#instead of the ''I will remember you so keenly for the rest of my life that I could instantly find you based on your birthdate'' kind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yallthemwitches · 1 month ago

Text

After Dark

“James—I can’t get caught. I was on patrol—I’m a bloody prefect.”

She feels him smile against her throat before floating his way back up to her face, a hand cradling her cheek with a thumb drawing soft circles on her skin.

“What? You think I’m going to let your good name be tarnished? C’mon Evans, you know me better.”

I accidentally wrote the @jilytoberfest day 16 prompt 🎶“My words are my faith, to hell with our good name”🎶 - Hum Hallelujah by Fall Out Boy early so I’m just posting it today instead….I’ll post 15 tomorrow ;)

This one is more steamy than my other jilytobers but still T rated!

AO3 Here

“I thought you were escorting me back to the tower?”

Merlin help her, that's what she should be doing. If she had found anyone else out after curfew, that's exactly what she would have done: walked them back to their dorms, docked points, maybe even given them a stern talking to complete with finger wag. Instead, the only thing she’s given Potter is a push towards the wall, the rest clicking into place on its own.

“I will—I’m just taking my time.”

He crowds into her, her back flush against the wall, mouth trailing under her ear to her pulse point and stopping every so often to offer a faint is this ok? before delving back towards her. Hips press against hips, legs slotted to move bodies closer.

She wonders how they keep getting away with it, him finding her in the darkness of her patrols, using the cavernous feeling of night to make whatever is now happening between them acceptable. She can’t remember when it started exactly, but she remembers it felt good. So good in fact that by this point she looks forward to when he inevitably finds her night after night, now wandering the halls searching more for him than for the rule breakers who skirt the darkness.

“Is this ok?” He repeats again as he reaches behind her and wedges his hand between her arse and the wall, pushing his thigh into her pelvis. The hum she makes in response sounds too close to a moan and it emboldens him to keep kissing her, her mouth opening to him as his tongue edges inside.

She’s trying to keep her bearings because if not she knows she is going to get lost in him. Every night they meet, they push each other just a bit further, unfocused on how far exactly they plan to take it—but it is difficult. Difficult because he smells like cinnamon and earth which reminds her of some distant Autumn. Difficult because the way his hair twists in her hands makes her want to do nothing else for the rest of her life. Difficult because if she lets her mind focus on anything lower than her stomach, she will become keenly aware that something else is pressing into her hip that isn’t his leg.

He pushes his face into her shoulder as she lets her hands wander the length of his chest, sliding one up where his shirt has become untucked to touch bare skin. A soft oh wafts away from him and into the crook of her neck, so quiet that if it wasn’t for his proximity, she would have missed it entirely.

It’s one of the things that has surprised her the most in these moments: How quiet he is. The James she knows outside of these meetings is boisterous in every definition: making booming laughs in the middle of the library, crooning ballads at the top of his lungs on his way to classes, making clattering messes with his pranks. But here—- here he is soft, voice barely above a whisper, only panting out wisps of contentment as they meld together. Always with eyes hooded and dreamlike, it's as though in her arms his entire being is completely reduced to a whimper.

They are reaching the threshold of new territory, but she doesn’t care. Everything inside her is screaming a loud and deafening yes. Not caring that she is on patrols, not caring that they are in a very public corridor, not caring that—

She hears some footsteps echo from the bend in the hallway. A faint light gets closer.

Ok, so maybe she cares a little.

James is already at attention, years of rule-breaking now like a sixth sense to impending danger. He pulls away just enough for her to watch his eyes focus at a fixed point, frozen in place. The light is getting brighter, footsteps more audible but he continues to hold her sides, seemingly deliberating something.

“James—we need to go.”

Whatever his introspection, he snaps out of it, turning and pulling her into a run.

“This way–quick.”

They are running in a direction away from the Gryffindor Tower, but she follows him anyway, unwilling to drop his hand as they go. They don’t go very far. Finding the first broom closet, James rips open the door and ushers her inside, casting a silencing and locking spell as he closes them into a different darkness.

The room is cramped and she can smell the jugs of cleaning potions sticking into her back more than she can see them, but as he turns to easily slot himself back against her, she doesn’t have a reason to complain.

“That should buy us some time.”

He leans in and places a soft kiss on her lips, both of their hearts beating wildly from the running and the sheer reckless abandon of it all. She softens under him as his mouth continues on hers, tentative and warm.

“They will try to open the door soon,” he says into the crook of her neck where he had been fluttering kisses down from her jaw. She starts to freeze in panic, but he keeps on with his ministrations, committed to milking the moment until the very last second.

“James—I can’t get caught. I was on patrol—I’m a bloody prefect.”

She feels him smile against her throat before floating his way back up to her face, a hand cradling her cheek with a thumb drawing soft circles on her skin.

“What? You think I’m going to let your good name be tarnished? C’mon Evans, you know me better.”

She wishes she could see his expression in the darkness because otherwise she doesn’t know how to take his word. In every way she turns it, they are about to be caught, her reputation no doubt dashed all because James Potter was too irresistible for his own good.

He must sense her unease because he combs a hand through her hair and leans in close to her ear, lips tickling against her lobe.

“Don’t worry Evans. I got you.”

Like the hammer of fate, the door knob rattles and Lily jumps. Behind the door, the voice of a girl makes a questioning hum and the unmistakable voice of Remus offers to use an unlocking charm.

Even in the darkness Lily can see that James doesn’t share the same horror of hearing his mate’s voice that she has. Instead, his eyes light up, body twisting against her to reach for something billowing and long behind him. Before she can question it, the weight of a blanket of some type settles over her head, her vision curiously not shrouded at all from being covered.

James pulls the fabric up to step under it for a moment, taking advantage one last time of the opportunity to put their bodies together.

“Whatever happens you stay here against the wall until we are gone. Then keep this on until you are back in the dorms.”

She doesn’t have time to question because behind the door, Remus uses an unlocking incantation and the lock clicks open. In a second, James lets the fabric drop around her again and turns to the door, running a hand through his hair.

Light leaks into the closet and behind a lit wand she can see Remus’ and Maddie Cornell standing in the threshold. She can’t see his face, but she knows James’ body language enough to know that a cocky grin is plastered on his face.

“Evening!”James exclaims, sounding more like someone passing by on a leisure stroll rather than being caught in a dingy cupboard.

“James? What are you up to mate?” Despite being a prefect, Remus' voice sounds softer than the one Lily is used to hearing him use when catching rule breakers.

“You know, having a think.”

“Right, well– you know I’m going to have to dock points right?” There’s something in the undercurrent of Remus’ tone which is lost on Maddie and Lily, but is not lost on James. He steps out of the closet and towards his mate, shrugging in a way that says we all know I don’t care.

“Ah bugger—well, guess I’m walking back with you all then.”

As James steps to start walking alongside Maddie, Remus stalls in the doorway, flashing his wand into the cramped space. Lily feels fear pool in her stomach and flattens herself against the wall, replaying James’ words like a mantra in her ear. Whatever happens you stay here against the wall until we are gone.

He takes a last glance around, eyebrow cocked in curiosity. A little ways down she hears Maddie call for him to catch up and Remus calls back, now closing the door with one last quizzical gaze into the darkness.

Lily waits long after she can’t hear the sound of footsteps anymore, not daring even the smallest possibility that they are still out there. Once she finally steps back out into the corridor, the shadows and silence have taken over again, leaving her an easy path back to safety.

When she finally settles back into her dorms, unscathed besides maybe her sanity, she thinks about how tomorrow Maddie will tell the school about finding him, detailing no doubt how he was disheveled and breathless and all alone in a locked closet–no doubt feeding the rumor mill for some time. She twists the cloak in her hands, and finds herself feeling something that has been encroaching on her for a while now: Despite it all, she’s thankful for him. Maybe in more ways than one.

#jilytober fest 2024 #jily #lily evans #jily fanfiction #marauders era #james x lily #sixth year #prefect patrols #steaminess beware

64 notes · View notes

literary-motif · 2 months ago

Text

Public Eye

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

You humiliate Zaros in front of a crowd.

Warnings: social anxiety, panic attacks

Zaros grew up with the knowledge that practically everybody and their dog hated him. His family was unpopular, he understood that, and despite every effort he made to make an ally of the rest of the Serulan population, somehow his unpopularity with the nobles always made him out to be the villain.

He liked to think he was quite good at hiding how much it affected him. His mother used to tell him that he should not care about other people’s opinions and that he needed only his sense of what was right to lead him on the way of his life — but that did not mean that their words did not sting.

You grew up in the spotlight. Your mother’s politics painted you in a favorable light to everyone — because criticism of her would be criticism of you, and truthfully she was rather well received. You could part a crowd effortlessly, getting people to avert their eyes and whisper words of awe. You never learned to care for the harsh whispers of strangers because you already had everything you wanted in life.

You were at the top, looking down on all the common folks whose only way of feeling a part of your grandeur was by talking about you — and you never passed up a chance to remind Zaros of that.

When you walked through the streets of Serula together, which was not an unusual occurrence now that you were preparing for the trials, he was keenly aware of the awe-struck glances you received from everyone — including the people who your mother seemingly forgot in her politics for the upper classes, including the people who he so desperately wanted to make heard — and the looks of contempt thrown his way.

“Is that Sarl Zaros?” he heard someone whisper. “He’d do better to crawl back into whichever slump he came from. Nobody wants him and Nira here!”

The venom with which the stranger spat his mother’s name made his fists clench, but he would not have survived as long in the public’s constant sneers and insults if he had been half as hot-headed as you. Zaros took a deep breath, keeping his gaze straight ahead, and continued walking. He was too caught up in the simmering rage this injustice invoked in him to notice your triumphant grin.

You had won the public’s favor long before his mother entertained the idea of contesting the throne.

What you did not know, and what he had tried to keep from his mother for years, was that Zaros performed utterly horrific before a crowd. The people gathered around him made his heart thunder, their disdainful glances made him want to shrink into himself and hide from the harsh judgment he knew they were casting upon him. Zaros hated crowds. He hated social interactions with people who saw him as an evil threat.

It was only his luck that you loved to get under his skin.

“Sarl Zaros, how convenient seeing you right now,” you greeted, fake cheer coloring your tone. The two nobles you were conversing with in the courtyard turned around to look at him, their eyes on him enough to make Zaros tense. “Why don’t you join us? We were talking about your political ideas.”

He cleared his throat, his mind racing for an excuse. “How kind of you, Earis,” he said, holding your gaze for only a moment before letting his eyes wander to the bush of roses next to you instead. “My mother is expecting me, however. Perhaps another time.”

One of the nobles snickered. “Like mother like son,” they said. Zaros vaguely recognized them as belonging to the Ponvillus family. He bit his tongue, the sneer causing anger to overshadow his anxieties.

“Pray tell, what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, holding the noble’s gaze.

“He talks,” you said, nudging the other noble’s shoulder. She only laughed, as if remembering a private joke between you. “Watch out. Once he starts, he won’t shut up.”

“I don’t think this conversation is fruitful at all,” Zaros said, giving you a bitter glare. “If you want to insult me, please go ahead. There is no need for me to join your circle of conversation, however. You’ve never had a problem talking ill of me behind my back, why would you need to say it to my face now?”

“How sensitive, Zaros,” you said, stepping closer to him until you were face to face. You clasped your hands behind your back, standing before him as if inspecting a very particular flower.

He did not like the triumphant smile on your face. He did not like the two nobles behind you, watching your every move, waiting for the right moment to chime in with laughter and insults directed at him.

You always commanded a crowd so effortlessly. He was envious of your talent. It seemed like a natural byproduct of your upbringing, and his terror a natural side effect of his.

“Sensitive?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on you.

He could debate with you. He could argue with you — only you. It was so much easier to get under your skin when you two were alone — when there was no biased audience to tear him down without listening to a word he said. At least you never disregarded him, no matter how much his words annoyed you or made your blood boil — you always listened.

“Sensitive like the— the time I found you crying over your brother’s grave?”

Your face fell.

Perhaps that had been too much.

The thick silence made Zaro’s breath hitch. His palms were sweaty. He felt his heartbeat picking up. This conversation had taken a horrible turn. The noble’s faces were frozen in an expression of shock and disgust. How was he supposed to rule over a kingdom if he could not even hold a discussion without crossing a line?

You clicked your tongue. “How eloquent, Zaros,” you said, a chilling coldness in your eyes that turned his mouth dry. “I find it interesting how you spit the most hurtful things in private, but you always trip over your words whenever we’re not alone. I wonder why that is?”

He swallowed thickly, giving you a warning look. When had you caught up on this? How closely had you observed him?

“I’ll tell you why that is,” you continued, making his heart seize painfully.

He did not dare raise his gaze to look at the nobles behind you, no doubt listening attentively to gather more fuel for the venomous image they had of him.

“I think you know exactly how much everybody hates you. It eats away at you, knowing they will never listen to you, no matter how brilliant you think your ideas may be. They won’t care, because they can’t stand you. They look at you and see nothing but a waste of space. They wait with bated breath to find fault in everything you do. They are observing you, not because they care, but to remind themselves of why it is that they hate you so much. You are nothing!” you spat, “and if you think you will ever keep yourself on the throne, take a walk around the city and remember how much the people you want to help actually despise you!”

Zaros was frozen, looking at you with wide eyes. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

You were right, that’s what hurt so much. He knew you were right.

Your words would have made him pause at any time. Now that you delivered them in front of an audience — and their taunting laughs registered only now that he thought of them, hearing their mocking chuckles as if from underwater — he could not help feeling utterly destroyed by them.

He was helpless, caught like a deer in headlights. Not a single thought came to his mind in retort, he would not even find the breath to reply if he tried.

The laughs were drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. He felt sick, nausea churning in his stomach at the public humiliation you had put him through — at the truth you had said aloud. He took a step back, his eyes darting across the courtyard numbly. He felt ready to collapse any minute.

He was unsteady, the feeling of frozen shock steadily bleeding into the panic he knew so well. His mind began screaming at him to run, run, run— get away, find a private spot before he fell apart in front of the pitiless eyes of the public.

Zaros turned away from you. He could not breathe, he could not think. There was a sinking feeling in his chest that made him hover on the line between numb shock and panic. He was holding himself together with every last shred of his iron will, but with every step that led him towards the library, he felt his throat burn more and more. His chest felt tight, and when the heavy door shut behind him — blocking out the laughs and taunts that rang in his mind regardless — he felt the scale finally tip, and he collapsed to the ground with a breathless wheeze.

He was dying, you had finally done it. He could not breathe, and no matter how tightly he gripped the books to ground him, he could not get your words out of his head. They tore him apart over and over again, the knowledge that you had said them for all the world to hear made him want to dissolve into dust.

He banged his head against the shelf behind him. The hurt did not even register in his panic. His cheeks were wet with tears, but Zaros did not feel them falling from his eyes. His blurry vision made him panic more. He could not see. The world around him did not feel real anymore. He was slipping through the cracks of this reality, slowly bleeding into the ground beneath him until there would be nothing left of him at all.

At least that way he did not need to face anyone ever again. At least that way he never had to endure their taunts and disgust and hatred ever again.

A loud bang echoed through the library, making him gasp. Gods, he did not want anyone to see him. What would it matter if he was going to die anyway?

“Zaros?”

The thought of feeling anyone’s eyes on him made his stomach drop, a sickness running to his very core and making him retch.

“Zaros!”

The voice sounded familiar. Through his blurry vision, he saw your approaching form. Zaros squeezed his eyes shut. He should have locked the door. Out of all the people, why did it need to be you?

“Come— come to— glo—gloate?” he stuttered breathlessly, biting out the words with as much venom he could muster.

Why could you not leave him alone? What more did you want? Had you not humiliated him sufficiently? Did you need to twist the knife in an already fatal wound? He had never thought you to be cruel, perhaps he did not know you at all.

You dropped to your knees before him, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. Zaros flinched back, the touch burning and making him want to crawl out of his skin.

“Breathe,” you said calmly, retreating your hand.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. If he were not currently drowning in his panic, he would have shot you a glare so dark it would have haunted your nightmares.

Breathe, you said. What did you think he was trying to do? Where were the other nobles? Were they lingering in the doorway, mocking him quietly? Did you follow him here to gather more ammunition to use against him later?

‘Sarl Zaros?’ you would say with a mocking smirk, giving him a dark glance, ‘He can’t rule a kingdom, he can’t even face a crowd! Zaros? Do you mean the pathetic mess I found hyperventilating in the library? He would break in a single council meeting!’

“We’re alone,” you said, shifting to sit next to him instead. You did not try to reach out again. “I took the different entrance, they don’t know I’m here. Can you try to take a deep breath?”

He shook his head, drawing his knees up to his chest. He buried his hands in his hair, tugging at the blonde strands. This was all too much. He was slipping, freefalling into nothingness. “Can’t— can’t—” he panted. He could not calm down enough to breathe the air he so desperately craved.

“You know,” you began, keeping your voice calm, “back when I was younger, I thought the palace was haunted. There was a time when I did not dare to walk the halls at night, because I was afraid that the spirit of my brother would appear before me, and somehow blame me for being dead. I know it had nothing to do with me, but it always felt wrong to be alive when he wasn’t. Even now, I feel I am trying to take what is rightfully his. I used to attribute every little thing to his presence, the rustling of the curtains at night when there was no wind, the weird scratching I heard on my door at night, and the steady footsteps on the stone floor of the halls.

“It was ridiculous, of course,” you said with a shrug, “but I always thought he was there. One day, when I could no longer take it, I went to his grave. I told him to leave me alone, that I was sorry he was dead but that I could do nothing to bring him back and that the injustice he felt was justified, but that I was innocent of fate’s doing.

