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pellucid-constellations · 2 years ago

Text

My Everyday

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, and—worst of all—a hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, idiots in love <3, some angst, pining

a/n: My first fic in a century!! Thank you so much for reading if you’re still here. Depending on how this does I hope I’ll have motivation to write more! College athlete Bucky never fails to get me inspired :)

Masterlist

“What’s this punks name again?”

The breath you let out was long and excruciating. “I am not repeating myself.”

“C’mon, y/n,” Bucky whined, knocking his head back on the couch. He watched you bustle around the kitchen from his inverted vantage point. “How the hell am I supposed to swoop in and save the day if I don’t even know the kid’s name?”

“Okay, well, first of all—” the fridge door clicked shut with a swift motion of your hips “—he’s not a ‘kid’. I’m pretty sure he’s a few months older than you.”

“Semantics.”

“And second of all,” you stressed, pointing a butter knife in his direction. “There will be no ‘swooping in’. I’m going to have a nice date and you are going to go hang out with your puck rabbits or whatever they're called. There will be no thinking about me and no swooping in my vicinity.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, kicking up from the couch and rounding the kitchen counter to pick at your sandwich. You knocked his hand away several times, but you both knew it was futile. In the months you’d been living with the hockey player—who was far too big for the small, shoebox of an apartment you leased—you’d learned that food was non-negotiable for Bucky Barnes.

There were many other things you’d learned about him as well. He sang in the shower, but only when he thought you weren’t home. He had an annoying penchant for using your $30 lotion—again, when he thought you weren’t home. And he loved to throw his massive, smelly gear just about anywhere it would land right when he got home from every practice.

He didn’t really care if you were home for that last one.

Bucky was the last person you thought you would be rooming with when you posted that ad last summer. A small, quaint room previously occupied by your now engaged (and traitorous) best friend, you assumed someone like-minded to yourself would have taken you up on your offer. The price point wasn’t egregious and the building was relatively close to campus.

But weeks ticked by, and you started getting desperate. Your landlord wasn’t a nice lady, something you were positive she took pride in, and she decided that a rent increase was the perfect way to ring in the new school year. You were on the verge of destitution, and as it so happened, the only other person as desperate as you was the starting center for your college’s hockey team.

You hardly got along. It had taken weeks for your eye to stop twitching every time he tumbled through the front door at three in the morning, and even longer for you not to feel an infuriating aggravation at his random, nighttime smoothies. You supposed he probably felt the same about your cleanliness rules and your incessant reminders about trash days. Because Bucky was in charge of bringing the trash down those long, apartment steps. Not you.

But you’d be lying if you said things hadn’t gotten easier as of late. Conversation flowed more smoothly, things that made you seethe before were only mildly annoying, and Bucky was being… considerate? You weren’t quite sure what to call the random cups of coffee he brought home on occasion. Or his sudden urge to warm up your car when he had a morning class before yours.

There was also the case of that party last weekend. A frat party with far too many drunk men and not enough common sense, you had had the urge to leave the second you got there. But Wanda had dragged you along for the sole purpose of driving her home after she got hammered, so you were essentially stuck.

It was fine at first. Hot and crowded and loud, but fine. You kept a general eye on Wanda and scrolled aimlessly on your phone in the armchair you claimed. And then it wasn’t fine, because a man twice your size was encroaching on your space and unrelenting.

“What kinda girl comes to a party and doesn’t even wanna talk to anyone?”

“You want to come up to my room and watch a movie or something?”

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.”

You weren’t even aware that Bucky had been at that party. It wasn’t surprising—the line between fraternities and sports was blurred at your college—but the space he took up as he intercepted the man in front of you was.

“There a problem here?” Bucky posed, crossing his arms over his chest, his presence looming above your seated position. His weight shifted to his toes.

The man didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you. Move.”

“Wanna fucking tell me what to do again?”

“Fuck you, man.”

A harsh shove to Bucky’s chest was all it took for a right hook to echo in the living room of the frat house. There was chaos. Grunts and screams from the drunk people surrounding the unnecessary fight created a cacophony of unpleasant sounds that seemed to get the attention of someone in charge. The man—Brian, you had now learned based on screams—was pulled back from Bucky and getting chewed out by some president or manager of something.

And Bucky was seething, chest rising and falling laboriously as he wiped at the new bruise forming on his face.

Fights were not uncommon. But this one had been about you. For you.

“Bucky?” you asked when the crowd calmed and Brian was no longer in the room.

You watched his back release its tight coil. He turned. “Are you okay?”

The words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but he was close enough that they created a tactile vibration across your skin. His pupils were dilated and he looked so disheveled it would have been charming if there wasn’t also a cut forming on his brow.

“Y/n.”

It took you a moment to realize that you hadn’t answered him. Your response fell out of you as if you’d been shoved. “I’m—I’m fine.”

He grunted, but it was more of a puff of air. “The fuck was that guy?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, realizing by the way you swayed that you had stood up at some point. “He just—”

“We’re going home.”

“What? I can’t, I’m here with Wanda. I’m driving her, Bucky, I can’t just leave.”

He grabbed your wrist, the grip achingly soft compared to the blows he was landing minutes before. “She left with that British guy she’s been on and off with. Asked me to tell you.”

That explained his random appearance. Your brows pinched as you took in the information, eyes cast down to the angry red marks marring Bucky’s knuckles. He’d been in fights before. So many fights. On the ice.

This was different.

“I haven’t been drinking—I can drive myself home. You don’t have to leave,” you shouted over the music now bumping in the room.

He didn’t respond, not verbally. He pulled you to his front instead, leading you through the impossible crowd until cool night air began melting into your skin. His silence was strange. Bucky’s favorite activity was talking your ear off until you told him to shut up, but right now… nothing. Even his earlier words had been clipped.

You felt responsible for easing the tension in the air as Bucky continued to guide you to your car. You hadn’t told him where you parked, but he seemed to know the exact location anyways.

“You really don’t have to leave with me,” you mumbled. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything.”

“It was a big deal.”

The drive home had been silent. The walk to the door had been as well. Bucky spent a few minutes appraising you in the overhead light of the living room when you got inside, but after that there was nothing. He went to his room and you went to yours.

There was no discussion about it the morning after, either. Bucky apparently wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, so you respected that. Even now, you ignored the fading cuts on his hands as he shoveled food into his mouth.

Bucky’s next words were muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Well where’s this dude taking you at least?”

“Ice skating.”

The cough and sudden exasperation was very expected out of the man next to you, Bucky’s next words hardly containing syllables. “Huh?”

“We’re going ice skating,” you reiterated. You picked up your lunch and headed for the living room, ignoring the slightly heaviness in your chest. “It’s winter and ice skating is festive. The rink on campus has decorations.”

“Without me? Y/n, you’re gonna let some guy who probably doesn’t even know how to skate—”

“Bucky—” you attempted to interrupt.

“—drag you around the rink like a rag doll?” he continued, holding his hand up to mute your incoming speech. “I’ve asked you to come by the rink, like, a ton of times. You’ve never shown any interest.”

You rolled your eyes and shot him a cross look as he picked your feet up from where they rested on the couch and dropped them into his lap. He went on with his rant for a little while longer, knocking his head back against cushions and accusing you of being a bad roommate. You had a few rebuttals of your own, but there was a reason you had never accompanied him to the rink.

A good reason.

You didn’t date athletes.

It was true that simply going to visit Bucky at a practice, or letting him be the one to drag you around the ice like a rag doll, wouldn’t mean you were in a relationship by any means. But it would be an extra step. And if you were being honest with yourself, it would only take a few of those extra steps for the irritation you felt towards Bucky to melt into something else.

And you didn’t date athletes.

You did not.

You didn’t have the time, nor the patience, to put up with the cheating, the anger issues, or the crazy schedules. And there wasn’t a single athlete you’d met at your sport-centered university that was willing to compromise on any of those subjects. Especially the cheating. You’d learned that the hard way after dating a lacrosse player for approximately one month before receiving the dreaded DM from a girl you had never met.

The man hadn’t even given you the courtesy of pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. He just admitted to his wrong-doing and shrugged. Shrugged.

So athletes were not exactly in your good graces when it came to dating.

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky cut through your thoughts, patting your shin in impatience.

You blinked and reoriented yourself, focusing on the hairs that fanned across Bucky’s face. “Of course I am,” you lied. “But my answer is still the same. I’m going on my date and you are not going on my date.”

He groaned, apparently giving up as he cradled your legs closer to him to lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table. He flipped the channel to ESPN—typical—and you ate your sandwich, silently cursing him. He had a TV in his room.

“When is it?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had knitted itself into a comfortable blanket over the room.

“Tonight,” you answered plainly.

The arms atop your legs tensed.

The dichotomy of the man sitting beside you was impressive. On one hand, he was so full of himself that he had missed almost all of your conversation starters due to being so transfixed by his reflection in the rink’s glass. He had yet to ask you a single question about yourself and had insisted that the four other girls skating tonight were in love with him.

On the other hand, he was, quite possibly, the most uninteresting person you had ever met. You were usually very quick to laugh, but every word out of his mouth was almost painful. He wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend, gave you one word answers about anything other than baseball, and was honestly really terribly at ice skating. You were no pro either, but you found yourself on your back every time he tried holding your hand.

The tumble five minutes ago had you seeking out the penalty box on the side of the rink. You needed a break, you had told him, hoping he would continue on making a fool of himself and give you a moment alone. But he followed you instead, and was now sitting beside you, talking about baseball.

You supposed that was better than making you fall while talking about baseball.

“I bet we could do that,” he remarked, pointing out onto the ice and catching your attention. A couple who clearly had more experience than you was twirling each other around. “We definitely could. I pick up good speed.” You cringed. “I really don’t think we should try, Sean. My tailbone is already pretty bruised.”

“Oh, c’mon! I won’t try the throwing part, just the twisty stuff.”

“We are literally on rental skates. You will kill me,” you deadpanned. You were tired at this point and seriously questioning why you thought ice skating was a good first date idea.

Well, there actually was an answer for that. But you were not going to think about the hockey player that popped into your head when Sean asked you on a date in the dining hall last week.

Definitely not.

“I’m not going to let my date think I’m boring,” Sean groaned, yanking you up from your seat.

You gave a few tugs and words of resistance but they were ultimately useless. You figured it would be just as useless to tell the guy you already thought he was boring. He probably wouldn’t even hear you.

On unsteady skates, Sean guided you to a mostly cleared corner of the rink and gripped your forearms. He squinted as he surveyed the area, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your stomach roll. This entire date had been a bad idea.

“Maybe we should just watch them do it,” you tried, words wavering.

“No!” he grinned. “No, we got this. It’s gonna look so cool.”

And then you were spinning. You’d never been spun against your will before, but it sucked. Your skates kept getting stuck in the divots in the ice and the grip on your forearms was close to bruising. You were starting to get dizzy and Sean showed no signs of caring. God, he really was dragging you around the rink like a rag doll. Bucky was going to get a kick out of this.

“Okay, ready?” Sean called, an unwarranted jubilation in his tone.

“What?” you yelled.

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he let go, and you went flying in another direction without a clear path. It only lasted a moment, but the sound of your head smacking onto the ice signified the end of that movement. You landed on your arm next, and then your back. Again.

This time felt different though. Your head was spinning and there were muted pinpricks trailing up to your wrist. The ache there was dulled compared to the biting iciness in your back, but as soon as you tried leaning on it to get up, it became sharp.

“Oh shit!” came Sean’s laughter-filled gasp. “My bad. I really didn’t mean to let go.”

You blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from your vision but it proved unhelpful. “I think… I think my arm’s broken.”

“Wait, seriously?” he asked, wobbling down to a seat beside you.

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Everything okay over here?” a voice interrupted. You tried blinking again to take in the man that towered over the two of you, but the lights overhead washed him out.

You recognized him…maybe? You felt like you were going to throw up.

Sean answered for you. “Yeah, man, we’re fine. She just fell.”

“Y/n, are you okay?” the man asked, ignoring your date completely.

“Do I know you?” you slurred.

You thought you heard a curse. “What made you think throwing her around was a good idea?”

“Dude, it wasn’t even that fast. Or my fault. She just couldn’t keep her feet under her.”

“Well, dude, maybe you should go home.”

Sean scoffed. “Right, and who’s going to take this one home?”

Your head was starting to hurt with all of the back and forth. The man that just joined, the taller one, kneeled down beside you. His blonde hair cast a harsh glare that had you squinting again.

“You want me to call Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky? How would he know Bucky? Blonde hair began morphing into a man in your memory, and you reached for the material of his shirt, looping it between your fingers.

“Steve Rogers?” you mumbled.

The man, now identified as Steve, sighed. “I’m calling him. Go home, Sean. Her roommate is coming to get her.”

There was more discussion, something about Steve having the authority to kick him out and Sean not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Steve warned him about something and Sean scoffed as if the situation was beneath him. And then he left.

Steve was then in your line of sight again, brows pinched together and a bright orange vest covering his shoulders. His hands hovered in front of you as if you’d break if he touched you and you almost found it funny. Steve was a huge guy with a lot of authority on Bucky’s team, but right now he looked like a scared animal.

“Why are you dressed like a construction worker?” you asked.

A small smile graced his face. “I’m working at the rink today. Everyone on the team has to take shifts during the holidays.”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “I think my arm is broken.”

“I know. I’m pretty sure you have a concussion too. Let’s get you off the ice, yeah?”

You tried to nod, but that hurt too much so you let Steve assist you in shakily standing up. He guided you to the seats by the rental skate counter with a soft but sure hand on your back, asking some guy named Antonio for an ice pack. Everything around you felt like a fever dream.

Gentle touches rolled the sleeve of your sweater back to reveal a swollen wrist that Steve immediately covered with an ice pack.

He cursed again. “Well he’s gonna be pissed.”

“Who?” Your head swayed with the question.

Steve looked up to meet your gaze, lips parting to answer, when he was replaced by a different face. Your brain was having trouble keeping up with everything, obviously, because Bucky was in front of you now. He was kneeling between your legs with his hands on your face and you had no idea where Steve went.

“What the fuck?” you blurted out.

“Hey, y/n.” Bucky spoke your name low and soothing, his fingers moving to your eyes where he pried them open one at a time and looked for something you couldn’t see. His next words were directed over his shoulder. “Maybe a concussion. Tell me what happened again?”

“Sean Marcus was being an ass. Flung her all over the place,” Steve replied.

“Why are you here?” you interjected, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “I told you not to come on my date.”

Bucky moved his assessment to your arm next, shifting the ice pack. “Never really agreed to those terms.”

He turned back to Steve after that, having another discussion that you barely understood. Bucky absentmindedly fiddled with the material of your jeans as he spoke, and you put all of your energy into not face planting on the ground. This past week had truly been a series of terrible events with terrible men.

After some amount of time elapsed, you were walking to the parking lot with a jacket thrown over your shoulders and Bucky continuously jutting a hand out each time you took a step. He was very well versed in concussions, apparently.

“Okay, in you go, killer,” Bucky prompted, opening the passenger door.

You eyed the front seat, scrunching your face up. “My arm hurts.”

The man in front of you seemed to soften, his shoulders dropping on a long exhale. “I know, sweetheart. But we gotta go to the hospital to fix that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I should just call Wanda. Or Nat. You don’t have to be the one to take me.”

“I can take you just fine.”

“Why do you want to you? Aren’t you busy?”

Another long sigh, this one accompanied by hands on your shoulders, fingers at the base of your neck. “Get in the car.”

His eyes were boring into yours, searching for something, or maybe already finding it there. You still had your arm cradled to your chest and you titled your head to the side as you observed him. There was something else to his gaze that you couldn’t quite describe. It reminded you of his expression after he came home from a rough game. Angry. Discontent.

“You’re being weird,” you commented, breaking the silence you had created.

“You broke your arm and smacked your head on the ice,” he simply replied, as if the statement was an explanation.

