacktrash

“I asked Egbert to ask you if you have Ampora’s new contact information.” “No, man, I didn’t even know the old info was old. How can you not have a contact for him? It’s not like he changed his chumhandle, email, and phone number all at once.” “As a matter of fact, that is apparently exactly what he did. And deleted his Facebook and his photo blog.” “Dramariffic.” In the years after the game, the twelve trolls and eight humans have tried to stick together, because no one else would understand. When Eridan misses one of their yearly reunions, Dave makes an impulsive decision to go find him.

ive said it before, and ill say it again. this is THE eridave fic. this is the one. if you only ever read one (and its not one of mine), it should be this one. i love how dave takes eridan seriously without enabling him, and how easily they both cut through each others bullshit. the handling of eridans character is DELICIOUS, and i literally think about his relationships with the other trolls in this fic all the time. i dont even know how many times ive read this fic but it goes so hard.

davekat, the classic-

Fait Accompli(cation) by @dragonomatopoeia on tumblr

In Which a Mutant and an Alien Meander Towards a Quadrant of Indeterminate Identity at a Glacial Pace While Examining the Internalized Toxicity Perpetuated by Their Respective Societies, and The Nature of Friendship is Determined to Be More Universal Than Originally Theorized [Banned In Alternia]

this is the quintessential meteor fic. its everything you could ever want in a meteorfic, and deals very heavily with karkat and dave unpacking toxic cultural ideas from their respective planets and coming to a new understanding of who they want to be together. its long, its slowburn, its everything, and the authors put SO much obvious effort and research into getting the voices just right, i still think about and admire it years and years later.

The Eurydice Suite, v2.0 by @callmearcturus

Dream-sharing: a highly illegal little industry in which agents delve into people’s dreams, and unearth their deepest secrets and memories. Within this business, the Strider-Lalondes are known as the best there is — until Dirk Strider gets his fool-ass trapped within the confines of his own subconscious, with his Auto-Responder playing malicious prison warden. To save him, the best and brightest dreamers in the world will have to form a team. Backed by the token rich friend, lead by the surliest extractor ever bribed out of retirement, haunted by the shade of the latest, greatest agent in the biz, and on the run through a dangerous tiered dream in a hostile mind… It’s going to take a miracle to pull this one off.

arc doesnt need any publicity from me, bigname that they are, but i gotta say of all of their fics this one is one i still come back to and reread from time to time all these years later. the au is really cool, and the drama is potent. karkat and dave have a very loaded and complicated, vaguely antagonistic relationship that takes time to get resolved, and you dont see that very often in davekat fics!

davekat, the superior-

Crash Standing by @asukaskerian

It’s been eight days since the end of Sburb and Davesprite is not coping especially well.

IVE SAID IT BEFORE ILL SAY IT AGAIN. BEST. HOMESTUCK FIC. dont look at how many times ive read this dont worry about it. davespritekat is just better than davekat, okay? im sorry. everything is better w davesprite. if youre a davesprite fan i dont even have to say anything else you already know youve gotta read this, but for people who arent- dude, this fic. its such a poignant snapshot of the awkwardness of teenagerdom, especially as a very traumatized teen, and the interpersonal relationships between characters outside of the main two are just so delightful. the john&dave&davesprite dynamic is one i think about constantly, and me and my friend STILL have running jokes about davesprite co< kanaya, which is perhaps the greatest thing to ever be invented, and we have fully incorporated the phrase "sparkle princess alone time" into our day to day vocabulary. i LOVE the gossip chumps, they are everything to me. underrated friendship.

another classic age ship, johndave-

play ball! by spacepuck

When Dave moves to Washington, he expects to spend the summer alone in his room until school starts. But when he stumbles on the sandlot, he discovers a baseball team needing one more player. He quickly gets dragged into the mix, but there's just one problem: he knows absolute dicksquat about the game. Luckily, John, the high school's best baseball player, swoops in to help. (this is basically a sandlot/baseball au. happy summer!)

ive actually been meaning to reread this one, since its been a long time. im adding it to my marked for later rn. i think of all the johndave fics i ever read, this is the one i think about the most years later. ive never read a fic that just. FELT like summer the way this one does. its intimate and sweet and its got the exact feeling of a hot summer night, lying in the grass and staring up at the stars with your best friend. when i read a johndave fic, i want some real fuckin falling in love with your friend as a stupid kid shit, and this is that

dirkjohn-

Vanitas Vanitatum by @oxfordroulette

You've determined the hobbies of the monarch you serve are as follows: 1. Ill-timed pranks. 2. Cooking. 3. Subconsciously pulling elaborate political schemes off perfectly, ad infinitum, every one of which inches his mind closer to some ineffable dark chasm you're curious to find the depth of. Anyway, he makes damn good lasagna.

when i tell you this is the best dirkjohn fic i mean nothing else has ever even COMPARED, and that includes my own goddamn fic. fuck ammfh, read THIS. its political intrigue and messy, MESSY relationships, and a john who is an absolute delightful trickster with serious fucking PROBLEMS. the john/vriska/dirk friendship in this is everything, and the design of the strilondes is so fucking cool??? im ngl i think about those blindfolds everyyy time i make an au. its magic, its kingdomstuck, its dnd, its got illustrations, its EVERYTHING. oxfordRoulette is like a fucking professional at writing fics where everyone kind of sucks and is super toxic and a little bit evil and its THE BEST. LOVE this fic

for bropsii-

just read anything by captorvatiing. just go do that. or read the entirety of the @askpsii blog again?? for the ten millionth time? and cry about how theres like no content.

all of my other favorite ships are too niche to have fics </3 lol. read MY fics, thats what you should do. just go read the fics for the tags that i personally started sldkjfnsdlfsdf

ALSO YOU SHOULD READ LET'S BE OUTCASTS BY @curlicuecal. this is the only time ill ever recommend anything thats incomplete but GOD ITS SO GOOD. i wont say anything else. just that its SO. GOOD. and if you like hal or the exiles you will LOVE this

#my recs #asks #ty for the ask i love ranting abt how much i love other ppls fics

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pluppsauthor · 3 months ago

Text

Shattered Gods - Chapter 1 (Part one)

Next.

Hiya! Been a while since I posted any writing. Sorry about that, life and health got in the way. I received an ask from the lovely @thecomfywriter yesterday about Frequency: Shattered Gods. It got me to revisit, edit and post a bit from there that I have written.

Enjoy!

(Tag list for writing: @illarian-rambling, @casualsuitturtle, @tildeathiwillwrite, @thecomfywriter. Message me, or comment/reblog this saying you want to be on/off of the tag list)

---------------------------------------------------

As she stepped through the muddy wetland, Luna searched for the entrance to an old set of ruins in the area. She had heard all about them plenty of times in her school years, as it was one of the first ruins of its kind to be discovered. It was even her goal to finish college by writing a report about these ruins and their history, perhaps even make a breakthrough or two.

“Where are you,” she muttered to herself playfully, “I know there's an entrance under one of these trees.”

The dry bits of land grew too few and small to rely on, even for her smaller frame, so she had to enter the more watery parts as her search continued. Her tall rubber boots prevented most of the water from getting in, but not all of it.

Normally, someone searching for these ruins would travel during the dry season, or have a guide with them. But Luna was eager to learn about the history of the ruins ever since she heard about them growing up.

“Where is–” she was cut off prematurely as she tripped and face planted onto a dry platform. She let out a muffled curse and stood up. She dusted herself off and made sure she wasn’t injured. Her face wasn’t bleeding at the very least, anything else she could wait for.

When she looked around to see where she was, she found herself standing on a small stone platform connected to a descending staircase that led somewhere underground. The staircase was under an arch and was hidden by a small thicket of trees that grew around it over time.

A smug grin crept across her face at the sight of it.

“Found it.”

She sat on the dry stone and made a few preparations. She emptied her boots of any remaining water, took out a lantern and light from her backpack, and made sure none of her supplies were damaged.

Once that was done, she began her descent.

The stairs wound and descended farther than it needed too, at least that’s what Luna thought. She remembered hearing that there used to be an above ground portion to the ruins, but that was before this area became a wetland in the first place.

Now all that remained were small bits of stone buried in the mud and a few underground sections. Although, most of those were flooded. Even this one was at one point, but later, channels were dug to drain it. The reward for such work was valuable history, even if all people could glean from it was speculation, since no one could read the runic writing. Or even decrypt it.

There was nothing on the walls of the stairs to accompany Luna on her way down, so her thoughts would have to suffice. But, beyond her excitement to see the ruin for herself, all she could think about was how hard it was going to be to get out of here.

‘I know they said that there were a lot of stairs, but I didn’t expect this many!’

A few seconds after she finished that thought she reached the bottom.

‘Oh, never mind.’

In front of her was a large, long open room. The walls were cracked, chipped, and shattered. Almost every piece of history here was lost to time, except for one. However, it wasn’t in this room. That mural was in the next room, this was more of a corridor to that room.

“Well, let’s see what I can unearth here.” She said to herself while pulling out a pad of paper and a pen from her large backpack.

She sighed as she looked at the broken walls.

“If only… There are some things to look at, but if only there was more…”

She stood in front of a broken mural for a while longer, lost in thought. Eventually, though, she moved on. She held the lantern in one hand, and the paper and pen in the other. Occasionally she sat down to note things she found, or her speculations.

What remained in this room was a few shards of images that gave away little to nothing. This place was speculated to be some kind of shrine or way of recording and remembering legends and history alike. But most of what remained told researchers little to nothing at all.

When she reached the end of the room, however, she stopped as a deep panic rushed through her. Somewhere in front of her, hidden in the darkness, there was a large and powerful presence.

There wasn’t supposed to be anything living down here, aside from bugs, rodents, and serpents. Yet, something was. Something was far stronger than anyone or anything she had met before.

Luna had an innate ability to sense the auras of others, even before she unlocked her Frequency. This ability was far more precise and powerful than the average person. It felt like a sixth sense, akin to how she felt about her sense of taste, smell, or hearing.

So when she felt this presence, she felt a fear run through her veins, a fear she had never felt before.

She considered running out of there, but her need to see the mural outweighed the fear in her heart. She slowly and carefully took out her lighter after putting her pen and paper away. It took her a few attempts to light it as her hands shook from fear. Once she did, she carefully threw it into the darkness.

It hit the ground a few metres in front of a small, smooth, plain wooden box. Luna knew that the box was the source of the aura, but that didn’t answer any questions she had, only adding more.

If only living things had auras, as far she knew, then whatever was in that box was a living thing. But what kind of living thing was this powerful and ancient?!

Luna slowly stepped towards the box, and entered its aura. Normally when she entered something’s aura, she would feel a sensation similar to being in water. It would surround her and she could draw power from that aura, provided that its source had a Frequency.

The pressure she felt inside the aura was nearly unbearable. The box glowed for a second, at least Luna thought it did. But even with these warning signs, she pressed on. Now with a sheer determination to find out what this box was, or at least to get past it. But when she was less than a metre away from it, she finally got a good look at it.

What she thought was wood was instead a type of stone she had never seen before. Additionally, it wasn’t featureless, instead it had many small streaks in it, made of a very similar but ever-so-slightly different material. These streaks formed an elaborate and intricate design, almost like a woven tapestry. To top it off, it was glowing, the small streaks would pulse and glow a very faint golden-like colour about every second or so.

Her curiosity and greed slowly got the better of her judgement, and she eventually decided to try to pick up the box. Every part of her body and mind was screaming at her to get as far away from the box, but her thoughts were overflowing at what she could learn from whatever was in the box.

For better or worse, her determination was enough to overpower her instincts.

When her hand grew closer, as her finger was nearly a centimetre from the box, a blinding flash of light stunned her. A terrible, agonising pain shot through every part of her, as if a hole the size of her head tore through her chest.

Then, she blacked out from the pain.

---------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading! The second part will be up sometime later this week, but I'll try to post it tomorrow. ❤

#writeblr #writing #writblr #my writing #my wips #original writing #frequency #frequency: shattered gods

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ringleaderising · 9 months ago

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@dissentersrising // I LIED HERE ARE QUESTIONS FAST

okay. first off: magic system! i am always curious about this. are you just using site canon entirely? have you changed the way magic works at all? if you have, in what way/how does it work now?

also! the wicked dig: what's their deal? what are they doing about what they accidentally unearthed/do they even know what they accidentally unearthed? hell, what is their plans about digging up something decidedly living? infamous as they are, too, is anyone else keeping tabs on this digsite in the first place given exactly who's mining it?

I'm gonna go ahead and note that this is gonna be a long as fuck post so I'm putting the Wicked Dig under a cut LMAO

Also if anybody reads this feel free to talk at me about it in tags/replies or whatever because this much writing feels like I missed something and will need to clarify @dissentersrising you made me do more writing than NaNoWriMo last year and that's cause for a gold star I think.

MAGIC IN THE GAPLANDS

While I borrow a good handful of the on-site lore for magic, specifically in the realm of magical attunement often being tied to birthright/location, the things that can be done with this magic, and alternate kinds of magic exist among the dragons that inhabit the Gaplands- especially The Host. Their abilities are often far more detrimental than simple elemental magic, The Puppeteer can imbue a sense of false-life into the dead and use the resulting entity to interact with the world without the requirement of finding her way through a gap. The Gambler can manipulate the probability of anything occurring, for better or worse, no matter how improbable, through a single roll of his dice. These more 'impressive' talents are present in each member of The Host, and are used to control or punish those who break their deals- or that they've simply taken a vested interest in- however I feel like some of these things could easily still be explained away with some form of elemental magic, which is why I think my largest deviation is definitely the Analog Virus/Technomancy/Temporal Manipulation- which is connected to Hope Adder Enterprises.

The Analog Virus is an infection spread via the INTRUDER and a newly surfaced disease in the wake of The Splintering. it has a number of symptoms, variant in most of the affected, but there's a handful of commonalities.

Mouths altered, be that made wider, too-full of teeth, splintering into multiple parts to operate more like mandibles/that thing Predator's mouth does.

Eyes sunken deeper in the sockets/vanishing completely, Irises developing a strange looping pattern or an odd glow- additional eyes in places they shouldn't be.

Body parts that don't make sense, or are enveloped in static/blurry/scan lines like an old tube TV experiencing difficulty getting a feed.

Garbled, reversed, or fuzzy speech, strange behavior out of the infected's norm typically ending in violence against family, friends, or other people simply trying to help.

Strange magical talents and attunement to technology, in the event that the infection doesn't simply kill those suffering from it outright.

Essentially a computer virus capable of infecting people, the Analog Virus has led to a number of dragons with magical attunement to attempt to heal or cope with their illness- and that's led to a new form of magic most similar to the idea of Technomancy. Not connected to the idea of electrical impulse through things and more tied to the presence of code, and technology on the whole, it's often misunderstood as an offshoot of Lightning magic, despite being something wholly different.

The most talented Technomancers at present, however, are AI themselves, or bonded to an AI, in some form, as is the case with MIND. Technically Bastian's assistive AI, (Contained within a Black Iron Creeper) MIND is a splintered portion of VAN- the AI responsible for The Splintering- and has the ability to 'infest' the bodies of robotic entities, augmented dragons, or really, anything with a chip, code, or metal embedded within- the body she inhabits outside of "Drone Mode" is the body of a deceased H.A.E. test subject killed in the initial accident, referred to as "The Hivemistress" in discussions about her deployments, She's only been required to use this body a small number of times, as her abilities are just as prevalent in the shell of the Creeper. Bast's infection has given the two of them something of a Pseudo-telepathy- allowing Bast to look through her eyes in cases of espionage.