“My mother heard me, and she sat me down and told me that it was not him being envious of my life, but rather watching over me, making his presence known despite no longer being amongst us. I found the sentiment hard to understand at first, but then I thought of it less as a haunting, it was him checking in on me from time to time. It was just an unusual way of doing so.”

You glanced at Zaros. His breathing was still elevated, but it had evened out considerably. Your distraction had worked.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he told you, leaning his head against the bookshelf and closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I— I don’t know why I said it. I suppose I was panicking. I wanted to lash out before you did. I know how much he means to you.”

“I know,” you said, catching his gaze and giving him a comforting smile. “I’m sorry as well. I was not anticipating this. I knew you struggled with publicity, but I never thought it was this extreme.”

Zaros hummed, closing his eyes. He was exhausted. The sun had already set, and the library was only illuminated by the glowing torchlight streaming through the large windows.

“Can you make it to your chambers by yourself, or would you like my help?” you asked, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge to keep him awake. “You know I don’t mind.”

“Fine,” he replied, begrudgingly blinking his eyes open again, “and thank you.”

#sakuverse #zsakuva #zaros x reader #zaros atha’lin #zaros atha’lin x reader #zsakuva zaros

70 notes · View notes

souglias · 8 months ago

Text

Remember To Throw Your Expired Milk [GINTOKI]

Just because an era has passed, doesn't mean everything from then is lost.

c/w: self-indulgent, may have some timeline inaccuracies, mentions of the Joui War, mentions of injuries and scars

Gintoki x gn!reader (reader is implied to be smaller than him for a small part)

word count: 4.7k words (I'm sorry guys)

note: This fic serves an outlet for me, so when I mean self-indulgent, I really mean it!! Please let me know if you think I missed any content warnings. Border is a cropped frame from the Gintama The Final movie :)

cross-posted on AO3 (accessible from my profile)!

All likes and reblogs are appreciated!

The morning before you leave for the Joui war is a chilly autumn, with the last leaves barely hanging onto their branches. The four of you were to leave together: You, Gintoki, Takasugi and Katsura.

This particular morning, it is just you and Gintoki in the abandoned house that Takasugi and Katsura also lived in. Both of them have gone out for a bit. You didn’t know for what, but the house feels a little empty without the two.

Gintoki is keenly aware of you standing behind him, your eyes burning holes into his hands that are tightening his headband. He is about to attach his sword but decides to drop his hands to his sides instead, shaking them.

With his back still facing you, he spits, "Go back to Edo tonight. You have no use on the battlefield."

The monotonous banter, usually akin to a relentless fly, stings this time. It takes only a moment for him to realise the possible weight of his words. Tentatively, he looks over his shoulder at you.

Gintoki doesn't know if he is more than a friend to you, but he would carry all your burdens and sorrow if it meant you wouldn’t enter the battlefield with them. If he has to choose his life or yours, he will choose yours. He would do anything if it meant that you would tease him about his natural perm or jab him playfully at his sides again.

So, when he meets your unwavering yet melancholic gaze, he breaks the eye contact that barely lasts. His feet become a little heavier each time he sees you with that face. The more he trudges forward, the more he has to lose.

"I'm not useless. You know I can fight. Didn’t know you had such a shit impression of me."

You can, and you fight well.

“But you don’t need to fight. You should protect your ass when you can and live. You’ve always been a scared kid anyway. Oh, who was the one who used to be intimidated by me?”

You retort back, but there’s no bite in it. “Shut your ass trap. I’m not chickening out now. You sound like the one who’s scared now.”

Gintoki’s heart is trembling. He sees the grim reaper preparing for its shift to make rounds and he does not want to see you among a pile of corpses.

He flicks your forehead, takes your headband anyway and wraps it around your head. You too, carry the same pent-up fury from the Kansei Purge as everyone else. You have your grievances to air in your way too. Hell, if you asked him not to fight, he would have called you an idiot and ignored you.

His arms hover around your head as he ties a knot securely at the back of your head. Your head is almost on his chest, and his mind wanders to how close you are to him.

“It hurts.”

“Ah, sorry.”

His hands move to loosen your headband, but you rest one hand on his forearm to stop him. You stare straight into his chest and your free hand fidgets with the side of your pant leg. Gintoki realises that you are thinking about so much more than the headband.

If he could even be audacious, he thinks he knows what you are thinking of.

He tries to think of something to say. For a split moment, he even considers a hug. Even though it’s not something he has ever been good with. But before he gets to do anything at all, Takasugi creeps up from behind him.

“I can’t believe you guys. Getting all touchy-feely before the fight?”

Gintoki immediately steps back, creating some distance between the two of you. He hurls some insults at Takasugi and the two of them bicker. When Katsura returns, instead of breaking up the fight, he joins in their nonsensical argument that is not even about the two of you anymore.

You take in this scene and etch it in your mind. This is the perfect time to have time halt if it is ever possible.

The four of you set out when it was time. As you attach your sword to your side, Gintoki comes up to you with his faux nonchalance. His eyes wander everywhere for a bit, one of his hands rubs the back of his head and the other seems to be lost on what to do. "You already know this, but do me a favour and buy me some strawberry milk on your next trip to the convenience store again. Keep them in the fridge.”

He pauses as he watches your face shift from confusion to understanding.

“It has to be the Azuri brand one! Don't you dare drink it."

Your hand resting on the handle of your sheathed sword tightens.

“Okay, you better fucking come for it.”

Gintoki catches you with that melancholic smile again. He bumps your arm gently with his fist. Noticing you walk with less of a drag in your feet, he assumes it is good enough.

(You are always so difficult for him.)

Sometime towards the end of the Joui war, when the bodies all start to pile up and the soldiers are all weary, he loses sight of you. His eyes can no longer find the silhouette he has become so familiar with and his ears cannot find the rhythm of your steps that he has memorised by heart. You do not return to base when night falls.

The voices all say you’re dead and gone, but Gintoki tries to protect the flickering flame of hope in his heart as he continues to fight. You promised him a carton- no, cartons of strawberry milk. You are far from stupid to take a promise to the afterlife with you.

But when the Joui war ends, he disappears, just like everyone else. Along with the dying fire in his heart that he wilfully thought he could protect. Hope is a heavy thing to carry after all that has happened.

The Amanto, who had kept you in a dark room for what felt like weeks, releases you into a world you are no longer familiar with. You find out that it’s only been days and that you were originally to be executed the next day.

The sky is cluttered with more spaceships and the sun feels a little more cruel than you knew it to be. You walk with no aim, looking back now and then, thinking that you hear familiar voices. It goes on till the sight of the convenience store you frequented with your friends slowly pulls you back to reality. The weight of your emotions kicks in when you hear the welcome chime of the store. Your wounds start to weep and your muscles burn as you limp towards the refrigerator of cooled drinks.

With a throat full of screams you bite back, you place a few cartons of strawberry milk from the barren refrigerator of the convenience store into your arms. Large ones to keep in the fridge, small ones in the event he wants to bring it out. The counter staff asks you if you are okay while he packs your purchases, but you simply brush him off.

As you drag your unwilling feet into the town that spells a lonely journey into the future, the carton of strawberry milk treads too to its expiration date.

(How naive of you, to think Edo would be the town you could call home with everyone you cared about and the one man you loved.)

You wander within the city after you receive treatment, searching for a sign of anyone you know. Eventually, you traverse out of Edo.

Whenever someone mentions the Four Heavenly Kings, you find your spirit to be lifted, only to be let down without fail. It is a name that strangers use so freely and carelessly. The four you know are now only legends, reduced to mere tales. They are unreachable, even as someone who has grown with them. You start to think maybe they are dead. Maybe you have just been searching for a time that has ceased to exist.

(Besides, you may have escaped death when you were released, but you think a part of you died that day too.)

It’s a long time before you force yourself to get your shit together. When you return to Edo, you see wanted posters of Katsura everywhere, the corners already peeling. One, hangs on by a small strip of tape, at a lamp post outside a humble ramen shop on the outskirts. You get a job at this ramen shop, and you stare at Katsura’s mugshot as you work until the poster gets blown away one day. With your pay, you get by and live in a simple rented apartment nearby.

When you finally bump into Katsura himself, you think you’re seeing the distant light at the end of the winding tunnel. He manages to fill you in on a bit, but takes off soon due to his predicament. The bare, discreet conversation you have with him ends up doing the opposite of what you hoped, whiffing out the little hope you carried instead. Sakamoto is assumed to be in space, which makes you a little relieved knowing he’s living his dream. But, the fact that the whereabouts of Gintoki and Takasugi are still uncertain makes you feel you’re still at square one.

Despite the time that has passed, you still see Gintoki in many things. The Shounen Jump on the shelves. Anyone with their permed hair, even if it’s clearly artificial. And especially those fucking cartons of strawberry milk you keep. They are an anchor to your past and their tarnished, rusted edges dig into your skin. You want to throw them out so bad, but you can never bring yourself to. You stay at square one with these rotting cartons for the passing seasons.

On a chilly winter afternoon with snow that’s taking its time to fall, you find Gintoki when you pass through Kabukicho. Walking past Snack Otose, you catch a glimpse of a head of silver in your peripheral vision.

You don’t recall when this… Yorozuya Gin-Chan came to be above Snack Otose. But you always pass Kabukicho in a hurry. Maybe it has always been there.

An old lady talks to him at his door, blocking him from your view on the ground floor. But you wouldn’t mistake that natural wavy perm of silver, even though all you see are strands peeking out from the sides of the old lady.

When she walks off with a face of frustration, you withdraw into a nearby alley in a flurry. You take in the scene of Gintoki with his exasperated look. He scratches his head a little and sighs, before he goes back inside. You take it as your sign to leave.

(Gintoki sees you. And he isn’t ready to talk to you either. Not with the way your fists clench. He immediately guesses what you’re feeling, if you have not changed immensely into someone different. He shakes away the urge to approach you and convinces himself again that just knowing that you are alive and warm is enough. He is content.)

The snow does not stop even when night falls. When Gintoki returns home, he turns the television on and stretches out with his feet propped up on his work desk. The doorbell rings and he sits up. His heart throbs, in anticipation for a certain someone. He tames it. Expectation is a potential recipe for disappointment.

When he opens the door, he finds you carrying two plastic bags. Your hands are very tightly wrapped around the handles. You refuse to look up at him.

“What? Asshole crawled back up from their grave? Not happy with what you got?”

You enter the house wordlessly and he shuffles out of your path. You drop the bags on the coffee table, causing a loud thud to resound in the room.

“Hey hey, the landlady downstairs is going to complain. She already came up bitching about the rent earlier this afternoon-”

“I owe you something. Did you forget?”

You pull a small carton of strawberry milk out of the bag and set it on the table. It is worn from weather and time. You rip open the top of the carton and the straw gets yanked out of the plastic, soon finding itself in the opening.

Shoving the carton into his chest, you gather the courage to look him in the eye. The carton starts to wrinkle even more from your tightening grip. You hold it tighter, as if it would stop your tears from welling.

He notices the expiry date printed on the carton, which was more than one and a half years ago. His hand wraps around yours and he doesn’t let you slip them out.

“I don’t forget what people owe me that easily. Even if I died, I would demand for the guardians of hell to arrange a delivery to get them from you.”

Your grip loosens a little when you notice the soft, subtle smile on his face. There’s a lump in your throat again and you take a few deep breaths to stop it. The sound of the television fills the silence between the two of you for a bit.

“A little less than a year ago, I crossed paths with Zura. He told me both of you disappeared and didn’t know where you were.”

The next few words almost escape him. It makes you feel small and helpless to say it, even though he was right in front of you. “I thought maybe you died.”

A stray tear streaks down your cheek. He gently pries the milk from your hands and sets it down on the table.

(He thought you died too. Sure, without realising it, he started to carry hope in his heart again. But it felt like the weight of the world sometimes, and he had to carry it by dragging it across the ground. The possibility of you being six feet under rang so loud in his mind.

It only became lighter when he bumped into Katsura for the first time a few days ago. It was when he heard about you from Katsura. Gintoki headed down and watched you work in the ramen shop from the other side of the road. He left without approaching you. He didn’t know what he was going to say to you. Besides, seeing him could reopen old wounds and he didn’t want to do that to you. And just maybe, he was a little bit of a coward when it comes to you.

But he guesses it is all futile. You found him after all.)

With his thumb, he brushes your cheek. You notice scars on his arm that you don’t ever recall him having.

“You worry too much. It takes a lot to kill me.”

“But it hurt, didn’t it?”

It did. Even now, the wounds on his soul throb a little. He thinks he’s underestimated how much he missed you. “They’re just scratches.”

You inch towards him and put your arms around him for a hug. He tenses up at your touch, but he manages to loosen up and pats your back gently until you stop crying.

“Did you cry like that when you found Zura?”

“No.”

A stray smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t waste your tears on Zura.”

“So you’re saying it’s worth it to cry for you?”

Gintoki’s eyes dart off in another direction. “No. Don't cry for me again.”

The way his sentence seemingly hangs thickens the air between the two of you. He scoffs and sits down on the sofa. Refusing to make eye contact with you, he rubs the back of his head and frowns.

He is still the Gintoki you committed to your memory and love. Even as time passes, he still has the same habits. Even though his fashion sense has changed, you still see him adorn the same shades. You can still see the pureness of his soul even with the haze of time. Despite the tears, you find a hearty laugh rising up your throat. So you let it out.

He freezes upon hearing your laugh and realises that he has not heard something so genuine from you for so long, even from before the two of you parted.

As he runs his fingers through his natural perm for the last time and stands up, he suggests, “Let’s go to the supermarket. We should get new cartons.”

You glance at the clock. “Sorry, maybe not today. It takes a while to get to the supermarket and I need to get back to my apartment too. I live on the outskirts.”

“I’ll send you back. I have a scooter now.”

“Wow, I assumed you couldn’t pay rent. Where did you get the money for that? Did you rob a bank? It’s well within the capabilities of the White Yaksha.”

His eyebrow twitches. “Quit yapping and move along. I bargained hard and relentlessly for a lower price.”

As both of you make your way to the scooter, you continue to make more snarky comments about how he got the scooter. When you see the scooter, you decide to make some more comments about the scooter, though you actually think it is a fine thing. He smacks you on the head, eliciting a giggle from you instead of what he thought would be a retort.

“Your home is so damned far away, you know,” Gintoki complains as he turns on the engine.

“You were the one who offered.”

Without much thought, you tease him as you sit behind him, “Then, where should I stay? With you?”

You realise what you’ve asked and you’re about to make a comment to brush it off. But Gintoki plops a helmet on your head before you can do so, and starts the scooter. As he begins to drive off, you place your hands tentatively on his waist. He throws a glance over his shoulder at you. “Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

It doesn’t take long for you to get used to your hand on him and he can feel your tense hands slowly relax. With his eyes on the road in front of him, he’s not 100% sure, but he thinks you’re leaning in a little.

(The scooter doesn’t go as fast as those flashy sports cars the rich use to zoom around town. But you still get to the convenience store a lot quicker than you expected. It’s too fast, you feel like you will never have enough time with him.

Even though he is right in front of you, the lost time makes the vast distance between the two of you so clear. It is one that you cannot cross now with your arms, even if you gathered the courage to wrap them wholly and tightly around him. The thought that he might disappear again will gnaw at you for a while.

That night, he pays for the strawberry milk. The two of you take the last two cartons of the Azuri brand he very much prefers. You take your time to sip on it during the ride, watching his wavy hair let loose in the wind and catch the lights of the slowly dwindling traffic around you.)

Gintoki gives you a face when he looks up from the grocery bag on the coffee table. His eyes fill with incredulity and his lips downturn dramatically. "What is this?"

You put up an air of innocence, teasing in a sing-song voice, "What's what?"

"THIS!"

He pulls out a carton of milk from the grocery bag with two fingers gripping it and waves it around hysterically.

"This is plain milk!"

"You're stating the obvious."

He drops the carton back into the grocery bag and yells out in exasperation, hands grasping at nothing in the air. You stifle a laugh.

"Still gives you the protein that you so absolutely love in your strawberry milk, doesn't it?"

He plops down on the sofa and crosses his arms. Eyebrow twitching, he begins a lecture.

"Listen [name]. Plain milk is not the same as strawberry milk. Strawberry milk is NOT just syrup or sugar getting added into milk."

You nod, pursing your lips so as not to let out a laugh at the bewildering he says and the ones he might say.

His doctor highly recommended that he cut down on sugar. Based on your internet searches, strawberry-flavoured milk has more sugar than plain ones. And because you love your boyfriend so much, you decide to take it into your own hands to buy plain milk which would be much better for his health. Watching him become exasperated over it is just a huge cherry on top.

Sensing that you found his reasoning ridiculous, he whines and throws himself face down onto his sofa. You don’t bother to suppress your laughter when he starts kicking his feet.

Out of nowhere, he jumps off the sofa and slides his wooden sword into his belt. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You offered to buy it because you planned this, right? Because the doctor said I had to reduce my sugar intake.”

How dare you, his beloved, commit such an act of betrayal to him! He adds a little shout in between his rambling. Then, adds, “Sugar is life, [name]! We have to go buy them now!”

He tugs at your arm and you refuse to budge. Initially, you reason that he can’t leave the house because Yorozuya’s opening hours aren’t over yet. As he tugs harder, you start to mock him for having such a sweet tooth, how he’s weak for being unable to go by without strawberry milk and how ungrateful he is for you. He retorts back saying you shouldn’t have backstabbed your boyfriend like that, and there’s nothing sinful with having a sweet tooth. In the end, he lifts you by your waist with his arm and out of the house into the spring evening. Conscious of the looks of onlookers, you smack him on his back harder and harder till he complains about how it hurts and puts you down.