“Yeah, but—”

“And then that douchebag did nothing about it,” Bucky interrupted. “So please, y/n, get in the car so I can help you before I find him and kick his ass. Because you know I’m not above fighting people.”

You blinked, and then slid into the front seat.

The drive was quiet. You’d never been in Bucky’s car before, but the spinning in your head didn’t give you much space to inspect it too closely. You caught hockey gear in the back, a keycard to the rink dangling off the rearview mirror, and a small collection of hair ties in one of the cupholders. One caught your attention.

“Hey, this one’s mine.” You picked up the purple band and rolled it between your fingers. “Thief.”

Bucky snatched it back. “Mine now.”

He made a sharp turn that had you sucking air between your teeth and repositioning your arm. Bucky sent you a quick, achingly apologetic look.

“Sorry, almost there.” A long beat of silence and then a mumbled, “I should keep your hair tie. You won’t be able to do your hair alone with a broken arm anyway.”

Your wrist was fractured, not broken. You also only had a minor concussion. This was all great news to you, especially since they told you after administering a hefty amount pain reliever. To Bucky, this was apparently terrible, life-altering news.

After practically body slamming into the front door of your apartment, he chucked his wallet and keys down on the kitchen counter and began grumbling to himself as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets. You watched from a distance, half amused, half concerned for the rusting hinges. He finally found what he was looking for—a cup—and continued to mutter to himself as he filled it with gatorade.

“Are you… okay?” you asked tentatively.

Bucky ripped the freezer open and manhandled three to four ice cubes. “I’m fine. You are not.”

“I’m okay now,” you assured. Bucky stalked over to you anyways, pressing the sports drink into your hand that was not wrapped in a cast.

You looked down at the glass and sent him a baffled look. He nodded at it and raised his brows, a silent demand for you to drink.

“Okay. And why do I need to drink gatorade?” Your words were slow.

“You were just on the ice and haven’t had any water for at least three hours.”

“Bucky,” you began. “I was ice skating recreationally for about thirty minutes. I don’t need to replenish my electrolytes.”

“Will you just… will you just drink the damn drink?” he groaned, gesturing to it with a firm hand. “Jesus, I can’t take care of you when you go and get yourself hurt by idiots. So just let me do what I know I can do, alright?”

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You were beginning to raise your voice, matching some of the frustration in the room.

Bucky threw his hands in the air, tugging at his roots on the way down. He moved further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter with stiff, rod-like arms propping him up. And then he sighed, long and profound as if this was the hardest conversation he’d had all year. His head hung heavy between stiff shoulders and you felt the environment shift.

You almost wanted to intervene on his thoughts again, to make some comment about the dishes in the dishwasher or pretend you were going to go take a nap. But he had something to say, something you needed to hear, and so you stayed. You blinked and clenched your fist in the uncomfortable silence, but you stayed.

“Y/n, I want to take care of you,” Bucky breathed out, words still directed toward the floor, almost too low to make out. “I’ve been tryna get you to see that for weeks now, but you’ve either got no clue or you want absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You stopped blinking, stopped fidgeting, stopped breathing altogether. You watched as Bucky drummed his fingers against the counter and still refused to look up. You swallowed hard because you weren’t clueless, but also because you wanted everything to do with Bucky Barnes.

And nothing at the same time.

“Bucky…” you began, with a tone of surprise you weren’t sure was believable.

“Don’t do it yet,” he stopped you. “Don’t…don’t tell me no yet. I’m still pissed as hell that you got hurt and you shouldn’t be alone with a concussion. I don’t need you avoiding me when you can’t even drive a car.”

“You’re being presumptuous.”

He snapped his head up, his eyes rushing back and forth between your own. The drumming on the counter ceased, instead replaced by balled up fists turning white under days old cuts and fading bruises. He didn’t say anything. You searched the empty air for a reply.

“I wouldn’t avoid you. I don’t know if I could avoid you—not anymore. You’re sort of a big part of my life now.” A good start, you thought. Not a real answer, but not a rejection.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and eyed the drink still perspiring in your hand. You set it down at his observance, moving closer to his slumped posture in the kitchen.

But Bucky stood up straight at your movement, becoming guarded, stiff. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Bad timing, just forget it. You should try and get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to forget it,” you softly spoke, shaking your head.

He clenched his jaw. “And I don’t want to hear that you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Not right now. I feel like I’m going insane, watching you go out on dates and having my best friend tell me that my girl—that’s not really my girl—is all banged up on the ice because of some asshole.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky kept going, now pacing in the kitchen. “I mean, y/n, you’re my everyday. I wake up and you’re making coffee. You text me in class to ask what I need at the grocery store and then I call you after practice to make sure you got back to the apartment. I think about you so god damn much and I can’t believe there was a time in my life that I didn’t get to end my day in a home that has you. And you’re just my roommate. You want nothing to do with athletes, I get it—” he added, catching your eye in the middle of his rant, “—but, shit, I haven’t even looked at another girl since… well it doesn’t even matter.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. There were a million other things you could’ve said, a million explanations that would have made sense. But the two soft words stopped Bucky from tracking holes in the ground. They shoved him from his shallow breaths and made him look at you.

And, god, did he look at you. You must have been worse for wear. A hospital visit mixed with one too many tumbles onto solid ice probably had your hair in disarray and your face pressed with exhaustion, but his gaze was revering. Candy-coated red with soft blues melting below brows that fluxed with the movement of his lips; Bucky was beautiful, and he was looking at you as if you matched.

His tone confirmed as much, light and saccharin as he said, “That dumb movie a few weeks ago, the one about the superheroes. Your friends wouldn’t watch it with you so you made me. You were so excited even though it was awful and you were out like a light within the first hour. You rolled over onto me and I wasn’t gonna wake you up so I sorta just held you.”

He paused, trailing his eyes up to the light fixtures. “At the risk of sounding pathetic, it felt like I had you, you know? Like we were going through all our usual motions, but after I annoyed the hell out of you and you told me off, you were mine. I can’t… I can’t really picture that with another girl.”

There were very few times you had considered yourself speechless. But with Bucky Barnes standing in front of you, red-faced and vulnerable and still wearing the stupid hospital nametag they made him put on in the waiting room, you had no words. There was none of the arrogance you usually associated with him, no short-temper or pestering taunts. It was just Bucky, and he was pouring his heart onto the kitchen floor. For you.

“You get why you can’t tell me no just yet?” he asked, trying to get something out of you. Anything. “You can break my heart, but let me just make sure you’re okay first. And I can’t beat the shit out of Sean if we aren’t on speaking terms.”

The laugh that left you was one of disbelief, but the breathiness and accompanying tears fit the heaviness of the room. Your glossy eyes met Bucky’s and something flashed on his face, but it was soon out of your line of sight because you were kissing him. You were kissing him hard and your bodies were too close for the cast between you but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t respond at first, hand hovering at your back. But then he did and the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was gone from your bare feet. He sat you on the counter, so gently, as if you were glass, and you let your hand brush against the cracks and divots of your home. The one that Bucky came back to every night to see you.

The one that had housed so many nights of confusion and longing and denial.

The one that had Bucky kissing the life out of you on the kitchen counter.

He pulled away first, forehead pressed to yours. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to do that.”

“You can do it again.”

“Oh, I will, baby.”

Laughter met in the air between you—sweet, short, intertwined. There was so much you wanted to tell him, so many instances like the one he shared before where you were left questioning boundaries and feelings and lines. But, you figured, there would be so many opportunities to tell him. So much time together.

“I texted Wanda that night,” you shared, interrupting the kisses he was pressing to your cheek. “After I woke up and you had taken me back to my room.”

He smiled against your skin. “What’d you say?”

“I told her I was an idiot—that I was falling for the enemy.”

Bucky ran a soft hand along the back of your head, a smirk lighting up his face. He was slotted between your legs and kept his other hand firmly pressed onto the kitchen counter, caging you in, making sure your arm didn’t hit the cabinets.

“And is that true?”

“I don’t know,” you hummed, connecting your foreheads once again, wanting to stay impossibly close. “Try to cure my broken bone with gatorade again and we’ll see.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes angst #marvel fanfiction #college!bucky

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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, sexual tension, TW bullying (in case), TW recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing. disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Coral Apartments, California, November 1990

Eddie Munson looks good on TV. You try to convince yourself that it's the blurry imagery, the three-toned LED's, but you know it's because he's plain good-looking. Rockstar suits him. Glam suits him; eyeliner, ripped shirts, ever-bruised knuckles and cut up fingertips that speak of a wrought dedication to the music he plays.

You look away from the TV and push the sheets down with your feet, naked legs flat to the mattress and covered in your own cuts and bruises. It's not entirely Morgan's fault, but every time you see the shiny scar on your ankle you get mad at her again. She'd been sloppy on stage, pulled her mic tight and sent you reeling over it like a tripwire. You'd cut up your legs, sprained your wrist, and split your chin. On national TV. In front of thousands of people.

Your ego is pretty bruised too.

Worse was the bouquet of flowers you'd been sent the day after, huge and bursting with colour from a certain dark-haired thorn in your side.

Saw you ate shit. Stop day-dreaming about me during sets and you'll be fine. EM

You'd trashed the card but hadn't had the heart to fob the flowers. The last survivors of the bunch wilt slowly on the nightstand beside you, a much too pretty reminder of somebody you're trying to forget. Or rather, erase. You won't admit to yourself what happened at Monsters of Rock, because admitting it means he's winning.

Morgan pushes your door open with her hip. If she's perturbed to find you in your underwear she doesn't say a word, making a beeline for your bag. She takes out your Newports and taps the carton against her chest.

"What's up?" she asks, sliding a cigarette from the box and propping it between her shiny lips. "You still feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Morgan."

She lights her cigarette, laughing through an exhale of smoke. "How many times do I have to say sorry?"

"Once would be nice."

"Babe." Morgan sits at the end of your bed, in a good mood for once but still herself. "I'm sorry you fell over my mic."

She likely doesn't even see what's wrong with her apology. You accept it for what it is and hold your arm out for the pack and lighter. Knees pulled up, you settle against the headboard and light a cigarette yourself, but snuff it out after a shallow inhale. Nothing feels worth indulging in when the knot of anxiety in your chest keeps on tightening.

"Where's Ananya?" you ask.

"You're watching this again?"

You glance at the TV where Corroded Coffin play through their Monsters of Rock set.

"M'just waiting for us," you lie mildly.

"Sure… You know, you shouldn't feel bad about your spill last week. Look at Munson. Biggest crowd of his life and he's tripping over an E major."

She snorts, the two of you watching as the Eddie on screen looks to the left of the stage and misses his mark.

"How do you flub that?" She rolls her eyes. "Boys."

How did he flub it? You'd been standing on the side stage cleaned up and smiling like you were half in love with him. The recording is proof — whatever power it is that he has over you, you have something similar over him.

"Anya's in the lobby waiting for us."

You sit up.

"Why?"

Morgan points at the alarm clock on your nightstand with the smouldering tip of her cigarette. "It's Friday."

"It's Thursday."

She smiles at you. If you didn't know her, the look of pity on her face might almost feel genuine. As it stands, she's a magnanimous bitch when she wants to be. She's lucky that it suits her.

"It's Friday, babe. And we're," —she tilts her head to one side, the bemusement in her eyes unmissable— "ten minutes late."

"Shit. Shit." You stand up on wobbly legs. "Fuck."

"Don't worry! I got you something."

With Morgan, you aren't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But you don't really have a choice.

—

Eddie won't admit to anybody why he finds himself in California. The band isn't touring, award season is mostly over. He should go home and see Wayne because fuck he's a bad nephew, a bad son, and Wayne deserves a whole lot better than one phone call a week when Eddie's too hungover to actually listen to what his uncle is saying. He should head back to Hawkins and make sure Wayne's actually cashing in the cheque's Eddie's been sending.

He shouldn't be hanging around parties hosted by people he only knows from TV looking for you, that's for sure.

The good thing about being semi famous is that introductions don't matter. Either somebody already knows you or they don't, and everybody assumes you already know them. Eddie can't count how many times somebody's pulled him in for a one-armed hug and said "Good to see you again," when they've never met before.

It could be the coke. It's probably the ego.

Eddie isn't extremely introspective or anything, but he hopes to fuck that he isn't an asshole. He knows he is in superficial ways. He's said some hurtful shit to people — to you — he wishes every now and then that he could take back. In the moment it had felt right to tease you, to belittle you as he thought you'd belittled him. He'd wanted to put his hand out and ask how high you can jump. But then he remembers how your bandmates had spoken to you, or your glitzy smile. He remembers the twisting pain in his chest when you'd fallen over on stage a week ago (though if anybody asks, he heard about it from somebody else). You'd smashed into the floor with a cruel force, arms twisted trying to protect your guitar, not a second spared to save yourself. You'd got back on your feet with blood dripping down your chin and played the rest of the song without complaint. Not one person had stepped in to clean you up.

It drives Eddie insane. He can't help it. He hates you and he wants to linger on the sidelines and watch you play. He can't stand the despondent look in your eyes when you look at him, when you look at the floor. He needs you to know that you're better than they tell you, but he can't make himself say the words.

So he'd sent you flowers and made a lame joke, hoping for hot and coming off desperate no doubt. He'd regretted it as soon as he'd hung up the phone, but he hadn't cancelled the order. Something colourful, he'd said. What flowers cheer people up?

The florist had laughed at his awkward tone and said that all flowers do the trick.

God, he hopes so.

Which isn't to say Eddie likes you. He can't stand you, actually, come to think of it, standing in the sticky pit of some actress' kitchen as he pioneers the radio and flicks through to Roller FM. Resentment burns like fire as the dial clicks beneath his fingers, turning the volume up enough to hear the radio host introduce your band.

"And tonight, a month before their new studio album hits the charts, Godless are letting us be the first to hear the second single. The outpour of hype after their first, Down and Out, was no small feat, and we have the lovely ladies here tonight to walk us through that fresh sound. But first, let's spin that new single. Ladies and gents, this is Silver Ringed…"

Godless are about as cohesive as Corroded Coffin. They have a unique sound as most chart toppers tend to have, and as much as he thinks your front woman is a total hack, she can sing. Her voice moves from sultry and quiet to aggressive and rasping. She isn't afraid to scream when she needs to, and you and Ananya obviously won't let yourselves be outdone. Your music is visceral. It's good. Not Corroded Coffin good, you don't have the clean cut sound they do, but Eddie knows that isn't the point. It's supposed to be a little dirty, and since they let you on the writing floor it's getting worse. Better. Whatever.

Eddie rubs his face with both hands.

When the song ends, the radio host asks some questions about the new album, inspirations, touring, promotional album covers, the works, and Eddie hates himself for waiting to hear your voice. He grows irritated at the sound of Morgan's raspy nonchalance.

"I mean, you guys are really stepping into a new genre here." It's true. Godless and bands like yours are more energetic, more aggressive than what Eddie plays. It's a divisive subject. Eddie likes it, but he knows a ton of metalheads who think it's immature. It's certainly not traditional. "Your first album was a whole lot different. And it was good, Godless broke into the scene! But this is new. You guys are more original and more popular than ever. Why the change?" The host laughs. "Well, she's sitting right here."

Eddie thinks he can hear you inhale, but it's Morgan who speaks.

"I wanted more for us, you know? Our first record, we just wanted to prove we could do it. This time we want to prove no one else can."

Jamison scoffs. Eddie looks up from the radio and finds his bandmate with a beer in hand. He tries to steal it and gets an elbow to the chest for the effort.

"Dick," he says.

"Get your own." Jamison tilts his head toward the radio in a show of tuning in. "Can't tear yourself away, huh? How's your girlfriend?"

"Christ," Eddie hisses.

"You need him. Aw, she sounds so sweet."

Eddie startles back to the radio, and sure enough you've finally been allowed to talk. Your voice is soft with nerves.