And with the discovery of technomancy, and within the aftermath of the splintering, Avis Gyldwell discovered Temporal magic. Little's really known about it, beyond the fact that Only Bastian has permission to use the T.I.M.E. Device outside of Hope Adder grounds, and that it's lasting effects on those without the Analog Virus has been determined to be 'too high risk for any value to come from it'. The T.I.M.E. pieces- designed to appear like highly advanced pocket watches are capable of setting 3 points in time and space to 'reset' to- Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. "Loop Point Alpha" is permanent, a set point in time mere seconds after The Splintering occurred. Hope Adder Enterprises sits trapped inside this point in time, those inside well-aware of each loop they've jumped back on, and the time that's passed, suspended in place by VAN. Thirteen, and her 'sister' XIII are the attendants of this pocket- named for "The 13th Hour" not present on a 12-hour clock- a time that simply shouldn't exist.

And by god that's all I've got for the Magic System- which really is just The Host and Hope Adder breaking every known rule of the universe now that I write it down, so I will be putting the Wicked Dig under a cut because I am SORRY I talk so much.

THE DIAMOND AND THE DIG

To understand the Diamond Riot- the crew behind the Wicked Dig, it's best to start with Mal.

Mal is not the originator of The Diamond Riot- he was little more than a child, when his predecessor took him in, an orphan hustling on the streets of Lanternlea to try and make a living. Talented in manipulation even then, he was quickly made an asset to the crew, and when the time came that the rest of the crew grew too old-or met a deadly end- Mal took the role of leader- and recruited the members of the Diamond Riot that work with him presently. A group of rustlers, thieves and grave robbers too stubborn to die, it's their willingness to do anything for survival that keeps the plague ideals of Mal's mentor alive within them- And it's part of the glittering blue stones that made up Mother Misery's scar-battered frame that now replaces his front horn- picked from her body upon her death.

They are, at their core, adventurers, but in the way that Indiana Jones was only the hero of his story because the people around him were even more reprehensible, they're selfish, driven by their own gain, over a respect for the cultures and people they're stealing from- a behavior that has served them well with exception of injuries simply replaced and limped on from- at least until this excursion.

Hired by the mysterious Arizona, Mal and his crew- currently made up of the guardian couple that shares him as a charge, Shuck and Tearmarsh, and his own adoptive daughter Rezonant have found themselves in Dragonhome, operating largely in the pitch-darkness, to avoid any questions from locals- but those who recognize them- or have any particular issues with their presence are typically turned away from any sort of troublemaking for the crew by the threat of 'having something very very painful done to your body' by one of Mal's heavies- The threat of "Having a Stoneshatter Drill run through you" alone is scary enough- when it's made by a Guardian who could probably break you to pieces without the drill- most don't like the Diamond Riot- but still more are not brave or fool enough to interfere.

But their propensity for robbing graves and interference with the Dead for their belongings has, as mentioned- caught up with them, and it started with awakening Micte and Chel. A pair of Auraboa guardians of the thing that slumbered in the tombs they disturbed, the duo were initially assumed to be the only thing slumbering within, agitated by their awakening but doing little more than offering a hissed warning to delve no further into the dim, dusty halls of the tomb- A warning expressly ignored, as blinded by the glittering riches worn as adornments on the snake women, Mal insisted they push on.

That which slumbers below is an Imperial... Or several, perhaps. A massive, sprawling creature made of thousands- Colloquially known as The Child it was nothing but a rumor for centuries, causing quakes across Dragonhome and buried deep enough that it was assumed it would never be found again- an assumption foiled by the Diamond Riot.

The member of The Host who's eyes they've drawn is none other than Mithos- As The Calcite Nursery is his domain. And The Child his monstrous, fused progeny.

The Child is weak, exhausted, rotten from centuries beneath the earth, but their father is always listening, and The Heathen's blessing winds them in magic, gold, and flora- stirs the rot to life- They will protect their home against intruders, and as light seeps into their labyrinth from above- thousands of minds cry out for one thing: Escape.

So it is perhaps a good thing that another with no fear of the Diamond Riot was, in fact, keeping tabs on them. Daisy "The Daggerless" Bandy is something of a folk-hero around Earth Territory, a traveling explorer who's morals are a good bit less gray than the Riot's, Daggerless knows of The Child and it's resting place- and had for a time, ensured no one approached it. Foolishly, she trusted Mal long enough for a night of passion- and he stole away the artifact required to enter the depths of the Nursery. Blessed by Lacrymosa to never fall in battle, she has become something of an unwitting champion to what seems to be The Host's single benevolent goddess- And The Warmistress wants The Child slain.

Reluctantly, Daggerless will do as she's called to- even if it means saving Mal's two-timing ass in the process.

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mlwritersguild · 2 years ago

Text

Once upon a Dream

Once Upon a Dream

by overworkedunderwhelmed

Already snoring softly, Tikki drowsily rolled over on the pillow. “Are you afraid to remember, Marinette? Or afraid you'll forget?”

She sighed heavily. “Honestly, I don't know.”

Tikki yawned again. “Then you should figure out which is going to bother you more later.”

Marinette shut her eyes, mulling over Tikki's words. While good days were plenty, the bad days did come -- and fairly often. Of course, even some of those had lovely moments to look back on in the end.

Stubbornly pressing her lips into a thin line, Marinette tossed her covers to the slide, climbing back from her canopy. The journal was a solid option, but that dream had been vivid and she still could picture some of the flashes in her mind.

Rifling through her desk, she kept moving until she unearthed an old, half-completed sketchbook.

Now she knew exactly how she wanted to fill it.

Words: 3065, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Tikki, Plagg

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Additional Tags: Season/Series 05, Post-Jubilation, Fluff and Angst, a bit of humor, Spoilers, Identity Reveal, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Identity Reveal, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Identity Reveal, Not Beta Read, yet, not for lack of trying, Soon I hope, Ladrien | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Marichat | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Background Ladynoir, But It's the Premise

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42680484

#ML Writers Guild #Overworkedunderwhelmed #Writer Spotlight #♥#LoveSquare #Tikki #⚤#R:Teen #MLB #Reveal Fic

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ao3feed-ladynoir · 2 years ago

Text

Once upon a Dream

Once Upon a Dream by overworkedunderwhelmed

Already snoring softly, Tikki drowsily rolled over on the pillow. “Are you afraid to remember, Marinette? Or afraid you'll forget?”

She sighed heavily. “Honestly, I don't know.”

Tikki yawned again. “Then you should figure out which is going to bother you more later.”

Rifling through her desk, she kept moving until she unearthed an old, half-completed sketchbook.

Now she knew exactly how she wanted to fill it.

Words: 3349, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Tikki, Plagg

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Additional Tags: Season/Series 05, Post-Jubilation, Fluff and Angst, a bit of humor, Spoilers, Identity Reveal, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Identity Reveal, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Identity Reveal, Ladrien | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Marichat | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Background Ladynoir, But It's the Premise

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42680484

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Ladrien #💚#🐞#❤️#Ladrien #Miraculous Ladybug #♥#R:T #A:Overworkedunderw #Reveal Fic #Fluff #Angst

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amjustagirl · 3 years ago

Text

I posted 2,540 times in 2021

1983 posts created (78%)

557 posts reblogged (22%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 0.3 posts.

I added 2,852 tags in 2021

#nikki chats! - 1546 posts

#nikki reblogs! - 171 posts

#nikki loves! - 168 posts

#haikyuu fluff - 156 posts

#haikyuu angst - 154 posts

#haikyuu x reader - 141 posts

#amjustagirl - 133 posts

#a sea of flowers in bloom - 132 posts

#haikyuu romance - 126 posts

#hq x reader - 125 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#mr nikki hallo will you eat melonpan and think of me when i die cos i will fking haunt you if you dare die on me first knncb

My Top Posts in 2021

Best friends to lovers with Tsukishima - 615 words of fluff

“Your mother called again.”

Tsukishima just hums in acknowledgement, doesn’t even bother looking up from his emails. You huff an indignant breath through your nose, reach over to yank the wire to pull an earbud from his ear.

“You’re not even going to ask me why she called?”

His eyes curve into half-moons, irritation washing over his features. “I’m going to visit her this weekend already. She can tell me what she wants then. If it’s truly important she’d drop me a text if I don’t call back.”

“Kei!” you cry, scandalised. “That’s your mom.”

He rolls his eyes, tugging his ear bud away from you.

“Look, she probably called to talk about three things.” He raises a finger. “To make sure I’m eating and sleeping well - I’m not a child, I know how to take care of myself”. He raises another finger. “To remind me that I’m due home this weekend, which I already bought train tickets for”, he wriggles a third finger - “and to nag me to find a girlfriend, which is never going to happen, so she can forget about that.”

“Did I miss anything out?”

He didn’t - these are exactly the things his mother chattered your ear off about this morning when he was out at work, and his smirk when you slump in defeat infuriates you, makes you want to tease him and wipe that satisfied expression off his face.

“Well, she did mention about setting you up on a blind date with some neighbour’s daughter -”

“Never going to happen” he interrupts dismissively. “She should know by now to leave me alone, I’m busy.”

He is busy juggling work at the Sendai City Museum whilst fighting to maintain his spot as a starting middle blocker on the Sendai Frogs, balancing both his obsession with dinosaur bones with his no longer secret love for volleyball. You knew this when you met him in university, drawn into his orbit by Yamaguchi and Yachi, an unwitting addition to their trio once the sunny duo started dating, a fact that his mother has lamented about to you so many times after you’ve moved in with him and Yamaguchi after university.

“You’re going to be left old and bitter and lonely if you don’t put yourself out there while you’re still young”, you tease.

“I’m already old and bitter”, he deadpans. “And as if I’d ever be lonely with you and Yamguchi pestering me for the rest of my life.”

“I should occupy myself by going on more dates then”, you muse, tapping your chin. “That way I won’t be home so much to bother you.”

“Please don’t”, he snaps immediately. “Your taste in men is awful. I’ve had enough of you moping on the sofa when your dates don’t work out, it spoils my mood.”

“Aww Kei”, you sing song, leaning over to flick his nose. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t reply, swivelling his chair sharply back to his laptop, his typing increasing in volume and frequency. You know him well enough to recognise his tells. He’s frustrated - why?

“Tsukki - “

“Look - you could do so much better, okay?” He states plainly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You deserve better than those lying, cheating scumbugs you’ve been stupid enough to waste your time on and I don’t understand how you can’t see what’s before your very eyes, you blind bat.”

Typical Tsukki. You have to sieve through insults and complaints to unearth what he truly means, read between the lines to figure out how he truly feels. You’ve never thought you’d ever have a chance with your best friend, assuming he’d only see you as a friend and nothing more.

You’re wrong.

“Kei”, you say softly. “Would you say my taste in men is still awful if I ask you out instead?”

He stops typing.

“Maybe”, he says, trying to remain nonchalant, as he shoots you a shy smile.

See the full post

800 notes • Posted 2021-07-02 14:15:31 GMT

Tug of war

pairing: miya atsumu x f!reader genre: fluff, minor angst warnings: none wc: 3k+

m.list.~ taglist.~

a/n: haven’t been here in a while cos i’m still finishing my kita longfic (it’s coming along, i’ll be back soonish!) so i thought i’d drop this fic in the meantime :) this fic is a combination of the requests i got for my milestone event - (atsumu, declaration of love, childhood/best friends to lovers, argument)

See the full post

837 notes • Posted 2021-07-06 06:23:26 GMT

Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi loses his wedding ring - Part 2

Part 1 here!

Pairing: Sakusa / f! reader

Genre: Unadulterated fluff

Wordcount: 600

Link to Masterlist

Previously: Sakusa Kiyoomi. Bokuto Koutaro. Kuroo Tetsuro. Akaashi Keiji. Ushijima Wakatoshi

See the full post

847 notes • Posted 2021-05-06 05:54:14 GMT

Love knows not its depth (until the hour of separation)

pairing: Kuroo x f! reader genre: angst / fluff, post timeskip! warnings: a tiny smudge of suggestive content wc: 4.9k m.list ~ taglist. ~

a/n: this is my rendition of a grown up Kuroo. life has been a little hectic for me recently, so i’m only getting around to posting it now. pls be kind and i hope y’all love it <3

See the full post

1231 notes • Posted 2021-05-12 13:02:49 GMT

Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi loses his wedding ring.

Pairing: Sakusa / f! reader

Genre: Unadulterated fluff

Wordcount: 600

Link to Masterlist

Previously: Sakusa Kiyoomi. Bokuto Koutaro. Kuroo Tetsuro. Akaashi Keiji

Part 2 here!

See the full post

1361 notes • Posted 2021-04-22 06:35:13 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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simsmono · 4 years ago

Photo

Then & Now

Rules — find the oldest photo you have of your favorite sim. Post it next to the most recent photo of that sim to see how they have (or haven’t) changed!

I was tagged by @yorithesims and @yusims - thank you guys!! ♡♡♡

Here we have Shin and Yuji. I don’t remember when they were created but I got TS3 in 2010/11 so maybe around then?

Shin started out as an experimental cc tester sim but later turned into one of my faves and is a base for a lot of my later sims. Yuji was created not long after Shin because I had this grand plan of replacing all townies with ikemen hahahaha….yeah….let’s not talk about that anymore (´ε｀；)

I no longer have shots of them in their original pudding form (a blessing, perhaps), not to mention that back in those days, I wasn’t really into taking screenshots so probably didn’t take very many of them anyway.

Top pic (2015 ish) while not the oldest picture of them, it’s probably the oldest picture I have. This was definitely an in-between stage, especially for Shin. He actually started out with dark hair so I guess I must’ve been going through some kind of white hair phase…

Bottom pic (2019??)

You can definitely notice a difference when you compare both pictures like this. Well, at the very least, I feel my screenshots have improved lol. But seriously though, I think the main differences are down to changes in their hair and skin, rather than sliders and/or makeup. Oh, and the angle of the screenshot hahaha

Anyway, kinda waffled on a bit there but this is what happens when you get me to do tags like this because it gives me the opportunity to talk about absolute nonsense hahaha, but thanks for reading till the end. This tag was extremely fun and now I have this strange urge to unearth all my old sims.

I’m not sure who has an hasn’t done this so I’ll tag names I can remember: @shatsai @venusprincess-ts3 @rollo-rolls @pitheinfinite and @simtanico because I’m pretty sure they’re sporting her lovely suits - as always, please feel free to ignore!

#sims tag #sims 3 #ts3 #smmys #smmy #Oh and I should mention they are not a couple #They are friends who went to the same school #then house shared when they moved to the city to study/work #yuji has a gf #whose name escapes me now #it's been too long #yup #more random and pointless info #for your ever expanding useless info bank

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

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the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Five: wind-chilled fingers Words: 3.1k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

“I never came up here to hunt, you know,” Daisy says. “That’s not to say that I didn’t hunt at all when I was here, but that’s not what the house was for.”

She looks at Jon, and he raises an eyebrow. “Safety precaution,” she says after a moment. “In case things ever went south enough that I had to disappear. The only two people who knew about it were me and Basira.” Her mouth curls into a faint smile. “She helped me pick out the curtains.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

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(cw for mentions of death/murder, mentions of blood)

Martin leaves in the morning to call Basira. They’d left their cell phones behind when they’d fled here before, pressing them into Basira’s waiting hands as she’d passed them the keys to the safehouse in return, and there’s an old pay phone in the village that they’d used to make calls back then. Jon remembers the call Martin had made when Jon had started to crave statements again—and Basira promising that she’d send a box—and feels an all-too-familiar wave of guilt and regret.

It won’t be like that this time, though. It can’t be, for more reasons than one. The worst has already come to pass, and they have weathered it as best they could.

Martin is back quickly, before Jon has time to do much more than shower and eat, a strange expression on his face as he shuts the door behind him and locks the late autumn chill back outside. Jon stares at him from over his mug of tea, eyes wide and questioning. Martin looks at the closed bathroom door, says, “I’ll wait for Daisy,” and goes to make himself a cup of tea.