Gintoki continues to lecture you about the strawberry milk as the two of you walk to the convenience store that opened months ago. In the five-minute walk, you let him go on about the difference and hum now and then as an indication that you are listening. At the same time, you imagine the pink cherry blossom buds overhead. You imagine the falling sakura blooms around him. A mental image of the blossoms in his silver hair surfaces.

When he finishes his sentence, you comment, “I think you could be a strawberry parfait too.”

“Huh?”

It’s now your turn to talk in this walk and Gintoki sees the vision you’re having. He’s about to make a dirty joke, but you jab him at his side before he can say it.

When the two of you enter the store, he runs straight to the refrigerator. You trail behind him, already finding his arms full of large and small Maiji milk cartons although it has only been one minute.

It has become normal for Gintoki to take the Maiji brand carton without a second thought. You can no longer find the Azuri brand milk in Edo anymore, and possibly the whole of Japan. It took him a little getting used to and some whining to you, but he has come to enjoy it.

When you watch him try to arrange and squeeze everything into the basket, you think maybe your plan to help him cut down on sugar has backfired. Mans simply trying to stock up at this point. You end up having to do some convincing in that narrow aisle, with some other shoppers, for this manchild to put a few back.

From the refrigerator to the cashier and back to Yorozuya, Gintoki keeps pouting. You poke his cheek with his free hand, but all you get is a “hmph”. He’s not going to give in so easily! It takes so much more than paying for his sweets and saying he looks like a strawberry parfait!!

You think about offering to pay for his parfait, but you tell yourself not to give in to him. You want him to live a long life and die of old age, not go out way before his time in agony because of sugar.

Gintoki plops down at the corner of the sofa when the two of you return to Yorozuya. He starts reading the latest copy of Shounen Jump with one leg crossed on the sofa, sipping loudly on his milk in an attempt to irritate you. You sit on the other corner with your drink and magazine you bought yourself earlier, and you prop your feet on top of his lap. He smacks your feet once, but he lets you be as he always does. On other days, he enjoys doing it to you too.

Every now and then, you look up to see him engrossed in his manga. Sometimes when you blink, you still see images of the past versions of him with Katsura and Takasugi at his side.

You get up and give him a kiss on the cheek, before heading to the stairs outside. He’s a bit caught off guard, but you leave him to process it.

On the street downstairs, a few kids scramble around, presumably to head home. Your mind wanders to the three boys you grew up with. There are still days you think you wake from your nap in the classroom to the three boys duking it out in the dojo. But when your bleary vision in the morning clears and you notice that the ceiling above is different from the one at Shoka Sonjuku, reality settles. It’s just a ruckus made by some kids outside. You stare at the ceiling, remembering that Takasugi is at large with his new comrades. You remember that Zura now has his own faction, which both you and Gintoki reject his relentless invitations to. You remember that Shoyo-sensei is gone.

You hear the sliding door open behind you and Gintoki leans on the part of the ledge beside you.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Gintoki notices you running your finger back and forth on the grooved surface of the ledge. He places a kiss on your temple. A little hesitant at first, but he goes for it. He then shifts behind you slightly, resting his hand on top of yours. With his steady frame behind you, you lean back a little on him.

(Gintoki wonders what Shoyo-sensei would think about the two of you. Hopefully, he approves, even though Shoyo had witnessed him disturbing you in class and outside of it. Hell, Shoyo even thought Gintoki was bullying you at one point and Gintoki had gone to lengths to prove otherwise. He would also argue that he was teasing you to get you to break out of your shell. Though in hindsight, maybe he had been a little mean about a few things.)

The wish to return to the bygone days still squeezes your heart with its agony. The days that Shoka Sonjuku was your home. Its invisible hands still try to grasp at the memories that are becoming ever-distant and drifting away in the stream of time. It is always the worst when you find resemblances that you find hard to ignore.

But everyone has found their place in this new era, including you. The night he dropped you off after reuniting, he asked you’ll come to Yorozuya again. You said you’d try, but no promises because it was far. Though, as you watched his receding figure ride back into the brightly lit town you once detested, you knew you would.

You're glad you did. After all, you found a place with Gintoki. A place, in this still unfamiliar city, that you can finally bring yourself to call home again.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading this self-indulgent, monster of a fic <3

#sakata gintoki x reader #gintoki x reader #sakata gintoki #gintoki imagines #gintama imagines #gintama x reader #gintama #souglia.s #my gintoki lovergirl era really hit this hard #this is my saddest era too esp bc of the songs I've been listening to while writing this #now I have other monsters to face aka my final assignments #still can't believe I spit out 4.7k worth of words for this man #I am very downbad for him #when I have the time watch me yap about the themes and shit and stuff I couldn't include

123 notes · View notes

1indigoisles · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Excerpt 3

Author's note: *evil laughing*

Tyler James

It was chaos. Everywhere.

Celeste Grainge stood at the stage and surveyed the situation before her keenly as Hunters jumped up, and, roguish creatures that they were, crowded over the back exit to chase after the real rogues.

I turned in my seat to see what it was they were doing; there was a lot of pushing and struggling, I could make out that much, but nothing besides. They didn’t even need orders to make chase after the escapees, I noticed with some discomfort.

It was the red of the walls, I decided. Red was a very triggering colour, and could instill an end number of things in people. Bravery, passion, love. War, violence, hate. Two sides of the same coin. The impact things like these could have was often looked over, and some people would scoff at those who thought that way.

The same ones that were currently and rather unfortunately trying to break down the walls trying to get after their precious ‘Rogues’.

I hope they get away, I thought.

They won’t get away, I remembered.

I remembered Desiree as well, how frightened she’d been as she’d followed her company out. Understandable really, considering the friends she kept. But who was I to judge? She was my friend too, and I could somehow never seem to do more for her.

I got up then and resolved to assist in the infirmaries. Hunters would be needing their shots, I reminded myself, and I’d best be useful. Useful was the only thing that let you make a place for yourself in the Chambers. And that was the only thing that mattered, if you didn’t want to starve. Have a little patch of yourself on the red tapestry that was Knightville’s Chambers. You could be brilliant, you could be better than the rest, but if you weren’t useful, you were deadweight.

Now, that wasn’t to say I didn’t love my job here, as a Healer, in the Chambers. It was one of the better job oppurtunities anyone could get really, healing. You had to study extremely hard for it, sure, and very few actually made it to the Healing sector (there are only hundreds of us), but if you did, you were set for life. And so what if the Seconds were terrible, and you could never get many friends amongst the Thirds? It was a question of adaptation, really. Adaptation was a requirement for all species of life, and not even Diaforians were above that, much as they’d like to believe otherwise.

My step quickened as the shouts grew louder, even as I left the warfield and arrived at the sanatorium.

It was a lovely place; the receptionist area was wide and high like the auditorium, but mostly blue, quiet and always smelling clean. The windows were wide and tall and touched both floor and ceiling, so as to better recieve the little light we could never seem to get. It was a place where you could wait for something to happen to you.

At least, that’s what the dreamer part of me thought.

The practical Healer part of me, on the other hand, was wondering if my eyes were functioning correctly, or if Adam Forrest of all people was standing in front of the receptionist’s desk of the Healers’ sanatorium.

“Mr. Forrest? What are you doing here?” I blurted, forgetting my manners in my obvious surprise.

“Thorne,” Adam regarded, turning to see me.

I prefer Tyler James, I almost said. Almost. No one cared about what you preferred in the Chambers.

I nodded.

Adam evaded my question. “Come to make yourself useful?” He asked instead.

Have you? I thought. “Quite,” I said.

“Going to the same place then,” Adam said lightly.

So good at pretending, I thought, but didn’t say. There were so many things that I thought of but never said. External restraint was never a problem, however, and in my mind, I could do whatever I liked. There were no mind-readers in Knightville, anyway, and in Adam’s case, his power was oral manipulation, the ability to have anyone do what he said with his voice alone, so it was hardly a problem. And if there was ever any danger of getting any truth out of me if he was authoritarian enough—well, there wasn’t, because Adam was powerful, both in his position at the Chambers and his own magic, and when you were that powerful, you inevitably became at least somewhat arrogant.

And when you’re arrogant, you think you know everything.

I raised an eyebrow. “The same place?”

His eyes were full of meaning. “Yes,” he said.

Oh, I realised. He wants to go there.

I stopped the smile before it could tug on my lips.

People walked around us. Some even stopped in their tracks for a moment to stare at our interaction. What was the famous, handsome, successful Adam Forrest doing here? they thought. Moreover, what was he doing talking to that what’s-his-name nobody from Third? Surely Adam was having him run an errand. He didn’t keep company like that, ever.

Oh, yes, I meant what I thought. Adam Forrest was tall and good-looking in the way that had all the women sighing in absolute mourning that they could never have him, because he was already married—to his job. He had gleaming black hair and eyes that struck ferociously with his pale skin, and his face structure only made it pop more. He was neat and sharp and always smelt clean. He And it wasn’t just his looks either. He was young success. He was hard, no, he was impossible to get. He was everything a lady could ever want and thirst for, and while I had a great deal of respect for the female species, I couldn’t help but think that some of them had absolutely nothing better to do with their time, judging from all the gossip I heard.

But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter how worthy a woman was, or how much she may have fitted Adam’s taste, or how much she may have loved him. It didn’t matter, and it probably never would.

The door was locked and we were alone. We’d checked and double-checked for good measure. My back was against the wall and Adam had pushed me there. Our hands were on each other and we were kissing.

Have you ever had a secret so well hidden, so in the dark, that when you walked back into the light you almost believed it had all been a dream?

“Someone’s impatient,” I commented idly when Adam finally let go of me, both of us out of breath.

“No one was here,” Adam explained. “I probably wouldn’t get to do this all week by the looks of things, so now seemed like a pretty good time to do it.”

“Practical as always,” I huffed into his ear, shaking my head a little.

He frowned at that a little, but then seemed to decide he’d gotten enough oxygen in his system to go right back to kissing me, and did precisely that.

Make no mistake, there were no feelings lost on us, romantic or otherwise. The only thing that brought us together was the secret that we shared, a necessity of sorts. One secret was all it took to keep coming back to this, to the dark room where we left our reality and responsibilities outside the door, only to reclaim them again when we came back out.

That said, I had no illusions that this—this lover affair of ours—would last in any way. It would probably only make the year, tops. Secrets could do a lot of things, but they couldn’t sustain. Secrets ruined, and this relationship of ours was built to be secret, and that secret would one day die, like everything ultimately did.

Still. Didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted, and Adam was, actually, not the worst kisser.

“Why now, though?” I asked, like I always did.

“Can’t I want to?” he answered, like he always did.

And we went back to kissing again, like we always did.

Adam left first, because he had more pressing issues to deal with, and because we needed to be inconspicuous. I didn’t mind staying in the dark room for a little while longer; that way I could hold onto the remembrance of what we had but would never get to keep.

It didn’t hurt—it just took the comfort away, and most people didn’t get to have that.

On the outside, I immediately heard someone bumping into Adam. There was a lot of loud panting, and Adam was waiting patiently for the other person to speak.

“Slow down, Third,” Adam was saying. “What is it? Any update on the Rogues?”

What the person replied was both dread and comfort.

“They got away.”

Taglist: @jeahreading, @damn-this-transgirl-hella-gay, @mayaheronthorn, @cherryblossempearl

#writing #indigo isles #land of crooked magic #writers on tumblr #tumblr novel #writing stuff #writerblr #tumblr authors

7 notes · View notes

luna-rainbow · 1 year ago

Note

I feel to a degree that Sam and Bucky's attitudes towards John Walker in TFATWS was kinda...needlessly cruel. Like, they had problems with him even before Walker had done anything wrong, simply because he was wearing a Captain America uniform and was no Steve Rogers. I think this really showed in their fight with him at the start of episode 5, which honestly feels to me more like "Sam and Bucky gang up on and brutalize Walker while he's still going through the process of grieving his best friend who was just brutally murdered in front of him."

I have very little sympathy for Walker, because he reminds me keenly of the particular type of person (often white and male) who has been smooth sailing for all their life and gets their way by trampling over other people but has absolutely no self-awareness of this, attributes their own success not to systemic privilege tipped in their favour but rather believes it’s all from ‘individual hard work’, who then struggles because for once in their life things don’t go their way and their tantrum behaviour escalates until it ends in violence.

I know there are more sympathetic readings of his character (he has PTSD, was unsupported, didn’t get much help) but this is the archetype I saw and…to be honest, if I met this kind of person, I would give him very little patience too.

Also, I remember Walker’s introduction very differently. Sam donated the shield to the museum to lay Captain America to rest, and his wish was disrespected. You can argue that’s not entirely Walker’s fault but he’s also not innocent either, so Sam has plenty of reason to distrust him at the get-go. Walker then went on TV and says “I never met him (Steve), he feels like a brother,” which, aside from being a mockery of the friendship between Steve and Bucky, was a weird ingratiating line while disrespecting Steve’s wishes of handing the shield over to Sam (and thereby letting Sam decide what should happen to the shield). So Bucky, too, had plenty of reason to distrust Walker before they met.

The truck fight I’m putting down to shitty writing. You’re telling me two veterans who had fought super soldiers and aliens and everything in between couldn’t handle a bunch of kids until Walker arrived on the scene? I call writer bias, and I’ve talked extensively in the past about how Walker was the only character in that series given the protagonist treatment of agency and a complete character arc at the expense of our two eponymous protagonists, who were passive and whose character beats happened off screen.

Taking away the writer issues, Sam and Bucky were both pulling their punches because they realised they were up against kids. Walker pulled out a gun and shot one of them (can’t remember if the kid died or not). That’s a much better metaphor for police brutality than the traffic stop scene later, and gives more concrete reason for Sam and Bucky to distrust him.

The only thing mean from Sam/Bucky’s side in that conversation was Walker asking to work together and Bucky saying “Just cos you carry that shield, it doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.” Which, after all we’ve seen of him so far, is a pretty fair assessment.

As compared to all the awkwardly cocky stuff Walker says in return. “Yeah, I have (jumped on a grenade), it’s a thing I do with my helmet” which undermines what it says about Steve’s moral character by covering a grenade with his body. Are we forgetting the “That serum doesn’t exactly have a great track record. No offense”? I love the no offense, which is standard repertoire for entitled people to put the burden of offence in the listener’s court instead of apologising for the offense they’re causing. Are we forgetting the “uh no we didn’t track them we tracked you through Redwing” with a smug grin? Are we forgetting his deaf dismissal of Sam trying to rationalise with why a bunch of impoverished kids are successfully leading a revolution (god the way he just ignored Sam’s point is so close to how entitled white men in real life talks it makes my blood boil)? Are we forgetting the “It’d be a whole lot easier if I had Cap’s wingmen on my side”?

I don’t think Sam and Bucky were “needlessly” cruel. I think they had an understandable emotional reaction - during a period of emotional vulnerability for both of them - to someone they see doing their memory of Steve dirty, and an understandable escalation in their distrust by what Walker then showed of his convictions, attitudes, and intentions. From a writing point of view — yeah I do think Bucky’s disgust was more exaggerated than I personally would have written him, but as far as all the OOC shit Bucky has done in this show, being aggravated by Walker was the least of it.

And by episode 5??? By then Walker has said and done a whole bunch of deranged shit. Sam and Bucky were not “ganging up” on him. Are we forgetting that Sam asked nicely for him to hand himself in? And then Walker going full gollum-mode (“my precioussss”) because Sam mentions the shield once?? (But also yes I agree the writing was once again shitty and focused weirdly on retrieving the shield instead of, you know, the priority of apprehending Walker) And sorry, going back once again to the entitled white men trope, because that’s what Walker is — did Walker show any respect to Sam and Bucky for grieving over Steve? Then why should we expect people to afford him leniency in return? Not to mention that they did approach him kindly and say that he would likely be judged leniently because of Lemar’s death. And even as they’re trying to be kind to him, Walker snipes at Bucky “I’m not like you” (actually you’re not, you dipshit, because Bucky never killed anyone in spite or rage) and assumes the worst of Sam for asking for the shield.

Look, I am all for a balanced view on Walker, because he is a layered character who tries his best but was never good enough, and the sense of inferiority escalates his immature emotional response beyond control. But that’s because of his glaring, major, inexcusable character flaws that he only has himself to blame for. He’s basically Tony Stark who has been trained for violence through the military and doesn’t have the wealth or brain power to channel his anger anywhere else.

Not to mention that Sam and Bucky never sought him out even once, and he’s the one barging in on them multiple times despite them making their boundaries clear.

#tfatws critical #i won’t tag him bcos the walker stan’s are pretty vitriolic too #asks

29 notes · View notes

chaotic-super · 1 year ago

Text

Back To Krypton - Chapter 33

Read Back To Krypton on AO3 here!

Lena only managed to get a couple of hours of sleep despite her exhaustion. It’s still sitting heavy in her bones and making her limbs feel like they’re made of lead but she just can’t sleep anymore. She woke up with a desperate need to pee so she ended up going into the bathroom to do so and then while she was there, she showered because honestly, she felt grotty.

She purposefully left the door open so she could hear if Kara woke up. She needs her now more than ever; she can barely even imagine the inner turmoil that must be burrowing into Kara’s brain right about now.

On top of everything that has happened with Astra and The Rebellion, she’s now got to think about the fact that Astra handed herself over to keep her safe. It’s a bittersweet action, one that hurts Kara because of the implications but shows her true love for her niece in the self-sacrificial action she took just because she wanted to protect her.

That’s just one side of things. She’s also dealing with seeing her mother for the first time since she was a child and rather than being the overly loving, perfect mother she remembers, she’s showing signs of the poor choices Kara only found out she made when Kara herself was an adult. She’s seeing a flawed woman instead of the kind, nurturing one she remembers and that can’t be easy.