"It's a lot to adjust to, I think I'm slow to- uh, get with the program. But I'm so happy to get to make music and to be a part of something this sick. Uh, this amazing, I mean."

Poor girl, he thinks. By the end of your answer you sound like you want the ground to swallow you up. Thankfully the host is a professional, and laughs warmly.

"It's a big lifestyle change! We talked a little about influence, is there a track I can play you guys out with? What's your favourite?" he asks.

"Me?" you ask.

"Yeah, you."

"Oh, uh…" You laugh, sounding frazzled and sweet at once. "It has to be Black Sabbath, right? Do you guys have, um, The Mob Rules? Mob Rules is my favourite."

Eddie needs to get very drunk, he decides, and he does. He drinks until he can't taste the difference between the shitty craft beer and seven hundred dollar cognac. Until he forgets why he was drinking in the first place, to erase the sound of your voice and your Sabbath recommendation — who the fuck picks Mob Rules over Heaven and Hell? He's tipsy and he won't remember, but he wants to fuck you stupid just for that (affectionately).

He loves Mob Rules.

They move from one party to another, sloshed in the back of a car he still can't afford with his rockstar paycheck, more than drunk in the bathroom of a Studio City mansion kissing powder off of his fingers. Whatever he's been given doesn't last very long (though it hits hard), and he comes back to reality on a huge fancy couch surrounded by people, some he knows and most he doesn't.

"I need a drink," he says.

And he gets the shock of his life.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," you say gently.

Eddie swings his head to yours, finding you in a nice dress, the gem of a necklace fallen down the valley of your chest. The lights are high and blaring and he can see the fine hairs of your face, the shine of your lipgloss like a siren call.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

You shrug. He watches your shoulders.

"I need a drink," he says again.

"Like, a beer? I don't judge but I think you’ll get alcohol poisoning if you drink anything else."

"Like a beer."

You look like you might stand up and get him one, for a second. He's ultimately glad that you don't. You twist around, elbow over the back of the couch, and your face beams like a star as you call, "Hey, Dornie? Could you toss me a beer, please?"

Eddie worries he'd wanted to see you so badly you've appeared as a hallucination, and he hates himself and it's all old news anyways, but you turn back with a cold as ice beer in hand and press it into his arm until he whines.

"I'm sobering you up," you tease, again so gently. He does not like how you're looking at him, like you feel sorry for him.

He takes the beer though the second sip makes him feel sick to his stomach, and tries not to look at you.

"What, you don't want to be my friend anymore?" you ask.

What has he said?

"Sweetheart," he says, focusing very hard on sounding solid, "a friend is the last thing I want from you."

"Could've fooled me… Hey, you wanna know a secret?"

"What?"

You lean in close, smelling of perfume, your face undeniably touchable. "I heard from somebody who heard from somebody else that they're kicking Tony Martin to the curb."

He blinks. "Sabbath?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why the fuck would they do that?"

"Think on it, baby."

If he couldn't smell the flowery punch of your perfume, or see the individual lashes that shield your waterline, he'd definitely think you were a dream. You're here, and you're talking to him like you like him, looking at him like you did, you cruel, awful thing, that day at Monsters of Rock when he'd pressed you up against a wall and kissed you until his lips burned. You'd kissed back. You'd responded, your lips pressing against his with more enthusiasm than made any sense.

Now you're calling him baby and telling him secrets, your knees tucked together and the outside of your thigh warming a stripe under his jeans. It feels surreal. Your body heat is sinking into his skin.

Somebody across the coffee table entices you into conversation. Eddie listens to you talk. Maybe high Eddie is a nicer guy than sober Eddie (unlikely), because you don't seem repulsed by his company. Considering how you left things, your little corner shop spat and his bruising kiss, he hadn't been expecting a warm welcome.

"Did you–" he starts, insecure and hiding it as best as he can, fingers itching for a cigarette, for something to do, "did you like the flowers?"

"You already asked me that." You peek down at his beer. "Could I have that?"

He hands it over numbly.

"It's not a good idea, you know? Drugs and drink, mixing them together. It messes with your heart," you tell him.

"Don't act all innocent," he says.

"No, I know, I'm not trying to lecture you 'cause I do shit I shouldn't do, but– you looked one bump from a heart attack. Seriously."

"Why do you care?"

You laugh. Your nose wrinkles. "I don't know."

It's not the answer he wanted, but it's the one he deserves.

He's spent weeks talking to himself, imagining conversations between you both. He's memorised defences, shamefully readied a few insults in case you'd prepared your own, but nothing comes to mind now. He's speechless.

You drink his beer and he thinks about how his lips had been at the mouth of it not ten minutes ago. It shouldn't matter. You've already kissed him. It shouldn't.

"I don't think I took what I meant to," he admits.

"Me neither. Morgan said they've been cutting with procaine around the hills. Did you get super numb?"

He can't remember. He doesn't want to talk about any of this with you. "I heard you on the radio."

"You did?"

"You were scared."

"No." You tear the tab off of the beer and put it in his hand. "I like high Eddie, he’s honest."

"I'm not, really…"

"Should see your pupils."

Maybe he is, then. That could explain why he keeps saying what he's thinking without pausing to check if it sounds cool. He has his defences up to the ceiling usually, wouldn't ever let you or anybody else in, not here.

He's staring at you.

You brush the side of his arm with your fingernails.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks.

Your small smile flattens into a line. "I don't know, Eddie. Who are you gonna tell? Who'd believe you? As far as the tabloids and- and our friends are aware, we hate each other."

"It didn't feel like you hated me."

"I didn't."

"But you do now?"

You stand up. Eddie gets caught in your smile, charming with something worse lurking beneath. You brush the hair out of his face and station your hands at the base of his neck, dropping your head toward his ear.

"Not telling," you whisper.

He thinks for a moment you're gonna kiss him, his ear or his neck, but you scratch his scalp lightly and leave as he's getting to grips with the feeling of your breath against his skin.

—

Dolly Floor, California, December 1990

Dolly Floor is a club in West Hollywood frequented by movie stars. You're pretty sure you only get in because of Morgan's snow trail incident months ago, and you almost wish they'd sent you packing when you see how densely hedged it is inside. The temperature hikes up with every step you take inside, and soon Morgan's dropping your wrist in favour of one of her friends across the way, leaving you totally alone.

You're dressed in too much clothing for the occasion, a dress with sleeves and a leather jacket that isn't yours, big boots to protect your feet from crushing crowds. Morgan had thrown a pair of kitten heels at you in frustration. For once you'd told her no. She's been oddly friendly lately, letting you do as you please with nothing more than an irritated huff, and so you've got tights and socks alike stuffed into your shoes — you're sick of aches and pains.

If anybody steps on your toes tonight, you're going home.

The air is thick with humidity, exhaled breath, the scent of alcohol explaining the stickiness under your footsteps. You don't know many people, but you know Dornie and, irritatingly, half of Corroded Coffin, so you beeline for the band where they're holed up at the back and hope one of them will give you a drink.

There's gotta be thirty different people hanging out. How they can hear each other talk is a mystery. Dornie puts his arm out when he sees you and you slide into his side, reaching up on tiptoes to kiss his pale cheek.

"Careful," he says, "you'll make someone jealous."

You're affectionate with Dornie 'cause he's nice. Just plain nice, which is hard to find in Hollywood. He's the very first friend you've made that's yet to break your heart, and better, he hasn't tried to sleep with you.

Not that you think you're some unresistable notch.

"Who'd be jealous of me?" you ask.

"Of me." He rubs your shoulder through leather. "It's good to see you, doll. Your chin's healing up nice, yeah? Or is it make-up?"

He taps your chin.

It unlocks a reluctant memory, the shadow of a different hand, heavy with intoxication but painstakingly gentle.

"It's a bit of make-up," you admit, lifting your chin so he can see it.

"Still, it's getting better. How are your knees?"

Hiding behind your tights. "They're gnarly. Doesn't hurt to walk much now though."

Dornie grins. He has a pretty smile with white wonky teeth and three lip rings on one side. His hair is shorn short, unlike most of the guys here rocking hair to the ears or even longer. His eyes are a light brown, emphasising the bruising bags under his eyes. He looks tired.

"Don't look, but I'm getting some serious glarage from your favourite guitarist."

"You're my favourite guitarist," you say, and you mean it. His arm is a comforting weight. It feels so good to have a friend.

"Your second favourite."

You step completely into Dornie's view and look up at him. "How's he look now?"

"Chilling. Want me to guide you over to the bar like we're lovers?"

"Don't say it like that."

Dornie pulls you across the floor back to the bar, where blessed cool air seeps down from the air-conditioning and the drinks leave pools of condensation the second they're put down. Dornie buys you a mystery cocktail that tastes more like water than juice. You sip at it happily, using your more neutral vantage point to get a good look at Eddie.

He's sprawled against a booth wall with one arm behind his head, a cigarette sending smoke up to the wall. He looks better than the last time you'd seen him. There's colour in his cheeks, though that might be the lighting. Dolly Floor is a strange venue, like a strip club without the workers, or a restaurant without food. It doesn't feel like a club, but there's a small stage around the corner from the bar where good music plays live, and it doesn't take much convincing for Dornie to come and watch the show with you for a bit. Some of his friends join you, a woman called Natalie, a man named Matfield, and they're both as nice as he is.

"We heard the new record!" Matfield says across the high table, the golden watch on his wrist a beacon under the reflections of the harsh stage lights.

"Hated it?" you ask.

He chuckles. "All the screaming isn't for me, baby, but that shit doesn't matter. It was good. How's it doing?"

"I honestly haven't looked," you say, opening your box of Newports and offering them out like candy. Everybody takes one.

"Better not to know tonight," Natalie says agreeably, her perfect black hair curled toward her face like a seraphim shifting as she leans in for a light. "All you have to do is celebrate."

You'd wanted, foolishly, to celebrate with the girls. Ananya had dipped as soon as she could and you get it, she has her own friends, but Morgan knocking the door of your room had been a great relief. If at least one of them wants to spend time with you, that's enough. Only, Morgan had made it clear as she was sifting through your clothes that she was going to try and find, "like, someone who's actually interesting." You'd taken it about half as personally as you would've a few months ago.

Hence Dornie. You'd called him on the landlines and he'd said, "Yeah, babe, I'll meet you there."

Thank whatever's watching for Dornie.

He buys you another drink and then another, says your money's no good and tonight's about you. His friends are great, including you in all their jokes and smiles, and when the lights go down and the music gets louder you head out onto the glowing tiles and dance with them.

Eddie finds you not long after. Slinking up from your peripherals, hand in his pocket.

"What Eddie am I seeing tonight? The nice one?"

Eddie doesn't flinch at your sudden question. "You look good."

He'd approached from the left. You'd felt it rather than heard him, and you'd guessed right. He steps further into view, not smiling, not not smiling. He looks good too.

"I heard the album."

You hate how much you care. "Yeah?"

"It was good. It wasn't metal, but it was good."

You're laughing before he's even finished, turning away from him in a feigned sense of superiority. I don't care what you think.

Eddie doesn't grab you. You wouldn't care if he did. He follows by your elbow and says, "Come on, you know it isn't."

"Just 'cause it doesn't sound rooted in the 70s," you say with a smile.

"That's the whole point. It's baseless, there's nothing traditional in it. It isn't metal, but it's rock, and it's good, and–"

"Slow down, Munson. A girl'd think you liked her."

"I'm objective."

"You're not."

"I'm not, but my opinions are right. Everybody says that, but when I do it's true, so…"

You look at him properly. He looks present in a way he hasn’t before in front of you. There’s a total clarity behind his eyes that you yourself don’t have tonight. He looks sober. Not that you thought he was an addict, not that you didn’t. There’s a certain blasé attitude to substance abuse when you get a kick of fame. Everybody has something in their pocket and you’ll admit to buying into it, taking stuff you shouldn’t in unfamiliar places. You know, of course, that drugs are fucking dangerous. But you hadn’t been freaked out by them until the other night, when you bumped into Eddie outside of the bathroom in Dornie’s friend’s house and he hadn’t recognised you for a solid ten seconds.

He’s chewing on nothing.

“I didn’t do it to hold over you,” you say.

“What?”

“Look after you. It wasn’t… I mean, I wasn’t making fun of you. And I’m not gonna tell anybody.”

“Generous.” His eyes narrow subtly.

“So if that’s what you’re doing.” You look down to his neck where a silver chain rests, thin, new and hidden under his shirt. “Checking to make sure, I’m not.”

“You think I’m here to make sure you don’t tattle?”

You’re too tipsy to feel embarrassed. “You’re here to buy me a drink, then. I want a cherry margarita with extra shiny cherries and all the salt on the rim, please. Please,” you add, because the second one hadn’t felt polite enough.

Eddie nods and half turns. “Shiny cherry?” he asks. You almost miss it, his soft tone nearly lost in the noise.

“Maraschino… they’re pink.”

“You’re not gonna come with me?”

“Get lost often?”

Eddie holds his hand out. You’re supposed to think of how his hand looks, his callouses, his rings, the cut across his thumb, the size and length of his fingers. You think about them enough when he isn’t around, but now, right now, your heart thuds against your chest. Your thoughts are a mess until they aren’t — hold his hand. You put your fingers against his palm and he squeezes them together like he’s collected them, tugging you out of the crowd and across the room to the slick black bar.

You’re still angry with him. You’re wounded, knife to the gut and all the red blood because he’d been right, you’re a dog, you do what people tell you to, you’re doing it right now, but then he squeezes your hand with a light enough pressure that you’re sure you’ve imagined it until he does it again, leaning up against the bar as he gives your order. “Extra cherries,” he says to the barkeep with a smile, letting your hand go in favour of his own drink.

The crowd surges with a new song and people brush your calves as they walk around you. You and Eddie stay at the bar. He sips on a bottle of water. You wait for your margarita.

“Your cut’s healing up,” he says.

You try not to notice your touching arms. “It was bad, right? It must’ve been. You felt so sorry for me,” —the words burn— “you sent me the biggest bouquet I’ve ever gotten in my life.”

“I didn’t feel sorry for you, sweetheart, can you read?”

“Between the lines, yes,” you say, nodding your head once, emphatic as you accept your margarita. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t feel sorry for you. Felt bad for you-“ He holds up a pale palm. “My fault an’ all, I’ll try to be less daydream worthy.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you. Did you see it? She tripped me up with her mic doing a shitty Stevie Nicks impression.”

“Wrong genre.”

You laugh at him. “Exactly! That’s the point.”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

You raise your eyebrows. Eddie’s head tips forward and his hair hides his cheeks, the subtlest impression of his cheekbones lost to a curtain of curls. He twists one of his rings around his finger.

“She- You should be more careful,” he says.

Everything’s raw with him, criticism most of all, but you’re feeling generous. You fish one of your shiny cherries from the margarita glass, surprised to find its stalk intact, and break the delicate skin between your teeth. You mull over what he’s saying as the sweet flavour aches in your jaw. You could’ve been more cautious. You’d been having fun, and you’d thought you could trust the people you work with to have your back. It was a little silly to assume; neither Morgan nor Ananya have ever shown you much second thought.

“Yeah, I think I should be,” you say finally, putting the cherry stalk in your mouth.

“What are you doing?”

You ignore him and try to tie a cherry stem knot. You keep trying until you think you’ve got it. You pull the stem from your tongue.

“Shit,” you curse, glaring at the curved stem. “Thought I had it.”

Eddie grins and leans into your space, fingers quick to pinch a cherry from your margarita.

He brings it to your mouth. You keep your lips pressed closed and search his face for a trick. Nothing peaks out, not a hint of cruelty to his pinked lips or flush of soft lashes. You try not to breathe as you open your mouth, and Eddie pushes the round of the cherry over your bottom lip slowly.

You bite down.