Basira is making the trip up to Scotland, Martin tells them once Daisy is sat at the table next to Jon, declining Martin’s offer for a mug of her own. “It was… it was hard to tell what she was feeling,” Martin says, tracing his finger around the rim of the mug. “I don’t know if she was surprised or not? She said she… she knew people who had died were coming back. Didn’t say how, though. Yeah, she, um. She didn’t sound thrilled to hear my voice, but I- I don’t think she was upset either.” He sighs. “There’s a lot going on out there. She said she’s been ‘taking care of some things’ back in London, and that things are… bad.”

“Bad how?” Daisy says.

Martin shakes his head. “She didn’t say. Just bad. And then I told her that you were alive and- and here with us, and she… she got quiet for a while. Honestly thought the call had disconnected. All she said after that was that she was coming up now, and then she hung up.”

Daisy lets out a breathy laugh. “Yep. That sounds like Basira.”

Jon reaches over and brushes his hand against hers. There’s a tension in her body that bleeds into her words—that lingering anxiety, he thinks, of what’s to come. Of not knowing how somebody is going to look at you when you’ve woken up as something different than you were when you went to sleep.

He thinks he knows the feeling.

“I don’t know if she meant now or as soon as possible,” Martin says with a sigh, “and she can’t exactly call us when she’s in, so it could be tonight or it could be tomorrow morning. Either way, it’ll be soon.”

Daisy’s hand curls into a loose fist next to Jon’s. He shifts so that his pinkie covers hers, his elbow brushing up against the sleeve of her hoodie, and though the tension doesn’t vanish, he thinks he feels it fade a bit as she relaxes beside him. “Soon,” Daisy repeats, her voice flat and carefully contained. “Hm.” She sits there a moment more; then, she shifts away from Jon and stands, rolling her shoulders back with a pop as she does so. “You said tonight at the earliest?” When Martin nods, she makes a contemplative sound. “Right. More than enough time for me to take a walk, then.”

“I guess?” Martin says as Daisy walks around the table and heads for the door, pulling on a pair of boots that she’d unearthed from one of the closets. “It’s kind of cold out though, don’t you want a—”

The door opens and shuts behind her, letting in the barest hint of chill before she’s gone. “—jacket,” Martin finishes. “Right.” He stares at the closed door a moment more before saying as he turns back to Jon, “I suppose we ought to—Jon, what are you doing?”

Jon pauses, his left arm halfway through the sleeve of the jacket that had been hanging on the back of his chair, and raises an eyebrow. He finishes shrugging the jacket on, then gestures towards the door, fairly certain that his intentions to go outside are obvious given his choice of clothing.

“Okay, yes, fine. Sorry. I’ll rephrase. Why are you doing what you’re doing? I don’t… she kind of seemed like she wanted to be alone.”

Jon purses his lips and slowly nods. He looks around and, after a moment, locates his notebook still sat on the table next to the couch where he’d grabbed it from the bedroom that morning. He picks it up, flips it open, and writes, She got like this sometimes in the Archives. She wants to be alone, but she doesn’t want to be alone. Jon frowns at the words, but he holds them out towards Martin anyway. He thinks, of all people, Martin will understand.

Martin reads the words, and after a moment, he nods, something on his face softening as he does so. “Do you want me to come with?” he says. “It’s all right if the answer is no.”

Jon hesitates, then shakes his head. He tucks the notebook in the pocket of his jacket along with the pen, crosses to where Martin is sat, and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead in a wordless thanks for asking. It’s an action he’s only able to perform when Martin is sitting, given the height difference between them, and he takes great pleasure in seeing the way Martin’s cheeks are flushed when he pulls away, splotchy with affection. Martin takes his hand and squeezes it once. “Stay warm, and… come back soon, okay?”

Jon nods, squeezing Martin’s hand in return with a small smile. He collects his scarf by the door, wrapping it around his neck until it rests just underneath his chin, and then he steps out into the frigid autumn air.

It doesn’t take him long to catch up to Daisy. He can see the copper shock of her hair in the distance, silhouetted against the still-green grass of the Highland hills, and he quickens his pace into an awkward half-walk, half-run until she’s close enough that he can see her face in detail.

She looks the same as she did in the coffin, he thinks, just before they’d reached the surface—that same look of quiet anticipation, mixed with something wary and, at its heart, still deeply resigned to the belief that there was no up, no better. It had melted away the moment Daisy, sprawled on the floor of Jon’s office and covered in dirt, had laid eyes on Basira, but Jon remembers it all the same.

She doesn’t look surprised to see him when he finally arrives at her side, falling into step beside her and trying to hide the fact that he’s winded. From the way that the corner of her mouth tilts up ever so slightly, he doesn’t think he succeeds. Well. It’s not his fault she walks so bloody fast. After a moment, though, her lips flatten back into a line and she stares straight ahead, where the dirt road stretches out before them and, a few miles past, hidden behind the hills, the village lies. They walk in silence, seconds stretching on to minutes, until finally, as the road curves and outlines the base of a hill, Daisy veers off it and picks her way through the grass. Jon follows, and it doesn’t take them long to arrive at a small copse of trees, situated near the boundary of two fences. It’s sparse, but Jon finds that when he follows Daisy through the border of trees and into the shade, it still shelters them from the wind a bit. Jon’s half-frozen cheeks begin to tingle in gratitude as the blood flow to his face resumes.

“I never came up here to hunt, you know,” Daisy says, and Jon, startled, nearly trips over a root as her voice shatters the silence. She doesn’t seem to notice as she finally stops next to a large, twisted tree and continues, “That’s not to say that I didn’t hunt at all when I was here, but that’s not what the house was for.”

She looks at Jon, and he raises an eyebrow. “Safety precaution,” she says after a moment, leaning against the tree and picking at the edge of her middle fingernail with her thumbnail. “In case things ever went south enough that I had to disappear. The only two people who knew about it were me and Basira.” Her mouth curls into a faint smile. “She helped me pick out the curtains.”

And now me and Martin as well, Jon thinks. He’s not sure if he’s meant to feel bad for taking away such a closely guarded secret. He doesn’t think Basira at the time had thought she would ever have much use for it again.

Jon suddenly wonders if there are bodies buried in these trees. He steadfastly decides not to ask.

“I suppose things have gone south now,” Daisy says. “Or south enough, at least. The world’s better, sure, but it still kind of feels like things have gone to shit.” She looks over at Jon, sees the expression on his face, and says, “Relax, Jon. I told you, I’m not kicking you out. I hadn’t been up here in a while, before, and it wouldn’t make sense for the place to sit empty.”

Jon frowns. He rubs his hands together a few times briskly to try to get some feeling back into his fingers, pulls the notebook and pen out of his pocket, and writes clumsily, You’re not staying?

Daisy shrugs. “Haven’t really thought about it. I don’t… it depends.”

On Basira? Jon considers writing. But he thinks he knows that the answer is yes. Instead, he nods and writes, a bit hesitantly, I suppose I’m not sure if we’re staying either. We haven’t talked about it yet.

They haven’t talked about a lot yet. The first few days had been spent in relative shock, emotions still red-hot and hard to grasp, and then Daisy had shown up and there hasn’t been much time for talking since. Jon doesn’t particularly want to talk about it. He knows they have to anyway. He’s already been writing some of his thoughts down, when they sit so heavily on the back of his mind that he can’t concentrate on anything else but them, and that at least will make it easier, he hopes.

He could probably fill a whole notebook, he thinks, with things he should say. It’s an intimidating thought.

“Well, you’re welcome to,” Daisy says, and Jon blinks up at her, his mind returning to the trees and the bitter chill. “Best be mindful of the back porch, though. I think I’ve got a body or two buried underneath it.”

Jon looks at her, alarmed.

Daisy sighs fondly. “It’s a joke, Jon. As if I’d be so careless.”

Jon stares at her a moment more. Then, a laugh trips out of his mouth, followed by another, until he’s pressing his fist to his mouth to smother them. Christ, he’s missed her.

She watches him laugh for what must be nearly a minute, a small smile of her own forming on her face. But then, too soon, it’s quiet again, and her mouth pinches back into the flat line it had been for the entirety of their walk out here. Tentatively, Jon reaches out and places a hand on her arm, expression open and questioning. Daisy sighs but remains silent, eyes focusing on the trees over his shoulder. Just as Jon is about to withdraw his hand and write in his notebook—encouragement, maybe? A question?—she sighs again, heavier this time, and says, “I don’t… I don’t like feeling like this.”

Jon keeps his hand on her arm, squeezing gently. He’s never been great at being reassuring, but Daisy’s never required much from him on that front. He’d tried to form the right words once when she’d been struggling particularly badly with the hunger, but they’d fallen flat and stale in the air between them. She’d never said so outright, but he thinks for her, just being there and touching her, reminding her that she’s not alone, is enough.

“Everything that I’ve done,” Daisy says. “It was all me. Doesn’t matter how much of it was the Hunt—they were my hands and my actions and my thoughts. Never controlled, never someone other than myself. Even when the world was wrong, it was still me. Not liking it doesn’t change that fact. I made the choice to go back to the Hunt, and it was the right one, but I still feel…” Daisy’s jaw twitches. “Regret. And I don’t like it.”

Jon tightens his grip on her arm ever so slightly, but he doesn’t reach for his notebook. He watches Daisy’s lips purse, her jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically, before she finally says, “Show me your leg, Jon.”

Jon blinks, surprised. After a moment, he lets go of her arm and reaches down for the hem of his left trouser leg. He doesn’t have to ask what she’s looking for. He pulls it up to just below the knee, shivering a bit as the cold air hits his bare skin, goosebumps forming around the thick bite mark scars that pepper his skin. He looks up at Daisy. Her eyes are fixated on his leg, expression the kind of careful neutral that one sees on a plastic mask. Her jaw twitches again, and she nods slowly. “I remember making those,” she says, eyes still stuck on Jon’s leg even as Jon lowers the fabric of his trousers and straightens again, wincing at the strain it puts on his lower back. “I remember tasting your blood. Familiar blood. It’s… hard to describe. You were familiar, but you weren’t you. It’s like everything was washed away, and all I could remember is that I had wanted to kill you, but you weren’t dead.”

An unfinished meal, Jon thinks. It should probably disquiet him more to hear this, but it doesn’t. Any disappointment he had felt at the lack of true recognition had been buried by grief and loss, and he finds that even as Daisy insists that the yellow-eyed wolf she’d become had still been her, Jon is easily able to separate them in his mind. Perhaps it helps that he’d accepted that Daisy had died the moment he left her behind in the Institute, all those months ago.

“I remember feeling that,” Daisy says, voice tight. “I remember being that. And it was me, even if I… don’t quite recognize the person I was then. And it… eats at me. Makes me regret. It’s hard. I wish it didn’t.”

Jon presses his teeth to his bottom lip and slowly nods. He understands, he thinks, what it’s like to look back on something you did—someone you were—and not recognize the person you were then. It had taken him a long time to accept what Daisy had been able to easily—that the parts of himself that scared him the most, that he pushed away out of guilt and shame and regret, were still him. He still thinks he hasn’t quite gotten there.

“I don’t know what I’ll feel when Basira gets here,” Daisy says, voice small in a way Jon hasn’t heard it in a long, long time. Not since the coffin. “I know things will be all right between us. They always have been. But things will be… different. Even after the coffin, when I was trying to stay away from it… it was still there. The Hunt. It’s the only way Basira’s ever known me. The way things are between us, the relationship we have… it’ll be different. It’ll take time. And she’s going to be here tonight.” Daisy laughs a little, sharp and humorless. “Suppose that’s a good sign, that she’s already on her way. Just hope she isn’t upset with what she finds when she gets here, is all.”

Oh. Oh, Daisy.

Jon reaches again for Daisy’s arm, then her hand, taking it in his and squeezing it gently. She sighs and, after a moment, squeezes back. Then, she frowns, holding his hand up slightly higher as if for inspection. “Jesus, your hands are freezing.”

As if on cue, a shiver runs down Jon’s spine, prompted by a curl of wind that sneaks in through the trees and tickles the back of his neck somehow, even through the folds of his scarf. Daisy takes Jon’s hand in hers and rubs it briskly between them a few times, trying to imbue some warmth into his fingers, before dropping it and saying, “Come on. Let’s head back. Wouldn’t want you to start losing fingers.”

Jon takes the time as they walk out of the copse and back to the road to write, a bit pedantically, I don’t think anybody’s ever lost a finger due to Raynaud’s. When he holds the notebook out towards Daisy, she only glances at it for a moment before pushing it back towards him. “Smartass. Put your hands in your pockets at least.”

Jon does so, pointedly holding back a comment about how that’s not how it works, that his fingers won’t really warm until his core temperature increases. He thinks Daisy can see the intent in his eyes anyway from the way she rolls her own and nudges her shoulder against his, telling him fondly to shut it.

The trip back is quiet, accompanied only by the sound of their footsteps and the rushing of the wind through the grass. When they finally reach the cottage, Daisy hesitates just outside the door, hands stuffed in her pockets and shoulders slightly hunched. “Thanks,” she mutters after a moment, looking at an arbitrary point off in the distance. “For coming after me.”

Always, Jon thinks, brushing his shoulder lightly against Daisy’s and giving her a small, quiet smile. He doesn’t write it down, but he hopes she understands all the same.

Daisy takes a deep breath in, then lets it out. “Right,” she says, then takes one hand out of her pocket and opens the door, stepping inside. Jon stands there a moment more, letting the wind whisk his hair away from his forehead and looking out on a green, sunlit world he’d resigned himself to have lost forever. Then, he turns and follows Daisy inside, shutting the door behind him and feeling warmth begin to seep back into his cheeks and hands.

It really is lovely out here, he thinks as he sheds his jacket and accepts the hot mug of tea Martin presses into his hands with a smile, in this place he’s chosen to call home. He just hopes it lasts.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #martin blackwood #my writing #my fic #before tag

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

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Val Kilmer Documentary Punctures the Actor’s Bad Boy Myth

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Leo Scott and Ting Poo’s new documentary feature, Val, is not a mortality play. It is a rehearsal for an upcoming act. During a tour of his one-man stage show, Citizen Twain, Val Kilmer was diagnosed with throat cancer. The actor underwent two tracheostomies, and now can only speak while covering a tube. The narration of the new film is thus done by his son Jack Kilmer, allowing the pair to share a non-verbal connection throughout the journey, and through time and expression itself. While there are flourishes of humor, the documentary is a serious study of an artist who has always struggled to be understood, told through the selective memory of Kilmer’s POV.

“I’ve wanted to tell a story about acting for a very long time,” Kilmer says toward the beginning of the documentary. “And now that it’s difficult to speak, I want to tell my story more than ever.” Kilmer is an artist, one who takes his vocation very seriously and introspectively. An actor’s voice is more than a tool, it is their primary source of communication. Non-verbal exchanges are important, but dialogue is the primary idea delivery system in staged and filmed works. Surgical procedures have split his throat, shredding the scope of his instrument. In the film, Kilmer is forced to project his story on the empty space between the notes.

Among Kilmer’s many defining roles, the one which appears to ring truest is his encapsulation of Jim Morrison, the poet and lead vocalist of the Doors in Oliver Stone’s 1991 biopic, The Doors. The young Kilmer is shown onstage in a small club, lost in the music, awaiting his cue to become one with the mic. Moments in Kilmer’s personal history, like how the actor was tagged with a “difficult” label, are consigned to rests. The most overt reference to Kilmer’s “bad boy” reputation comes from Robert Downey Jr., who smashes the notoriety to bits in a moment of impromptu dismissal.

There is no gossip here. There is no discussion of A-list-bad behavior. Kilmer sees it all as artistic license. He was searching for honesty, he remembers. Choices like lying on top of a mattress filled with ice in order to feel a real pain during his last scene with Kurt Russell in Tombstone come across as perfectly valid. Kilmer is still bitter over spending four months learning to play guitar for Top Secret!, and his first note informs him the director thinks he looks funnier faking it. There is little evidence of unprofessionalism, only growing pains.