As soon as she was done having a quick shower, one that made her skin red from how hard she scrubbed it to make sure she was properly clean, she climbed back into bed with Kara, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking about everything that they’re up against and questioning her own decisions.

It’s as she’s still staring that Kara stirs.

“What are you doing?” Kara mumbles into Lena’s collarbone, the woman is sprawled across Lena with a tight grip on her which means she’s thoroughly pinned down.

“Just thinking.”

Kara hums and Lena feels the vibration of it against her skin. “You think loudly.”

Lena tilts her head a presses a gentle kiss to Kara’s forehead, purposefully avoiding a little smudge of dirt still smeared across her skin. “Sorry, darling.”

Kara hums again, shifting her body slightly to make it more comfortable for her to tilt her head upwards so she can press a kiss to Lena’s lips. “It’s ok. What are you thinking about?”

“Everything going on. We have a lot to figure out.”

Lena feels a sigh against the skin of her throat and it makes her shiver slightly. Kara smiles at the reaction, just a tiny one in recognition of what just happened. “Yeah, we do. You smell nice though. Have you showered?”

“Yeah, not too long ago.”

Kara leans back from her like she’s been shocked. “Lena, you shouldn’t have let me get you all dirty again after you just showed. I’ll get you all mucky.”

“I don’t mind. I like cuddling with you.”

Kara rolls her eyes dramatically. “You can have more cuddles once I’ve showered and brushed my teeth. I won’t be long.”

Lena grabs her by her wrist gently as she tries to back away out of the bed, pulling her back and pressing another kiss to her lips. “Take as long as you need, ok? I’ll be right here when you get back and then we should probably go and see if the others are awake.”

Kara nods, smiling again at Lena, always blown away by the way Lena always knows how to make her feel better and how she’s always got room in her heart to be considerate. In a lot of ways it makes her feel less than because she knows that she could spend the rest of her life devoted to making the lives of others better but she’d still never be a fraction of how selfless and graceful Lena is. Mostly, she’s just glad she gets to be so close to her, her light keeping her warm on the coldest of days, a privilege she’s never going to knowingly take advantage of.

Unlike Lena, Kara closes the door softly behind her, Lena’s eyes tracking the movement as she goes, a fact Kara is keenly aware of, Lena’s gaze tender yet heavy on her spine. She is quick to strip down and jump in the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her shoulders and letting it warm her from the outside in.

There are so many thoughts running through her mind at once that she can scarcely focus on one because it’s pushed aside for another one just a moment later, each one demanding her attention and making it impossible for her to properly think anything over.

There is one thought she keeps coming back to though, one that is especially insistent to be seen, one that is simply just her mom.

Alura is a challenge in and of herself. She knows a lot of what’s going on now and while she’s likely going to be willing to help them, she’s not going to be helping Astra or even Krypton for that matter. Two things that are on the same level of importance to Kara as her team and their mission to save all of the aliens on Earth from Lex and his evil plan.

Lex. There’s someone she’s barely thought about the past few weeks. She’s thought of the mission and their goals and the repercussions of what will happen if they don’t succeed but she’s not really spent a lot of time thinking about the man putting everyone she loves on Earth in danger. Lena must be thinking about him though, how could she not? She’s on a mission to another planet, doing insanely dangerous things and pushing herself to her absolute limits because of someone she was once really close with, someone she once loved dearly, her own family, and Kara hasn’t acknowledged that at all. Lena must think she’s a terrible girlfriend.

Then, that’s all she can think about. She’s spent the entire time on this mission monopolizing Lena’s love and care, taking all of the comfort she has to offer whilst offering her none in return. The very thought takes her breath away, the steam of the shower making it all the more difficult to breathe.

She stumbles back out from under the steady flow of water, her feet slipping on her way out because of her disorientation and her panic. She catches herself, just barely, and stumbles over to the sink, her butt pressing against the edge and her hands coming either side of her hips to hold onto it tightly.

Her breathing is heavy, coming out in pants but still, her lungs feel empty and she can’t focus on anything other than her desperate need for air.

Her legs give way and she tumbles to the floor with a heavy thud, one that is loud enough for Lena to hear, even through the closed door.

“Kara? Are you ok? Did you drop something?”

When she gets no response, Lena gets up and knocks on the door, slightly frantically, each knock getting firmer and firmer when she doesn’t get an immediate response.

“Kara? I’m coming in, alright?”

She still gets no response so she does exactly what she threatened to do and what she finds breaks her heart.

On her knees, naked and shivering, Kara kneels in front of the sink, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face and her hand pressing hard between her own breasts, as though trying to forcibly stabilize her own lungs, something she’s very clearly struggling with.

The room is full of steam from the shower, the water still running, so Lena makes a quick detour to shut it off, pushing the door fully open to let the steam drift out and clear the air as much as she can before she drops herself down in front of Kara, and pulls her into her chest. “I’ve got you, just breathe, Kara.”

“I- I can’t…” Kara trails off, her forehead pressing into Lena’s shoulder sharply, the pressure calming.

“Yes, you can. Just in and out, you can do it, in and out.” Lena grabs Kara’s hand and presses it to her chest, “Feel my breaths, Kara, try and match them.”

Lena purposely takes in deep gulps of air, making sure Kara can feel each one and prompting her to copy her. Over the course of a couple of minutes, her breathing gets better but not perfect but still, Lena is now willing to move Kara, grabbing her around her waist and hauling her up so she can direct her into the bedroom carefully, where she promptly sits her on the edge of the bed.

“You’re ok, you’re safe and I’m right here.” Lena coos into her ear in a whisper, barely audible but strong enough that Kara can latch onto the words. Tenderly, Lena pulls the blankets up around Kara’s damp shoulders, resting them there but not pulling them around her so she doesn’t feel suffocated. “I’ve got you, just keep breathing nice and deeply for me, darling, there you go.”

Lena’s forehead is pressed against the side of Kara’s head, her hair still sopping wet but she honestly hasn’t given it a second thought, she’s just kicking herself for letting Kara be alone when she knew this could happen, it happened with Astra and on the way to Krypton so she should have been expecting it.

“I’m so sorry I let this happen, Kara. I should have been paying more attention, I could’ve—”

“No.” Kara’s voice calls out. It’s shaky but her tone leaves no room for arguments. “S’not your fault. It’s mine.”

Lena finds her head shaking vehemently before Kara’s even finished her sentence. “Hey, no. You’re not to blame for having a panic attack, you’re really not. You can’t help it.”

“I’m sorry.” Kara’s lips tremble and Lena can see she’s just seconds away from crying.

Lena pulls her into her side as tightly as she can and tucks the blankets around her tighter now she’s through the worst of it. “You’re not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack either. It’s not your fault, baby. Not at all.”

“But—”

“No buts, it’s nobody’s fault, let’s just agree on that, ok?” Lena presses her nose into Kara’s skin. She takes note that Kara is pretty clean so she must have gotten pretty far into her shower before she had her panic attack.

Kara sniffs, wiping her nose on her wrist. “Ok.”

“Now, how far did you get with your shower? You’re not dirty anymore so you did your body, did you manage your hair?”

Kara shakes her head sadly, a little ashamed that she didn’t even manage to get through a single shower without having a breakdown.

Lena sees the embarrassed blush spread rapidly through Kara’s cheeks and the way she turns her head down towards the ground. “That’s ok, let me help you.”

“I can—”

“I know you can, but you don’t have to and I want to help so come on, let’s get you up and back into that shower and then after, you can have a nap, I know you get tired after you have a panic attack.”

Kara sucks her lips into her mouth, sniffs again, and nods, her cheeks glistening with a few errant tears. “Ok.”

Lena smiles, triumphant. She gently eases the blanket off of Kara’s shoulders and wraps her arm around her waist, helping her into the bathroom and beside the shower. She starts the water and while it’s going, she quickly strips off, amused by the way Kara’s eyes grow wide but never move away from her boobs.

“Come on.” She guides Kara into the water, stepping in behind her and trying to ignore the way the cold air feels on her butt where the water doesn’t reach.

Kara goes to turn towards her but Lena stops her, immediately pressing her fingers into Kara’s hair, gently detangling it and scrubbing at her scalp with her fingertips. It still feels strange that they can shower without a million different bottles of shampoos and conditioners and shower gels and moisturisers because it’s all in the water but Lena likes it, it’s a lot less clutter free and it makes her want to find a way to add it into her own home when they get back to Earth.

Kara relaxes beneath her touch, the tension rolling off her shoulders and being washed away with the water. It makes Lena smile once again at the sight of it and then she presses a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Almost done.”

Lena scratches at her scalp for longer than she needs to before threading her fingers through Kara’s long, soft locks, making sure it’s all completely tangle free. “There we go, all done.”

She steps out and lets Kara turn the water off a minute later, giving her the chance to catch her breath and take things at her own pace. By the time Kara has emerged from the tube-shaped shower, Lena has already dried her front off and slipped her clothes back on and is waiting for her with a towel.

With it stretched open, Kara gets the message and steps into it, allowing Lena to wrap it around her snugly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Lena pecks her cheek.

Lena steps away from her again, this time to get her toothbrush ready with toothpaste squeezed across it in an obnoxiously neat line. “I know you’re only supposed to use a splodge but I can’t resist the aesthetics at times like these.”

“If you can’t have good mental health, then have good aesthetics, sounds healthy.” Kara nods, have face showing nothing but seriousness and agreeance.

Lena has to resist the urge to kiss her again. She loves it when Kara lets herself delve into her darker humour, something she rarely lets herself do because she likes to keep to her image of being the paragon of hope and light and optimism. It’s cute when she lets herself be herself, much more attractive than a woman with a never-ending smile and a half-baked personality, that’s for sure.

“Brush your teeth while I grab you some clothes, you never brought any in here with you.”

“I figured I’d let you see the goods, you’ve seen them now, that’s for sure.” Kara bites out a self-deprecating laugh that makes Lena frown.

“Ok, I’ll just be a minute.” Lena leaves, a little confused and a lot worried.

As she goes through Kara’s pack, she purposefully digs out the softest clothes she can find. They are all pretty similar but she tries anyway because she knows how overwhelming rough textures are for Kara. It can affect her at any time but she’s especially sensitive after a panic attack or when she’s overwhelmed, something she most definitely is at the minute.

Because she’s searching through all of her clothes, Kara ends up finishing up in the bathroom before she’s gathered all of her clothes and she perches back on the edge of the bed while she waits for Lena, half-heartedly drying herself off with the towel.

Lena drops the clothes next to her on the bed and takes the towel off her, gently drying her hair for her.

“You’re too good to me.” Kara sighs, her eyes slipping closed under her tender attention.

“Nobody is good enough for you, Kara.” Lena mumbles, her focus on the towel and Kara’s hair, purposely trying to make sure she isn’t being too rough.

Kara’s mouth twists to one side as her emotions bubble up once again. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a shitty girlfriend.”

Lena is taken aback. Her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen as her jaw drops. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve been making everything about me for weeks now, I haven’t even been asking how you’re doing. When I was in the shower the first time, I realized that I had stopped thinking about Lex while we have been here and that you’re probably always thinking about him and the pain you must be feeling. I haven’t been there for you in that way and I should have been. I’m sorry.”

The words are wet and stammered by the end and Lena once again scoops her up into her arms, holding her as tight as she dares to with a woman so fragile in her clutches.

“There’s only one person on my mind all the time and that person is right here in my arms. It does hurt to think about Lex and what he’s done, what he’s pushed us to do, but at the same time, I’m almost grateful, in a weird kind of way, because we came here, I’ve gotten to experience so many incredible things and I’ve had the chance to do it with the woman I love, there’s nothing more magical than that and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Really?”

Lena hums the affirmative. “I just wish I could take away all of the pain and feelings being dragged up for you, I know it can’t be easy seeing all of your family again, especially your mother.”

“It isn’t.” The words are hesitant like she’s only just now admitting it to herself as well as to Lena. “I just remember her so differently. I learned about all of these things she’s done a lot later in life and by then they were just words, stories even, it wasn’t real. Now it is.”

Kara begins unfolding her shirt as she speaks, busying her hands. Lena watches her shrug her bra over her shoulders and clasps it while trying to find the right words to respond to Kara’s admission.

“That makes sense. A lot of sense actually. It’s a see-it-to-believe-it kind of situation. Now, you’ve actually got the proof rather than a silly story you didn’t really want to believe.” She helps Kara tug her shirt over her head, helping her arms through the armholes, doting on her as much as she can get away with despite knowing that she’s fully capable of doing it all herself.

Kara eases her panties up her legs and then tosses the pants on the floor, she’s not putting them on now, she’s getting back in bed as soon as she’s got her socks on. “You really get it?”

“I do.” Lena moves across the bed to her own side to give Kara the space to get in beside her.

Together, they lean back against the pillows. Kara presses herself into Lena’s side, her arm lying across her midriff and her fingers gripping at her shirt which causes little wrinkles to form in the fabric but Lena barely spares it a second thought, if it makes Kara feel better then it’s worth it, she can always throw a jacket over the top of it anyway.

“Do you think my mom knows too much?” Kara asks after a while. “We told her a lot.”

“No, I told her a lot. I let my mouth run before rather than thinking it all through properly. I guess coming out of a life and death situation and then being confronted about top secret information isn’t my strong suit.”

“To be fair, I don’t think that’s anybody’s strong suit, except for maybe Alex’s, she seems like the kind to be able to deal with that. We should have let her do the talking.”

Lena presses soft kisses into Kara’s hair. “I think she was too busy holding her wife and daughter, thanking every god that’s even been believed in that she managed to get back to them in one piece. She’s a lot softer than we give her credit for.”

“Probably.” Kara hums and when Lena looks down, she can see Kara’s eyes fluttering closed. Moments like this always drain Kara and so she’s in desperate need of a good nap.

Lena squeezes her tight. “Just go to sleep, darling.”

Kara nods, just barely against the skin of Lena’s collarbone, already halfway there.

Lena lies there for a long time, long past Kara’s point of no return where she’s well and truly asleep, mostly because she doesn’t really want to do what she’s going to do but she has to, for Kara, she has to.

With careful movements, Lena eases herself out from under Kara and smooths out her clothes, throwing a jacket over her wrinkled shirt, and heads out of the room, closing the door behind her as carefully as she can so it doesn’t bang and wake Kara up.

She wanders back out to the living room where Alura is sitting, her head in her hands and hunched over in a rather undignified position for someone of her standing.

“Alura?” Lena calls out quietly so as to not startle the woman.

Alura sits up but makes no pretence that she wasn’t just sitting in a pit of her mind’s making. “Lena, how are you? How is Kara?”

Lena sits down on the couch beside her, her body angled towards her. “I’m doing well and Kara is…well, she’s handling things as best she can.”

“You and my daughter are courting, I presume?”

“We are,” Lena says with a hint of joy dancing behind her eyes. Introducing Kara as her partner is something she’s going to have to get used to when they get back to Earth.

Alura looks her up and down a couple of times and it takes everything in Lena to not fidget under her gaze. After a moment of obvious judgement, Alura nods. “You treat her well, yes?”

“Always.”

“Good,” Alura says. “Now, I presume there is something you want to talk to me about? You probably wouldn’t have wandered out here to have awkward small talk with me so what do you need from me?”

Lena clears her throat. “I told you a lot of things before, things you shouldn’t know. Things that can affect the timeline and put the future in danger. Your actions that follow that knowledge being bestowed upon you can make or break an entire planet so I need you to be willing to work with us to prevent catastrophic destruction.”

“It could be that bad?” Alura’s eyebrows pull together in a rather Kara-like manner, or rather, Kara sometimes pulls her eyebrows together in a manner learned from her mother.

Lena swallows down the lump forming in her throat when she thinks about the damage that they have probably already caused. “It could, or we could salvage this mission and everything could be ok. I’m hoping for the best, Kara helps with the whole optimism thing but I can see that at the minute, even she’s struggling to find hope.”

“Kara has always been able to see the best in things. Everything she’s ever done has come from a view I wish I had of the world. I’m not sure where she got it from because it’s certainly not from me or Zor. He’s got a better outlook on life than I have but neither of us could ever match the wonder Kara has for the planet, even when she sees the miserable side of things. We could show her a hundred broken things and rather than dismay, she would simply spend as much time as we would allow trying to come up with solutions.”

Alura gets a look across her face that Lena can only describe as a look of pure, unadulterated love, one only a mother can get when talking about her daughter. Lena can’t help but wonder if her birth mother once got that look upon her face when talking about her, or maybe, even if Lillian ever has, just when she was sure Lena couldn’t see as to not expose her softer side to her. She’ll just have to wonder.

“Kara told me about an experiment she did where she created a project she was working on, an artificial environment to try and save species of bugs from extinction. She even built it for us so we could see it. It was truly remarkable. There are not many young people around that are smart enough and kind enough to come up with something like that.”

“My Kara has always been one of a kind.” Alura can’t keep the grin off her face. “She’s got such a big heart, I’ve always been afraid of the days when it gets broken because the world is much crueller than she can handle.”

Lena shakes her head, a movement so slight that Alura barely catches it. “She’s a lot stronger than you think, she has survived things you can’t even imagine and fought with dangers that neither of us can comprehend. She’s had a hard life, one that you can’t protect her from, no matter how hard you try, and she is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, probably the strongest. Her heart though, it might splinter or crack or get bruised but I’ve never seen it broken, not even once, and with what she’s lost, it’s truly remarkable.”

“Did she lose us? Zor and I?”

“She lost everything,” Lena responds in barely more than a whisper. “She lost everything she ever loved and somehow, she managed to come through on the other side, a little broken, sure, but she’s made herself stronger for it. I can’t say anything more than that but I need you to know what an incredible, resilient, kind, loved woman Kara is. She may have lost everything but she is my everything and I will do what it takes to protect her, including telling you what I need you to do so you don’t mess up the timeline and make her lose her home in the future in the same way she lost her first home so please, listen to me and work with me.”