Eddie takes your stalk and places it on his own tongue. He closes his mouth, and within five seconds he’s taking out a knitted stem with a prideful buzz about him. Any smugness he’d held dissipates. He looks adorable.

“Beat you,” he says.

“Arrogant doesn’t suit you.”

“Arrogant absolutely suits me,” he argues, the corners of his lips twitching up, up, up. He’s smiling so much. He reminds you of somebody. “Sore loser doesn’t suit you.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What’s that mean?”

“What’s that mean?” you repeat. “I smile at you across a stage set and you push me up against a wall.”

“Smile? That’s what you’d call that?”

You’re facing each other now. Eddie inches closer as he speaks, each word said with a precision that can’t be unpracticed. “I’m playing in front of near enough a hundred thousand people, kind of crowd I fucking dreamed of as a kid, in front of actual real life rockstars, and you stroll up to side stage dressed like–”

He cuts himself off. An olive branch. A stopper. A dam. His inhale infuriates you.

“No, go on. Dressed like what, superstar?”

“Like a fucking groupie.”

You know he’s only said it to try and get a rise out of you. He knows that you know. He looks like he wants to take it back.

You want him to push it further.

“And you liked it,” you say, angry. Quiet. “You liked it and you couldn’t get a handle on it.”

“No,” he says, knowing what you’re implying, voice hot and fast, “I kissed you because I knew you wanted me to. I knew what it would do to you.”

“I wanted you to?” you ask.

“Didn’t you?”

“I wanted to mess with your head ‘cause you fucking harsssed me–”

He cuts you off, “You wanted to mess with me because you hated that I was right about you. Not everything, but enough. Those girls treat you like shit. And you let them, or you’ll be the next Millyana, sitting at home watching the rest of us on TV wondering why you couldn’t make it out.” Something in his expression flickers like a rubber band has struck his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, you mean it. You worked hard to get here, had people treat you a whole heap worse than Eddie’s hot and cold, than Ananya's indifference and Morgan’s narcissism. Hours in buses with your neck craned against a short ceiling scribbling music and days toeing the line with a guitar falling apart in your hands. You scrimped and saved and starved for this.

Eddie smiles at you. For the second time that night, he looks like somebody else.

“I know,” he says. “I think we’re finally on the same page.”

—

Eddie buys you another drink. Your tipsiness had felt so far away when things got heated, but now your bubbly smile is back, and you’re actually talking to him. About music, sure, but the movies, the weather, the fancy apartments the record company put you up in.

“Finally got my own room so Ananya can stop complaining about the noise,” you say with a wink.

He chokes on his water. “The noise?”

“I’m a very dedicated player.”

You let a small silence pervade before bursting into giggles, hand patting his upper arm. “I’m kidding! She gets mad ‘cos I’m trying to learn YYZ but it is so, so hard.”

“Shit is hard,” he says. “Do you even have time for that? You start touring again in a month, maybe you should, you know, slack off?”

“No, because if I’m doing nothing I’m nothing.”

Eddie — fuck fuck fuck — shouldn’t pry.

“You’re not nothing.”

You wrinkle your nose at him and he loves when you do it. It’s not cute, really, but everything you do is cute in a way he refuses to unpack. “No, I’m not, I don’t know why I said that.”

“I get it, though. You feel like… maybe it's all gonna stop one day. Wake up with a bad case of the yips and no matter how good you were…”

“Yeah.” You take a very noisy slurp of margarita. “I’m so afraid that I’m gonna be nothing that I can’t stop.”

Eddie throws his gaze around the room. It’s no coincidence that your friend Dornie keeps looking his way; the night is winding down and there’s barely anybody dancing. It’s home time.

“You won’t be nothing,” he says, easing the margarita out of your hands. He might’ve bought you one too many. “I’m sorry for, uh, getting you drunk.”

“I got myself at least three parts there. Out of five.”

“At least three parts,” he agrees.

He wants, very badly, to touch your face. Hold your cheek in his palm. “Hey,” he says lightly. “Uh, you got something. On your cheek.”

You brush your dewy skin with an embarrassed look about you, shoulder risen and eyes all droopy with booze. “Here?”

“Higher.”

He watches you scrub at nothing. He’s tricking you. He feels awful.

“Still haven’t got it?”

“‘Fraid not, baby.”

“You get it.” You brandish your cheek.

Eddie keeps a good distance. He knows what he’s doing is weird, he just wants to touch you for a second. He rubs the pad of his thumb down your face, tracing the path of a tear you haven’t shed. Eye to chin.

“You’re good,” he says, dropping his hand.

“Thank you.”

You’re slurring. He thinks you’re more tired than you are tipsy (though you are, undeniably, inebriated), and he wonders where all the time went, how it’s suddenly been an hour with you and your conversation. There’d been a moment where he thought he’d fucked it and your eyes had shone with hurt, but you’re smiling, he’s smiling, and Dornie looks aggrieved. All good things.

“I think you better get going,” he murmurs.

“Sick of me?” you ask, not teasing.

“No. Your friend’s waiting for you.”

You look over your shoulder and your smile glows. You start babbling about how that’s your friend Dornie (he knows, you’ve only told him five times) and how Dornie is sooooo nice. You deserve somebody being nice to you right from the start. Eddie’s trying to make it right but he’s said some shit he can’t take back. He wants you to have someone who’s a hundred percent sweet on you, he just doesn’t wanna have to hear the adoration in your voice when you talk about it.

Eddie’s a dick. Self-admitted.

You go home with an arm looped around Dornie’s waist. (Dornie said high-pitched, wide-eyed.) Eddie pulls a handful of bills from his wallet to pay for the drinks he’d bought, stuffing the change in a tip jar on the way back to the dregs of the coffin crew. Jamison’s long gone and Jeff didn’t wanna come, but Gareth’s smoking a cigarette with another guy’s hand mysteriously lapward.

He clears his throat. “I’m going home and taking the car.”

“Wait for me?”

Eddie cringes. “Sure.”

Eddie sits in the car. One hand on the wheel, the other in his pocket. He thinks about tonight, your hair, your smile, the way your arm had brushed up against his. He wonders if this is the right move. Eddie’s not mad at you anymore for forgetting who he was, for your teasing at the Prover Theatre or your rookie comments. And Monsters of Rock, that had been half spite and half bravado. Spur of the moment bravery. Idiocy. Yeah he’d kissed you to piss you off, but he’d also done it because he wanted to.

He sighs and takes your discarded pull tab out of his pocket. He thumbs the rounded edge, thinking harder than one guy should ever think about anything that isn’t metal. Shit, he thinks. I gotta go home.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

note: they are not done hating each other I am just warming up! thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst

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theyjusthowl · 3 months ago

Text

WIP Monday

I'm trying out a new thing to be more consistent with my writing, so maybe my beta won't have to wait a month for the next installment of this WIP from hell.

I'm currently working on a Sterek longfic that somehow got away from me and is now 50k of pure hurt/comfort, and this is one of my favorite scenes, so cue the angst.

---

Lydia says, “We could use a place of our own.”

Her gaze hungrily prowls around Derek’s loft like it’s Versailles, as sterile and empty as it looks. The cheap pieces of sparse furniture he bought to appease Stiles back when they were together remain the only clue that this space has been lived in.

She knows his bedroom is still presided by a bare mattress and a busted alarm system.

Peter hears, “Derek could use a place for himself.”

His mind helpfully supplies, one that’s not littered with phantoms.

Isaac broaches the subject with Derek, one morning, in the small office space of the warehouse, as Derek works on an invoice.

“All I’m saying, Derek, is that the pack could benefit from a bigger place,” he says, towering over the desk. “I could move back in if we had enough room for everyone. You don’t have to sell the loft, you’re still running your business from here so maybe turn it into a decent office space?” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion. “This is still a great headquarters. Keep a guest bedroom in case you end up working late.”

Derek nods. He thinks of the key he gave Stiles, two years ago, the last time he asked him to not to leave them behind.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to Peter, see if he can find a plot of land that’s to his liking.” He stacks a thin ream of papers on top of a folder, closes it and stands. He files it away in a cabinet behind him and looks at Isaac. “Are we done?”

Isaac leaves the warehouse triumphant.

Peter donates the Hale property to Beacon County to do as they please, on the condition that no private businesses are to be raised on the extensive terrains. They set up a few cabins for lost campers and a small wildlife shelter. Scott is more than happy to volunteer as often as college will allow; Isaac fixes a coyote’s paw after the animal stepped on a pine needle and tells the whole pack approximately twenty times before Derek snarls half-heartedly to stop, for fuck’s sake.

The Sheriff finds a parcel, just fifteen minutes from the western border of the preserve, and it’s not exactly Beacon Hills but it isn’t anywhere else either and still within the county limits, which is apparently relevant for werewolf politics. He makes sure to push forward the copious amounts of red tape and Jackson hooks them up with a magnificently expensive and completely booked contractor, probably under duress. He’s still hell bent on crawling back into Lydia’s good graces. They raise the pale, solid bones of the house in two weeks.

It’s still three more months of plaster and tiles and wood boards and hanging wires before the smooth walls wrap around the house. They’re bare, but the light shines through the windows and bathes the stark white rooms and the sandy floorboards in a warm glow. Cora stands in the middle of the foyer, right under the big skylight, and imagines the first full moon run starting and ending right there.

Lydia commandeers Derek’s soccer mom SUV a little too gleefully and Peter side eyes her, unsettled for the first time in many years. She chooses all the furniture, the decorations, the full works, and Derek pays, only mildly infuriated. Scott sends Lydia a few pictures he took during the house works. Isaac is in all of them, front and center. She chooses one of Derek and Isaac going over the blueprints on a makeshift table, with a few workers lifting the first panel off the floor; she wraps it and gives it to him as a housewarming gift and Derek smiles and runs his fingers over the silver carvings and the edge of the frame.

The last screws are tightened into place the first week of June, and Peter brings in a landscaper to finish up the backyard. There’s one room though, and Derek won’t allow anyone in. Isaac thinks it’s a sanctuary, some sort of hideaway. It’s probably full of the stuff that survived the fire and what little he salvaged from Laura’s apartment in New York, and no one gives it further thought. If Derek wants to be left alone, they can only oblige.

The construction crew wraps up just in time for the summer of their third year. Isaac is unrelenting about a housewarming party. Derek acquiesces, on the condition that Cora and Peter tend to the barbeque.

Just about everyone Derek knows drops by: Lydia tells Allison, and she comes with Chris Argent and Melissa McCall, who somehow make it work, despite having the odds stacked against them. She’s been doing diplomatic work, restoring the Argents’ reputation as fair hunters, writing treaties for warring packs. Lydia fawns over the engagement ring on her finger and Scott hugs her warmly, the same old puppy eyes he used to put on for her, but it’s friendly and Derek knows that he’s sincere in his congratulations, genuinely happy that she’s happy. Isaac tackles her the moment he sees her, picks her up in the air and twirls her in a bone crushing hug. They catch up over a beer, Isaac casually leaning on Scott, with that unaffected demeanor of his. Scott’s hand wanders, subtly scenting Isaac. Isaac’s eyes go soft. Allison smiles and nods and hugs them both.

They’re all out back, milling around the yard. Derek watches on as he grabs two beers from the fridge. One for him, one for the Sheriff. Over the years, they’ve come to a quiet understanding, one reserved for family. Derek calls him Noah now. Noah is still convinced that they’re just one tiny hiccup away from being family. Derek’s not so sure. He entertains him, though, and more importantly, doesn’t pester him about his eating habits.

He leaves through the kitchen and finds Noah talking to Melissa, hands him his beer. They talk about the Mets’ performance, Derek nods along enthusiastically. Then they switch to cars; Melissa’s old sedan has finally given up and she’s looking to buy. Noah tells her he knows just the guy and claps Derek’s back, laughing.

When the initial bustle winds down a bit, Derek offers to do a house tour for Noah.

“They’ve all seen it, helped build and decorate,” he explains offhandedly. “Isaac’s moving in next week.”

He walks Noah through the kitchen, the living room, the study on the ground floor. He points to the basement door offhandedly. “It’s empty now, but we’ll find a use for it. Let’s show you upstairs.”

The upper floor consists of an open space that overlooks the foyer, and a corridor littered with doors. Derek points towards them. “Plenty of room for everyone up here. Peter insisted. Extended packs live together,” he explains.

Derek stays behind while the Sheriff ventures into the room to the far right end of the corridor. The room that’s off-limits to everyone else.

The walls are painted a soft shade of slate gray, with a white upper trim. To the left, a double door awaits, wide open, leading to the master bath. There is no back wall, just a continuum of floor to ceiling glass panels overlooking a deck that wraps around the corner of the building and continues behind the right-hand wall. In the distance, the woods get denser. The view is breath-taking and the sun shines high in the sky. It’s the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the forest.

There is just no furniture. Not a single piece in sight.

“It’s the master bedroom” Noah notes, words carefully measured. “It’s empty.”

Derek chuckles lowly and stares him back bemusedly. “I have no use for it. The architect insisted. He had a vision.”

“He might have been on to something,” Noah says.

He walks further into the room and waits for Derek to join him.

“It’s proofed, I assume.”

Derek nods. “Sound and scent.”

“Ah,” Noah sighs. “That explains that.”

Right there, on the right hand corner, the only clue that this room has a purpose lays in plain sight. There’s a wooden clothes rack. Neatly zipped on a hanger, Stiles’ lacrosse hoodie presides the room. It reads Stilinski, 23, and it looks well worn. The sun coming in through the back wall casts a long shadow on the floor.

(Just as Isaac had suspected, it is, in some ways, a sacred space.)

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinksi #derek hale #pack dynamics #can they make up now please #sterek is eternal #derek hale x stiles stilinski #hale pack

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zeestarfishalien · 2 years ago

Text

Part 9: Like a Muzzled Hound

First | Previous | Next

Zatanna has been dead silent for approximately 7 minutes and 40-some seconds since casting a spell allowing her to see Spooky. That’s almost half as long as it took him to convince her that Spooky was here with Jason and not in the cemetery.

Jason decides to give her another full minute before poking her in the shoulder with the end of a training staff.

“Told ya they were here,” he says casually.

“That…This isn’t…they’re not a…” She takes a breath seeming to fortify herself for something. “This is not one of The Black Dogs.” She doesn’t let her gaze stray from Spooky, she barely even blinks her staring is so intense.

“Ooo-kay…” Jason drawls slowly, “so what are they?” Spooky for their part watches Zatanna with half curiosity and half wariness. They seem to be taking their cues from Jason himself. He keeps himself purposefully relaxed just in case that is what is going on.

A strangled noise erupts from Zatanna as she chokes on whatever she’s trying to express. She waves her hand at the comatose spirit.

“I, Ive never…it shouldn’t be possible. Astral Projection is only something for living beings and those like demons and some such.”

“Zee, I’m gonna need a little more info than that,” Jason sighs.

She gestures vaguely in the direction of Spooky and the Spirit (heh, sounds like a shitty band name).

“Your friend here. Spooky?” Jason nods. “Yeah, well Spooky here is an astral projection of the soul of our friend from the coffin. It shouldn’t be possible, a projection of a soul’s manifestation. The form of the spirits of the Infinite Realms should already match what they see themselves as.”

That explains a lot. Especially why Spooky was so desperate to get Jason to dig up that coffin. But that begs another question.

“Why aren’t they back in their regular body and moving around?”

Zatanna worries her lip with her teeth and her thoughtful gaze lands to rest on Spooky.

“You can understand me, right?” Spooky perks up and slowly nods their head without breaking eye contact with the magician.

“Did you have astral projection abilities before you were put in that abomination of a spirit trap?”

Spooky shakes their head no.

“So it’s a new ability…” she says, thinking aloud. “And you were trapped, so there was no reason to wake up… Does it feel like it’s been a long time since you were buried?”

They nod this time, their gaze never leaving Zatanna.