The bulk of Val comes from clips of 8mm home video footage Kilmer has been shooting most of his life. “I’ve kept everything, and it’s been sitting in boxes for years,” Kilmer informs us. The archive was intended to tell a story about “where you end and the acting begins.” We are gifted with moon shots of both Kevin Bacon and Sean Penn, which have nothing to do with the films Apollo 13 or The First.

Early self-directed screen tests provoke a series of what-ifs. A tortuous encapsulation of a Juilliard acting class is a lesson in what-nots. Val’s hand-held approach to The Island of Dr. Moreau is a highlight. The actor respectfully rocks his co-star and idol, Marlon Brando, on a hammock they both wish was strung to John Frankenheimer. Please turn off the camera, the film’s replacement director demands. But Kilmer only hits pause when it’s time to rehearse.

The behind-the-scenes camcorder footage from sets of Top Gun, Tombstone, and The Doors are treasure troves in themselves, and possibly underused. Most of the audience will be very interested in the candid youth and truth recorded over his career. Val uses the archival clips and unearthed b-roll to establish a chronology.

Many videos were made at home in Los Angeles with Kilmer’s younger brother Wesley, who had an epileptic seizure and drowned at age 15. His death casts a mournful pall following the news that Val was the youngest applicant ever accepted as a drama student at Juilliard. Kilmer calls his brother “an artistic genius,” and one of the most revealing things to come out of the documentary is how often Kilmer used this brother’s art to augment the backgrounds of the sets he is living through on film.

Seeing how Stone speaks about Kilmer now makes me wonder if Val would have been able to put in the same performances in his movies if he knew it at the time. In his audition tapes for Full Metal Jacket and Goodfellas, we see an actor who needs to be taken seriously. He flies 6,000 miles to hand deliver his tape to Stanley Kubrick in London.

While he makes no comment, footage reveals Kilmer’s favorite Batman was played by Adam West. “Every boy wants to be Batman,” we hear, and see the Caped Crusader in every era of Kilmer’s life. A short, animated film he and his brother made with what looks like crayon is a Batman spoof. He still glories in the moment he got deposited behind the classic TV series’ iconic wheels as a youngster visiting the lot. It appears Kilmer still can’t pass a grocery store Batmobile without feeding it quarters. He wears the classic blue Halloween ensemble expecting tricks and treats as a kid, and as a daddy with his kids.

Don’t expect to see Kilmer wearing his cinematic puffed rubber suit at home, and it’s not because he left it at the dry cleaners. Footage old and new, homemade or professionally recorded, presents the Batsuit as an albatross. Heavy rests the cowl. He has to be lifted from chairs, deposited on marks, and his only identifying feature on the set of Batman Forever is a chin and bottom lip. Anyone could have been behind the mask, and the human superhero envied the subhuman villains. Kilmer comes across as quite happy Jim Carrey and Tommy Lee Jones are able to create fully formed performance art in their portrayals. But he wanted to play with those toys.

“Batman Forever,” Kilmer laments, “whatever boyish excitement I had going in was crushed by the reality of the Batsuit. I realized it was just my job to show up and stand where they told me.” As the captured past footage is juxtaposed with modern sequences, we get an unfiltered glimpse of how little this has changed. The sequence of Kilmer at the Comic-Con autograph booth is wrenching. He initially didn’t want to take the part of Iceman in Top Gun because he felt it glorified the military. So many fans ask him to sign “You can be my wingman” on their souvenirs. It turns his stomach. He throws up in a garbage can and wheeled through hallways with a blanket over his head. Trouper that he is, he returns to the booth to finish out the signatures.

Kilmer blurred himself into the role of Mark Twain. There is a beautiful sequence where the actor walks through town to the beach, in full stage makeup, dressed in the signature white suit and long mustache of his character. It is extremely telling when Kilmer tells the camera it’s hard enough writing a good screenplay, much less a great one, which itself doesn’t even match what he feels he needs to bring to a script of a film version of Citizen Twain. Kilmer sold his ranch in New Mexico to finance the project. The documentary only captures some of the frustrations.

Most of the anecdotes are guarded, and all the admissions are part of a subjective narrative. Kilmer’s arc has rough edges, these tales are too smooth, and leave little room for impressionistic interpretation. Kilmer met his former wife, Joanne Whalley, when she was starring in a West End play directed by Danny Boyle, but he didn’t approach her.

“She was brilliant, and I was in town making fluff,” Kilmer concedes. It’s all about the art, even appearances. The documentary hints that Kilmer’s dedication to character did the most damage to their relationship. Wearing the same pair of leather pants for nine months could almost be on the books as probable cause for divorce in Hollywood.

Similarly, Kilmer’s Christian Science upbringing is brought up, and dropped. There is a loving but ambiguous undertone to Kilmer’s relationship with his once-rich-and-powerful father, who put his son in debt after trying to become a southern California land tycoon. But a sequence on his Swedish mother which juxtaposes a car ride he took with her when he was a child with one of being driven to her funeral speaks volumes without words.

Val is about the next step. “What’s past is prologue” William Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest. Kilmer pondered the “too, too solid flesh” while rehearsing Hamlet, and the documentary opens after the actor faced his own mortality. Kilmer swears he feels better than he sounds and, while he finds little to regret in his memories, he expects less in the ones he has yet to create.

Val can be seen on Amazon Prime Video.

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i-call-me-clarence · 5 years ago

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So @ao3commentoftheday suggested people make rec lists during these trying times and I decided to go ahead and jump on the band wagon. Here is a list of 13 Johnlock fics, sorted from shortest to longest. There’s H/C, PWP, Case Fics, PRETEND RELATIONSHIPS, and some pretty dank AU’s.

Okay then, onto the tropes!

(fics listed below)

Caught by Salambo06 (AO3) ( @salambo06fics)

Author’s Summary: A hotel room. They’re here for a case, hadn’t planned to spend the night and ended up sharing a room. No, sharing a bed. Suddenly John is very much aware of his own hand closed around his hard cock and the ragged breathing next to him. Closing his eyes for the briefest second, John dares to turn his head just enough to confirm what he already knows.

Sherlock, on his side, watching him.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1,859

Tags/Warnings: bed sharing, wet dreams, POV John, Masturbation, Frottage, First Time, First Kiss

A PWP that’s scorching hot. ‘Nough said. (BUTOMG it is REALLY hot, beware reading in public yo)

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Paranoia by Ewebie (AO3) ( @ewebie)

Author’s Summary: is a description of the rules of the drinking game Paranoia and also too long to put here! But suffice it to say that this fic involves drinking games at the Yard.

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3,789

Tags/Warnings: Tumblr Prompt, Drinking Games, Silly... no smut but building fun and allusions to upcoming rrrwarr

I love fics where the team at the Yard and the boys all get drunk together. Throw in a drinking game and I’m already hooked. This fic was really funny and cheered me up when I was sick with the flu a while back (perfect time to read it again!)

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Coldness/Heat by agirlsname (AO3) ( @agrlsname)

Author’s Summary: The inn is booked up on New Year's Eve. The train home is cancelled because of the snow. The only option is to sleep in the non-heated guest room of a client, and John and Sherlock are freezing.

You know where this is going.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3,790

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Bedsharing, Sharing Body Heat, Frottage New Year's Eve, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friends to Lovers

THERE IS ONLY ONE BED! AND THEY ARE SO COLD! WHATEVER ARE OUR BOYS TO DO?!?!?! Turn it up to 11 in this amazing PWP, that’s what.

---- Stranded by BeautifulFiction (AO3) ( @the-pen-pot )

Author’s Summary: ‘Do you think we’re less than that – best friends? Or more?’

John’s head pulled back, and the look he received suggested John was seriously wondering how someone so intelligent could be so stupid. ‘Well, definitely not less.’

When stranded on a derelict barge at high tide, John and Sherlock reconsider their friendship.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5,798

Tags/Warnings: case fic, cuddling for warmth, first kiss

I really liked this fic. It really drew me in with it’s imagery, I could see the scenes as easily as I could see John and Sherlock getting together in this way.

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Azure On Grey by shiplocks_of_love (AO3) ( @shiplocks-of-love )

Author’s Summary: When Sherlock’s transport betrays him and conventional healthcare fails to help, John comes up with an unorthodox solution…

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 8,986

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Medical issues, Kidney Stones, Embarrassing Situations, brief mention of past substance abuse, unorthodox medical treatments, Amusement Parks, Intimacy, hints of romance, Pining John, friends to almost lovers

This fic is a wonderful H/C that features a sick Sherlock who can be exceptionally fragile at times, and a caring Watson. Makes me wish I’d had a John around when I had kidney stones :’(

---- Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by cypress_tree (AO3) ( @cypress-tree)

Author’s Summary: John helps Sherlock with an experiment: for an entire month, they are not allowed to touch each other and must remain at least one metre apart at all times. Meanwhile, I conduct my own experiment: how much UST can I shove into a single fic?

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10,669

Tags/Warnings: Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's for an experiment John, Resolved Sexual Tension, smut

Sexy, silly, amazing.

---- Chaperones by MissDavis (AO3) ( @missdaviswrites)

Author’s Summary: Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?"

"Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 34,115

Tags/Warnings: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sharing a Room, Sharing a Bed. Disney World, Parentlock, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss

I’ll just use what I wrote when I bookmarked this lovely fic: I’ve never been more compelled by Disney related things than when I was reading this fic. I’ll never go to Disney World, but I’ll sure as hell read this fic again omg was it good

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The Darkness Within, So Close by shiplocks_of_love (AO3) ( @shiplocks-of-love ) ((I hope @ing you twice doesn’t cause any issues! Sorry in advance. Tumblr confuses me))

Author’s Summary: Alec Hardy and Ellie Miller deal with a new string of murders in Broadchurch. Help comes from an unlikely place as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson travel to West Dorset. But when the new crimes open old wounds and unearth the ghost of Moriarty, it becomes clear the game is not over yet.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 42,312

Tags/Warnings: casefic, Sherlock x Broadchurch crossover fic, Underage Death, Murder, MAJOR spoilers for Broadchurch S1 and S2 and for Sherlock S3, post S3 Sherlock, post S2 Broadchurch, you are MOST welcome to put johnlock glasses on but this is pre-slash okay?, Light Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence

I haven’t actually finished this fic yet, but the characterizations for the characters of both universes are spot on. When Alec Hardy started shouting at the beginning, David Tennant appeared in my room and started reading the fic aloud to me. True story. Also this fic is part of a series, so, like, that’s amazing.

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The Norwood Love Builders by flawedamythyst (AO3) ( Tumblr: https://flawedamythyst.tumblr.com/) ((couldn’t @ you for some reason. Prob, again, because Tumblr makes my brain hurt))

Author’s Summary: Sherlock and John go undercover to solve the murder of Joanna Oldacre, but things are complicated by the many feelings John has been repressing in the wake of Sherlock's faked death and return.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 47,798

Tags/Warnings: case fic, fake/pretend relationship, couples retreat, bed sharing, therapy (for a case...that’s a weird tag but I read this in fic so often so), pining John, UST, First Kiss, getting together

Amazing fic by an amazing writer. I have a weakness for ‘pretend relationship for a case’, especially when it’s filled with pining and ust. So in other words this fic is perfect.

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Bridging the Ravine by SilentAuror (AO3) ( @silentauroriamthereal)

Author’s Summary: Sherlock and John go undercover at Ravine Valley, a therapy centre for same-sex male couples in an investigation into a possible human trafficking ring. As they pose as a couple and fake their way through the therapy sessions for the sake of the case, it quickly becomes difficult to avoid discussing their very real issues. Set roughly nine months after series 4.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 58,887

Tags/Warnings: post-series 4, Romance, Awkwardness galore, fake couple trope, Therapy, sex trafficking ring, First Times, Massages, wet t-shirt contest, Group Therapy, loss of child (past), Bed-sharing

Pretend relationship for a case, and it’s a really good case too! Plus it’s at a couples therapy retreat, I mean, come on!! And the OC’s, don’t even get me started on them, because I won’t be able to stop singing their praises. This fic was sent by the gods through the blood sweat and tears of the extremely talented SilentAuror. You should honestly just go and binge all of their stuff. What else are you gonna do during quarantine? OH! And guess what??? THERE’S A SEQUEL!

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Sensory Science by sussexbound(SamanthaLenore) (AO3) ( @sussexbound)

Author’s Summary: John Watson has been invalided home from Afghanistan and is struggling with anxiety, depression, PTSD and insomnia, when an old friend from med school recommends something that might help: An ASMR YouTube Channel run by a friend.

One session in and John is hooked, not only by the way the ASMR seems to calm him after nightmares, and help him sleep, but also by the mysterious man who runs it.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 80,017

Tags/Warnings: Friends to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, ASMR, first meeting AU, problem drinking, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Anxiety, Depression, Homophobic Language, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Massage, Prostate Orgasm, Phone Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Frottage, Coming Untouched, Aborted Blowjobs, Rimming

Amazing fic that really draws you in. Even if ASMR isn’t necessarily your thing, this is still a fantastic read. I mean, it’s by sussexbound, so what else would you expect?

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Rewind by All_I_Need (AO3) ( @the-reading-lemon)

Author’s Summary: About a month before John's wedding, he and Sherlock embark on one last case together: a murder at a remote hotel in the middle of nowhere. A lot can happen in a week. And a lot doesn't. But what if ...?

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 87,594

Tags/Warnings: Pining, Angst, John is an oblivious idiot, all the feels, Rewind - Freeform, what if, Sharing a Bed, Dancing Lessons, literally everyone sees more than John does, Fake/Pretend Relationship

THIS FIC! This fic!! Let me tell you a thing about this fic: it’s amazing! I haven’t finished it completely, but the unique ‘rewind’ effect is something I hadn’t ever seen before. Interesting concept, pretend relationship for a case, hot, hot smut, AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED. What more could you want in a fic, honestly?

---- Out There by DiscordantWords (AO3) ( @discordantwords)

Author’s Summary: FBI Special Agent John Watson, medical doctor and army veteran, is assigned to assist eccentric genius Sherlock Holmes with paranormal investigations on the X-Files project.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 131,695

Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - X-Files Fusion, Slow Burn, UST, No seriously a lot of UST, This is the X files they basically wrote the book on UST, casefic, Case Fic, Government Conspiracy, Aliens, UFOs, Mutants, Pining Sherlock, Pining John, First Kiss, Coma

The X-files/Sherlock crossover I always needed in my life. I think at least a few other Johnlockers out there (ha! Fic title) have watched X-files and thought ‘holy cow this is so John and Sherlock, I need the AU or else I’ll die’. Well look no further! No need to die! Read and watch as all your X-files/Sherlock wishes come true :D

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And that concludes this rec list! There will prob be a part 2 coming out as I’ve got hundreds of fics saved on this pairing. Also stay tuned for fic rec lists for some of my other fav ships! Spirk, Garashir, Hannigram, Bunny/Raffles, and more!!

#johnlock fic rec list #johnlock fic rec #something to read while quarantined #first rec list so #i am excite #also making that banner up there was super fun #johnlock #fanfic #sherlock fan fiction #bbc sherlock #johnlock fic recs

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soviet-history-detective · 5 years ago

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What is the cost of not respecting boundaries?