Alura looks down at the ground, another movement that is just a mirror of those that Kara is known for. She sighs loudly before looking up. “We can discuss it. I can’t make any promises but I also have my Kara to think of. Your Kara may also be my daughter but I haven’t seen her grow up yet, not the way I have with my Kara, my twelve-year-old daughter.”

“That’s all I ask.” Lena accepts, biting her tongue so she doesn’t say anything more because Alura doesn’t seem to grasp that there is no ‘yet’. She’s never going to see Kara grow up beyond the point she’s at and that very fact makes Lena want to curl up in a ball and cry for them.

Alura takes a deep breath. “Alright, tell me what you need me to do and we can discuss.”

“Ok then. Let’s start with Astra.”

Read the next 3 chapters on Patreon here!

#supercorp #supergirl #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #cw supergirl #fanfic #supercorp endgame #supercorp fanfic #fanfiction #kara leaned in #kara zor el #wlw #katie mcgrath #melissa benoist #back to krypton #chaoticsuper

32 notes · View notes

resolutepath · 28 days ago

Note

“ i just want to be done. i’m tired. i’m so, so fucking tired. ” (blade for dan heng)

The words leave Blade's lips and he hears how deeply ingrained the sentiment is. This is not something that lays only skin deep, but something that has burrowed deeply into his marrow with each revival endured, clawing so deep it might never be carved out. He cannot possible understand the exhaustion and resolution for death that plagues the swordsman, but frustration is something he has felt so keenly since the agony of molting rebirth, dancing between chases of the marastruck and accusation of a life he is no longer a part of.

Dan Heng sighs and folds his arms across his chest, gaze levelling upon the other. "You and I have not yet been granted the benefit of rest from our hauntings. You know that." This is their penance for the crimes of their past selves, regardless of their responsibility to bear them or not. He has his opinions on it, yet nothing will change the cold stares of those who remember, nor the moments when Dan Feng's shadow looms over him so suffocating he might never escape its inky depths.

"Yet I stand by my word. I will endeavour to find a way to allow you to rest. I am working on it." To no avail, he does not add, for it is evident in his lack of success so far, and he would rather not dampen the tentative calm between them that has allowed his gaze to settle upon the man who he knew and is learning to know again. The breeze dances through his hair, sifting strands in a gentle dance, but he does not allow himself to falter and undo all the ground that they have conceded to one another. Instead he steps closer, unravelling himself until he can stretch a hand out and lay it upon Blade's shoulder, feeling the weight of cloth and muscle beneath his palm. So rare is the contact that he almost forgets to exhale, his breath shuddering past lips, before he speaks again.

"Until then, you must endure. As must I. I am told a burdened shared is a problem halved... though I suspect that may well be March's attempts at cheering me up." He appreciates his friends, they do ease the darker days, but there are some things that they simply do not understand. The weight of the two lives that he carries is not something he would choose to lay upon their shoulders any more than they have delved into.

And perhaps, selfishly, he does not wish for them to know how thin the veil between where Dan Feng ends and he begins is far thinner than they suspect. There are some things best kept among those who were witness to all that once was, the whole sordid affair.

"I will try not to let you wait too long..." The warmth of his hand shifts as he lightens the touch, fingers brushing coat sleeve and ghosting over bandaged fingertips as it finds its way back to his own side. His resolution to honour his words does not waver, but that selfish voice within whispers, weak and without spirit, of a fear that creeps in his chest, curling around his heart in a delicate touch and he acknowledges that perhaps he is at war with himself, caught between wanting to aid in finally setting the past to rest, and the prospect of grief upon the horizon.

It does not matter. He is not allowed it.

#daybreakrising #muses. [ dan heng. ]#source. [ h.sr. ]#( lauri content? /lauri content/ )

5 notes · View notes

lewis-winters · 1 year ago

Text

Last Line(s) tag

thank you to @almost-a-class-act and @hellofanidea for the tag! sorry I only answered now it slipped my mind.

Um. Ok. So. I haven't been working on any stuff lately because ✨Depression✨ so I clicked on a random word document for this. So. Here's the last few paragraphs from a Winnix fic I left unfinished in 2021, based off the indie film Private Romeo:

It’s funny, Dick thinks. Funny how little they have in common, poor Romeo and he. The fancies of youth have never taken a hold of him before, not the way it has this boy, with his heart on his sleeve, daring the world to break it and make him into something poetry and songs could claim. Moving through the world with his head down and his hands as busy as he could get them, Dick always thought it wiser to keep his heart tucked in and away, protected and only feeling what his head would let it, fueling it with nothing but determination and character, building it all upon the moral compass so carefully handed down to him through the wisdom of the generations. He’d been a good son, staying carefully in his lane, living life according to the words of his parents, understanding their discipline to be an expression of their love and honoring them best he can. He never crashed parties he wasn’t invited too. He never made friends with those who drank their weight in alcohol. He never allowed himself to pine after those he could never have.

Or at least he didn’t, until now.

The moon is forgiving tonight, shining gently through the window of their tiny room to caress the sweet swell of Lewis’ cheek and the proud slope of his nose. His dark brows are drawn together in a frown, the corners of his lips downturned in distress. Dreaming again—of what, Dick isn’t sure. Lewis never tells. But it doesn’t stop the need in him to reach out and touch, soothe away the pain with the pad of his thumb, allowing the rest of his fingers to cradle Lew’s cheek, run themselves through the thick of his steel black hair.

Now that he thinks about it, they’d met very similarly to this, on that little patch of gentle sun that appeared every afternoon on that grassy hill behind their barracks in Fort Benning. Dick remembers it just like it were yesterday, perhaps because he holds on to the memory the way Lew holds on to his flask, taking it out for a sip every now and again, to feel the addictive rolling, crashing wave of warmth course through him until he feels it all in the crown of his head to his toes.

Lew had been dozing, left behind on a rare weekend when the bars and pubs of the nearby town could not hold his attention for long. Asleep, he looked his age, smoothed out and serene and boyish; long, black lashes fanning across his tan cheeks with a sweetness that made Dick want to kiss them until they fluttered open to reveal those large, brown eyes he’d been dutifully trying to keep out of his thoughts. He did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead, he’d shimmied down the slope to hover over this boy he’d only ever seen in passing, but whose image he’d always followed with his eyes, inexplicably drawn, and shaken his shoulder until he’d awoken, staring up at Dick with confusion.

“Hi?” he’d said, groggy. And that was the beginning.

Dick had never thought that his own love might be something poets would sing of. Never thought of it burning or hurting so keenly, drowning him in yearning and want. He always thought his love would be straight forward and simple.

Now, with his eyes slipping shut as he watches the steady rise and fall of Lew’s chest, he realizes that that, too, had been its own kind of foolishness.

And I'll tag whoever wants to do it!

#personal #tag game #winnix #estrella_marie

9 notes · View notes

cantuscorvi · 1 year ago

Note

Nezumi closed the book on his lap. He shifted towards Raum, adjusting the blanket over his thighs that kept him warm in the chilly house.

"What do you think of immortality?" he asked, a question pulled from the vast universe of his thoughts, unrelated to anything they talked about previously. ( Not in this lifetime, at least. )

"To me, it feels dreadful. I cannot imagine that the past I learn about—the very same I so love to romanticise—would be something that I've lived. The point of Life is to grow old, and I have so many wonderful secrets I'd love to take to my grave." He flashed Raum a soft inconspicuous smile.

[ do you remember how we said that modern Nezumi would sometimes say/ask same things as the Nezumi in the past? well, this could be one of those occassions? ]

@nezumivc103221

Funny how words uttered no doubt on a whim could create such a sharp and bright feeling of deja-vu. For a split second, Raum saw it — the ghost of Eve mingling with Nezumi’s image. And suddenly it was the summer of some forgotten year in the reign of Victoria. He was standing under the tarp next to Eve’s trailer as to not be burnt by the sun. She gave him that same enigmatic smile, tilting her head just so, and her hair spilled over one shoulder in a silky curtain. A thin strand stuck to her cheek as she spoke.

‘…I have so many wonderful secrets I'd love to take to my grave.’

Raum blinked the memory away — two, three times, hoping that his silence would be received as thoughtful instead of stricken. He thought about the kind of ready responses he might have had back then — and he scrapped them all entirely.

“Mm. It’s common to view such a continuous existence in extremes, isn’t it? As some kind of never-ending torture, or perhaps unlimited freedom.” He scoffed, keenly aware of the distance Nezumi had closed between them but let it pass easily without acknowledgement.

“It’s… nothing special, I’d bet,” he decided, tone carefully neutral on the topic of immortality. “Life continues as it ever did — perhaps a little more relaxed, without the impending time limit.”

He closed his book and turned to face Nezumi, giving the other man his full attention.

“Is it so terrible, so impossible to imagine?” Raum rested his chin on his fist and watched Nezumi closely, his hand hiding the majority of his secretive smile.

“People romanticise the past only because they’ve never seen it clearly. We cannot know everything about it — some things are lost to time. Those gaps in knowledge create little mysteries in the mind, and it leads people to believe that perhaps whatever they’re missing from their current life could be found there.”

Raum waved his hand dismissively.

“It’s a silly reason. We similarly cannot know everything about the present. We only believe we do. And because we are here, the present begins to feel mundane in comparison. It’s a slow onset of cumulative fatigue.”

It was Raum’s turn to lean into Nezumi’s space, eyes meeting.

“If you could live forever, imagine how much fatigue you might feel about the world — until you begin to look at it differently. Beyond the everyday, and the superficial. And if you begin to look closely enough — life is full of those mysteries we believe belong only to the past.”

He reached out and lightly twirled a lock of Nezumi’s loose hair away behind his ear. How he had wanted to, back in that Summer before Eve was called away by a member of the troupe.

“If you and I were in the past — it should be no less enthralling because you are a part of it. Neither should the present.”

#nezumivc103221 #ask #( dulce periculum ; raum & nezumi )#i think it's easy for raum to forget that he enjoys the world. sometimes #and talking about it like this is suddenly having him like. oh. huh. i guess i do. and you should as well. otherwise what's the point

3 notes · View notes

punemy-spotted · 4 years ago

Text

The Price You Pay Chapter 3: Counteroffer

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Elements Continue; Dub-Con; Angst; Politics; Possessive/Manipulative Behavior; Spanking; Choking; Crying; The Dove is Probably Dead: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The return of an old friend brings back the ghosts of old memories.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Notes: Shorter chapters my ass, these outlines are getting unreal. Andy Barber has arrived, Steve Rogers does not approve, the Reader bears the consequences. Things are going to be angstier from here on out and I can feel it in my bones. Please don’t yell at me — or do, your feedback is well-loved and appreciated even if it’s yelly.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

You met Andy Barber fresh from the ashes of his divorce, escaping the gossip and scandal and pain of his past life only to dive into the gossip and scandal and pain of politics. Senatorial campaign, in need of an aide and a law student desperate to do more for the people than hours in clinics and mock trials. Hungry for something grassroots, angling for the impossible.

A match. Whether made in Heaven or Hell feels irrelevant now, long ago as it was.

It was then. This… is now.

Hey Sunshine, didn’t think you’d be able to make it.

He looks the same. Keeps the same beard. Same hair. It’s uncanny and familiar and safe all at once and you slide into the booth with your purse by your side and feel genuinely smiley for the first time in a long time.

It’s been a while since I heard that name.

Yeah? It’s been a while since I got to use it.

The silence is heavy, unwelcome, unwieldy, a reminder of the space between what was and what is.

How’re you doing? Last I heard you were making a name for yourself taking down the…

He trails off, eyes fixed on the slide of your gaze, the sudden interest in a drink menu you wouldn’t normally touch, the tremor of your lips. A man doesn’t serve as Assistant District Attorney for the many years he has without picking up tells.

Sunshine.

Andy…

It’s a warning, a plea, a… confession, all at once, and all the dogged determination in the world can’t hold against the break in your voice, in your control. You’ve cried more in the past few weeks than you can recall and now here he is, soulful eyes and a worried expression and he’s never hugged you really, but suddenly you might want it just that much more.

Don’t be an idiot.

It’s dangerous, your stress, and you know it.

Dangerous enough to send you into the arms of the next safe thing — this is why you don’t do this, isn’t it, this reaching out bit, but no advocacy group on the planet is going to save you from yourself today.

I saw… I saw you win that case. Pretty brutal, standing up to the Syndicate, and getting what you did. He steamrolls past the way you wince, his thumb on that metaphorical bruise and pressing, the Prosecutor’s dogged determination demanding answers, I have a friend in the office, he was convinced you’d be climbing the ranks.

Every word is a twist of the knife, couched in quiet concern, gentle admonition, a warm hug in a smoky tenor and you want to tell him everything, you want to break down in his arms and tell him every word, every buried piece of you he never learned, everything that’s led you to this.

You don’t.

You know better than to trust him too. No one’s going to take care of you but you so instead you shake your head and wave it off and Decided going into the private sector was the better option — one big win doesn’t really make up for the stress, you know.

Private sector. That’s what you’re calling the SHIELD Syndicate now? C’mon, Sunshine…

Look. It’s the Syndicate’s New York, when he made the offer it was… safer than saying no. It’s a cushy position anyway, and I didn’t want anyth—

He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you and you’re digging a hole trying to explain your way out of it so you just… shut up, shaking your head, It’s not important. I’m fine. I’m more curious about you — what year is it now, your fourth? What are you doing in New York?

The deflection works, but the look on his face is obvious — you’re not getting out of this so easily. He gives in for now, just for now, for you.

Almost fifth, gearing up for re-election. Had a meeting up here… about the organized crime situation for both states, and I remembered you were in the area.

Oh. You… it’s been a while since we talked, you remembered?

You expect me to forget you, Sunshine?

That stops you in your tracks, or whatever road your mind had been racing on, thoroughly not enjoying the defensive you’ve been on since you met with Steve, constantly under watch and waiting for yet one more shoe to fall on you.

That’s fear, sweetness.

Andy…?

You were the best campaign aide I had — I told you then too, I would have made you Chief of Staff if you’d let me.

It’s a good save. A clever save, and you want to believe it more than anything, want to believe it was all business and no pleasure because the alternative makes your nails bite into the table and want to turn tail before he can say another word and he… sees that panic flicker over your face so keenly it’s almost embarrassing.

You’re not used to this.

You’re not used to the warmth of his eyes when he searches your face for the answers you can’t give voice to. You’re not used to the way he reaches for your hand and rests it over your fingers, curling around your palm like he might actually keep you close and keep you safe and keep you free of the demons you made a part of yourself too.

Sunshine, why does his voice have to be so soft, why does it have to sound like molten honey on your senses, why does he have to say your name like it’s the very definition of the word hope, If you’re not safe…

No. No you’re not, tell him tell him the truth, tell him you’re atoning for the girl you could not protect tell him you aren’t worth it tell him this is your penance tell him you signed a death warrant tell him tell him tell him.

Andy, really. I’m fine. It’s a good job.

It’s a shit lie.

He drops it. Drops it just long enough for a waiter to finally come by, for his hand to leave yours while he talks through the wine menu. Drops it long enough for you to check your phone, realizing with horror that you must have silenced it absentmindedly sometime on your way here.

Ten missed calls.

All from Steve.

And one text, stamped from just five minutes ago.

[SMS] Either you pick up your phone or I pick you up, Counsel.

The next one comes right before your eyes, a picture of a map and a GPS pin. Your location.

You glance up at Andy, still talking to the waiter about the small plates options, feign a smile and Go ahead and choose, you have better taste than me, and return to staring at the picture and the three dots at the bottom of your screen, waiting to see his next message.

[SMS] Make your choice.

The haptic feedback of your keyboard feels like an electric shock with every letter, hurried fingers until you manage to tap out something that won’t immediately put the man in front of you in the crosshairs of the most dangerous organization in New York.

You can’t do that to him. You can’t.

[SMS] I’m at a dinner with a friend.

[SMS] And since I know there’s no emergencies pressing, I’d like my time, thank you.

You have the good sense to set it next to you this time, watching your screen light up with whatever furious response he sends next, glancing over only occasionally every time another one comes through. Don’t let him control you. Don’t let him think you’re at his beck and call.

You’re not.

You’re free, you’re free and you’re going to prove it.

Sunshine? What’s going on?

His voice cuts through the haze of panic like a knife and you swear you don’t mean to jump but you do and there’s no denying what he notices, eyes narrow and lips turned down in a sharp scowl, Sunshine…?

You are not that girl. You cannot be that girl, never again.

Steel. Steel yourself, flash him a smile, take a sip of the ice water left in front of you while you’d been checking your phone, reset yourself. Steady. Steady on.

Don’t let them know.

Nothing, nothing, just the boss — let him know I was busy.

Why is he texting you after hours? The Syndicate can’t be that busy.

He’s too watchful for your own good. Probably just making sure I’m staying out of trouble.

Are you?

Are you calling yourself trouble, Senator?

You like this. You can handle this, the trading of jokes, the crooked way he smiles. His eyes are a little more distant than you remember but you can still see them sparkle softly when he suppresses a laugh, lighting up properly when the joy reflects in them.

Briefly, you wonder when the last time he really laughed was.

By the time dinner is over, his hand, warm and steady, is back on yours as you talk — and for a moment you almost enjoy the way he runs his thumb over your knuckles absently, like he’s making careful appraisal of each one. Could use your skills for the re-election campaign, you know.

Really? You’ve got a gorgeous approval rating, what are you afraid of?

Not having my good luck charm on the staff.