“You don’t know how to go back, do you…”

Spooky nods even though her question sounded more like a statement.

Jason stands straighter and eyes Spooky in a odd sort of calculating way. “Wait…you’re just stuck outside your own body?”

Spooky for their part sort of shuffles in place and doesn’t quite nod or shake their head.

“I’m starting to think Marvel’s theory about hybrids is right,” Zatanna muses under her breath. Her gaze shifts from Spooky to the body on the table and back again.

Finally deciding to break the tense silence, Jason asks, “so, what do we do from here?”

Zatanna has the audacity to shrug (no, it’s not infuriating, just…mildly annoying).

“It’s not a matter of energy levels,” she says thoughtfully. “Spooky here has enough power to awaken and unless there’s some curse or something keeping them down, the only other explanation is that they need time to figure out how to stay within and wake up in their own body.”

Jason eyes her blankly. “A helpful explanation, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m getting there.” She waves him off. “Just staying here should be fine. They’ve clearly developed an attachment to you. It’s just a matter of getting a handle on their new ability. Right Spooky?” She turns to face the shadow dog.

They nod again, their eyes sparkling with determination as they shuffle closer to Jason’s side.

Those radioactive neon green eyes should not be able to look as pitiful as they do right now. Jason can’t help but soften under the hopeful gaze of the spectral dog…or, well spirit? Apparition?

Whatever Spooky may be, it doesn’t much matter to Jason. They’re someone/something that needs help. Besides, something about them is familiar and oddly comforting.

~*~

Jason is pretty sure that Spooky would follow him on his whole route if they could. As it is, they follow him as far as they can go and meet up with him as soon as he is within range again. Zatanna said it’s because they’re tied to their corporeal form. At least that’s what Jason got out of her long winded ramble about how Spooky’s ability “shouldn’t be possible for a spirit” and how, “nothing makes sense Jason.”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by something wet nudging his hand. Spooky is watching Jason carefully as they put first one front foot and then the other on the couch next to him. It takes him a moment to realize that they’re asking his permission.

“Go ahead,” he replies softly. He reads the relief in Spooky’s eyes as they complete their climb onto the seat next to him.

It’s weird how the cushions don’t dip or show any signs of Spooky sitting on them. He understands that they can’t interact with the world, but it’s easy to forget when he’s death adjacent enough to be one of the things Spooky can actually interact with. Their head in his lap is real and tangible, his fingers tangling in the long black fur that’s so soft and silky to the touch.

Jason has a tablet propped up against an ammo box on the coffee table with a cheesy romcom movie playing. It’s more for ambient noise than to watch since Jason is so far in his own head. The female lead is tackling some big DIY bed and breakfast house renovation. There’s a goat that keeps scaring her and every time that happens, Spooky huffs in what Jason imagines is the ghost-dog version of an amused snort.

A nudge against his hand has Jason noticing that he stopped petting Spooky. They wriggle their nose under his hand.

Jason chuckles, resuming with gentle strokes.

Spooky’s gaze finds his and there’s something there…he can’t quite pinpoint what it is but suddenly he’s all too aware that Spooky’s true body and form is on the table, half way across the room. He’s all too aware of how humanoid Spooky is, despite their actions being something an attention seeking dog would do.

The feeling washes over Jason with an eerie chill.

Spooky’s sneeze fractures the moment. All that’s left is Jason, the ghost dog, and the body on the table.

And wow doesn’t that sound like the start of a bad joke?

Jason returns his attention to the cheesy romcom and running his fingers through Spooky’s long silky fur.

First | Previous | Next

Oh hey. Hello there, I am alive. Kinda fell off the mental health bandwagon. Not that I was exactly sitting’ pretty there to begin with. Anywho, I’m still around and I’m still writing. Depression might be kicking my ass seven ways to Sunday but I’m not gonna let that stop me. I’m just slow(lie); been reading instead of writing and bc I haven’t been reading Dc, Dp, or dcxdp I forget I have this. But I’m drafting chaps in my notes now instead of on here so that should help me. No guarantees on when I’ll update but if I think of extra content or if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask away, either in the comments or in my asks, I’ll try to post more in between stuff. The romcom referenced here is called Falling Inn Love (It's on Netflix). Super cheesy and troped up to the gills but entertaining and not completely unbearable.

[Tag List] @emergentpanda-blog @my-perfect-storybook-love @gunebugfic @thegatorsgoose @thewondersoflebanon @bobred18 @d4ydr34min9 @ver-444 @redafi @echoednonny @greenmuffinofdoom @mentalcarebear @fisticuffsatapplebees @vythika96 @writer-extraodinaire @meira-3919 @yjfk @oddlydrawnpuppets @crystalqueertea @lazy-bouqet @darkthunder1589 @mnemovoid @keimiwolf @aarinisreading @love-has-no-labels @terzatheunderscorerima @idkmrpianoman @mur-ururu @chip-thief @kawaiikenna

@rangerhorsetug @treepainting @thatonegirl10 @demiourgias @spooky-fm @antagonisticly @fluffy23sblog @manglethemingle @kyrianclawraith @layyeschips @shepardking @asphyxia778 @ballzfrog @fluffen-spooky @drowningroane @deathsdaisy @malaayna @mistyaltair @potatoeofwisdom @heartsong18 @nixthenerd @icedbluesoul @the-church-grimm @overtherose @sara0055 @banishedthumbs @tired-yet-awaken

@dannyphantomphan @nonbinary-disaster @depressed-bitchy-demon @8-29pm @addie-lover-of-stories @lifefilledwithstories @apointlessbox @skulld3mort-1fan @katgirl05 @spookytragedyshark @mandyne-1001 @ascetic-orange @booklover9114 @qualifiedpasta @mouzerequis @fleeting-mists @gin2212 @rollthatcritical @kaitouhime @itsloveleo @litlecameron @phantom-dc @hippityhoppity-iownyourbones @pastalavistamf @kokoroluna @legowerewolf @riasthelustful @agreatcheesecakestudentstuff @mysterimax

@akintoabitch @snowblub @isaactheautobot @jaguarthecat @ventureingonwings

[its been a hot minute since i last posted so i'm sorry if I forgot to tag anyone]

#dp x dc #church grim danny au #the black dog danny #jason todd #dc x dp #danny phantom crossover #dc crossover

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somber-sapphic · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! Someone reposted your work(s) over wattpat, their username is @smileybannana

Just wanted to let you know, have a nice day!

(Btw yours is in the ‘Avengers tumblr fluff’ book)

Hi anon! Well this is more than mildly infuriating, thank you for letting me know.

just in case anyone was wondering, don't copy paste my fucking work!

Edit: so mad I apparently can’t read, sorry guys

#well #thats unexpected #thank you for telling me anon #i hope you have a lovely day #and someone spits in their food #we dont like stealing

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verdemoun · 3 months ago

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So I have a new idea for a hypothetical ask. All the parental figures/old folks meeting up. Hosea, Bessie, Darraugh, Hamish, Lenny’s dad That’s mentioned in his letter possibly, Grimshaw, Dutch and the less parental Strauss, and Uncle

I would love them to just get to hang out together and in some cases away from the rest of the gang’s shenanigans (c’mon let Hamish and Hosea and Darraugh have there own shenanigans!!!) Plus I am a sucker for any hypothetical Hamish content and Hosea and Grimshaw are two of my favorite gang members :>

this made me laugh hypothetical au where the known parents of the gang turn up for no reason and get into antics

it feels like an intervention with darragh, mr summers, the duffys and later grimshaw and bessie all chiming up to yell at dutch and hosea What the everloving FUCK did you do to our boys. look at them. they have anxiety.

dutch tries to defend himself and hosea has to give him the shut up look because his talk of ideals immediately backfires when mr summers points out they left lenny to die alone.

the parents magically know what happened in rdr2. darragh and mr summers are instant best friends and are taking turns holding each other back from punching dutch in the face. mammy duffy does land a punch before her husband catches her

dutch and beatrice morgan get along a little too well and hosea is suddenly very thankful they never met because they both have that extra bit of neurological spice in the same direction. maybe it's schizophrenia, maybe it's unspecified delusions of grandeur but they both speak in pretty language that isn't entirely grounded in reality and very much feed that energy in each other.

lyle morgan pipes up about not being surprised arthur turned out to be a killer because there was always something wrong with that kid and hosea beats him with a chair. hamish stops hosea only to take the chair himself and join in. fuck lyle morgan

uncle only turned up to eat popcorn and watch williamson sr and marston sr both drink themselves stupid and then was so mildly infuriated by the display he decided fuck you they're my kids now. tell me uncle isn't the closest thing bill has to a positive male figure in his life in rdr2.

micah bell the second is annoyed at how much micah has slightly improved for the better in modern era. his 'wife' who is instead very proud of her son for finally being the slightly good person she always believed he was capable of being slaps him. dutch joins in punching gross old man who raised son to be as mentally warped as micah is - and that's coming from the master gaslighter himself

in more fun stuff: hamish, hosea and pappy duffy would be fishing pals, sit in silence drinking beer sort. uncle tags along but they aren't convinced he even owns a fishing rod. hamish and hosea have brief conversations about what a good kid arthur is while on the inside they are punching the ground screaming because he has done so well for himself and they're so proud he finally got the chance to just be happy

as much as they loathe dutch for encouraging their boys to be outlaws instead of using his resources to help them rebuild their lives and actually doing good, darragh and mr summers can't stop themselves from getting into pseudo-intellectual debates with dutch and annabelle. they all have really similar ideals about common good but disagree about how it is achieved and it's very amusing to see them get animated about it

grimshaw, bessie, mrs bell, mammy duffy and hosea are also gossips and love nothing more than sitting around drinking coffee and talking about their gaggle of children. also mrs bell is so beautiful and charming everyone is trying to decode how micah was produced. they are all just sharing childhood stories like micah picking weeds to be a bouquet for his mama who he adored and arthur's fishing story and the mission of giving john a bath and you can just tell they all love their kids.

#rdr2 timewarp au

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harlequin-hangout · 2 years ago

Text

The Winter Storm: Part 3 (Finale)

Series Master List | Bucky Barnes Master List

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Warnings: so many guns, violence, ⚠️Intimidation⚠️, screaming, injury, kidnapping, smut, this is the one where we go to murder town kids, let me know if I missed anything

Contains: Angst, fluff, Anger, temper, abuse depending on your trauma, mildly extreme injuries, sexual tension thicker than America's Ass

Word Count: 4.6k

Dividers are made by me! Want some for yourself? Send me an ask!

I do not nor will I ever give permission for my writing to be copied, pasted, reposted to other sites, or edited in any way shape or form. Seriously, just don’t.

Summary: You find yourself in the middle of the Wolf's Den with no way out. With chaos raging around you, it's time to Do or Die. The Winter Storm will always claim a victim.

Bucky sighed, feeling a new weight. After at least an hour of panic, Steve was okay and sleeping off the day in Buckly’s room. None of his wounds had been very deep, thank god. Y/N had been right, he could see that now that he’s calmed down. Steve’s injuries weren’t life threatening, there were just a lot of them. Coupled with the effort it took to get to the safe house, he had passed out from exhaustion, not blood loss. The biggest risk had been infection.

. . . He yelled at her. He had thrown her. She was trying to help him, and he treated her like shit. He may have known Steve longer, but she was Steve’s friend too. Steve had been handling their undercover plants within Pierce Enterprises. Both were brilliant at their jobs, but having a handler watching their back in case something went sideways was non-negotiable. Bucky glanced sideways at the guest room door, trying to let her come out at her own pace. Calling it a ‘guest room’ felt wrong now. That was her door. She was the most incredible person he’d met in a long time. She was quick, both mentally on her feet. She had prioritized Steve’s needs and been able to come up with a plan that would have worked while he was still panicking. And he had thrown her. Fuck . . . he wouldn’t blame her for wanting to leave. She really couldn’t leave, not safely, but he could arrange for a different guard. Sitting on the couch, Bucky groaned, resting his elbows on his knees and running both hands through his hair. He didn’t want her to leave. He had thrown her. Why did he like this woman so much? She was smart, quick on her feet, took to the training well, sure, but he’d met countless women like that and they didn’t get to him like this. Bucky leaned back as he tried to think. His mind began to wander back to when he’d first met her.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes. Y/N, I’m assisting Mr. Pierce tonight. Mr. Pierce, I finished up the donation financial reports like you asked, and scheduled meetings with Zola and Rumlow, as requested,” She said. “Is there anything else that you need me to complete before I enjoy the party?” she glanced briefly over at him and bit her lower lip.

. . . That’s it. She wasn’t afraid of him. From the beginning, she wasn’t afraid. Sure, there were moments when he’d scared her, but threatening to shoot someone will do that. Yet, even when he’d threatened to shoot her . . .

“What the hell is going on here?? Three days ago I’m a fucking secretary, and now I’m somehow a pawn for a drug lord and whoever you are? And don’t even fucking try to deny it, Barnes, you both offered me the same deal: compliance or death.” Bucky glared and leaned forward. He’d killed people for less than this. She looked scared, terrified even, yet she didn’t back down. “You keep talking about these different pieces. The White Watch, Mr. Pierce, and an infuriating need to know the timeline, so what’s your game? You’re probably going to kill me anyway, so at least be decent and connect the dots before you take me out.”

That’s what had attracted him to Y/N in the first place. When pushed, even though she was out of her depth, she still stood her ground. She looked him in the eye and called him on his bullshit even with the threat of death hanging over her head. Bucky checked his phone. She’d been in her room for almost three hours . . . He was trying to be patient, but he was starting to worry and he NEEDED to apologize. Whether or not she accepted it was up to her and he would deal with the consequences of his actions, but he needed to at least try to fix it. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her hurting like that . . . he had seen the pain in her eyes. Okay, just check. Make sure she’s physically okay, then don’t pressure her. Bucky got up and strode over to the door. He knocked, to no answer.

“Hey, it’s me. I just want to make sure you’re okay . . . I was so, so wrong to do what I did, and I won’t push the conversation until you’re ready. Will you let me know when you’re ready?” Silence. “. . . Hello?” Bucky’s intuition told him something was off. Usually when people didn’t respond, there was still sound. Movement, a groan, a sigh, something. The room just felt . . . Still. Bucky tried the door and found it unlocked. He slowly pushed the door open, reaching for the gun that was usually in the underarm holster. He peered around the door, finding the bed empty except for the phone that Steve had been clutching. Odd . . . he peeked around the corner of the door frame. Maybe she was in the comfy chair he’d moved in to give her a place to watch the snow. Bucky froze. The room was empty and the window was open.

“FUCK!!” He screamed, the panic rushing back. He had told her to get out of his sight and out of the building. He hadn’t been thinking straight. He hadn’t meant literally. She was missing, and it was all his fault.

“Okay, Buck,” he thought to himself, “You fucked this up royally last time. This time you need to focus. Clues.” Bucky picked up the phone on the bed, turning it over in his hand. It was the Witch’s phone . . . Wanda’s burner. He had insisted that she take a burner when she went undercover at Pierce Enterprises . . . but where did the charm come from? He knew her passcode – standard practice for situations exactly like this. He sat heavily in the chair by the window, and began to thumb through the photos. Cat . . . Cat . . . Meal . . . Not the lingerie he would have chosen . . . He paused. The background of that lingerie photo . . . it was a mirror shot, and there was a second person. He zoomed in, and felt his stomach drop when he recognized Y/N’s face. She knew Wanda. That’s why she had been so insistent about the phone, she realized there was more to this. Angry at his own incompetence, Bucky quickly readied himself. If she had left, then the only place she would have safely known how to get to would be the Base. She’d been there enough times, and there was running water and heat. The rain had stopped, he just hoped he could still find any muddy footprints. Slipping the burner into his pocket, Bucky grabbed two of his SIG-Sauer P220STs, his CZ Vz. 61 E Skorpion that strapped to the back of his tactical vest, and extra ammunition for both models. If Steve had been followed, he wanted to be prepared. He may have to try to protect Y/N if there were enough of them. Bucky added a couple of knives and a stun baton for good measure.