(For those who haven’t seen, Part 1 and Part 2) A quick rundown for the people who are wondering what’s going on: Hello, folks. I am one of the leading Chernobyl/Legasov researchers who runs this youtube channel. I found the audio fragments of Legasov tapes which became quite a hit and received praise from Craig Mazin. Legasov tapes, which the migty HBO couldn’t find with their Russian-speaking consultants and millions of dollars of budget. I found rare photos and pre-Chernobyl videos of Legasov, translated a substantial amount of documentary material on Soviet near history topics, a good chunk of that being on Legasov and Chernobyl. I am a live and let live kind of person and I was willing to look the other way with the Valoris shipping business cause “they were shipping the tv show characters and fangirling about the actors” so I ignored it and posted historical information, answered questions, unearthed and translated documentary videos and text material. Then I abruptly stopped and went quiet cause the shipper gang went too far and started writing gross shit, rape fantasies and dragging real people who weren’t even in the tv show into their godawful fics -one of them being someone I highly admire, respect and look up as an inspiration and role model notwithstanding.

They didn’t stick to Valoris, they had to involve the people who were not in the script at all. People whose names they learned from me. They had the audacity to discuss their fucked up fantasies (which they call headcanons) right under my nose, they couldn’t control themselves since they are completely driven by base animal instincts and some of them are downright sociopaths with no boundaries: Rabid and depraved, driven only by the primitive sexual instincts, with a two digit IQ, no understanding of boundaries, ethics, morals, completely bereft of common respect and decency. It’s creepy as hell -run for the hills kind of creepy. (When I say no ethics and morals I don’t mean only sexual perversions. One of them is notorious for plagiarizing other people’s content in multiple social media platforms and acting indifferent when called out.) So I got creeped out, grossed out, infuriated, disillusioned and went quiet. Blocked everyone who was associated with Valoris to avoid their gross thirst talks. Blocked the tag too. Stopped posting new finds after the last Legasov video compilation. Stopped translating videos and text material for a long while.

They are way past normal shipping. This is some seriously fucked up shit. Here are a couple of examples (Warning: Gross content, rape fantasies, scroll past the images and continue reading below if you can’t stomach or are a minor)

Here is more rape:

Their biggest argument is “We are writing fics about the fictionalized tv show characters” which is total and utter bullshit, because:

Nikolai Ryzhkov was not in the tv show at all.

Neither was Vladimir Gubarev. Why are they in those fics?

This isn’t all, there are public posts here where they were bouncing ideas and coming up with the most abhorrent fantasies about a real person who was NOT in the tv show. I don’t have the time to search them, plus they are really gross, you are better off not seeing it. (A paranthesis here: I’m totally indifferent about explicit fics if they involve only fictional characters and not promote rape culture. Just to make things clear.)

If you are using the names of real people, you are shipping real people. Period. I can write a fic using the shipper gang’s names in an alternate reality setting where they are an evil gang of cannibalistic cunts who raid maternity wards and butcher all the babies then burn puppies ad kittens alive for fun. Or I can write a fic where they all get sodomized with saguaro cacti dipped in ghost pepper sauce by sadistic rogue KGB agents. It’s fictionalized versions of them in an alternate universe after all, so it’s totally ok. Right? Well, there really is no point arguing these things, and that is not even the point of this post. I’m just saying it’s fucked up, creepy and wrong in every way.

Not to mention they bully and gaslight people who speak up against them. Grown ass women bullying a 15 year old and adding a transphobic comment after learning they are trans is NOT COOL. @ihatefandomsfuckyouall can testify as the target of their bullying. That’s wrong and creepy as hell.

HOWEVER. Like I said in the previous post, this won’t be about a holy jihad against shipping or some big anti-shipper crusade. Nope, nope and nope with nope sauce.

Ship away, ship all you want, ship till you drop, ship till you turn Fedex green with envy. I am not here to lecture sociopaths driven solely by primitive sexual instincts and bereft of any kind of boundaries, morals, common respect and decency. There is nothing I or anyone can do about it. Like i said, I have no intention of trying to talk sense into anyone or giving sermons. So rest assured that I am well aware it’s pointless and stupid to wage a war against shipping, however gross and vile it is. I can’t stop you from sexualizing anything that walks (or has been long dead) and spewing sick ass fantasies. I will repeat for those with two digit IQ: I know there is nothing I or anyone can do to stop you from doing what you are doing, absolutely nothing. So I will do NOTHING. Got it? Whoever claims otherwise is full of shit, I will do absolutely NOTHING, you got my word 100%.

Seriously I won’t hate on you, I won’t call for holy wars and witch hunts. So, rest assured, I will not make any move against any of you, nope. Besides I don’t have the time for that, I have a busy life and better things to do. No war, no hate, no screaming, no drama, nothing. Is that clear? Capiche? Comprende? Понятно?

Well, now let’s get to the heart of the matter:

I have been quiet but not idle. I’ve been contacting people, sending queries, making phone calls, digging state archive repositories. I have been finding material and boy did I find material! I happen to be one of the very few people who are blessed with an extraordinary ability to find things no one else can find. You have seen what I can find by utilizing search engines and going through links. Even Craig Mazin himself was mighty impressed with my finds, the proof is out there in public view, I won’t bother digging it up now.

Anyway. It turns out I can find hell of a lot more than that by contacting people, sending queries, making phone calls and digging through state archive repositories. Some of it costs pretty penny but no matter, I don’t mind paying for never-before-published video footage that is not on the internet. Some of it is not even digitized so you gotta pay extra fee for digitization and it can be quite high depending on the video length and media.

We are talking about HD videos here. There is excellent AI video processing software out there which can turn even the most primitive 19th century videos to crystal clear 60 fps HD so we are good. (Example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HbElEqm1TQ) I have photos that can’t be found by searching the internet. You’d drop dead if you saw some of them. I’m working on getting the full footage of Legasov’s IAEA presentation. It’s hella difficult, you have to personally go to Vienna and go through the seven hells and seven lower hells to obtain access. Also you need to be a research scientist with a reference letter. (All this info and list of requirements can be found on IAEA official site.) I won’t get into the details but I have it all sorted out, scientist and all. It wasn’t easy and it took a damn lot of time, effort, pulling family connections etc. Now the only remaining roadblock is this accursed coronavirus. As soon as the pandemic subsides a trip to Vienna shall be in order. The long Q&A session following Legasov’s report is unfortunately not available, but Legasov’s report certainly is (after fulfilling a laundry list of requirements.)

This is not all. There are photos (in addition to the publicly available ones I posted before) and video footage of Ryzhkov visiting Chernobyl, Legasov’s meetings, partial video of one Polituro meeting. There is this one precious footage where Legasov is laughing and drinking vodka. I won’t even say how many hours of work it took to find that. (Plot twist: I’m not the one who found it!) I have a pile of videos of Ryzhkov when he was the chairman of the council of ministers of the USSR, which are historical records of tremendous importance and not on Youtube. Buddies who have seen them had insta-man crush on him without even hearing my translation. Some of you would KILL for those, I know for a fact. For the Legasov drinking-partying video you would sell your soul to the devil (who wouldn’t?)

I have an IAEA report with an extremely rare photo you can’t find by searching. I won’t tell you who is in it cause I don’t want to supply anything you could use for your gross fics. Suffices to say one of them is someone you are drooling about and the other one is a big shot name that’s not on your radar and will unleash all kinds of fic ideas once you hear it. So nope. I ain’t giving you another Ryzhkov, I learned my lesson. I have video footage of that same man giving high praise to Legasov, talking with a tone of fondness, defending him against accusations. Such a sweet video. It put tears in my eyes. I can see you gang drooling a lake over that one so hell fucking no.

Did I mention I started translating Legasov documentaries? Every single one on youtube. Including the entire Звезда Полынь. Also planning to convert some Legasov footage to HD using the aforementioned software tools.

I have actually been posting videos and text material translations left and right, just out of your sight (nice rhyme, isn’t it?) 90% the material I listed above is either in the pipeline or in my hard disk. @tryingtobealwaystrying can verify. She helped out a great deal with the IAEA business and I owe her one for that. We are both individually damn good at finding stuff but it turned out we can work wonders as a team. As a result, we have a treasure trove of the highest order in hand and in the works.

And, here is the deal: YOU WILL SEE NONE OF IT.

N.O.N.E.

Not a shred. Not a pixel. Nothing. Ничего. Совсем нет.

Get it now? “You didn’t see it cause it’s not there!”

You won’t see it cause it won’t be there!

So, this is it. I can’t do anything about your shipping scumbaggery but I can cut off your supply and deprive you of material and information. You will NEVER be able to find any of it on your own (let alone afford the fees for.)

I will deprive you of the fruits of my labor.

Indefinitely.

Of course that doesn’t mean I’ll keep it all to myself. I will share them but not in public. In fact I have translated and posted some videos you wanted real bad, one of them got 1000 views overnight but they are not public, for my work is not for the eyes of the wicked and unclean miscreants. I post them in shipper-free foreign forums you can’t find and send links privately to decent, wholesome people who are interested in Chernobyl and Soviet history for the passion to learn and admiration for the historical figures, not for spinning depraved fantasies and writing horrendous, projectile-vomit-inducing sex fics. And -as those of you who possess three digit IQ’s might have figured out!- I am not alone in that. (Plot twist FTW!) Congrats, folks. You managed to alienate and drive away the top Chernobyl-Legasov researchers and translators with your hideous debauchery, extreme scumbaggery and abominable attitude. So, this is your punishment: NOTHING. This is the consequence you will deal with. This is the cost of your choices.

A big nothing is all you will ever get from now on.

See, told ya, there is absolutely nothing I can do about your gross shipping and scumbaggery so I will do NOTHING.

Got the joke? LOL. I have awesome humor don’t I :)

No more videos. No more photos. No more answers. No more translations. No more information.

You royally fucked up, people. You don’t get to eat the cake and the icing, especially not when you offend and insult the cooks, take a dump in the middle of the restaurant and masturbate while rolling in it. You could have kept it out of sight. You could have exercised some goddamn tact. But no, you had to behave like animals in heat.

Well, you can continue obsessing over the TV show scripts until you get sick of it. I will be posting translations of different parts of Soviet history like the WW2 era. You can ship Hitler and Stalin all you want. Get those headcanons rolling! I will even give you a prompt: Stalin cheats on Hitler with Mussolini. LMAO.

You know what, I take back the not a pixel thing. We may post screenshots from the videos and low-res crops from the photos from time to time just to rub it in your face.

Here is one where they are grilling Velikhov shortly after Legasov’s suicide. Oh boy you gotta see his face when they start bombarding him about Legasov’s death....

Here is the shot from a long video where the legendary Premier Ryzhkov is sporting the legendary 80′s Soviet glasses in all his superlative handsome glory. He is giving an interview about important historical turning points in this video and this isn’t even the best shot. You have to pay to get a copy but before that you need a superpower-like ability to find where it is in the first place. I scaled it up to 1440×1080 but not gonna put the high resolution version cause I’m such a darling.

Here is Ryzhkov in the famous white work attire of the Soviet era. Looks familiar, yes? Do I need to tell WHERE he is and what he is doing? (Hint: The year is 1986.)

Oh man, oh man. How worried he looks, so heart-wrenching. The footage is only about 3 minutes but absolutely solid gold. I won’t say whether there is Legasov or Scherbina or BOTH of them appearing in this footage cause I’m such a sweetheart.

Unfortunately I am not at liberty to post any Legasov shots cause I am not the finder of the Legasov videos we currently have at hand. Too bad, so sad. There you go. Enjoy your cold dish of nothing. Bon appetite. Adios amigas! WHAT IS THE COST OF NOT RESPECTING BOUNDARIES? @tryingtobealwaystrying @the--arch @ihatefandomsfuckyouall�� @rarravai @weronikaisback @live-long-and-time-warp @tryingtobealwaystrying @chernobylgal86

#chernobyl #valery legasov #legasov #boris scherbina #valoris #chernobyl nuclear disaster #Soviet History #soviet union #ussr #shippers take all the fun out of life #like cockroaches in the picnic #this is why we cant have nice things #ACCESS DENIED #NO SOUP FOR YOU

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 5 years ago

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A Dream Within a Dream

This was too short for me to post on Wattpad and I was doing some writing exercises to help keep the juices flowing. So this is the result.

Calum really wants to pop the question. But will fate be nice to him? Will he get a different end than his parents?

Calum Hood x BlackOC

No applicable warnings. It’s just all fluff.

_______

The piano echoes throughout the house. Alana barely hears the clink of the plates as she cleaned up from dinner. Calum had cooked and she agreed to clean. Normally, Calum would’ve helped regardless. He would’ve scraped the plates. He would’ve held both glasses in his hands, waiting for more space to clear on the counter before adding them to her dwindling pile. He would’ve taken up the dishrag next to her and dried a fork for three minutes while he listened to her talk about the day.

But there was something heavy on his soul. He cleared his plate, brought the glasses into the kitchen and then disappeared to the back of the house. He had been quiet all day. When he woke up, he didn’t talk hardly at all. Calum didn’t talk a lot to begin with. But there was a certain noise that he made, a hum while he got ready, or him singing lowly as he played music over the speakers. Him narrating what he was doing to Duke, that was always fun to listen too. The way he explained in-depth the ins and outs of the bass to his little dog. The day was just silent though. He didn’t offer much even if Alana brought up the topic. There seemed to be no words that Calum could muster for long.

Alana knows, beyond just a bad day, that something is wrong when the first note strikes the house from the piano. The bass, even if it played a melancholy rhythm, even if it sounded like the instrument was croaking out tears meant a better sign than the piano. Her heart aches, listening to the sobering twinkles swelling throughout the house. What was it about today? She hadn’t missed his birthday. It was coming up in 8 days. They didn’t normally do much for Valentine’s Day. Things were great at Christmas and New Year. He had spent most of the time with his family.

Alana sets the last cup into the drying rack and sighs. She’ll let the dishes sit there, drying her hands on a towel. Not even the suction of the drain taking down all the dirty water registers like it normally does. Duke sits at the edge of the kitchen, his big eyes turned down a bit. He knows something is wrong too. Alana squats, scratching at the top of his head. “I don’t know, bub. I don’t know what’s gotten into Papa. I hope we can get it out of him.”

Duke just watches as she stands. The floor is cold, a slight chill finally taking over now that January has settled in. The wood doesn’t make a sound under her feet, no creaks. Alana takes a small moment and finds a sweatshirt in the bedroom. It’s his old Drop Dead one. She unearthed from the depths of his closet while doing some spring cleaning a few months back.

Alana finds her hair scarf, settled on top of the dresser. Unraveling it, she folds it diagonally and then folds it longwise, making it into a makeshift headband. The loose space buns at the top of her bed, bunch up a little but it’s fine. She knows she’s been wearing the style out but she needs to stretch it out for a couple more days until she could properly wash it. Which was going to be after dinner, though, now that will wait for tomorrow. Calum worries her.

From the entryway of the music room, she watches him huddled into the corner, his back facing her. Alana knows she won’t be heard if she tries to interject now. So she pads over softly to the couch and settles down. Duke hops onto it and settles in her lap. Both of them watch Calum, his head low on his neck. His eyes are closed. His fingers slide over the keys with feeling, not a lot of thought.

He’s dawned in a t-shirt and his compression tights with basketball shorts over them. The blue’s fading just a little, as the hair grows out and she wants to trace the hairline with her nails. She wants to kiss across his neck. She wants to crawl into the space between the piano and his lap and just settle there, hold him tight in her arms until all the sadness is gone. Alana really wants to crawl into his chest and pluck anything heavy on his heart. She wants to follow the cavity up, stopping to kiss his eyes and then settle into his mind and dust away those dark corners.

If she could pull the anxiety and pain from the inside and knock it out his ears, she would. If she could sweep it all up and throw it away for him, she would. She’d do anything to see this man smile. He repeats a refrain twice, she only catches it halfway through and then the notes echo into the still air. The clock in the room ticks and it’s the only sound. Not even Duke’s tag are clinking. “Sorry, off day,” Calum finally says and shuts the lid over the keys.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Calum shrugs. There’s something about fate, about seeing what happened to his parents that make him so scared of failing at love. Alana sets Duke onto the bench and stands before gesturing to his lap. “Mind if I take a seat?”