Andy…

I’m dead serious, Sunshine, you ran that ship. You were what, a 2L? Rising 3? You had canvassing down to a science. We need that energy down on the Hill.

The curve of his fingers is a little tighter now, squeezing yours, like proof of his earnestness and oh, you want to keep believing him. You need to keep believing him.

There’s so much in New York I have to get done first. And besides, you know me. I want a life on the bench.

Justice Sunshine, and it sounds absurd when he uses your nickname and it sounds so real when he uses your nickname and in the warm smoke of his voice those contradictions can live together all at once.

That’s the one. Closest you’ll see me to Washington is when I’m appointed to the Supreme Court. It’s a dumb, arrogant, silly joke but it’s the same one you used to make with him over drinks, teasing him about his political goals and making him promise to “go easy on you” at your eventual Senate confirmation hearing.

It’s the one that makes him crack that too-beautiful crooked smile while he takes a sip of his drink — hiding the curve of his lips behind the rim of a heavy glass.

Well. If you ever decide to ditch—

Ever decide to ditch what?

The world moves in slow motion: hearing the low growl from behind you; Andy Barber looking up and rising to his feet, his hand slipping from yours with just the ghost of his comfortable touch to assure you; Steve Rogers coming into view as you turn, flanked by the not-entirely-unfamiliar faces of two of his enforcers — it looked like Wilson and Banner had been selected this evening — and the sudden pressure of knowing you’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong.

You stood me up, Counsel. Steve’s voice is a threat, a half-drawl as you stand up and face him, Andy right behind you, Something wrong with taking my phone calls?

She was busy, the sound of Andy’s voice is a balm to your soul and fuel to Steve’s fire, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth and resists the temptation to throw the first punch — you can see the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist, can’t you? The slow curve, the watching, wondering if you’ll make the right choice now that someone has chosen to try to lead you astray.

And who the fuck are you? If he can’t get you to respond, he’ll get something from the man talking for you, eyes trained on him like he’s debating whether his own frustration will make this interloper turn to nothingness and return you to his arms where you rightfullybelong.

Do you? Rightfully belong?

Senator Andy Barber. The title practically knocks the wind out of Steve’s sails and you can see it — he may be the Captain here, King of New York, ruler of his domain but he’s not stupid enough to openly attack a man with connections beyond the Syndicate’s web of influence. It’s a comfort and it’s not, all at once.

The room is still, vibrating with tension, the two men staring daggers at one another and you caught in the middle. I worked on Senator Barber’s campaign when he first ran for election, you manage out in some vain hope it might explain and mollify, only to be thoroughly disappointed — and judging by the way Banner winces, only to dig your grave further.

We’re talking about this later, Counsel. You’re coming home.

And what gives you the right to give her orders? You really are going to have to look back at Andy and beg him to not make this worse. You really are going to have to let him see your face, see that you’re afraid, sweetness. He’s not going to let you go easy and this should not terrify you as much as it does.

Senator Barber. It’s fine. Something must have come up,turning to face his burning eyes, until his face softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. And is he? Is he seeing how you just need him to let it go, let you go, drop the protectiveness and step back?

He has to, because he does, nodding before he grabs his coat and glances to the host station. If you say so, Sunshine. Take care of yourself. He doesn’t press, not knowing when he’s beat but knowing when you don’t want him to. When you’re not safe.

And Steve Rogers offers you his hand to walk you out.

And just what the hell did you think you were doing!?

Oh, and you control my time off the clock now too?

He dragged you back home.

No. Not to your apartment, that sanctuary away from all this you’d been allowed to keep as part of the “deal.” His home, the bedroom where you signed yourself away, the space he unraveled you and left you tangled in your new life.

He dragged you back home, in the grim silence of the backseat of his car and you waited. Waited for the inevitable explosion, the one prefaced by Wilson’s nervous looks and Banner’s cautious stare.

This explosion, where he rounds in on you, where livid is still too tame a term.

Meeting with a Senator? Ignoring my calls? I told you, you were mine tonight.

And I told you I had plans.

After I told you that you were mine, Counsel.

Okay. That’s true, even if you’re loathe to admit it.

Plans adjust. Andy wanted to—

Oh, Andy now? I thought it was Senator Barber? You’re really familiar with him, aren’t you, Counsel?

Just what the fuck are you implying?

Maybe you need a reminder of who you belong to.

He loves to do this. Wrap his big hand around your throat, remind you just how easily he can impose his power onto you, watch your protests die behind your eyes when you realize how useless words are in the face of his violence.

The furious look in your eyes is something to behold, the way you embed your nails into his wrist to try and drag him off you, all soft snarls and indignant huffs, You fucking asshole…

You’re mine, Counsel, and don’t you forget it. You gave yourself to me, remember?

Like I… like I had much of a choice, breathy, furious, and clawing at him.

Doesn’t matter. You’re mine, and clearly I need to make sure you know it…

Steve—!

Captain, sweetness, Captain, and don’t you forget it.

There’s a moment, when anger becomes transcendental, when it turns into something cold and calculating and prepared, when a plan forms behind his eyes and you watch as he looks down at you, so full of fury and fear all at once and you watch as he leans in so close and you feel his hand slide until he has you by the back of the neck, until his thumb is the thing pressing under your chin to keep your eyes on him, until the heel of his hand is the thing keeping you from shouting at him further. Such a stubborn little bitch…

You can almost see the words forming in his mind, the ones his mouth won’t say, I could be so good to you, but he doesn’t say them, sliding his lips over yours instead and it is… soft. A capturing of your mouth with his, not caring that you protest, only insistent on leaving you breathless and hazy-eyed from each tug of his lips on yours and there stokes the warmth of more than your rage, a different fire rising in your core, unbidden and unwelcome but yours to own and his to play with.

He can sense it, practically feel it, that mad serum racing through his veins and making his nostrils flare as he pulls back and watches you, lets the scent of your perfume fill his senses like a drug he can’t get enough of and, I should hate you too, for this, whispered low and hushed and you barely catch it, don’t you? Barely, but enough, enough to remember it was said just before he pulls you down with him into the depths of his own lust.

And into his lap, it seems, as he drags you down, sitting on the bed with you draped over his lap, an effortless shift in his skillful hands. You can protest, and you do, even daring to try to pull away with a kick of your legs and an indignant, What the hell do you think you’re doing?But you know it’s all futile, useless as he places one heavy hand on your back and lets the other slide over the smooth chiffon of your blouse, tracing a line along your spine with careful, practiced ease.

Would have preferred this with a little more… circumstance, sweetness, but you need to learn a lesson now and drastic times call for drastic measures.

You can turn your head slightly, to look at him, that wild-eyed fury so sweet on your face and you are still a wild creature he needs to tame but he is patient and he can do this for as long as it takes.

But you’re a sight like this, draped over his lap in a pencil skirt and blouse, so put together and proper and now so prone to him, helpless under the appraisal of his hands and the way he takes no time in hiking your skirt up around your waist. Captain! Your protest is met with a low chuckle, especially as he lets his palm curve around the round swell of your ass, before leaving a light swat on the soft flesh, to draw a yelp from your furious mouth.

If that’s all it takes to get you shouting, sweetness, you’re going to hate what comes next, smug and cruel, as you try to hold yourself up enough to look at him, met with his smirk and the simmering fury still bubbling in his eyes. To say you’re in danger still is an understatement, no doubt, and you know it.

I won’t make you count this time, but piss me off again, sweetness, and we’ll just see how much you can take, you hear me?

Oh you loathe him, really and truly loathe him, hissing with anger and embarrassment, so close to twisting in his arms and clawing at him but remembering his size and just how much worse it could get — but then there lies the undercurrent.

The one you loathe too, more than you hated him, that warmth. Seeping into your core, a low heat kindled by the sly softness of his lips on yours and the sure tenor of his voice, low and soothing even as he promised damnation. The one that — just like now — leaves you flushed and writhing while he purrs threats to you, massaging the soft skin and sliding the lace of your panties down to remove all barriers to the sex he owns so surely.

You open your mouth to argue with him but as you do, you feel his hand lift from your flesh and then the resounding SMACK of palm on skin, turning words into nothing but a sharp cry of pain, surprise, and lust. The heat rises just as your body tenses, reacting to the sudden attack on your delicate form, cheeks flushed. Even as your eyes well with tears your sex strives to betray you and — Oh do you like that, sweetness? — damn him for noticing.

Let me go, Captain, the threat is shaky, your voice wavering with something like want and panic all at once, and all it does is draw another laugh as he soothes the stinging mark left on your cheek, gentle as a lover and four times as cruel.

Do you know what I think, sweetness? And another raise of his palm, to strike you once more, listening to the way that cry of pain and surprise turns into a soft, involuntary moan the moment he begins to soothe the ache, I think you need this. Always so uptight, trying to be the head bitch in charge, aren’t you? Just looking for someone to take over, take control, remind you where your place is.

His fingers slip further, more interested in exploring the soft slickness of your sex, listening to your protests die in your throat with every press of his fingers into your plush folds. That’s why I’m here, to keep you in my lap, all fucked and soft, sweetness. Don’t you worry, I’m going to take care of you. Even if I have to teach you just like this.

You should hate the way he talks, hates how he finds your center with effortless ease, like he’s known your body for years. Holding you down in his lap still as he draws mewling moans from you with every curl of his fingers, finding the proof of his accusations in the slick need coating your thighs, soaking his fingers, You’re making such a mess of me, sweetness. Are you going to be good?

Hiss at him. Snarl at him, buck your hips and twist in his arms, push him away. Do something more than what you are now, with red-rimmed eyes and tears staining your face, do more than listen to him talk, feel his cock pressing against you as you lay in his lap, I’m going to ask it one more time, sweetness. Are. You. Going. To. Be. Good?

He punctuates each word of his question with a harsh smackagainst your ass, leaving little time for you to do more than cry out, until the last spank draws something like a moan from your perfect lips and therein lies your surrender for tonight, that soft mewl of pleasure born of pain and he soothes you again with soft shushes and gentle touches, back to inspecting the renewed slickness of your cunt, back to enjoying that plump tightness wrapped around his fingers and back to trying to control the shift of his own hips and you can feel him, hard against you, needing you as much as he is compelling your body to need him.

Captain… a low, desperate sort of mewl, the squirm of your body less to escape and more to enticeand he notices. Notices the way your fingers try to cling to him, notices how you look so very sweet when you’re so very desperate and in some way this is your own game of control, a push and pull and the curl of his fingers is suddenly so much angrier, driving you to the precipice of the fall and you are tumbling, tumbling down into a darkness of want you may never recover from.

Say it again. Tell me you need me, sweetness, tell me you need me and I’ll give you everything, and there’s an edge to the way he says everything, like he might meanit, like he might give you the world if you just gave in and you hate him, sweetness, you hate him but you need the things you hate once in a while and you can’t keep bearing his fury on your body and so you sob out your surrender and whine—

I need you, Captain, please…

And that is enough.

Let him believe you.

#steve rogers x reader #andy barber x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #mob!steve rogers x reader #dark!fic #steve rogers smut #andy barber smut #this fic is murdering my ass

355 notes · View notes

avintagekiss24 · 4 years ago

Text

day with destiny | b. barnes

→ pairing: aristocrat!bucky barnes x aristocrat!black!reader

→ word count: 3000

→ warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, sex, biting kink

→ challenge: @cockslut-padalecki not my ninth

trope: aristocratic society

song prompt: crush by jennifer paige

→ square filled: @star-spangled-bingo 2021

g5: clothed sex

→ author note: i was finally able to reign myself in with these word counts, lol. i saw this gif of baby faced sebastian and couldn’t help myself. he looks like a little shit, but look at those pink lips… anyway, these are modern!aristocrats. lyrics to crush aren’t obvious (except for one line at the very end), but worked into the dialogue. i have no idea who made the gif, i got it from google. i also have no idea who made this divider, as i also got it from the google.

Blue eyes peer over at you from across the table, the gaze searing into the side of your face. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, but you don’t dare cut your eyes— this game is entirely too fun to give in now. Instead, you take a deep breath, pushing your chest out— your tits— shifting roughly in your seat just to make your flesh jiggle, before you release the air slowly.

Cabinet meetings are never fun. Rich, old white men going on and on about their views for the country— your family of course bringing the only sense of color into the society. Some old man yammers on at the front of the room behind the podium. Heads nod, claps ring out at random intervals, loud here here’s filling your ears as you roll your eyes. You don’t have the least bit of interest in any of it as it stands today, but your blue blood, and rank in the family— poised to take over for your dear old daddy in the coming years— requires your presence.

Bucky Barnes is quite the same. Young, bored, and too damn pretty for his own fucking good. You squeeze your legs together abruptly, the images of the last cabinet meeting playing back in your mind. Hot, sticky breath. Reddened, swollen lips— against your ear, sucking on your skin. The salt that exploded on your tongue as he shoved his thumb into your mouth.

You stand quick, clearing your throat— sending a silent message to the youngest Barnes at the long table. A hand grabs your wrist, stopping you as you start to move towards the back of the room, “Mother?”

“This is important, daughter,” she whispers harsh— a warning.

“And so is my bladder, mother.”

She sighs heavily, but releases the grip around your wrist, “Yours and the Barnes boy, apparently.”

Flicking your eyes quickly, you smirk as he pushes his chair underneath the table and starts towards the large doors at the back of the room, rubbing at his chin with his hand, the sunlight glinting off of the rings adorning his long fingers. You watch him as he moves— so easy, so confident— as he runs his hand through his dark, perfectly clipped hair, the Loubotins on his feet clicking softly.

You only drop your eyes when he slips through the door and out of view, “Ten minutes, mother.”

She knows. She knows that you know she knows, but she just sighs again and lets you saunter off without a second glance. Dress dragging behind you, bottom lip sucked between your teeth, heart and blood starting to race as each step draws you closer to your silver tongued foe, lying in wait for you in a random, deserted hallway.

He’s leaned against the wall, gazing out over the city beneath, hands drawn into his pockets. He’s a sight, but he always is, each little brown hair in place, chin and cheeks so clean shaven that a hair wouldn’t even dare sprout. Body lean in that black military jacket, gold medals and hand stitched ribbons hanging from the pockets.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” you smile soft, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning against the very same wall.

Bucky glances over his shoulder, that shit grin he’s such a proud owner of spreading on his face, “Then stop propositioning me.”

You laugh— it’s gentle and soft, the dissonance of your long relationship easily melting away. He finally turns and takes a few steps towards you, extending his hand, tenderly taking your fingers. Those deep, emotional eyes stay on yours as he lifts your hand, lips brushing— glancing ever so lightly over the backs of your delicate, manicured digits. Then he smiles, slow, sweet, teeth sinking into his blushed bottom lip as he blinks just as slow.

He’s a sight, this Bucky Barnes.

Keenly aware of his family’s teetering reputation, hanging on by a mere thread as of late due to his fathers extra curricular proclivities, you can’t help but take a swipe, “I’m surprised you’re family’s allowed back in the building. It got a little tense last time you all were here.”

“It did, didn’t it?” he answers quickly, placing your hand on his shoulder before he pulls you in close— a long arm wrapping your waist, pinning you to him, “I don’t remember much though, as my face was buried in your cunt for most of the meeting.”

Shivers race the length of your spine. He feels it— revels in it— savors it.

Lively brown eyes bounce back and forth between heavy, brewing blues, “You aren’t afraid that the rest of them will move to vote your family out, Lord Barnes?”

“Not in the slightest,” you’re met with a defiant shrug, “I hate this shit.”

“Oh, how original! An aristocrat that hates the god given privilege bestowed upon him.” You sigh, tilting your head towards the ceiling as he nuzzles into your neck, your hands sliding up and over his shoulders, “You’re predictable, Barnes.”

“You’re one to talk about privilege, My Lady.”

“Am I?” You retort quick, quirking an eyebrow.

A brilliant smile is cast upon you, blue irises like gems, sparkling under the light, “Your blood is the richest in the room— the bluest of blue— and you speak with such animosity of mine as if you haven’t prevailed your entire life because of it.”

“Bested by the color of our skin, which has precluded my lineage of its rightful place for years,” you scoff, leaning into him, “It was not privilege that got us here, Lord Barnes,” you whisper, “It was persistence.”

He chuckles against your skin, the vibrations rattling through your body, right to your bones. Hot velvet slips along the curve of the junction between your shoulder and neck before teeth scrape and then sink— tenderly— right into the meat, making you gasp. Hands grip, fingers dig into his opposite shoulder as he nips and nibbles.

“You’ll lose everything,” you breathe, heavy, languid as his mouth, his tongue, his lips move to your jaw, your chin, “Your family will be ruined.”

“I’ll be okay,” Bucky hums low, a smile on his face, dark eyelashes splashed over his pink tinged cheeks. His long fingers play with your lips, prodding gently as he rests his forehead to yours, “With a face like mine baby,” he whispers, that devilish smile painting his red tinted lips, “I was born to marry rich.”

He pushes his leg between yours, spreading them, pushing the meat of his thigh right against your sex— the thin silk of your panties sticking to the balmy, wet flesh. The tips of his fingers flirting with the inside of your calf before pushing up over your knee, skirting up your own ticklish thigh.

Bucky takes pleasure in the honeyed giggle that bubbles in your chest and slips out of your mouth, knowing not just anyone can coax such a genuine reaction from you. Metal fingers push higher— sweeping softly, back and forth, over the powder pink silk panties, discovering the warm wet spot, a white hot fire filling his eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

You grunt some, leaning in, putting full lips right against his ear, “Absolutely not,” the words whispered.

“You sure?” he squints, drawing your face back in front of his, thumbing at your bottom lip, pulling it open, “There’s something in those eyes.”