He made record time to the base. 37 minutes. He hadn’t run into anyone on the way and there was no damage suggesting any struggle. That was promising. The burner phone vibrated. Probably nothing, but it may give him more information.

MESSAGE FROM: BROCK RUMLOW. ATTACHMENT: 1 IMAGE

Bucky immediately opened the text. Staring him in the face is an image of himself, obviously taken moments before. His eyes shoot up to the guard tower where the camera should have been located, but no one is visible. Before he can move in closer, the phone vibrates again.

MESSAGE FROM: UNKNOWN. ATTACHMENT: 1 IMAGE

He immediately began to sprint back to the cabin. On the screen was Y/N. She was barely conscious, her face bloodied. Though definitely alive, Pierce held her head up with the fist that he’d knotted into her hair. She was on the floor of what looked like a helicopter.

Bucky kicked in the bedroom door.

“STEVE.” Steve jolted awake, groaning at the pain. Bucky handed him a couple of pills. And the phone, with the photo still pulled up. “Take these and gear up. Y/N’s gone. Pierce got her. We’re meeting Widow at the Enterprise building.” Steve swallowed the pills dry. He knew better than to argue when his childhood friend was determined. “Whose car are we taking?”

Your head was pounding, and your vision was blurry. After you’d been marched into the helicopter at gunpoint, you’d run into Rumlow, almost literally.

“Maybe now the little bitch will learn to keep her nose out of places it doesn’t belong, eh, Pierce?” Rumlow laughed cruelly.

“At least I don’t have to sneak up on my own hand to masturbate.” That comment earned you a smack to the side of the head.

You smile at the memory. Though your shoulders ached from your hands being tied and Rumlow had done a number on you, but the comment was worth it.

“What are you smiling at?” Rumlow barks from across the room. You don’t answer, letting your head roll forward. You didn’t know where you were, but you knew it wasn’t good. Best you could tell, it was some kind of basement. Cinder block walls, exposed metal bracings, and there were chains hanging, some of them with hooks on the end. The floor was the only part of the place that looked clean, and that wasn’t comforting considering there was a drain in the ground. You’d seen enough mob documentaries to have an idea of the purpose of the room you sat in. “Boss is gonna be here soon. That’ll wipe that smirk off your face.” Rumlow continued, his Alpha Male brand superiority complex radiated off of him.

“Hey, Mr. Rumlow?” you choke out, coughing a little bit. The blood in your throat wasn’t comfortable. “May I please ask you something?”

“Fuck it, you’re dyin’ soon anyway.”

“Why do you act so tough?”

“S’cuse me?”

“I’ve been trying to figure it out. See, most people don’t bother with projecting something so extreme unless they’re hiding something.”

“And what do you think I’m hiding, Doll Face?”

“Honestly?” you can’t stop the smirk from playing on your lips once again. “Probably a fear of another man treating you the way you treat women.” Now you had his attention. Not in a good way, but something was better than nothing. “Or a fear of another man giving it to you up the ass.” You worked on the rope binding your hands. If you could just remember what Bucky had taught you . . . One hand breaks free. You discreetly shove the rope under your butt and try to keep your upper body as still as possible while you work on the other. “You shouldn’t worry, you’re the biggest asshole I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. Long as you lube up first, you should be fine.” Rumlow lunges forward, going for your throat. Perfect. You throw your weight back, kicking your feet out as hard as possible. Your right heel collided with Rumlow’s nose, and the chair fell backwards. Alpha males. So predictable. While the writhing asshole on the ground in front of you recovers from the shock, you swung the chair against the wall. This one was a metal folding chair, but as you had anticipated, it hadn’t been taken care of. The rust on the bolts gave way, leaving you completely unhindered. Shit, Rumlow is back on his feet. Luckily, he’s angry. He’s going to be sloppy if he’s angry. You dart forward, putting yourself on a collision course for his torso. In his blind rage, he lunges again. As soon as he’s past the point of no return, you duck down to your right and roll. He falls forward into the wall and you disappear out the door, leaving him screaming in rage.

The Widow strode into Pierce’s office. Winter Soldier and Vortex, as he had re-named himself, were on their way and she needed to keep the package safe until they arrived. Rumlow, or Crossbones as he was insisting on being called, was in the room with her right now. Not Widow’s first choice, but not the end of the world either. He wouldn’t dare cross The Wolf, and The Wolf wanted to do most of the damage. Widow just needed to keep that Wolf busy long enough for her backup to arrive.

“Sir? The basement workout you had planned is going to have to wait. We have intruders.”

“Intruders? Are they here for the Girl?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. They seem more interested in getting to the design levels. Possibly from that new start up.”

“Thank you Natalie. I’ll let you handle it.” Widow nods and closes the door on her way out. It didn’t buy her much time, but it was enough. Pierce wouldn’t risk heading down to the basement if he thought outsiders were in the building. Crossbones may have shot Wanda, but she would be damned if another girl would die on her watch. As Widow made her way down to the lower levels, she flipped to Vortex’s messages.

What about that girl from accounting? Sharon? She seems nice.

Bucky wove through traffic on his bike, Steve not far behind. Ten Minutes. They would be there in ten minutes and could clear the building in less than fifteen. He could see the building in the distance, he just needed to get off the freeway.

“I’m on my way, Doll, just a little longer . . . Hold on baby, please . . . hold on.”

You climb through the industrial sized HVAC duct. They were barely two feet by three feet so you had to army crawl, but it was much preferable to your only alternative. If you had gathered anything about Pierce, it’s that Bucky was his end goal. Based on the conversation in the cabin back in December, he thought Steve was dead, leaving Bucky as his only target. Pierce would use you to draw Bucky out, and you had no doubt he would come. You felt a pang in your heart.

“I don’t give a shit what it is, I have to save the only person who’s ever given a FUCK about me!”

You knew he didn’t mean it, but it stung. You cared. You cared so much. You’d spent five months around no one except him and occasionally Steve. You knew that it wasn’t a conventional meeting, but you would do it again in a heartbeat. He didn’t kidnap you, no. He’d offered you the only safety you’d known since that fateful day you walked into Pierce’s office. You bury your face in Bucky’s hoodie. It still smells like him. A tear rolls down your face as newfound determination to escape fills you.

Shit, dead end. There was a switch off behind you, you just needed to wiggle backwards enough to take it. You could hear crashing somewhere off in the distance. That was probably Rumlow kicking down doors. As quietly as you can, you manage to backtrack and take the turn. Straight. Right at the fan. Two turn offs down. Left. You do your best to keep track of where you are and how to get out, but staying away from Rumlow is your top priority. When you hear voices, you freeze.

“ – and if anyone finds her, you bring her here. To me. Unharmed. The Wolf wants that pleasure for himself. Understood?” A female voice commands the room. No, it couldn’t be . . . you peek through a vent to assess how screwed you might be.

“Yes, Ma’am!” The response comes from three men in full tactical gear. You crane your neck to see who’s standing in front of them. . . Natalie Rushman? She was in on all of this too? You took a deep breath and swallowed your panic. She was a friendly figure before, but things were different now. Just keep moving. As the door opened for the thugs to leave, you readied yourself to make your escape but you froze in place. Pierce was standing in the doorway. Your heart was racing a million miles a minute, this was WAY too close for comfort. He started talking about something, but the blood rushing in your ears made it impossible to hear. You slowly pushed back. Just ease yourself – A creak filled the room. You froze. Pierce and Natalie looked around the room.

“Come out, come out wherever you are . . .” Pierce's sing-songy tone was sickening. You wanted nothing more than to–Wait. You couldn’t see him anymore, where’d he go?? You craned your neck, searching frantically for Pierce. It was imperative that you know where he was at all points in – Another creak. Louder, more strained . . . Please hold, please . . . The vent crashed to the floor. You felt the end of the vent lift up, causing you to tumble to the floor. Pierce was staring down at you, a renewed fire in his eyes.

“Well, well, well. Would you look what the cat dragged in?

You glare at Pierce, the smug look on his face making you hate him even more. His knuckles connected with your jaw. The metallic taste of fresh blood hit your tongue as your lip split.

“Have you given up yet, bitch?”

“Sorry,” you growled, “It’s gonna take more than a tap from the stone age to break me.” You got a backhand for that one. This time, he managed to knock you out of your chair. You cursed yourself for getting caught. “I thought you said you were going to teach me a lesson,” you spat at him, trying to push yourself off the floor. “Seems like the old Wolf is all out of new tricks.” You began to laugh. It was cold with no humor behind it. In reality, you were terrified. Terrified of the Wolf. Terrified of Ms. Rushman. All you had to do was hold out long enough for Bucky to get to you, if he was even coming . . . You wanted to think he was, but there were so many variables. Even if he did show up, there was an increasing chance that he wouldn’t make it before you met your end at Pierce’s hands. All you could do was pray you didn’t die tied on this now bloodstained basement floor. Pierce grabbed your hair and yanked upwards. You screamed in pain and could have sworn you saw Ms. Rushman flinch.

“You listen to me, you little whore.” Pierce’s voice was harsh and low. You could feel his hot breath on your ear and the sensation turned your stomach. “Be as much of a smart ass as you want. No one’s coming for you. No one’s here to save you. Do you want to know why? Because you’re a pawn. An asset. You’re expendable. If you think the Winter Soldier will save you, then you’ve convinced yourself of a lie. I killed Avalanche. You should have heard his screams as he bled out on the warehouse floor. I’ll enjoy killing the Soldier while you watch. Every stab, every shot. Every punch.” Tears started flowing from your eyes. Your sobs came in waves. You tried to stifle them, but to no avail. C’mon Y/N, just think of something. Anything. Get one good hit in, and maybe, just MAYBE you can make it out of here alive. You stared daggers at Pierce through your tears, and spit on his face.

“You little CUNT,” he roared, throwing you across the room by your hair. You scream again, but this time, you’ve had it.

“FUCK YOU, YOU COWARD. You sent Rumlow to do your dirty work. Fucking RUMLOW, who had his ass handed to him by someone with only five months of training and couldn’t even handle a fucking finance report.” Pierce immediately strode towards you, but was stopped mid step by a banging noise. Suddenly, Rumlow flew through the door hitting the ground in the middle of the room. You looked up, and you finally saw him. That wasn’t Bucky. No, you were looking at The Winter Soldier.

“Hey, Doll, Sorry I’m late.” Bucky’s tone was even, calculated. His eyes didn’t leave Pierce, even as Rumlow began to stand. “Widow. Vortex is taking on a couple thugs in the hallway. Crossbones is all yours.”

“With pleasure,” Ms. Rushman replied. “This is going to be cathartic.” Pierce’s face was one of shock.

“Natalie? Natalie! I order you to stop right now. I am the Godfather of this operation and I–” In one fluid motion, Natalie Rushman slammed a knife through Pierce’s hand, pinning it to the wall.

“Consider that my resignation,” she stated coldly. Rumlow was back on his feet, and she wasted no time attempting to change that. Your attention turned back to Bucky as you heard gunfire. He was shooting down the hallway – evidently a couple thugs had got away from Steve. Your mind was racing. How to get out? There had to be– wait, Natalie had tied you up. Maybe . . . you start pulling at the ropes, and just as you’d hoped, they fall. You hear the knife clatter to the floor as Pierce rips the weapon free of his hand. He reaches for his gun.

“Behind you!” You scream, and Bucky turns. He vaults down the stairs pulling his own firearm out of the thigh holster. Behind him, you see one of the thugs making his way into the room.

“No time like the present,” you think to yourself. With Pierce distracted, you’re able to grab the knife that Natalie had left him as a parting gift. You throw yourself at the thug, gripping the handle of the blade so hard that your knuckles are white. You hear Bucky’s voice in your head.

“If you only have a knife, get in close. Guns are great at a distance, but if you get within a foot of their body, it becomes a lot harder to react fast enough with a firearm before a knife can make contact.” You lunge, latching onto his neck. Swinging your bodyweight around, you land on the thug’s back and jam the knife into his side. He drops like a boulder. You stand over him breathing heavily. Not having time to process what’s just happened, you move on. Rumlow has Natalie pinned to a wall by her neck. You creep up behind him, but he spots you. Turning his body, his eyes bore into you. Your skin is on fire, and you almost get sick when you realize that he’s getting off on the suffering in the room.

“This stuck-up bitch turned me down so many times. Now I’ll teach her what happens to bitches who reject me. Then, Sweet Cheeks, it’s your turn.” You try to will your body to move, but you’re frozen. You’ve never encountered someone so evil, so genuinely and maliciously sadistic as him. You can hear Natalie’s choked breaths as he squeezes– a gunshot rings out in the small room and Rumlow crumples to the floor. As Natalie gasps for air, you whip your head around and see Steve, eyes full of rage. Rumlow groans and stirs. Steve almost flies across the floor and places the tip of his pistol to the back of Rumlow’s head.

“Not today. This is for Wanda, you sick fuck.” You cover your eyes, and hear the smack of a head hitting the ground. Steve immediately moves to help you. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s get you out of here.” You lean against him, grateful for the help. You’ve almost made it to the stairs when you see him. Bucky is losing his struggle. You don’t even think. You grip the knife in Steve’s leg holster and make a mad dash for Pierce. You knew you were losing a lot of blood, but you didn’t care. Your Winter Soldier needed you. Throwing all of your weight behind it, you drive Steve’s six inch blade into the middle of Pierce’s back and you can hear the air being driven from his lungs. You twist it violently, trying to do as much damage as humanly possible.

“Get the fuck off him, you prehistoric parasite,” you hiss. Pierce’s body slides to the floor. For the first time since you entered the room, everything’s quiet. Your breathing is heavy, and your vision starts to waver, but Bucky is safe. That’s all that matters. You barely register his yell as you collapse on top of him.

Everything is warm and cozy. You could curl up and sleep for hours. You didn’t think you’d ever be warm and dry again, much less cozy. Your body feels unusually heavy as you try to move. Where were you? Why was it so dark? And what was that faint sound . . .? You focus on the only sensory input you have. A voice?

“ . . .baby. You’re strong, you’re so, so strong, come on, Doll, please . . . Please come back to me . . .” Bucky . . .? His voice seemed so far away. It finally hit you. You were almost dead.

“Babygirl, I’m so, so sorry. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me, it’s all my fault . . . You deserve so much better than I’ve given you.”

“Buck . . .” You hear Steve’s voice. “Natasha’s pulled the car around to the back door. C’mon. There’s nothing else you can do here. Pick up her bod – pick her up and let’s head back to the safehouse.” You feel yourself laugh. A sound that turns into a weak cough, then a coughing fit. As the darkness begins to clear, you find yourself cradled against Bucky’s chest. He’s clinging to you as if his life depended on yours. Tears fall onto your skin as hope returns to Bucky’s eyes.

“Doll? Are you there?” You try to answer, but only make the coughing worse. “That’s it . . . That’s it baby. You took quite a bit. Nice and slow.” His tensed muscles relax as you come back to the world of the living. You giggle weakly.

“Giving up on me so easy, Rogers?” Your voice is weak, but Steve smiles.

“You heard that, huh?” his eyes soften. He was worried about you too. “Good to have you back, Honey.” You turn your attention back to Bucky, who’s taken to running his fingers through your hair.

“Bucky, I–”

“Don’t, please.” He hangs his head. “My actions are what landed you here, and psychotic ex-coworkers aside, how I treated you was unacceptable. I can arrange for a different guard for you if you’d like to stay in the safehouse. I can–” you cut him off by pressing your lips to his. Bucky falters for just a moment, then melts into your touch.

“We can talk about that later, Buck. You came for me . . . I didn’t know if–”

“I’m always going to come for you, Doll. Don’t ever doubt that. I love you, and I was too stubborn to admit it sooner. From now on, no more kidnappings, no more fights to the death in a basement.”