Normally, he would laugh at this. Maybe he’d even wiggle his eyebrows at her and make a dirty joke in return. He even sees her waiting, wishing for the chuckle to leave him but it never does. “I don’t mind.”

She straddles his lap, arms snaking around his shoulders. Their gazes meet, dark brown meeting dark brown. Her nails lightly trace over his neck. “I’m always here if you ever want to talk,” she assures. “Always.”

Calum buries his face into her shoulder. His arms are tight around her waist. He knows she is. He knows she’d go through hell and high water for him. He just doesn’t want to fuck things up. He thinks about the ring, the way it’s hidden in the drawer at the desk right across from them. But god, he doesn’t want to fuck it up. His parents were in love but that marriage didn’t last. There was no recipe to life, no list of instructions. No one knew what marriages would last.

He just doesn’t want the same fate. He wants kids with her. He wants to grow old. He wants to have his little girl sitting between his legs while he does her hair. He wants to take his little boy out to the park, kicking around the soccer ball. He wants to be there for all the birthday cakes, to watch every single birthday candle flicker out. He wants to be there for the first steps. He wants to be there for their first word. He wants to there for everything. He just doesn’t want to fuck it up. He can’t fuck it up. Not with Alana. Not with her.

He turns his head, lips brushing over her neck as he speaks. “I love you.”

She hums, hands pressing into his shoulders. “I love you, baby.” Her lower back is pressed slightly into the cover the keys and it definitely hurts but she doesn’t move. Not for the moment at least. The haunting cry of the piano plays in her ears still. She wraps Calum’s head up in her arms, pressing him into her body. She hums as if that squeeze whatever is plaguing his soul out of him. As if that will bring back her smiling boy. It is the only shot she has though.

Calum inhales, smelling mostly her faint shea and hibiscus body wash. Her flesh is warm against his lips for sure. He takes in the slight pink undertone to her black skin. It reminds him of twilight when the sky is mostly black but there’s a moment where the purple of the setting sun hasn’t quite faded. It reminds him of being in the car and watching the trees blurring by as the car glides over the asphalt. It reminds him of sitting outside, sometimes after a game, and reveling in the feeling of being small in the universe, of being normal.

Alana rests her cheek against the fading blue of his hair. “I was tempted to change your name in my phone to Blueberry.” She’s not sure why the thought falls over her lips but she lets it linger before another one falls out of her mouth. “Now I want blueberry muffins.”

“We could go get some,” Calum offers, his voice low and wispy. “And while I object to the name change, it is kind of funny.”

“If you feel up for it, sure,” Alana returns, her arms falling and brushing her fingers over his back.

He really likes the feeling of being in her arms though. How secure she makes him feel. Maybe he won’t meet the same fate as his parents. Maybe things could be different for him. Calum straightens but not before kissing her smooth cheek. “Let’s go.”

Alana climbs off his lap, the sweatshirt falling and just barely covering her ass. Her current shorts have hitched up and she straightens them. Alana’s not sure whether to curse her thighs or to bless them. She was not blessed with boobs, all of that went to the thighs. Shopping for tops was easy, her size straight forward no matter what. It was a terrible time finding any jeans that fit over her round ass and solid thighs.

Calum wiggles his fingers for her to take and stop fussing with her shorts. “Just change them if they bother you that much.”

“Either I need to lose the ass or you need to buy bigger sweatshirts so I’m not hanging out for the world to see.”

He didn’t want to smile. She had what everyone in this town wanted and she had it naturally. “You say that but if you lose too much of it, you’d be begging for it to come back.”

Alana releases his hand, taking a side step into the bedroom. “No one told you to be right all the time,” she huffs. It’s a quick change into some cycling shorts before the pair ventures for the front door.

She can hear Duke at her heels. She looks up to Calum before reaching for the leash. He nods and she grins. They won’t be gone long but it wouldn’t hurt to bring him along. She clips the leash into his collar and they set out. Duke gets to sit in her lap and watch the world fly by him as Calum drives. At every light, Calum takes her hand and kisses a different knuckle.

Calum didn’t think people were doomed in the debate between nature versus nurture. He didn’t think that being raised in a certain household meant that someone would be defenseless and finding themselves in the same thing all over again. He just wasn’t sure how to learn from their mistakes. What could he do that would be different?

Alana and he had their disagreements. He had a hard time communicating. A really hard time trusting that even if she didn’t get what he was saying, she would listen and she would do her best to try to understand. It led to a lot of misunderstandings. The irony never ceased to piss Calum off a little. His wanting to open up but being afraid of being misunderstood landed him in a lot of positions of being misunderstood.

She had a hard time of trying to please everyone. She said yes to a lot of things just because she couldn’t confront others and she was always stretched thin. It made an already difficult situation of Calum constantly traveling, even more difficult when she had planned well into the months sometimes. It had, at the begining of the relationship, started to make Calum feel secondary. He wanted a partner that kept fairly busy, that understood his schedule. But not so busy that there was no time for the two of them.

They had worked well through most of it. But sometimes, when Calum just wanted time with her, she was off doing everything under the sun. And when she asked what was wrong, Calum still shut her out. Was he doing it right now? Was he too far focused on not fucking something up that he was fucking it up? In the parking lot of the bakery, nearing it’s closing time, Calum takes her hand. “I’m terrified of fucking this up,” he admits.

She furrows her brow. “Fucking what up?”

“Us. I’m don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to get a divorce. I don’t want us to ever get into a position where we feel like we can’t resolve it. I don’t want that.”

“Divorce? Baby, just take a breath.” She watches for his chest expanding, his inhale and she watches for the exhale. “Can’t divorce if we’re not married. They’ll be some arguments, ya know. Some things will require some extra work from the both of us. We’ll just keep learning on how to communicate with each other.”

“I want to marry you. I just don’t want my parent's fate.”

Alana smiles, cupping his cheeks in her hands. Her chest flutters and her skin is clammy. Her ears, she can’t believe her ears. “You wanna marry me?”

“Of course, angel.”

“I want to marry you too.” She can’t tell if this is a proposal or not. She knows Calum is a romantic and he couldn't possibly do this without a ring.

Calum stretches up, just a little to press their lips together into a kiss. “You’ll know when I propose for real,” he promises. Duke lets out a small bark and they break away from each other. The small dog’s intrigue is captured by a bird passing the front windshield.

With blueberry muffins obtained, they settle back into the house. The couch fills in around them as they sink. Alana sits with her legs crossed next to Calum. “Weren’t you going to wash your hair today?”

“It’s gonna take too long now. I’ll do it in the morning.”

A crumb of the muffin clings to the side of her mouth and Calum takes his thumb to brush it away. “Can I help again?” He enjoys the shampooing, working diligently at her scalp. He gets to play in her hair and she can’t fuss either.

“Yeah.” Alana reaches up to clear the crumbs from the side of his mouth as well. “Wanna deep condition together? I doubt you’ve done it since I forced you to the last time.” Her nails trail over his scalp.

It did make his hair feel really soft. So he nods. “Why not. Why do you do it again? Why should I?”

“You dyed your hair. So it requires more moisture than before. Deep conditions help keep your hair soft and moisturized. I do it because my hair is really coarse and more fragile the drier it is. Same outcome just different reasons.”

In bed, Calum looks at a picture of the ring he bought. Part of him worries. “What do you think about a ring like this?”

Her gasp is soft and she sits up. “It’s gorgeous.” She takes his phone zooming in to see the details. The way standing up there’s a heart right under the main stone. She stares at it with a little bit of blur from her tears. Calum throws his arm around her waist, finding her cheek illuminated from the screen of his phone. The awe on her face is enough to ease Calum’s fears. Maybe he won’t fuck this up.

____

Alana hums at the slight scratch at her scalp. Calum’s fingers work in circles and he grins watching the way her eyes flutter shut. “I always loved going to the hair salon but only for the shampooing. Hated being their all day.”

Calum hums. The wafts of her shampoo fragrance, between a hint of fruity and floral, settle into his nostrils. They stand in front of the bathroom mirror and Calum just watches her. The way content washes over her face and settles into a smile around her full lips. It’s moments like this that turn Calum into a sucker. He can’t help but want to kiss her when they share moments like this, where they communicate in just the simplest of touches.

He settles her back into the small folding chair and she reclines her head back. The detached shower head already rests in the basin of the tub from her rinsing out the hot oil treatment. Calum tests the water on his hand first, finding the right mix of warmer water with the cool before rinsing the shampoo out.

It’s quick when Calum bends down to kiss her forehead, working to get the shampoo from the back of her head too. She reaches up, one hand cupping his forearm. For the moment, it’s like he tattooed her hand onto his skin with the way her skin matches the ink already etched into his skin.

And he wonders for a moment he wonders what her initials would look like etched amongst the assortment. With the shampoo completely rinsed, Calum reaches for the jar of her conditioner situated onto the counter already. “Comb from the ends up,” Alana reminds.

He nods. “Aye, Captain.”

She snorts, tapping at his thigh before she stands and moves the chair for him. “Shut up.” The joke is a good sign. It means he’s feeling better. Calum double checks he has the appropriate amount of product for the first section. With the curt nod, he applies it to her strands. He’s gently combing through her ends and slowly works his way to the roots. Occasionally there’s a particular stubborn snag or knot and she works it out, attempting to show him the right way to go about it.

Soon all four sections are detangled and clipped up. “You got the hang of it,” Alana notes as Calum slides the plastic cap onto her head.

“Have a great teacher.”

“I’m flattered. Your turn.”

Calum situates in front of the sink while she runs the water of his close crop. It’s only a minute before he’s situated into the same chair as her, holding the towel around his neck. She rummages for a moment before finding a small white packet. “I can’t use yours,” he pouts for a second.

“I’m using the same one as last time. You liked it and it says for color-treated hair.”

“But then I won’t smell like you.”

Alana shakes her head. “We’ll use the same leave-in conditioner then. How about that?”

“That works.” It’s not too long before he too has his strands lathered in covered in a black plastic cap. Alana will wash his out first since his hair is significantly shorter. Right as she clears away the already used products, Calum pulls her into his lap. He taps the end of her nose.

“The plastic cap is a look, angel,” he grins.

“Yeah, I bet.”

Calum’s hair is rinsed first and she puts just a little leave-in conditioner onto his strands. Her deep condition still has another twenty minutes to go. “Want a snack? Still have two blueberry muffins left,” Calum offers.

“Yes, please,” she grins, slightly sidetracked by her phone, situated still in the bathroom. Calum nods. His feet are carrying him away from the kitchen. Why does it feel so right to do this right now? He finds the ring, still tucked into the drawer of his desk in his music room and pockets it. He travels back up into the kitchen, peeking to see that she’s still on her phone.

The box still holds the two muffins. It’ll be a little messy, at least for the box but he slips the small velvet box into the container with the two muffins. She doesn’t even blink when Calum holds one muffin and holds the box out to her. He takes a bite, his stomach knotting. “Thanks, baby.” She finally casts her gaze down, fingers already tracing the edge of the last muffin when she spots the navy blue box.

“Not hungry?” Calum asks, shocked at the way his voice doesn’t waver.

“What is this?” Alana takes the whole bakery box and pulls the ring box out.

“Oh.” His voice finally croaks and he takes a moment to clear his throat. But it’s too late. The emotions have already broken the damn. “I wanted to ask this for a while. And yesterday, I hit the wall. It had been so invisible to me because why would I buy a ring four months ago and not ask then. But when you said you wanted to marry me too. I knew I couldn’t wait much longer.”

He takes a breath and takes the box from her hand. He cracks open the top and the same ring from last night stares back up at her. It’s even more breathtaking in person. “So, Alana Rya Jones, after three years together, being my North Star when I truly thought I’d be lost at sea, and dealing with me being everywhere in the world but at home and still loving me, will you marry me?”

Her hands finally leave her gaped mouth and she nods. The tears run down her cheeks. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Calum slips the ring onto her finger. He feels the trembles in her hands and rubs her back as they embrace. The sob echoes a little followed by Calum’s soothing shushes. “Angel,” he coos and she continues to shake.

“It’s not--,” she hiccups for a moment. “They’re happy tears I swear.”

They face each other, pulling away from the hug. Calum sees the smile on her face, even if the tears are still rolling. “I love you.” He loves her more than he has words for, more than he can put into anything verbal--no sound, no lyrics will encapsulate it.

“I love you.” She wipes the tear and kisses him. Her heart flutters. It’s the same Calum, the same kiss, but also is not. It’s not the same because she is his and he is hers in an entirely different way.

Calum rinses her deep condition out. “Can I twist it too?”

“Of course.”

They move their camp to the living room. Calum settles into the couch and she sits between his thighs. He has a towel draped over his lap too just to keep the cushions dry. Alana’s already explained her twist out routine and as she hands Calum the various products, leave-in, comb, curling cream, and oil, she makes sure to do so with her left hand. The ring reflects in the high noon rays.

“Do you mind if I take a picture?” she asks.

“I don’t mind.” Calum gently guides her head back, fingers holding the strands separate. He kisses her forehead and then she returns to her previous position so he can finish the twist. She finds her phone and angles it up a little, posing with her chin resting in her left hand. The ring faces out. Calum’s attention is zeroed in on the twist but she snaps a photo.

“Shit,” he mumbles at the too loose twist. He unravels it before starting over. He’s not as skilled at her. He’s watched her do it without a mirror and he’s sure it’s just a matter of time. She’s been doing it for eight years now and he’s only tried it a handful of times.

“You’re going good, baby.”

“It was too loose. Gonna try again. I think when I kissed you I let it go a little.”

“It’s in the back anyway,” she laughs, looking at the recording phone. “No one will know if one twist is a little loose.”

“I’ll know.”

She commends the drive to get it perfect and ends the recording. It’s another half hour before Calum finishes and he knows it would’ve taken her less time. But he’s proud of his work. He snaps a photo in the bathroom lighting and instantly posts it to his Instagram story. It’s in the bathroom that she notices the mess of the muffin container and jewelry box. She rearranges it like Calum did, but this time with the box in the center and snaps a quick photo.

Calum’s phone dings with a notification. He doesn’t pay any mind and helps clean up the towels and the hair left behind. He even has to get Duke to give up the fight on the last hand towel too so he can start the load of laundry. It takes a bride but Duke immediately lets it go for the treat. Alana finds Calum, on his way out of the laundry room and wraps herself around his waist.

“You made me blubber like a baby.” She knows it’s not hard but she likes to think she’s tough. A happy dog, or a beautiful sunset usually spark her tears.

“But for a good reason,” Calum counters. She can’t deny that.

There’s a wave, as she calls her mother, who already knew the question would be happening soon since Calum had conspired with her about the ring and sizing. It’s not until he gets off the phone with Alana’s mother that he ever gets a chance to check his own. There are a couple missed calls but tons of texts. His groupchat with the guys has exploded, which isn’t hard to do when the most consistent thread is just of memes, and he grins at how excited his friends are.

When Calum checks his Instagram, the notifications are a mess to read and he spies the posts that started it all. He swipes through the photo of her staring at the camera, with the ring on her finger, the video of him about the twist and the muffin box with the ring box inside. Get you a man who can do both. Learn the wash day routine and propose. Alt Caption: I cried into his chest for like half an hour (I know because he proposed while I waiting on my deep condition to finish) and I really don’t have any words besides I am so incredibly lucky to love and be loved by such a caring man. Yes, he proposed by using my love of baked goods and hiding the box in with last muffin. Yes, it might’ve been in the middle of our bathroom. But hell no, I wouldn’t ask for it any other way. I just can’t believe it’s real. I, from the bottom of my mushy heart, love you, Calum.

Alana listens from the living room, her book in hand. Hearing the piano plucked to life. She waits, pausing at the end of her paragraph. The keys are played in faster succession than the day before. The lethargic wail that once shook the house turns into something cheery. The keys sound like they are dancing. Never jumping in front of the other but happily following the lead.