“Let’s not over analyze, Lord Barnes,” you tisk, slipping a hand between your bodies, cupping his cock— squeezing his heat— with care of course, “Don’t go too deep with it. It’s just—”

“What?” brisk, curt— the words cut off by a feverish, deep kiss. Tongue licking into your mouth, sweeping against the roof— heavy, hot, rushed, desperate for you as he groans, “What is it?”

You pull at his belt, at the button and zipper, hand and fingers sinking into his open pants, pushing through a rough, dark, tuft of wiry hair. He whirrs, strained and broken, body clenching up as your warm palm wraps around him. Long, slow strokes pull more tiny sounds from him— a skilled muscle memory, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what he needs— taking over.

A sweet kiss, soft and quick, is pressed against his cheek, your lips against his ear once more, “It’s just a little crush, Bucky. Just some little thing that raises my adrenaline when I need a shot.” His cock jumps in your hand, a quick hiss and stunted grunt filling your ears as you lick your lips, “Don’t make too much of it.”

Bucky grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks hard, puckering your lips before he kisses you feverishly again. The cool metal digits grab your neck, a soft pressure constricting the muscles as he pushes you back, back against the window— using his body to crush you to it.

The smack of his lips disconnecting from yours ricochets off the walls, filling the small hallway. He licks your lips, dragging his tongue from your chin right to the tip of your nose as he anchors your leg on his hip. Hot flesh fingers slip up your thigh, pulling your panties to the side, the cool air sending a shock to the wet, delicate flesh of you. He sucks that bottom lip back between his perfect teeth, tilting his head back slightly to peer at you through those long, dark eyelashes.

You mimic him. Tilt your head back on the glass, sink your teeth into your swollen lip, hand still stroking him slow, wetting the pads of your fingers with his silk. His hips rock soft into your palm as you sweep your fingers over his tip before dragging back down his length, gripping him firm. With a quick blink, you’re staring at him— angry, thick, throbbing in your hand. A bead bubbles out, spills right over, a long string hanging from his reddened tip before his cock twitches again— leaving you breathless. Knees almost buckling. Mouth going dry as your lungs struggle to fill.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky purrs, goading you as you push his cock through your folds, rolling your hips, teasing your waiting slit with his tip.

Surprise sweeps through you when frankly, it shouldn’t as you sink down on him. The muscle memory of your hands don’t translate to the muscles of your cunt— his size, how much you have to spread to accommodate him, like a revelation each and every time. Bucky almost never rushes it, and neither do you, like it’s something new every time.

But it isn’t, no no, it’s ancient for the two of you. Connecting like this in long, skinny hallways, cramped closets, old hotel rooms under the mask of darkness. The muffled sounds of your sex as you try and ultimately fail to keep quiet, filling the abandoned spaces— bringing life to them again.

Loneliness often fills your chest if you go too long without it.

Bucky is buried to the hilt in you now— rooted deep in the tightest, hottest space of your body. He takes a minute, pushing his hips, wiggling— adjusting— before he pulls out slow. All the way, cock bouncing as soon as it breaks the threshold. He doesn’t wait long though. Nope. He’s back inside of you within seconds with a slam of his hips, pushing you up the window. Pulling a squeak and a rush of air from you.

Those red lips of his part, his heavy tongue pushing out to slip along his bottom lip as his eyelids drop, covering the blue you’ve come to enjoy. You can’t help but reach out, place your warm palms and fingers on his blushed cheeks, tracing his nose before they prod at his bottom lip, the tips just sinking into that wet mouth. He draws long breaths, exhales them all over your face as he starts to move.

You let the rhythm carry you away. Up into the clouds as your head rolls to the side, hands fall to his chest and around his neck. Tits bounce with each shove, starting to spill over and fall out of the square shaped neckline of your intricate dress. Hair starts to fall out of place, heat rises in your cheeks, desperate little wet noises beseeching him.

Bucky’s a good fuck. Ever the playboy, never thinking twice of an encounter until— well, you, as he so softly put it one night in one of those dark, old hotel rooms while you both dressed. There’s a filth to it. The way he toys with you. Speeding up suddenly— skin slapping, echoing down the hall— and then, without warning or hesitation, slows down. Down to nothing almost. Soft pulses of his hips, just enough to drive you mad. To make you beg him for more.

To make you weak. To keep you coming back.

That’s how he is now. Barely moving, wanting you to squirm. Two big eyes, pupils blown stare up at you. Mouth agape, the smallest little curve on them. He wants you to beg. To tell him just how much— “Bucky,”

“Yes?” he shoves hard, pushing deep, “My Lady?”

“Please,” there it is, the beg— the want, “Please, Bucky.”

So, the filth is back. Yeah, it’s a little dirty how he grips your thigh, hard, nails digging and scratching into the meat of it. How he licks into your mouth and bites your lips before shoving that metal hand into your neckline, palming the delicate mound of flesh beneath. A brown nipple is soon exposed, tight and hard, after a quick tug of his hand yanks your dress down. It disappears again within a flash, right into his mouth, tongue circling.

An arch curves your spine when he sucks, a deep, low, stressed grunt sounding from somewhere deep in your chest. Your lips pucker, forming an o as you breathe heavy, then gasp quick before digging your teeth into your bottom lip and inhaling sharp. An already tight grip on his bicep and left shoulder constricts even more as he really picks up the pace, desperate and feverish his hips, tongue slipping into your cleavage.

There’s nothing but sounds and sensations— the squelch and squeak of his cock stuffing you, your stiletto slipping off the foot that’s hooked around his waist and thudding against the floor. The gold medals pinned to his military jacket bouncing soft against the thick material. His metal fingers tapping against the windows as he holds his weight.

Flashes of heat ripple through your body— muscles tensing and straining, cunt clenching, clamping. Fists balling. Stomach and head twirling as he gives you his best. And God, do you appreciate his effort.

The fuse proves to be short on this crisp winter day. A coil that had no chance of staying intact snaps earlier than you expect, body tightening hard, nearly freezing you in place the second before you start to come. Crying out— no shame, no sense of care if anyone hears— you just let it take over. Let him drive it home, hips snapping against yours, jutting, thrusting, pushing and pulling, sending you higher and higher.

Goosebumps on your skin. Heartbeat in your ears. A white hot flash, nearly blinding— it’s just that good. Metal fingers sink between your legs, playing with your clit, enticing it further as it spasms— wanting to feel every last bit of what your body has to offer.

Bucky hammers away, until he can’t. You’re just too sweet— too warm and wet and inviting. He’s painting your insides white within minutes, hot, quick shots of silk, filling you up, and then spilling back out. His head falls heavy to your chest as the last digs of his hips work themselves out, lips sticking to your damp, exposed skin.

You wrap him up, hands and fingers splaying out on his back, holding him tight and close as he empties and stills. Then, the two of you just breathe. Let the day, the room full of people, your families, your duties, just fade away. It’s just you and Bucky and that cool window against your overly warm skin.

It breaks— the moment. Just as it always does. Your body becomes empty as he tucks back into his pants. No longer pinned to the window, you bend to replace your shoe, pull at your dress. Bucky runs his thick fingers through his dark hair, you picking and smoothing at your own.

Stepping off after a few sobering moments without so much as a look or a smile, you're caught, a tight hand around your wrist, pulling you back. You crash into his chest, crash against his lips in one last, deep, sweeping kiss. One that once he pulls away, your eyes stay closed, lips stay puckered.

“You sure you won’t marry me?”

You know that if he asks one more time, your resolve will fizzle— and you will, “Very sure.”

A lopsided grin covers his mouth as he tilts his head, “Just a pesky little crush, huh?”

“There’s no vision of you and me quite yet, Lord Barnes,” you sigh, turning away and stepping down the hall, “You just pray that I don’t decide to join the rest of the party and vote you out.”

“Make sure you keep a copy of your vote for me. I’ll want to frame it.”

You throw him a quick glance, “And why would you do something like that?”

“So I can show our children just how mean mommy was to daddy before we got married,” he starts, buttoning up his jacket. He kisses the pads of his fingers and blows on them lightly, sending you a kiss, “I have white picket fences in my eyes.”

Without another word, he spins on his heel and takes off in the opposite direction. A hum vibrates in your throat. The sounds of your heels and his shoes slap against the walls as the two of you walk away from each other.

It doesn’t take a scientist to understand what’s going on, baby.

#notmyninth #ssb2021 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fandom #bucky barnes x you #reader x bucky barnes #you x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black reader #you x bucky #bucky x you #bucky reader #reader x bucky #avintagekiss24

646 notes · View notes

wlw-peachylsbn · 3 years ago

Text

i think i need some fresh air (feeling under pressure) (narcissa malfoy x reader)

A/N: okay, so my only notes for this fic was "narcissa reads you poems while you suck her tiddy? mommy kink yay". so that's what you're going to get! thanks to @daffodilmoons for inspiring me with their post here!

we have some mommy kink (yes, i am predictable go away), a bit of tit sucking, and fluff.

You sigh, tossing the covers off as you sit up, rubbing your eyes. The clock hanging on the wall reads 2:34 a.m. Great.

You turn to look at Narcissa, a smile instantly coming to your face. She’s sound asleep, of course, but she looks like some sort of angel, her blonde hair tumbling in waves, a peaceful expression on her face. You quietly take her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her fingertips, before stealing her robe and padding to the living room. You’ve never been more grateful that her manor is so large. You can just wander around with little chance of waking up.

Of course, you find your way to the library. Multiple bookshelves tower over you, and the soft carpet muffles your footsteps as you take your favourite seat. It’s a plushy, cherry red chair by the window that sticks out from the elegant, silver decor. Narcissa ordered it for you after a playful argument (darling, I love the comfort factor, but it doesn’t match!), and you fell in love at first sight. Or first seat.

A table rests at the side of your chair, adorned with your favourite books and trinkets, and a glass of cold water (on top of a coaster, of course). You take a book of poetry—love poems—and idly flip through the pages before tossing it back onto the table. Usually, you can lose yourself in poetry, but tonight, you just feel restless.

You grab a nearby blanket and wrap it around your shoulders as you stand up, looking out the window. It’s a bit of a chilly evening, but it’s quiet. There are no more of those damned peacocks, just some birds calling and the rustle of the wind. The moon is shining brightly, too.

You sigh, tightening your hold on the blanket that smells like Narcissa. You’ve been having trouble sleeping for the past few days, with nightmares waking you up or simple insomnia. It seems like tonight is the latter.

You sigh again. Life just sucks sometimes! No way around it. School has been an absolute bitch lately. With finals coming up, and multiple projects and essays due, your stress levels are extremely high. Every day makes you come closer to your deadlines. You don’t want your grades to slip, but you’ve spent every waking moment hunched over your desk, your quill scribbling. You haven’t even had time for dates with Narcissa, even.

You slump against the window. The sword of Damocles hangs over your head, and you’re keenly aware of every slipping inch. You know you shouldn’t overthink, but still, your mind falls down a negative rabbit hole with no rope to hold onto.

Dark whispers infiltrate your mind, and the demons in the shadows tip-toe forward, ready to grab you in their claws. You can’t even muster up any courage to fight back; you just allow them to control.

Until you feel a hand on your shoulder. You know who it is. Your love, Narcissa, of course. You would know her blind or deaf, by the warmth of her hand and the softness of her footsteps.

When you turn to face her, the monsters fade away. Her hair is like her halo, and the way she’s smiling at you can only be described as angelic. She’ll protect you; she always does.

“Cissa,” you breathe.

“Darling. What on Earth are you doing up so late?”

“I thought it was early?”

“Early or late, there’s no reason for you to be up at this hour.” She tsks, and although it’s meant to reprimand you, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. She’s worried about you; she cares about you.

“I know. I just couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Why ever not?”

“You looked too beautiful to disturb.”

“Oh, hush.” Narcissa rolls her eyes, but you still spot the pleased smile she tries to hide. “I don’t want you to hide from me. Your troubles are my troubles. I can help you, do you understand?”

You glance away, squinting at the door over her shoulder. “I know, I know….”

“Good. You’re not alone, not anymore.” She takes a seat in your favourite chair and tugs your waist, making you tumble into her lap.

A laugh escapes you as you shift to get more comfortable. “Cissa! What was that for?”

“Because I wanted you close,” she replies simply. “Now, what’s been keeping you up at night, darling? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. You’ve been eating less and less and working more and more.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you don’t. I never said you were. But I am rather worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, I’m fine. Please don’t worry anymore.” The lie slips out without your consent, and judging by her raised eyebrow, Narcissa doesn’t believe you one bit.

“Don’t you remember what I just said?”

“Yes, we’re a team, my troubles are yours, blah blah.” You wiggle closer, moving her silk robe to the side so you can nuzzle into the soft skin revealed.

“ ‘Blah blah?’ And is that my robe?” She tsks again. “It seems you’ve developed a bit of an attitude, little one.”

“Me? I don’t have an attitude!” You ignore how her nickname makes you shiver, instead pressing a kiss to her neck again. “I don’t, Cissa.”

“Well, if you’re a good girl, then you’ll tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh loudly but rest against her chest, closing your eyes. You’re tired. You’re always so tired. But you push through your exhaustion and say, “I’m just really stressed because of school. I was having a good start to the semester, but now, I’m feeling pretty burnt out. I don’t want to disappoint …”

“Disappoint?” she prompts. “Finish your thought, sweetheart.”

“Disappoint my family. Disappoint me.” You swallow. “Disappoint you.”

“Oh, honey.” The kindness in her tone makes you grip her robe in your fists, trying to stop yourself from crying. “Sweetheart, it’s alright. Everything is going to be alright. Look at me. Look at me, please.”

You don’t want to, but she grabs your chin gently, tugging so you’re looking into each other’s eyes. You can’t imagine how you look, hair mussed up, dark eye bags, and a slowly escaping tear. But Narcissa looks at you tenderly as ever, reaching up to wipe your tear away. “You won’t disappoint me.”

“But—”

“Hush. You could never disappoint me. Never. Especially over a grade. I just want you to try your best. That’s all.”

“Everyone says that but—what if my best is not enough? I’ll be a failure, Mommy.” To your utter humiliation, the nickname you associate with comfort and safety slips out. You bury your head in the crook of her neck again, this time intending to never leave.

“Sometimes, the things we love and work hard for, don’t work out. That has nothing to do with our failures or triumphs, simply that the time wasn’t quite right.” Her hand comes up to rub your back in long, smooth strokes, thankfully not commenting on your Freudian slip. “Your grades have nothing to do with you as a person. They are a separate entity, completely. The only things that define us are the things we allow, understand?”

You nod shakily. “ ‘m still really worried.”

“I know, my love. I’m not expecting that fear to go away in five minutes. But if you allow me to stay by your side, I swear I will always be your support when you fall. Always.”

“Always,” you whisper. A seed of hope worms its way to your chest. With Narcissa by your side, how can you do anything but fight?

“But we can plan tomorrow, darling. Our goal for tonight is to get some sleep.”

You nod, already half-asleep on her chest. The exhaustion you’ve been pushing away slams into you like a ton of bricks, and you yawn. “M’kay.”

“Shall I read you some poems? I know you love them.”

“If you don’t mind, Mommy.”

“Of course I don’t, darling girl.” Her hair tickles your cheek as she leans forward to grab the book you were reading earlier. “Would you like to hear Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning?”

“Mhm.”

“ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’ ”

You know the next line by heart. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height. It’s quite close to how you feel about Narcissa, but not entirely. There are no words for how you feel for her. Sometimes the truest feelings are the hardest to put into words because there simply are no words. But it’s close. And you think she knows.

Narcissa’s voice is so lovely. Husky from sleep and soft and melodic. She has a perfect reading voice. She’s perfect.

You shift, a little whine leaving your mouth. You’re on the verge of falling asleep, but you’re missing one key thing.

“Oh, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Tired?”

You nod, snuggling closer to her.

“That’s alright, dear heart. Just rest now.”

“Mommy,” you whine again. You don’t want to say it, so you grasp her robe and tug, exposing her breast. “Please?”

“Oh, I see now, darling. You just want Mommy’s help to fall asleep, don’t you, lovely?” Narcissa coos, pulling her robe more to the side. “I know, baby, I know. Come here.”

Finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. You eagerly latch your mouth on her nipple, closing your eyes and sucking.

She laughs quietly, running her hand through your hair, playing with the ends. “Slow down, darling. Just relax now. Mommy’s got you.”

You nod, eyes half-lidded. The bud in your mouth hardens with every suck or lick, and it is arousing, to an extent, but it’s mostly just … comforting. There’s something you can focus all your attention on, something that’s anchoring you. You keep sucking, listening to Narcissa read, and finally allow yourself to fall asleep.

#narcissa malfoy x reader #narcissa malfoy #narcissa black #narcissa black x reader #narcissa malfoy fic #harry potter fic #hogwarts #not sfw #narcissa malfoy x you #narcissa malfoy x y/n #narcissa black x you #narcissa black x y/n

250 notes · View notes

viperbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

The Tie That Binds – [Four of Eight]

[B. Barnes, Soulmate AU]

Summary: HYDRA took everything from you, your life, your future, they even burned off your soulmark to make sure nobody would go looking for you. Now the man they forced you to fix reappears in your life, to make amends and to be ‘of service’.

You know that they made him do all those things, that James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is not The Winter Soldier, that he’s innocent. You don’t blame him.

But that doesn’t make seeing him again any easier.

Warnings: Panic attacks, language, talk and depiction of home invasion and abduction, canon level violence, HYDRA levels of torture, angst, fluff, slow-ish burn, friends to lovers.

Note: THANK YOU FOR WAITING!!! I reaaallly hope you enjoy this chapter ;) This one is a little longer, to make up for the shortness of the last chapter. Let me know what you think!!!

<- Prev / Next ->

It’s late, your phone tells you that much.