“Damn,” you mused. “Just when I was starting to get the hang of this mob thing, too.” Bucky laughed. The sound rang in your ears and your heart soared. You loved that sound so much. “I love you, too, Barnes. . .” you whisper as he stands up, lifting you along with him. Bucky touches his forehead to yours, placing a tender kiss on your lips.

“C’mon, Doll, let’s go home.”

Series Tag List: @vbecker10 @caritobbg @the-chocoholic-writer @waywardcrow @aestheticanimegirl15 @prettylittlepluviophile @thomase1 @magnificentgalaxysandwich @vickie5446 @waywardcrow

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the-silly-urge · 11 months ago

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Okay yeah the IGN interview saying Minthara would be complete with "just a few more lines" (relating to Orin no less) is so. Grits my teeth. HUH.

(Rant below, feel free to ignore etc etc)

I love Minthara's backstory, I think it has depth, it's well connected to the rest of the story in terms of ramifications and implications. But let's be honest. Her backstory (specifically relating to Orin/the Absolute) has got to be the thing she has the most lines about. And I'm not saying that's a bad thing necessarily, but I'd say there's enough depth there, and if Larian suddenly wanted to add something to her character, I feel like new interjections would be better? More of her reacting to her environment, connecting her experiences on the surface to what the Underdark was like, etc?

She would not want to be reduced to what was done to her, but when so many of her lines revolve around the Absolute/Orin it's harder to see her as a full-fledged character/person.

Honestly I don't know if Larian just has like... Misconceptions about how much content Minthara has, how functional she is (same with Halsin honestly) that they think she'd be complete with so little. Do they rely on us being perpetually okay with and grateful for breadcrumbs? I want to replay her romance, but there's all that wait to Act 2 to even see her again, and I know it's most likely gonna be bugged, with little content, and no way to even know if the game recognizes your relationship, because her kisses still aren't implemented and her greeting literally never changes.

It's just mildly infuriating to see the lack of content for some companions, obviously I think Minthara is the worst case, with Halsin then Wyll in the running.

I understand they don't have infinite resources and maybe adding more to Minthara/Halsin would be catering to niches, but who's fault is that?

It's frustrating because to a certain point, they hardly feel like fully fleshed-out characters. And I know there's enough to them somewhere in there, left on the cutting room floor or something, or in scenes that don't trigger. But as it stands they feel just so woefully incomplete, especially in comparison to the other amazingly written, content-rich companions, that you get earlier and easier.

(Also I'm pretty sure it is just one person on the team who's saying this, + that they're happy with how BG3 is right now- and I'm not saying they shouldn't be happy with it, but it feels funny when so much was cut and not everything is truly fleshed out. Idk.)

#rambles #rant #bg3 rant #< i don't plan on using these tag(s) much but i can have Some Rage. I can be a little hateful #btw if you want to talk about this i am all ears whether you agree or disagree cause i'm soo #minthara #bg3 #idk yeah i can be content with what she has when they actually implement the kisses finally #but it doesn't truly feel like enough #or like it's all that replayable compared to the other romances #or to the other companions at large #idk maybe it's 100% just that i'm bitter about the lack of content #i do love her and love what we have #but it's not enough and i'm always reminded that it's not enough #i AM curious if people who are partial to halsin have similar feelings #i know i've seen ppl upset about the lack of wyll content #shaking your hands. we are in this together

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officeobject · 12 days ago

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In case you're wondering, I've read some things about ghosts, and I'm being haunted by one who left and has now returned, and Agatha All Along doesn't portray ghosts correctly, and like, I'm sure I'll probably be told it's an unrealistic show, or that ghosts aren't real, or that I'm not being haunted, or that it doesn't matter, I'm just saying, in case anyone is wondering or something.

Ghosts aren't typically portrayed accurately in media anyway, and it's not bothering me THAT much, but it's still mildly infuriating, or whatever.

Also, in case you're wondering about my ghost, you can ask me anything -

In case you're wondering about my SAFETY, well, he's a teenage ghost who abandoned me for like 4 days, came back and made his presence known, and around a week later, he's cuddling me today, please un-hormone him in the platonic area of his brain.

I'm not even making it up.

#agatha all along #ghost #ghosts #vent #paranormal #teenagers

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hereforlikeaminute · 6 months ago

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The importance of a home where you feel safe is worth more than gold. Today I left my mother’s house. Ofc not without ridicule but not in a malicious way. More like watching your baby take it’s first steps, but ultimately knowing it’s fall back down. Into your arms. Or in my mother’s case into the house that turned me into a shell of a human being.

They had no idea how scary this was for me. How afraid I was that I’d fail and come crawling back to the simultaneously only safe net I had and my own personal hell.

Nonetheless I left while being both determined and anxious. I’m beyond nervous. It’s as tho I’m constantly masking. Having to be the bigger person and proving my worth to my sister so I can have a semblance of peace in her small apartment. But she has demons beyond me. I do not like her. I have no affection towards her or ill intent. I think she’s broken.

But I’m nervous. One wrong move. One single argument. One day of me waking up on the wrong side of the bed and I’m thrown out. This is how it’s always been. Walking on eggshells around the people I called my “family”. I might have suffered less that most. And more than a few but I’ve not known a moment of peace in years. It is not that my situation is particularly unique. But I’m a sensitive person. I was a sensitive child forced to mask my emotions. To the point that. Today I don’t quite know who I am.

So from today onwards I should only aim to have a home. That should be my dream. I think it’s the first serious dream I’ve had in years. I will start university and I will finish it. The years will go by anyways. And I will have a home where I am not scared of being beaten or kicked out or my things being touched or my door being opened late into the night or the million of other small mildly infuriating details that have annoyed me to death often.

I’ll have a home to call my own

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talturing · 10 months ago

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Losing Weight at 60

Hey, I lost some weight so I have to say something

I've done some things in my life that I am proud of and some that I am not-so-proud. But fewer are those that impressed me after the fact; and losing weight is something I have done before but to lose weight, again, at 60 years old, in the way I did, and the amount I did, well I am impressed with myself. It won't be something that anyone would ever remember me for. On the surface it is not all that impressive especially in a world where you can find a thousand stories of people who went from 400 pounds, sky-high blood pressure and barely able to stand; then, one year later, running marathons and looking like a fitness model. But being impressed, about anything, has something to do with understanding the associated difficulties and although I am not now participating in extreme sports and my physical looks would not turn your head, I think impressed is the appropriate word.

Why blog about it? As usual, one blogs to share and hopefully to help or aid someone else's thinking or endeavors. But, so you know, my story is not very dramatic, without alot of tears, joyful jumping-in-the-air or life-changing transformations and breakthroughs. I remain, pretty much, the same person I was but, as I said, I am both happy and impressed with my accomplishments. Don't get me too wrong, losing weight, for everyone, is a frustrating, difficult thing and many people blame themselves when they are not successful. But the way I see it, all significant goals are the similar; we aspire, we dream, we try and very often we do not succeed, whether it has to do with launching a successful business, finding a life partner, raising children or even balancing our check books. Somehow, our weight is measured differently, perhaps because almost all of us were content with our weight for the first XX years of our lives and then we lost it. Maybe it's like losing your keys - you know you had it once so it's infuriating that now its gone. How often do you find someone beating themselves up because they aren't as athletic as they "used to be" or as healthy as the "used to be" or as happy as they "used to be". Adulthood and aging brings challenges and most of all change.

Okay, but let me get to it. First just a little background (I promise): I am a 60 year-old man (strange to see me write that) and growing up I was mildly athletic but introverted. I weighted about 150 lbs in high school and that number grew to 220 lbs by the time I was 40. By that time I was married and my wife did all the cooking. A few times since then, I have been able to lose 10-20 pounds but eventually gaining it back. I have joined gyms on and off and have been fairly healthy except for recurring back pain. In this last attempt (I am not so naive to think there will be never be another), I went from about 210 pounds to currently 172 pounds and my goal was 180.

But it didn't happen fast. In the end, it took about 2 years: an average of less than 2 pounds a month. Not a week, a MONTH. It wasn't easy, it was frustrating and I took mild breaks. That doesn't mean that I gave up, just that there might be a week or two where I dropped my routine. The good new, is that toward the end, to my surprise, it got easier and the weight came off faster than before. This is important. Even doing the right things and following my routine, it was still very slow at the start and it was easy to get frustrated and I was often frustrated.

Tip #1 - you have to be in it to win it. That doesn't mean that I was going crazy with exercise or dieting or anything like that. It means that I thought about my routine every day. Even on days when I didn't follow my routine. Still, I thought about it, I reminded myself of my goals, I took the time to be frustrated or to be encouraged or simply to be determined to keep trying. Encouragement from others is probably very important but in my case I didn't have that. I did not really talk about it with others, but that's just me.

Tip #2 - don't go crazy. Set some reasonable expectations. I did not follow any diet. I started to exercise regularly (3-4 times a week) and I watched what I ate. I did not restrict myself from anything but I started to keep to the foods I really enjoyed and ate less of the other stuff. This might be why it was so slow but again it was better to set reasonable expectations than to see great results. I thought about what I was eating. I ignored things that I did not like and started to only eat things I loved especially when it came to fast food or dessert.

Tip #3 - control what you eat. A better way to say that: DON'T LET OTHERS TELL YOU WHAT TO EAT OR DRINK. Yes, they love you and care about you but people just don't take other people's weight loss seriously enough. This is really important. You may not always make the best choices but get used to thinking about what you eat, what snacks you choose, and what you order off the menu. Don't let others bring you drinks and ALWAYS CONTROL YOUR PORTION SIZE! That doesn't mean small portions, it means you are the person who decides how much to put on your plate. Again, if you are going to have a banana split, it should be because you decided that is what you want. Not because your friend decided not to eat theirs and pushed it to you. Don't let people use "wasting food" as a reason why you should eat it. This is hard for people and it will be for you too but you'll get used to it. Sometimes people will just bring you fast food or a desert as a present/surprise. Yes, that was nice of them but don't allow it. As a rule, I now never accept food as a gift. If I think they won't handle it well, then I accept the gift and throw it out later (yes, I will throw it out). As a rule, I will always reject these 'gifts' even if it is exactly as I want. Now, my friends and family are used to it.

Tip #4 - track your weight. I really hate weighing myself and I don't do it every day but aim for once a week. Yes, it SUCKS, sometimes you will be down and many times you won't. Just weight yourself, write it down and move on. In the beginning, it will just go up and down with only a slow gradual drop. Be persistent. I used a weight loss app. It is very simple, I enter a date and a weight and it gives me a graph and some stats. See below I was down 2 lbs for the month, only 0.7 lbs for that week. Those are numbers you won't see on television but look at the total: down 36 lbs over 2 years.

#weight loss journey #getting older

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zablife · 2 years ago

Note

Lee! I didn't see you for a couple of days and just wanted to know if you're okay or at least I hope your back isn't bothering you again. In any case, I'm sending you a big hu 🥰! ☺️🫂

Hi Flor! It's kind of you to check in 💕 I've had some things pop up I had to take care of irl as I prepare to return to work. Then when I checked Tumblr yesterday I noticed the problem others seem to be having with links not working, etc. (Mildly infuriating considering I had messages from readers who couldn't find my stories 😤) Anyway, I think it's sorted now and I'll be reblogging fics as I have the chance to enjoy them tonight. Looking forward to the latest chapter of Who are you? 😊

#zablife ask box #☂️

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byeol-ssi · 3 years ago

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assumptions

✦ diluc r. x gn!reader

✦ tags: brief mentions of injury.

"you're hurt."

it wasn't often that you'd see DILUC gracing his presence at the knights of favonius' headquarters — given that he doesn't necessarily hide his disdain towards the organization — but it was an even rarer sight to see him leaning against the doorway between your office and bedroom.

you resist rolling your eyes at him for pointing out the rather obvious gash on your side. "i'm fine." you answer through gritted teeth, slowly lowering yourself on the bed.

he's quiet, he always is, though his silence never fails to increase tenfold whenever around you. as if you weren't worthy at all of wasting his precious breath or time.

so it takes you by surprise when he enters your room. completely unwelcomed, by the way. you'd figured that he'd gotten sick of you already after spending the entire day working together on a covert assignment.

"let me see." he orders. there isn't any trace of concern in his voice — not that you'd expect him to have any, at least, not for you.

especially, not for you.

he likewise gives no warnings before pulling a stool nearby. the sound of its feet dragging across the hardwood floor makes your head throb, and you wonder if he was purposefully trying to make you throw the bedside lamp right at his irritatingly handsome face.

you lift your bloodied shirt up. "i'm quite certain that you have much more pressing matters to attend to."

he at least grants you the decency to look away as he rummages through the medical kit. "must you always be so stubborn?" he sighs, tone condescending and similar to one you'd use on a child.

"and must you always be on my case?" you snap icily, unable to hold back your temper.

this time, his eyes meet yours. he merely stares, regarding you blandly. he looked even more unimpressed than he usually did, holding the same kind of gaze he's always reserved specifically for you.

indifferent. cold, so unlike his vision, and hard.

it infuriated you.

it wasn't always like this. at some point, you even considered yourselves friends, and foolishly believed that he had begun to let down his guard in front of you.

until it just crashes, burns, and dies. whatever relationship you two had built crumbled into ashes, and you've spent the rest of your interactions with him ever since short, curt, and simply out of obligation.

you don't recall what you could have possibly done to warrant his actions in treating you as if you were a thorn in his side, but neither of you made the first move to clearing any misunderstandings.

you flinch at the sudden contact of his gloved hands assessing your wound, reflexively shooting him a scowl. you move to swat his hand away when he grasps yours, pulling it close to his chest.

"please—" he whispers. it comes off strangled, the plea rolling out of his tongue as if it was taking every bit of his strength to utter that single word.

he squeezes your hand once, and just like that, you falter.

if he wanted to play nurse, then you'd let him. you were far too tired to argue, and even if you could, you knew that you'd probably never win.

he isn't looking at you now, strangely focused on your injury. his lips are slightly downturned into a frown, and you mirror a harsher expression paired with a hiss when he presses the antiseptic against your wound.

"you need to stay still," he says, and again, you suppress the urge to reach for the lamp next to you. it didn't help that you were mildly upset at yourself for having been injured so easily on a mission assigned with him out of all people.

as if he could read your thoughts, diluc brings a hand up to smooth down the creased lines of your troubled forehead. your cheeks burn at the unexpected gesture — startlingly intimate — and you wonder if he had somehow used his vision.

"you aren't being a burden. it's written all over your face."

you snort, the words slipping past your lips before you've had the chance to fully think them through. "hard to believe when you've been treating me like i am one after all this time."

his hands pause in their movements, and you expect him to quip something snarky in return, when he quietly says, "i apologize if i've made it seem that way—arms up, please."

you oblige, unsure how to respond with the unanticipated sincerity, hovering your arms rather awkwardly in the air to provide him with better access.

diluc scoots closer, almost encircling you in a hug as he wraps the bandages around your abdomen. he's extremely warm and he's extremely broad, and an inexplicable blend of tension and silence fills in the almost non-existent space between both of you.

he finally retreats once finished, and you let out a breath of relief. after handing you a loose shirt to change into, he turns his back away to fix the medical kit.

"i thought you hated me," you mumble, breaking the taut-like quietness.

"i never said i did. i'll lock your door when i leave, so get into bed."

you comply, finding yourself easily swept up by his authority. or tenderness. you aren't quite sure anymore.

he hovers with his arms crossed above you, his usually impassive face flashing with uncertainty. he appeared to be deciding something.