Her book forgotten she follows the chipper notes down to the music room. She watches from the doorway. Calum’s sitting up straighter, hands bouncing along the keys. Her entrance is quiet and the bench creaks just a little when she settles down next to Calum. She makes sure to keep out of the way, watching his fingers move so deftly. His eyes are closed, a feeling guiding him rather than meticulous thought. The progression comes to a twinkling end. Alana rests her head onto his bicep.

“I’m still not the greatest,” he offers. “I’ve just been messing around mostly in the studio.”

“You sounded lovely playing. Loved even your sad song.” There’s a moment of silence and Calum wraps his arm around her shoulders. She taps at one of the keys, intrigued.

Calum’s voice breaks the silence. “Nothing to do this weekend?”

“I made a note to say no to plans to hang out with you.”

The smile is soft against his lips, but she notices the crinkles around his eyes. “Want a crash course?”

“You’d teach me?”

He nods. Her grin is infectious. “Of course, I would.” Calum gets her situated, standing behind the bench. His chin hovers over her shoulder, his chest almost brushing along her back. Calum’s voice is smooth and low as he explains the keys. He guides her hands for a moment, instructing when to press down on the pedal and which one.

“When did they put a motor into a piano?” she questions.

The comment sends Calum into a fit of giggles, burying his face into her shoulder. “t’s always been this way, angel.”

“I don’t buy it. But what’s next?”

“Now you play,” he manages to get out after collecting himself. The first time is a little clunky, her still getting comfortable with the keys. Alana cringes hearing how bad it sounds but attempts the chords a second time. Calum’s hand direct less and slowly he removes them, watching her play. It’s not perfect but it’s good and his heart soars. His attempts at teaching her the bass went well, but she always opted to watch him play because he was much better at it.

Alana won’t lie. She had wanted to learn the piano since she was a little girl but her mother couldn’t afford the lessons or the keyboard. So she put the dream sit up on a shelf, thinking she’d get to it someday. She knew Calum knew how to play but that shelf felt a little higher up and she was always doing something. Calum was always doing something, so the dream sat, and not once was it dusted off. Until now.

Calum pulls out his phone and records just a few seconds of her hands on the keys, working through the chord progression a third time, much smoother than the other two attempts. Alana pauses, looking out the window that the piano faces. “I’ve always wanted to learn the piano.”

Calum, in the midst of his draft, stops and watches her. “You could’ve told me. I could’ve taught you.”

“Part of it felt silly.”

With one arm wrapped around the front of her chest, Calum kisses her temple. “It’s never silly. We can have lessons, okay?”

She kisses his forearm. “Okay, thank you, baby.”

I can’t say get you a man who does both. But I can say that two dreams are coming true today: Alana learning the piano and her becoming my wife-to-be. This is only the first lesson but I’m already incredibly proud of her. Today’s only the first stop on our engagement but she’s made me a lucky man and I adore her from the bottom of my mushy heart. I love you, angel. (And yes, I might’ve proposed to her in the middle of the bathroom floor. But to be fair, I have no excuse except I really wanted to ask her at the moment, so I did.)

Alana reads Calum’s post, yet again, buried in the sheets of their shared bed. “We’re nothing but cornballs.”

“Only corny for you.”

#calum hood #calum hood fluff #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #5sos #5 seconds of summer #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #calum hood x black oc #calum hood x black reader #michael clifford #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #h writes

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nicolewrites · 5 years ago

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We Stand, Fate-Tested - VI

And I finally start to earn that mystery genre tag here. Exams are almost done and then hopefully I'll be able to work some more on this story during social distancing. I already know chapter 7 will be a doozy, so get prepared.

Also, just a reminder to check dates as we’re jumping ahead a little in both timelines.

Rating: T+ Genre: Mystery, Friendship, Romance Characters: [Byleth/My Unit, Dimitri B.], [Byleth/My Unit, Claude R.] Words: 5,800

A strange symbol discovered during the dig has strange consequences. / Rhea delivers unpleasant news.

AO3 | FFN

VI - Am I Dreaming Or Awake

Old Monastery Ruins, Garreg Mach University - 19 Pegasus Moon, 733 AU

It was spectacular. She had noted the elegance of the old architecture the first time they had been down to the excavation site, but it was something that caught her off guard every time she came down here.

Byleth passed the security sign-in table and flashed her ID badge as the guards nodded at her and she moved over to the supply table. Shovels and trammels and boxes of gloves were littered over the table along with a carafe of coffee that someone had bought for the team. Byleth helped herself to a small cup of coffee and walked further into the chamber.

They had begun in one of the main tombs of the monastery. It was the one that had been worked on all those years ago, so Seteth had chosen it as the initial starting point for the current excavation. It was also the only chamber that had been approved for inhabitants by structural engineers. The two other known crypts were still under investigation to see if they were structurally sound enough to support a bunch of archeologists digging around in them. Then, of course, there were rumours that there were dozens of other sealed-off chambers down here somewhere.

Byleth sipped her coffee as she walked forward through the in-process dig. It was early, just past 6, so the only people who had arrived were herself, Seteth, and Harriet, one of the post-docs in Seteth’s lab. Byleth picked her way towards Seteth who was crouched in a marked square as he assessed a handful of ancient coins he had unearthed. She cleared her throat and he looked up.

“Good morning, Byleth,” he greeted politely as he stood up. “Reporting for duty?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I assume I can take the same sector as before?”

Seteth shook his head. “No, I’ve actually assigned that to James today. He’s working with Annette, Ingrid, and Ignatz over there. Harriet will take Lysithea and Linhardt, but I was hoping you would be able to manage Claude, Edelgard, and Dimitri.”

Byleth was surprised. Usually, Seteth split the undergrads into pairs, not a pair and two trios. Additionally, he usually had her working with Lysithea and Linhardt.

Seteth continued, not concerned with Byleth’s surprise. “I want you guys to start over there. I’ve already marked your area for the day.” Seteth gestured to the far wall of the tomb.

Byleth could see the staked-out area. It was further away from the main body of the dig than anyone else had been working, towards a crumbled section of what was probably a statue. She turned to Seteth and raised an eyebrow.

“Why the new site? We’ve been working fine in other places.”

Seteth sighed. “I’m starting to think there isn’t much in this particular chamber. As much as I hate to admit it, most of what was here was recovered by Catherine five years ago. She did good work while she was down here.”

Byleth smiled sympathetically at her advisor. “Seteth, we’ve only been working for a few weeks.” She gestured to the coins he had unearthed. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “It’s a small start,” he admitted. “I do have an admission to make though,” he continued. “I intend to send a group of people up to Fhirdiad to retrieve some additional supplies from the National Museum this weekend. I was hoping you would be willing to do that.”

Byleth blinked. “Leave the dig and go to Fhirdiad?” She was almost a bit offended. She had spent so much time preparing for the dig and helping to prepare the undergrads that it felt a bit cruel to ask her to step out on a trip for errands.

Seteth hummed. “You would leave Saturday morning early and make it to Fhirdiad by the late evening. Sunday you’ll collect the supplies and come back. You should be back late Sunday night in plenty of time. I actually hoped to send some of our students with you.”

Byleth put a hand on her hip. “Which students?”

“Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude,” he explained. “Dimitri lives in Fhirdiad and both Claude and Edelgard have residences there due to their parents.”

Byleth sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it. I don’t have a car, though, you know that.”

Seteth shrugged. “You can borrow mine or take one of theirs if they have one. Flayn is in town for a while so I won’t be troubled if you do take mine.”

Byleth nodded. Before she could respond, a chatter of noise caught her attention and she turned and saw a gaggle of people at the sign-in desk including all of the undergrads. Seteth nodded to her and made his way towards them to assign their duties for the day. Byleth trailed after him, biting her lip.

Seteth was just giving out the directions when Byleth caught up and Claude caught her eye with a smug grin as Seteth explained that they would be working together that day and the next. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Since her trip to Almyra at the end of the term, she and Claude had become even closer. He still liked to bother her about random historical or archeological things and it happened even more frequently than it had occurred in the previous term because now she wasn’t his TA.

When Seteth finished the briefing, he turned to her. “Could you ask them about this weekend?”

Byleth nodded. She walked over to the supply table and plucked a pair of gloves out of one of the boxes, snapping them on. The undergrads were mostly chatting amongst themselves, but Claude turned his full attention to Byleth as soon as she approached.

“So, a new quadrant?” he questioned. Byleth shrugged.

She glanced at Edelgard and Dimitri who had also turned their attention towards her. “Good morning,” she greeted the three of them.

Edelgard smiled. “An early one,” she noted jokingly.

Dimitri laughed. “Claude, Ignatz, and Annette are the only three crazy enough to normally be up at this time.”

Annette gasped, offended. “Hey!”

Ignatz just chuckled. “Archery events are good at being scheduled super early.”

Ingrid laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m normally up too. Felix really doesn’t know how to stop messaging at 6 am when he’s up and going to fencing.”

Most of the undergrads filtered away then, leaving Byleth with her trio of students. She straightened her shoulders and fiddled with the hem of one of her gloves.

“Are any of you busy this weekend?”

Claude’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Uh,” he muttered, looking caught off guard.

Dimitri frowned slightly. “I’m supposed to celebrate Felix’s birthday tomorrow night, but not beyond that,” he admitted.

“Well, Seteth has asked the four of us to go to Fhirdiad to pick up some supplies. We’ll be back by Sunday.”

Edelgard pursed her lips. “I suppose that makes sense, but why all four of us?”

Byleth winced as she recalled a reason why Seteth might have chosen to send away Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude in particular. Claude picked up on her expression right away and he laughed dryly.

“Probably has something to do with that argument last weekend,” he noted.

Edelgard and Dimitri both flinched as they all recalled the bitter verbal sparring match that had occurred the last time they had been on-site together. Claude had identified something Edelgard had unearthed before she had had the chance to and she had snapped at him. Claude had retorted right back which had caused Dimitri to step in and defend Edelgard. Of course, then both of them had snapped at Dimitri for intervening where he wasn’t needed. Tensions had been prickly between them all since, much to the discomfort of anyone forced to work with them.

“Well, maybe this will be a good thing,” Dimitri offered.

Edelgard huffed and turned her full attention to Byleth. “Where are we working today?”

Byleth gestured to the far-off plot. Edelgard nodded, grabbed a clipboard from the supply table and stalked off, heading in the right direction. Claude rolled his eyes at the dismissal from the Prime Minister’s daughter before he followed in her footsteps, spinning a small shovel in his hands.

Dimitri sighed. “This is weird for us, Byleth,” he admitted to her. Byleth eyed him curiously and Dimitri frowned after his friends. “It’s almost like being down here brings up some unspoken tension between us that we didn’t know existed.”

Byleth took a deep breath. “Well, let’s not let grievances get between us and work, alright?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Dimitri immediately walked over to join the others at the dig spot. Byleth took a bracing breath and followed after them. She was going to need all of her patience today if the three of them were going to be as snippy as they had been previously.

Byleth was about to kneel down next to Edelgard to begin her own digging when something on the wall caught her eye. She stepped over the boundary rope and narrowed her eyes. The three students paused in their own work to watch her. There was something etched faintly in the crumbled stones.

“Dimitri, hand me a brush please,” she requested. Dimitri fumbled with the brush for a moment before he pressed it into her palm.

Claude crossed the rope to stand next to her, eyes sharp and curious. “What do you see, Teach?”

Byleth ran the brush gently over the surface of the wall. A few layers of dirt drifted off, but it was clear that the sigil she was curious about was more deeply buried. “Something right here,” she murmured quietly, gesturing to the area she was brushing.

Claude made an affirming noise and this drew both Edelgard and Dimitri closer as the four of them stared at the mark on the crumbled wall. Byleth pressed the pointed handle of the brush against the mark and scraped at the stone. Dust and dirt fell away, revealing the pattern more fully. Byleth brushed it again, clearing away more layers of dirt until she’d uncovered what portion she could.

The carving was some kind of looping pattern. It was incomplete, with probably only a third of it intact, but it seemed weirdly familiar. Byleth lowered the brush and lifted her hand. She pressed a gloved finger into one of the pattern’s grooves. As soon as she touched it, it felt like something in her had been electrocuted. She jerked back, glancing between her finger and the stone.

“Teach?” Claude questioned. He sounded concerned, but Byleth’s curious instincts were stronger.

She pressed her hand against the marking again and felt a similar prickle of energy. This time she didn’t pull back, pressing her palm to the stone as well. The energy spiked and Byleth blacked out so fast she didn’t realize it was happening.

She dreamt of the weird throne again.

This time, the chamber was intact and not in the state of decay she normally saw it in. Byleth turned, assessing the massive room. It was some kind of tomb, she already knew that, but she wanted to find a hint of where it was. Massive stone statues decorated the four corners of the tomb, but as she turned toward the throne again, there were two figures standing in front of it.

She tried to step towards them, but her feet were anchored in place. She blinked and the figures blurred as if they weren’t really there, but they didn’t fade away. It appeared to be a man and a woman, but their details were fuzzy no matter how hard Byleth tried to focus on their features.

They were conversing quietly. Byleth heard the murmured timbres of the two voices and reaffirmed her suspicions of one man and one woman, but the words themselves felt like they were travelling through water to reach her so she couldn’t pick out anything in particular.

She tried again to force her body to move quickly, but a pulse of energy rippled through her so strongly she almost keeled over. She reflexively lowered her head and closed her eyes tightly When she lifted her head again, the figures were gone and her surroundings had changed. She was staring at the throne head-on from the base of it.

Byleth exhaled in surprise. She lifted a hand carefully and touched the stone arm of the throne. Oddly enough, the stone felt hot to the touch. The warmth tingled in her fingertips and there was a flash of white before her face. Byleth’s vision whited out from the burst of light, but when it came back to her, there was a sigil floating in front of her face.

It was the sigil that had been carved in the stone at the dig site but complete, with intricate loops and a crisscrossed pattern. It hovered in the air in front of her as she kept her hand pressed to the throne. Byleth lifted her free hand and tried to touch the symbol. Her hand passed through it cleanly, but she could feel a warmth emanating from it.

“Byleth!” a voice cried out, loud and sharp and concerned.

She spun, drawing her hand back to her chest. She was alone in the chamber, but her sudden turn caused her vision to dim as quickly as it had during the dig and the dream faded.

Byleth blinked open her eyes slowly and immediately winced at the bright sunlight overhead. It took her only the briefest second to realize that someone was holding her in their arms and her head was resting against a shoulder. Voices filled her ears as her senses returned to her and she let out a low groan. The arms holding her instantly tensed and Byleth tilted her head and looked up to see that it was Dimitri holding her.

“Byleth!” Seteth exclaimed.

She tipped her head away from Dimitri, ignoring the faint ringing in her ears and saw her thesis supervisor standing next to him, staring at her in concern. “Seteth?” she mumbled.

“Teach, are you okay?” Claude asked. Byleth’s eyes flicked to him where he stood next to Seteth. Edelgard was hovering on Claude’s other side.

All four of them looked extremely concerned. Byleth shifted in Dimitri’s grip and flicked her eyes back to him.

“Can you put me down?” she requested. “I’m fine,” she said.

Dimitri frowned, but he did lower her to her feet. Byleth was surprisingly steady on her feet, but all of her muscles felt weirdly sore.

“What happened?” Seteth asked. By his tone, it was clear this was not the first time he had asked the question. He also had clearly directed it at the three students, not at Byleth.

“I touched that symbol and then everything went black,” Byleth said, answering him anyways. Seteth frowned.

Edelgard folded her arms. “But, why would that make you pass out?” she prompted.

Byleth shrugged, genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But, I feel fine now.”

Seteth studied her face with a creased brow. “You’re not going back down there today,” he said firmly. “Or tomorrow.” Byleth opened her mouth to protest and Seteth shook his head sternly. “Absolutely not,” he insisted.