"i simply find it difficult to focus whenever you're near," he eventually admits, bringing up the blanket just below your chin. again, it's unexpected and so is the sudden flutter in your chest.

you believe that's hardly an acceptable excuse for distancing himself from you after all this time, so you prod. "because?"

he doesn't respond, making you sigh. typical. he goes about your room, adjusting your curtains, dimming down all the lamps, and even rearranging the papers on your desk.

his movements do nothing to lessen your headache, and so you allow your exhaustion to settle in your bones like a weighted blanket. the bed dips beside you, and you're surrounded once more by his warmth. you unconsciously move towards it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

"do you hate me?" diluc asks. it's tentative. careful. like he was afraid you'd say yes.

the answer comes to you easily. "i don't."

and it was true. because even if you hated how he was always right, hated the way his presence overpowered everything else, so you could only think about him, hated how he always seemed to be bothered and distant, and hated the walls he'd built around himself, you didn't hate him.

because he's never once made you feel inferior. he always had the choice to say no to missions that involved you, but he's never once declined. he was quiet, yes, but so was his support, care, and attentiveness.

and despite the fortress he'd enclosed himself in, you knew that he'd tear down those walls in an instant if you merely asked him to. you'd do the same, after all.

"but i'm not stupid," you add, closing your eyes. "don't assume that i don't notice how you're purposefully keeping me at arm's length. it's mean."

you're rambling now, you're aware, and he hums as if to appease you. "i suppose i've taken it too far. you need to get some rest now."

"you still haven't answered my earlier question yet." you pout, peeping one eye to see him.

he's already looking at you, a ghost of a smile on his face. a part of you wants to pinch yourself to see whether or not you've already succumbed to sleep, and up until now, everything had just been a dream.

he leans forward, pressing the gentlest of kisses on your forehead. "you're clever enough. i'm sure you can figure out why."

after a murmured goodnight, he leaves you to get some sleep. you're left staring at the door, trying not to seem overly hopeful behind the implications of his words and actions.

when dawn comes, you can still feel the lingering warmth of his lips.

✦ byeol's notes: first fic <3 hi!

✦ reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

#genshin impact x reader #genshin fanfic #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact oneshots #diluc x you #genshin drabbles #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #diluc x y/n #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr x you #✦ sub–scenario.

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simplytheevebest · 2 years ago

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Fate Season 1 Appreciation Week, Day 2, Aug 8th- Favorite Relationship: Silrah

Author's Note:

^^^Saul in this fic. Proper author’s note is at the end so there’s no spoilers for the plot, but just know I’m bad at romance so sorry if this is cringe.

Characters: Farah Dowling, Saul Silva, Ben Harvey, Winx girls, Sky

Relationship: Silrah

Warnings: Language, and I think that’s it

“What is the matter with you?”

Farah’s tone is bordering on demanding, but it’s laced with fond exasperation as she listens to Saul whistle cheerily to himself in the kitchen. His laugh is soft, half to himself, but she can feel his amusement in their bond, a warm, fluttery thing that has her biting back her own laughter without cause.

“Nothing!”

“It’s not nothing,” Farah insists, turning her head to slide a pin expertly through her hair. She cranes her neck back, trying to see through the open bedroom door in case he’s planning some ill-advised prank, but at this angle she can’t see him. She can feel him snickering through their bond and she huffs, returning to her hair; the snickering fades to a gentle joy, a peaceful calm they haven’t experienced in years. It’s mildly infuriating that she can’t figure out what he’s up to, because of their bond. There are no secrets between them, no feelings, no thoughts; not even injuries are their own, not with the golden thread of fate binding them, a guiding light in darkness, a beacon of hope when things seem most dire. It had led them to each other before they’d even been aware of it, had kept them together despite countless life-threatening missions, brought her to his side when he was injured and brought him to her when she was dead and buried. It’s never failed either of them, but it’s failing her now, because she can’t wager a guess as to what’s got him in such a good mood, what indeed has had him speaking to her students in low tones, stopping only when she’s approached, and conspiring with Ben.

“It’s not my birthday,” she muses outloud and Saul chuckles again, this time right behind her. His hands settle on her shoulders, kneading softly, and he brushes aside the hair still left to be pinned to press a gentle kiss to her neck.

“No,” he confirms, squeezing once more before retreating to the closet to get dressed. “Would you hurry up?”

“What’s the rush?” Farah tries to pry but receives stubbornly annoying silence as her answer. She considers taking a ridiculously long time to pin up the rest of her hair, or maybe she should start over. She’s curious, it’s killing her, but Saul’s all but confirmed an end to her suffering, and soon. Prolonging it will only increase her own impatience.

To her surprise, there is not a mug of coffee waiting when she finally emerges from the bedroom, Saul hot on her heels. She scans the kitchen and living space thoroughly, just in case, but she comes up empty. There’s knowing amusement gleaming in Saul’s eyes, knowing just what she’s looking for her, which confirms its absence.

“I thought you were making coffee.”

“Nope. Ready? I have something to show you.”

“Without coffee?”

“You’ll live.” She’s not quick enough to dodge the kiss he presses to her nose, but she retaliates quickly, grabbing for his arms, hands trailing to link their fingers.

“Tell me.”

Saul laughs -he won’t stop laughing, he’s bursting with a joy Farah is desperate to share in but she can’t, not yet, not until he’s done playing games- and squeezes her fingers, “There’s nothing to tell. Are you ready?”

“I suppose,” Farah sighs.

“Good. Get your coat.”

“Is my surprise outside?”

“Who said you’re getting a surprise,” Saul challenges, but in that, at least, he’s forced his hand. He links their hands again once they’re both sufficiently bundled, and leads the way from their quarters to the grounds. It’s a beautiful morning, crisp and clear, but Farah can’t enjoy a single second of the blue skies and vibrant colors, not when she’s doing her best to spot whatever it is Saul wants to show her. The bond is, still, no help, and Farah’s properly confused when Saul leads them around the side of school back towards the entrance near the canteen. He raises an eyebrow at her disgruntled expression.

“What?”

“I thought you said it was out here.”

“I never said that. I just thought you’d enjoy a stroll.”

She shoves him so unceremoniously he nearly topples against the double doors, a bubble of true irritation rising within her. She doesn’t mind a bit of teasing, but he’s now denied her coffee, and it’s still far too early for breakfast. Probably sensing it -at least the bond is doing something for one of them- Saul pushes open the doors, a guiding hand at the small of her back.

“Alright,” he concedes, “No more tricks.”

Farah’s hands still on the buttons of her coat, breath stolen by the scene before her. The canteen has been transformed, fluorescents dimmed and hundreds of twinkling lights floating freely through the air, no doubt courtesy of her light fairies. The greenery that normally climbs the walls freely has structure now, twisting in clear, intricately woven braids of vines ending in bursts of flowers, all manners of shape and size to create beautiful bouquets of red and white camellias, daisies, edelweiss, gardenias, forget-me-nots and dozens more she doesn’t know if she can name. There’s petals strewn at their feet, a veritable carpet of color Saul leads her across; she’s still so stunned she nearly trips when the floor disappears beneath her foot. By the hands of the earth fairies the courtyard has been compressed down the center and filled with the labors of her water fairies’ hands, a gurgling stream leading to a fountain equally strewn with petals and twinkling in the lights.

“What-?”

“The kids wanted to do something special,” Saul explains easily, leading her away from potentially sprained ankles to one of the benches, the tables strewn with more petals and candles. There’s music, she realizes, coming from somewhere: the mind fairies’ contribution.

“You know this is where I fell in love with you,” Saul says suddenly and Farah is drawn from her appreciative perusal of the room back to him. He leans towards her, tapping the table with emphasis, and Farah doesn’t mean to laugh, but she does.

“I’m serious! My first year,” Saul confirms, “You were a second year, I’d never laid eyes on you before that day. Some stuck up little princess was picking on the first year fairies, Jean, you remember her?”

“Yes,” Farah grumbles. A fellow second year at the time, she remembers that day with hazy clarity, only because there were so many similar instances with the other girl and her awfulness. She’d sent similar swipes of disdain Farah’s way their first year, had sought to crush the dreams of a fifteen year-old Farah Dowling from nowhere and nothing simply for daring to dream big. By their second year Farah had proven her wrong, excelled higher than any of her classmates, and she’d done it without private tutors, thank you very much. She'd rubbed Jean's comments about her needing to "catch up" to the rest of her classmates right in Jean's smug face and Jean had never gotten over it.

“She sat right over there,” Saul gestures to the other side of the room, “Running her mouth, and suddenly her porridge blows up, and she screams like she’s been stabbed.”

“And you,” he pokes her lightly in the arm and Farah stifles a smile, “Got right up and left, like you had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t,” Farah lies, not succeeding in stifling her amusement, and Saul rolls his eyes.

“You did, and I know you did, because I saw your face when you turned away. And at the time I didn’t know what it meant, that expression, but I do now. You couldn’t help feeling proud of your efforts, yes? Cause you turned away with this little smile before she could see, but she must’ve known it was you anyway because she stormed after you-”

“She was always accusing me of the most ridiculous nonsense,” Farah laughs, the years softening what had long ago been burning frustration and righteous anger at the other girl’s audacity -even when she was right.

“Well she was right,” Saul points out, “But in the middle of her tirade you cut her off and asked if she had any proof, which she didn’t, and you said-”

“Oh God,” Farah buries her face in her hands, the memory rushing back with startling, embarrassing clarity.

“‘-I’d caution you to have some evidence before you make wild accusations. We wouldn’t want to risk another blow up,’” Saul finishes.

“Can it be a different moment?” Farah mumbles behind her hands and Saul shakes his head.

“Absolutely not. You were the coolest person I’d ever seen, I remember thinking if I was lucky enough for you to even look at me, I’d still be the luckiest man alive. And then a year later I’d gotten over it, because I’d not even met you by then, but then you kicked my ass in training and I realized you were the only girl for me.”

Farah can feel the mortification rising up her cheeks in a hot flush but she can’t help the amusement shaking her shoulders either. She drags her hands down her face, turning to Saul with a smile.

“I wish I had a similarly ridiculous story.”

“Why, when’d you know you loved me?”

“Second year,” Farah confirms, “The first specialist party. You were drunk and-”

“I kissed you!” Saul groans, and it gives her that little bit of satisfaction to know she can embarrass him too. “You should’ve punched me.”

“It was adorable,” Farah teases, “But I didn’t know for certain until I saw you again, when you joined the team after graduation. It all came rushing back, except you weren’t this scrawny second year anymore you were-”

“Dashingly handsome?”

“Dashingly handsome,” Farah draws him in for a kiss before turning back to the room at large, still taking it in. She understands, now, why she’d caught Saul speaking to her students so often, if this is what they’d been planning. Still, it’s extravagant for what should be a simple gesture of what she assumes is gratitude after the trials and tribulations they’ve faced. She catches Saul wiping his hands on his slacks out of the corner of her eye, expression softly pensive.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” He blinks, mustering up a smile that takes effort but isn’t forced, just anxious. “Yeah. They really went all out, I wasn’t expecting this, even when I asked.”

“It’s exceptional,” and Farah stands to take a closer look at the flowering vines. Most of those blooming above their heads aren’t vine-growing plants; she muses they must have been added after, woven amongst the leaves and chosen by hand. She can only dimly recall those impromptu lessons from an over-excited Ben during their days as students, listening to him explain the meanings behind specific flowers and what they represent. She traces the gardenias, spots yarrow and myrtle and tulips, a few roses too. Roses might be the only one she remembers -she’ll have to ask- with red being the color for love, but then anyone who buys a Valentine’s gift knows the meaning of the traditional red rose. She plucks instead a white rose from the vines, bringing it to her nose. Their bond thrills with the same burst of anxiousness she’d seen on Saul’s face and she turns to him-

The flower falls from her hands.

“What’s happening.”

She feels breathless, feels foolish for asking when it’s abundantly clear what’s going on. Saul grins where he crouches on one knee before her.

“What- What are you doing.”

“Farah,” Saul’s close to beaming, trying and failing to keep the joy from his face, to stop the smile splitting his features; there are tears in his eyes and Farah can feel it in the thread of fate between them, the overwhelming love, the adoration, the tiniest bit of worry this might not go how he’s expecting. She would laugh, but she knows it’ll come out watery from the tears threatening to blur her own vision.

“Farah,” Saul repeats, lifts the box in his hands, opens it, banishes any doubts he’s doing exactly what she thought he was.

He’s proposing.

He's proposing.

“I can’t live without you,” Saul continues, “If I didn’t think you wanted this too, I wouldn’t be asking, but I need you to know… you’re the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met. I can’t remember a time I didn’t love you, because I think I was always meant to. I don’t think- no I know, I couldn’t be me without you. And we’ve been through… a lot. Understatement of the century, really, but I’m done waiting. I’m done waiting on the next disaster that’ll threaten to keep us apart because I’m just… so tired of not being married to you.”

Farah’s given up. The tears flow freely and she wipes at them uselessly, shaking hands equally occupied trying to hide her own beaming smile.

“Well?” Saul prompts when she doesn’t respond and Farah chokes on a laugh.

“Well what?”

“Don’t tease me woman, not now, come on, I’ve been stressed about this-”

“Stressed about what?”

“Whether you’d say yes!” Saul blurts, just shy of exasperated, and Farah can’t help the laugh that bubbles up her throat.

“I can’t. You haven’t asked.”

Now it’s Saul’s turn to laugh at such a simple mistake, dropping his chin to his chest, and when he looks back up he’s lost the battle with his own tears, voice rough with the same emotion clogging Farah’s chest.

“Farah Dowling, my beautiful, miraculous fairy, will you marry me?”

“Always, Saul my specialist. Always. Yes, it’s a yes you silly man get up-”

“You might have to help me,” Saul’s chuckle is watery as Farah reaches for his arm and drags him up to her, hands finding his face to hold him close, kissing the delight from his lips and tears from his cheeks.

“I love you,” Farah breathes, “I love you heart and soul Saul Silva.”

“I love you Farah Dowling, with everything I am.”

He wraps an around her shoulders, pulling her close, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. Farah twists to reach his free hand, prying the box from his fist and ignoring the rumble of amusement against her back as she slips the ring from the velvet.

“Let me, oi, will you let me, Miss Impatient?”

“That’s soon-to-be Mrs. Silva to you,” Farah murmurs as he takes the ring to slip on her finger.

“Me and everyone else,” Saul confirms.

Their quiet solitude lasts only about a minute more before the doors to the main hall open, revealing their students and Ben crowded in the doorway. The group halts, the Winx girls and Sky taking in their headmistress wrapped in the arms of their headmaster and Farah has a split second where she wonders if Saul will pull away, but he doesn’t.

“She said yes!” He bellows, and the answering cheer from the student body is deafening; Farah turns her face into his shoulder, stifling her laughter but unable to keep the joy from her face, knowing now the part her students played in this special moment. The Winx girls are near-tears in their excitement, and Farah pulls away from Saul only far enough to extend an arm.

“Well come here!”

Bloom reaches her first, then Sky, squeezing tight to she and Saul while the rest of the girls rush in. Ben’s approach is slower but no less overjoyed, tears in his eyes and hands clasped to his chest.

And she hasn’t even had her morning coffee.

Author’s Note pt2: I, personally, am not a fan of public proposals. I mean I’ve never been proposed to but if I was, I wouldn’t want it to be public, because that’s a lot of pressure. That being said, I, for whatever reason, believe that Saul would propose to Farah semi-publically, because so much of their relationship went unspoken for ages, then was kept under wraps, that by the time he proposes, I can only imagine he’s tired of keeping it to themselves and he wants to celebrate their love with the important people in their lives. No more hiding: Saul Silva is ready to tell the world he loves Farah Dowling. I hope I managed to strike the perfect blend of public and private, because I still think they should have their personal moment but they should also get to share it with the people they love. I realized after the fact that I took some inspiration from relationships/proposals in The Office, in case anyone picks up on them.

#winxsource #farah dowling #saul silva #ftws #fate the winx saga #rob james collier #eve best #fate: the winx saga #fate winx saga #long post #fate fanfic #ftwsweek1

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