Byleth huffed. “Seteth, I’m fine.”

“Byleth, you just collapsed. I don’t really think it’s fair to say that,” Dimitri said gently.

She pressed her lips into a line. She glanced around and noticed that they were standing at the courtyard just outside of the entrance to the dig site. She couldn’t have been unconscious for that long if they had only gotten this far when she was out.

“How about you and I go back to the lab and do some cataloguing?” Claude suggested, lifting the clipboard he was holding. “We can get started on entering this stuff into the database.”

“That’s agreeable,” Seteth consented. “I still want you to call Flayn tonight though.”

Flayn was a nurse and Byleth knew that Seteth wanted Flayn to do a full check-up, but having Byleth call her was his way of compromising with her. Byleth sighed and nodded.

“I’ll call her later,” she said.

“Great, well if that’s settled, we can head out, Teach,” Claude said cheerfully.

He gestured towards the main university campus and Byleth sighed again and headed in the direction of the lab with Claude following on her heels. They walked in silence right up until they entered the building when Claude finally couldn’t hold his tongue.

“What happened, Teach?”

Byleth glared at him half-heartedly before shrugging. “I fainted, apparently,” she muttered dryly.

Claude laughed. “No, what did you dream about?”

She stopped mid-step and stared at him. “How the hell do you know that I dreamed?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, that was a wild guess, but I’m glad it was correct.”

Byleth groaned and kept walking, trying to outpace Claude. He mostly kept up and caught up right outside the door to the lab.

“Was it bad?” he ventured carefully.

“Confusing,” Byleth corrected and slipped past him into the lab.

“Confusing,” Claude echoed as he followed her. “Care to elaborate.”

“Same throne, but there were people. I couldn’t hear or see them clearly,” Byleth said shortly.

She dropped into her chair and grabbed a pad of paper. Closing her eyes, she conjured the symbol that had appeared when she had touched the throne. She grabbed a pencil and made a very rough sketch of what it had looked like. She slid it across the table towards Claude.

“I saw this too.”

His eyes widened as he obviously recognized it from the dig site. He slid his pen off of the clipboard and carefully drew a half-circle around the part of it that Byleth had uncovered. He tapped the pen tip against the page and stared at her.

“What does this mean?”

“I have no idea,” she sighed. Byleth rubbed at her temples. “Everything about this is giving me a headache.”

Claude laughed at her. “Well, let’s do something distracting then.” He grabbed a TV remote from one of the shelves and pointed it at the lab TV in the corner.

Most of the time, James just used the TV to play whatever satellite music channel he wanted, but sometimes Seteth or Harriet would have the news on in the background as they worked. It appeared that Seteth or Harriet had been using it last since it was playing the news when it turned on.

“Enbarr Police are investigating the mysterious death of a woman recently identified as Monica Ochs,” the TV reporter explained.

Every muscle in Byleth’s body went completely rigid and she rose to her feet, staring at the screen in disbelief. The screen changed from the reporter at a desk to two images: one a plain portrait photo and the other a police sketch of the same girl. Byleth’s blood ran cold as ice as she recognized the police sketch. Both detailed a woman with delicate features and a slender face. She had dark red hair and thin lips.

Claude looked between Byleth and the TV. “Teach?” he inquired.

“I know her,” Byleth said reflexively.

“Ochs was identified as a person of interest in a murder investigation in the central city of Remire five years ago. A witness described the sketch on the right which was identified to be Ochs. At the time, police had been unable to locate Ochs for questioning and the investigation was eventually left unsolved,” the reporter continued.

Claude touched Byleth’s arm. “You knew a wanted murderer?”

“I described that sketch,” she said numbly, pointing to the police sketch.

Claude’s hand on her arm tightened and he immediately shut the TV off. “What?” he said, sounding startled.

Byleth sank back into her seat and stared blankly at the table in front of her. Her blood was racing and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Monica’s face was engraved in her mind. It had been for five years and it was jarring to see it again after so long. Her hands trembled and she was shot straight into a memory of a dark rainy alleyway in Remire as her father bled out in her lap with sirens wailing in the background. She started to feel lightheaded.

Byleth didn’t realize she wasn’t breathing until Claude forcibly placed himself between Byleth’s chair and the table and gripped her face between his hands. “Byleth, you need to breathe,” he ordered. “Breathe out,” he instructed sternly.

Byleth exhaled and Claude shook his head, shifting a hand to press against her stomach.

“Exhale,” he said harshly.

Byleth pushed out more air until it hurt and Claude nodded and she took a desperate breath in out of reflex. Claude continued coaxing her to breathe for several minutes. Byleth’s chest ached from the action of it. The fuzziness at the edges of her vision she had barely processed faded and Byleth started to come back to herself. Her eyes were burning and her head was pounding and her cheeks were wet as she belatedly realized she was crying.

Claude was kneeling on the floor in front of her, still holding her face and staring at her with a concerned expression on his face. “Are you alright?” he asked her quietly once her breathing had settled.

Byleth closed her eyes and felt her whole body tremble with a half-sob. “She killed my father,” she whispered.

Claude said something sharp in Almyran which was probably a curse before he gently pulled her head down so that he could press their foreheads together.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “I can’t imagine what this feels like. Do you want me to get Seteth or someone else?”

“No,” Byleth mumbled. With Claude’s forehead pressed against hers, she could feel his breaths gently fanning against her face. She focused on breathing in time with him. His presence was calming and comforting. “Just don’t leave,” she added quietly.

- ~ - ~ -

Fhirdiad Royal Palace - 3 Pegasus Moon, 7 AU

As soon as the servant had left the chamber, Dimitri kissed her. He kissed her like he was drowning and she twisted her fingers into his hair as she kissed him back. He hardly waited a minute into the kiss before his hands were under her thighs, lifting her up so her legs closed around his hips.

Byleth broke their lips apart to trail kisses along Dimitri’s jaw as he walked slowly towards the bed. A growl rumbled in his chest and she almost laughed at the sound. She tilted her head further to try and kiss at his neck, but the collar of his shirt impeded her motion and she huffed.

“Dimitri,” she complained, tugging at the collar.

He laughed, a low rumble that she felt resonate through her body. He dropped her abruptly back on the bed and climbed onto it after her. Byleth instantly went to work at the buttons on his shirt, her fingers slipping over the silk-capped buttons as she struggled with them. Dimitri finally managed to get his shirt open and he leaned back to slip off his jacket and shirt.

Byleth was able to admire her husband for a moment before a pang of deep-seated guilt flooded her chest and her smile dropped. Dimitri dropped his jacket and shirt to the floor, but as he turned back towards her, Byleth pulled her knees up to her chin and cast her eyes to the side, withdrawing from him. Dimitri paused and stayed seated on the end of the bed as he watched her.

“Byleth?” he questioned softly.

She closed her eyes and inhaled shakily. She pressed her forehead against her knees and wrapped her arms over her shins, her fingernails digging into the sides of her calves. Dimitri didn’t press her for words, but she felt the bed dip as he started moving towards her slowly.

“Can I touch you, my love?” he asked carefully.

Byleth opened her eyes and saw him kneeling on the bed next to her. She tipped sideways into him and he caught her, wrapping his arms around her. They sat in the middle of their bed for a long moment without saying anything. Dimitri ran his hands through her hair soothingly, pulling out combs and pins and placing them aside until her hair was limp down her back. Byleth closed her eyes again and let him remove all of the pins without complaint.

“The court hates me,” Byleth said quietly once Dimitri had finished his task. Her husband tensed, but she didn’t let him cut in. “I see it in the way that they whisper when we’re together. The only reason they’re not open about it is most of them are scared to death of Felix and Ingrid. The common people can’t be any better.”

“Byleth,” Dimitri murmured. “The people love you. You are a hero of the Unification War and the leader of the Central Church of Fódlan. You have been a wonderful queen and no one looks down upon you,” he assured.

Byleth twisted so that she could look him in the face. “We have no heir, Dimitri,” she said bluntly. “We have stripped the politics from the church and we are building a free Fódlan. The people want security on the throne.” She ran a palm along Dimitri’s bare chest. “I bear no children, that we can be sure of.”

Dimitri frowned. “We are young yet. There should be no worry of children yet,” he said stubbornly.

Byleth pursed her lips and let her hand wander up to touch the side of his face. “Ingrid and Sylvain have three beautiful daughters. Annette and Felix have a son with another on the way. Mercedes and Dedue have two of their own.” Her thumb grazed Dimitri’s cheekbone. “We are outnumbered, my love.”

Dimitri closed his good eye and shook his head. “You are my wife, Byleth. The court does not get a say in that matter. There were certainly no protests when we were wed.”

Byleth raised an eyebrow. “There were,” she countered. “They were just never brought to your attention.”

Dimitri stared at her. “There were?”

“Some of the church officials didn’t like the idea of the union because they rightfully thought I would remove power from the church to distance state and religion. Seteth had them removed from their positions of power. Some of the nobles didn’t like the idea that the Saviour King would marry anyone other than their own flesh and blood. Especially someone who was born a commoner. Felix and Sylvain and Ingrid are quite good at squashing rumours in court,” Byleth explained sadly.

Dimitri looked pained. “You’ve carried this for 6 years and you never told me? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

She kissed him between the eyes. “You had enough to worry about. I loved you and I was good enough at ignoring whispers. I believed in what we were doing.”

“You say loved,” he mumbled, looking almost nervous.

Byleth kissed his lips. “I love you,” she corrected herself. “I will always love you.”

“We can figure the rest out later,” Dimitri murmured.

Byleth sighed wistfully at his optimism. “Dimitri, I do not know how much longer the kingdom will wait for an heir.”

He scowled. “We went through hell to create this kingdom.” His hands on her waist tightened possessively. “They can wait.”

Byleth pecked him again. “I’ve asked Seteth to take me to see Rhea,” she confessed suddenly. “She has settled in Zanado and Catherine keeps watch over her. Seteth has agreed to accompany me.”

Dimitri stilled. “When?”

“Three days from now. After I return to the monastery.”

He considered her words for a moment. “I suppose I cannot come with you.”

“No,” Byleth agreed. “Seteth says she will likely only speak with me.” She cupped his face between her hands. “I’m sorry I won’t be here to receive Ashe and Petra with you.”

Dimitri chuckled faintly. “I’m not worried about Brigid. Ashe is a good friend and he and Petra are a well-suited match. I do sorely miss his skills as a scout and spy,” Dimitri added.

Byleth shifted so that she was facing Dimitri fully, kneeling between his legs. She reached up and pressed her palms against his bare chest, pushing him back against the mattress. “I miss having all of our friends around, but there are certainly certain perks of having just us around.”

Dimitri’s hands squeezed her waist as he guided her on top of him and they didn’t need words for the rest of the night.

Somewhere in Zanado - 6 Pegasus Moon, 7 AU

“Byleth,” Seteth said, catching her attention.

She turned towards him, tearing her attention from the small house that was just down the road. “Yes?”

Seteth gave her an unreadable expression. “I am unsure if what Rhea is willing to tell you will actually be of much help. I am also sorry that Flayn and I were unable to tell you more ourselves. I had hoped to avoid this.”

Byleth touched Seteth’s arm. “Flayn is alright,” she assured. “She wrote last week saying she is safe and is travelling with Ignatz.” Byleth smiled faintly to herself. “I still almost can’t believe I never noticed the connection there.”

Seteth frowned. “I wish she would have stayed.”

Byleth squeezed his arm. “She is young at heart, Seteth. You cannot be her concerned father and her overbearing older brother at the same time. Let her have this time.”

He nodded. “We are not here to discuss my relationship with my daughter.” He gestured towards the house. “Come.”

Byleth followed Seteth towards the house. Catherine stood outside, straight-backed and poised, just as Byleth remembered her. She was carrying Thunderbrand and her hand rested comfortably on the Relic’s hilt.

“Hello Catherine,” Byleth greeted once the knight had nodded in greeting to her.

Catherine’s eyes were sharp and not exactly welcoming. “I wish you didn’t have to have this conversation.”

“Rhea said she would have it,” Byleth countered sternly.

Catherine backed down immediately and opened the door, gesturing for Byleth to enter. Byleth stepped past her and into the small house and closed the door behind her. She heard Catherine and Seteth start talking in quiet, muffled tones.

The house was small and Byleth had stepped right into the kitchen. Rhea was seated at the table nearby, her posture straight and neutral as Byleth approached and sat across from her. For a moment, neither of them spoke, until the silence became so heavy that Byleth grew uncomfortable.

“Seteth told me what you did,” she began.

Rhea’s lips tightened. “I saved your life.”

Byleth forced her expression not to show her distaste. “You used me to try and resurrect Sothis,” she corrected.

“I created your mother,” Rhea said, ignoring the accusation. “I did many things to try and save my mother, but creating your mother was one of my many regrets. She was born dead and I saved her by placing the Crest Stone within her heart.”

This much, Seteth had known and had explained to her. She also knew the story of her parents’ meeting and getting married thanks to her father’s journal.

“My father bore the Crest of Flames too, didn’t he?” Byleth questioned.

Rhea looked straight into her eyes and the pale green of them was cool and unflinching. “I gifted it to him when he saved my life all that time ago. When he and your mother conceived, I feared for you. I did not know if Sitri could bear children. My concern was apparently warranted. You were born without a heartbeat so your mother begged me to transfer the Crest Stone to you to save you. I did and you lived and she died.”

Byleth felt her face twitch with pain and she inhaled sharply to regain her composure. “So you placed the Crest Stone inside of me and that is why I have no heartbeat.”

“That is why you are alive,” Rhea corrected. “You would have been dead without it.”

Byleth frowned. “What am I?”

“I don’t know. Your mother wasn’t truly mortal, and neither were you, but since you merged with the goddess it has been far more complicated than that.”

Byleth twisted her hands and pressed them, below the edge of the table, against the flat of her stomach. “I’ll never be able to have children, will I?”

This time there was a glimmer of sympathy in Rhea’s gaze. “My dear,” she said softly, “I don’t believe your body could ever handle that stress.” She studied Byleth for a moment and Byleth caught a flicker of guilt in Rhea’s face. “There is something else about the Crest Stone too,” she continued softly.

Byleth felt ill, but she had a pretty good idea of where this conversation was going. “Sothis kept its power contained when she was inside me. It’s been killing me since then, hasn’t it?”

Rhea looked down as the guilt swallowed her expression. “The Crest Stone’s power is not meant for mortal bodies. There is a reason your mother was so frail. It is likely then, that its power is eating you from the inside out. But, without it, you are dead anyway.”

An hour later, Byleth burst out of the house, slamming the door open, and scared both Catherine and Seteth. She immediately stalked away from the house, trembling with grief and pain. Seteth followed immediately while Catherine disappeared to check on Rhea.

“Byleth!” Seteth called. He ran ahead to cut her off and grabbed her by the upper arms, forcing her to acknowledge him.

“The Crests came from the blood of the Nabateans. The Relics came from their bones,” Byleth said. Rhea had confessed the origin of the weapons shortly after admitting Byleth was running on borrowed time.

Seteth looked saddened, but not overly surprised. “I suspected as much,” he admitted.

“I’m dying,” she said next.

This appeared to catch Seteth more off guard as his hands dropped from her arms. “What?” he demanded.

Byleth closed her eyes. “Sothis kept the Stone’s energy at bay. It’s consuming me slowly now that she is gone.”

“Then we remove it,” Seteth said sternly.

“I’m dead without it,” Byleth continued. She opened her eyes to look at him and saw the grief and sadness in his face. “Thank you for bringing me here to answer my questions,” she said. “I would like to fly back alone to have a moment to think, so feel free to stay here and catch up further if you would like.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before she headed off to where they had left the wyverns they had flown here on. She did hear his footsteps following behind her as he pursued her, but he did not try to speak to her again and for that she was grateful.

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