Blinking quickly awake, you catch your breath and reach immediately for the device, checking the time with a deep frown. You feel as though you’d only just managed to fall asleep, which makes the loud knocking on your door even more annoying.

For several seconds you just sit on your bed and listen. Perhaps it was one of your neighbours, coming home drunk and not realising this wasn’t their place, but then the sound comes again and you have to cross that option off.

The banging was too precise, too sharp to be someone inebriated.

You’re pulling a thick sweater over your head as you make your way through your living room, cautiously. The knocking hadn’t come again, and you wonder if your visitor had left.

You pull open the door quickly, frowning deeper still at why on earth Bucky was on your doorstep at three in the morning. You don’t even manage to take him in properly before he’s stepping forward, his wide, wild eyes sweeping over you, searching.

“I came as soon as we landed, what happened?!” He asks, deep worry filling his voice, his features pinched in panic. You blink in confusion, taking a slight step away from him, but only so that you can properly take in his completely overwhelming appearance.

You’d seen him return from missions with minor scrapes and bruises before, but nothing about his current look was ‘minor’.

A large cut on his forehead that reaches up into his hairline is caked with both drying and still wet blood, the rest of his face filthy with the clear remnants of a brutal fight. You can’t tell if the blood on his lips was from his nose, or if he’d cut there too. Even his uniform is all but ruined, ripped and torn in various places, blood splattered all over his jacket, and even worse, a large gash along his thigh, deep and still weeping.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky!” You exclaim, unable to stop yourself. Bucky’s brows only knit further together and he steps closer.

“Are you alright? I couldn’t call, my phone got– it doesn’t matter, are you okay?” He looks you over again, as if you were the one currently bleeding, but you realise rather suddenly why he had come and why he was so worried.

Your face heats up approximately a million times hotter than the sun.

“I’m– I’m fine, I… That wasn’t– I didn’t mean for you to–!” Your voice cuts out as mortification fills you and you drop your face into your hands. Bucky’s face floods with relief, and then a small amount of displeasure as he seems to fully relax, shoulders sagging a bit under what you can only assume is a very sore body.

“You said to call you ASAP.” He mutters, and you wince.

“I know, I know… But I didn’t mean for it to sound like… I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even think about how it might sound…” You scold yourself, finally lifting your head from your hands to look at him apologetically. Bucky sighs, and you can see him forcefully reigning back his ire.

“As long as you're okay…” He sighs again. You want to apologise again, but a drop of blood seeps out from his hairline and you straighten.

“What the hell happened to you!?” You ask, stepping aside and allowing him to amble into your home.

“Got blown up.” He states shortly. He doesn’t make to elaborate, but you don’t think you need him to.

“It’ll mostly be healed by morning.” He informs you, turning his head to look back at you as he peels off his blue leather jacket. With his back to you now, you can see even more large gashes in his back, having torn right through his clothes and left his back looking as though he’d been lashed.

You can remember the Winter Soldier returning from missions looking just as terrible, the gore was sometimes too much for you to handle.

As if realising for the first time that he’d entered your home, Bucky looks around with a frown and then quickly grabs his ruined jacket back from the countertop he’d just placed it on.

“I should go. Let you get back to sleep.” He tells you, already moving for your door again. You don’t exactly know why, but panic lances through you, making you hurriedly step in his path, blocking him off.

“What? No, no, no, you need to clean up!” You blurt, swallowing thickly when his expression shifts slightly, into something unreadable.

“It’s late… and I’ll be fine.” It sounds less like he’s making his excuse to leave and more like he’s trying to reassure you, his voice softer and more soothing than you’d expected.

You blink at him, and try to figure out why exactly you didn’t want him to go.

Granted in the past few weeks you’d become increasingly close, it was actually something you’d started worrying about. It was as if time ceased to exist when he wasn’t around, only starting up again when you saw each other. More and more you’d started to feel lonely, had started to look at the little scar on the back of your hand and yearn.

And that was scary.

Scarier was the way that any and all reservations you’d had about Bucky had completely dissolved, replaced instead by a sense of warmth, and comfort and safety.

You swallow again, and shake your head.

“I’m not letting you go home like this.” You tell him.

“Seriously, you need to sit down and clean up as soon as possible. You look bad.” You gesture at his head and thigh.

“I’m fine, really–” Bucky begins, but his voice hitches when his knee seems to momentarily give. He catches himself quickly, one hand steadying himself on the wall, and you know he’s lying to you through his teeth because he doesn’t even try biting back the curse he lets out.

“Bucky…” You scold warningly, crossing your arms over your chest, even as he relents. You don’t think about the fact that he’d barely put up a fight, or that when he carefully begins moving again, that he knows his way through your home, even in the dim light.

He groans as he sits down on the toilet seat, looking even worse under the harsh lights of your bathroom.

“Dislocated my knee.” He grunts, eyes keenly trained on you as you move around him, procuring a clean towel and a couple of washcloths from the cupboard, and getting the water in the shower running for him.

“Do you… are you okay to get in yourself, or…?”A sudden sheepishness fills you, having not considered the realities of making him stay, but he shakes his head, and reaches to pull his black shirt off.

Dumbly, you stare for several seconds too long as the fabric is peeled from his body and tossed into your tiny bin, your eyes glued to the broad expanse of his chest and abs, a body you’d seen a hundred times before, but somehow, feels brand new now. Bucky notices, of course he does, but thankfully doesn’t say anything as you hurry to avert your gaze, jumping around to face the mirror, which doesn’t really help.

“I– I have some mens clothing. Some sweatpants and a jumper. I bought them for me, but they’re big enough… they should fit you okay…” You ramble, pretending to tidy up the multitude of things you have on and around your sink.

“Thanks.” He says quietly, grunting softly as he works on his boots.

You pause again, stuck staring, as for the first time since you’d met him two months ago, you were able to see his metal arm completely uncovered.

You’d picked up that it was new, the black and gold colouring of his hand a give away, but he hadn’t said much on the subject. You knew it was a gift from Wakanda, and had theorised from that information that it was made of vibranium.

Your eyes travel over the sleek, geometrically interlocking panels, of how it moved and folded almost organically. You turn back to face him to get a better look, your curiosity too much as you take it in. The fingers were deft and far more slender than the arm you’d worked on, much more like his flesh hand. The joints and knuckles were traced in gold and you realise that the black vibranium (?) was actually encasing a layer of more delicate golden panelling underneath, allowing for both acute fine-motor skill and reinforcement to lend added strength–

You’re shocked from your thoughts when you realise Bucky stares right at you, his movements frozen in place. When you further realise that you’ve moved away from the sink and now hold his forearm in both your hands, you let out a startled gasp, and jump back, releasing him.

You can’t even think of what to begin saying to him, and for several moments you both just stare at one another.

“I– I, um…” You stutter, face growing warm. Bucky slowly tears his eyes from you to look at his arm, but his gaze quickly returns.

“You can… You can have a look, if you want…” He offers, voice even and unreadable. You blink.

“I know you were working on this kind of stuff before… prosthetic limb enhancem–” He continues, but you’re snapped out of your daze, cutting him off quickly.

“No. No thank you.” You say, a little more harshly than you intend, but a cold prickle has begun creeping it’s way up your spine. Bucky closes his mouth and just watches you. You step even further away from him and shake your head.

“I don’t– I don’t ever want to think about any of that again.” Your voice feels stiff, and both embarrassment and discomfort force your decision to exit out of the bathroom, shutting the door closed behind you.

You feel bad about your behaviour, and as you lay in bed and replay the events again and again, it almost makes you want to step out of your bedroom and apologise. It wasn’t as if you’d have to go anywhere. After he’d finished cleaning up, looking a hell of a lot better already but still walking stiffly due to his knee, you’d quietly insisted he at least stay until his leg healed.

Bucky hadn’t argued, and you try not to linger on his seeming willingness to stay. It makes your blood pump a little faster, and your mouth feel both dried and over-salivating at the same time. You think again about your strange relationship, how things were evolving, and about how you could almost trick yourself into thinking you felt tingling on the back of your hand sometimes.

You’d been trying to ignore the feeling, not only because it was insane for you to feel as such about him of all people, but mostly because Bucky’s soulmark was black. Black, meaning he already had a soulmate.

Somewhere out there, Bucky Barnes’ perfect half was waiting for him to find them. Maybe they were even looking for him. The thought feels like a punch in the gut, but it wasn’t the first time recently that you’d had to remind yourself of the fact.

Whatever weird, strange feelings you’d developed, it was all pointless.

You roll over and brush the thoughts from your mind. You’d never fall asleep that way. Sleep didn’t always come so easy to you, and it had already been late when Bucky had arrived, and so you let the warmth of your blankets and the knowledge that your home was a hundred times safer with him inside it lull you into unconsciousness.

---

The Winter Soldier sits bloodied and battered in the chair before you, his chin turned down toward his chest, but his eyes flickering around the room, looking as dark and as menacing as always. His gaze lands on you for mere moments before it’s moving on, clearly not deeming you as a threat.

Around you, the room bustles with an unusual amount of people, talking rapidly and low in Russian. Your shoulder is jabbed harshly and you quickly continue to move forward, gingerly pulling up a nearby stool and moving to place your small bag of tools on the trolley provided.

A doctor of some kind stands on the Soldier’s other side, his gloved hands covered in bright crimson as he attends to a wound you refuse to look at. He seems distracted however, looking back and over his shoulder at another man every so often, gesturing and pointing at his patient’s body.

Perhaps the fact that the Soldier had been watching the room when you entered should have given it away, should have sent alarm bells ringing in your head, but you were so often surrounded by danger these days that the change in demeanour hadn’t made a mark.

You move to take your seat, just as the doctor leans back in and that's when the Soldier snaps.

His broken body lunges to his feet, moving faster than you have time to register, and you don’t even get to see what he does next. The air is knocked out of you, a pain pulsing in your abdomen and chest, and then your back as you suddenly hit the bare concrete wall, crumpling like fabric to the floor.

You’re aware the room has erupted into chaos, of shouting and the clicking off of safeties on guns, but for several minutes you’re only able to clutch at your stomach, gasping for breath. You aren’t hurt, not fatally anyway, there had been no knife in the fist that had swung out and batted you away like a ping pong ball, but the force would surely leave bruising.

You catch a brief glance of the Soldier with his hand around the doctor’s throat, until you realise that his hand is in fact around a scalpel that is lodged inside the doctor’s throat, and you look away again.

The guards and his handler all hurry to diffuse the situation, garbled shouts and threats in a language you don’t understand, as tears begin to prickle your eyes. You were lucky to be alive, all things considered, just unlucky enough to be standing so close when he’d snapped. But although you weren’t dead, or dying, the blow had hurt.

Too soon for your liking a hand is harshly grabbing your bicep and yanking you to your feet.

The room seemed to have returned to how it had been before, the only signs of change being the dead body lying on the ground beside the Soldier, and the cuffs that were strapped around his wrists, holding him to the chair.

The hand holding you pushes you to walk forward, and you dig your heels in.

“No, please, I don’t–” You start, feeling your whole body begin to shake in panic. You’re cut off by another man, Karpov, who steps into your line of sight with a curled lip.

“Fix it.” He demands, accent heavy around his words. Your fear of the man behind him outweighs your fear of him, and you find yourself shaking your head, struggling to try and break free of the tight hold on you.

“No, I can’t, I can’t! Please–” This time you’re cut off by a sharp slap that sends your head flying to the side, the sound ringing in your ears and seemingly bouncing off the walls. Your chin is grabbed roughly and yanked to attention.

“You will fix him. Now.” Karpov spits, releasing you just as the guard holding you jerks you forward once more.

You’re pushed down onto your seat, your trolley of tools shoved beside you, the noise making you jump. For several seconds you can only sob, your whole body shaking violently as you try not to cringe away from the Soldier, who sits impassive now, his eyes turned down, his body slumped.

A harsh prod to your shoulder makes you move, and slowly you begin the process of opening up the metal arm, diagnosing the problems, and fixing them.

Your hands tremble the whole time, and your crying gets softer, but doesn’t stop, the pain in your abdomen pulsing and aching.

You wake with a sharp inhale, but as the dream fades and the morning sets in, you release it with sigh.

The dreams hadn’t become less frequent since Bucky had come into your life, but the power they once held over you, the ability to put you on edge and send your anxiety spiralling for the next few days had all but disappeared.

It was as though the fear of him specifically had become detached from your memories, and regardless of your friendship, you were grateful to leave it behind.

The events of last night begin to trickle back to you as you stretch and groan, waking up properly and considering all that had happened. You don’t know if Bucky had stuck around through the night, or had taken off in the early hours, but you know you still needed to apologise for your reaction in the bathroom, so forcing yourself out from your sheets, you pull on a thick sweater and stuff your feet in your slippers before making your way out of your bedroom.

It was still early in the morning, the sun only just beginning to rise, and you find yourself pausing in your doorway, eyes transfixed on the sight that was Bucky Barnes lit up in the morning light.

He wasn’t asleep, nor did you expect him to be if he had stuck around, but the view is no less breathtaking, the sun illuminating his side profile as if to tease you, to put on full display what you knew you could never have.

Bucky looks up from his phone after a moment, spurring you to move again, absently making for your kitchen.

“Morning.” You greet, mouth dry still.

“Morning. I already got coffee.” Bucky’s words make you pause again, and you blink at the sight you’d obviously missed with ogling him; two large takeaway cups, still in the little cardboard holder.

The cups are marked with the labelling from the cafe you’d often meet at, the one Bucky had revealed was his favorite only after you’d gushed about how good their coffee was.

“Oh,” Is all you’re able to say for a moment, changing paths to move slowly, almost gingerly toward him and the cup and now holds out for you.

“Thanks…” You continue when you’ve carefully plucked the drink from his fingers, and made the decision to take the seat beside him on the sofa.

Bucky takes his own coffee then, and you realise he’d been waiting for you to wake up before he’d started on his own. The thought makes your tummy flutter, but you tell yourself it’s only the memory of your dreams.

“Thanks for letting me stay… I probably shouldn’t have been getting around on my knee as much as I was.” Bucky says after he’s taken a sip from his cup. You watch him scrunch up his nose and fiddle with the lid, pulling it off and placing it aside. He always hated how small the drinking holes were.

“Of course. You looked awful, but I would have felt worse sending you off… especially since you’d come all this way to check on me.” You shrug, shooting him a smile.

Bucky grimaces momentarily.

“Yeah… You had me worried.” He tells you, and your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“You were?”

Bucky frowns dramatically and nods his head.

“Sam almost insisted on coming, just in case.” He informs you, and you have to tsk at yourself.

“Sorry…”

You both sit in amiable silence for a while and you try to hold together your mess of a mind, a scrambled concoction of thoughts and feelings.

“I’m sorry if I brought up any bad memories last night… about…” Bucky speaks first, breaking the quiet and you blink at him for several seconds as his meaning sets in. You duck your head and try to keep from sighing.

“No, I shouldn’t have reacted so sourly.” You shake your head, and begin to fiddle with your coffee cup, tracing the printed sides.

“All I ever wanted to do was help people, I’d studied for almost ten years, and I was going to accept my dream job at Stark Industries… and then HYDRA happened…” You don’t look at him, you can’t. You’d never spoken about this before, not with anyone, even during your ‘trial’ after you’d gotten free.

“I could have fixed my window,” You say, gaining the courage briefly to lift your head and make eye contact. Bucky’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t speak.

“I could fix my shitty shower head, and noise my garbage disposal makes,” You gesture wildly to your kitchen and shake your head.

“But I can’t even pick up a screwdriver without my hands starting to shake.” You sigh, feeling almost lighter for confessing, despite the distress in your words.

Bucky drops his head, looking to his lap as he swallows, before he lifts his eyes again. You suddenly regret bringing it up. You know he felt guilty, you know divulging your reasoning would only make it worse. He opens his mouth, but you speak before him.

“It’s not your fault. Please don’t…” Your words catch in your throat at the way he stares at you, and you have to break away for a second, take a sip of your rink before you can continue.

“Please don’t apologise.”

He doesn’t apologise, but he doesn’t speak either, sitting back further, slumping over slightly. You didn’t want him to feel guilty for it. For anything. He’d done so much for you, had helped you more than he’d ever hurt you, but you aren’t sure how to tell him that.

“I had a dream last night,” You blurt suddenly, catching his attention again. You can see that the hand he doesn’t hold his coffee in is balled up, his whole body rigid and stiff.

“It was… I don’t know if you remember, but you’d come back from some mission, and you looked like shit,” You half chortle at the way he lifts his brow tightly.

“You were on edge, I guess, something not quite right… You attacked a doctor…”

“I remember.” Bucky nods, brow furrowing again, likely at the memory of what he’d done to the man. But then he looks sideways at you, his frown turning curious more than anything else.

“I don’t remember you being there…” He murmurs. You swallow and force a tight smile.

“That’s because you batted me away when you stood up.” You joke, and he makes a face as he ‘ahs’.

You watch him stare at the coffee in his hands for several seconds, sorting through his thoughts and emotions silently.

“I’d stopped having those kinds of dreams so much before you came around, and then they started up again.”

He looks at you then, expression sad but unreadable, his eyes flickering across your features as he tries to figure out your tone.

“That first day, when you came and apologised, I couldn’t help but be terrified. I knew what had happened to you, what they’d done, and that you’d been getting better, but I couldn’t help it.” You almost regret telling him that, watching as his eyes turn even sadder, but you needed to, to make sure the next part made sense.

“I wasn’t able to sleep for days… I kept thinking it was all some trick and… and you were going to come back and take me away again.”

You purse your lips and turn your cup around in your hands, your pulse speeding up with nerves and anxiety.

“... And I think that’s so funny now,” You can’t help but laugh around your words, shaking your head as Bucky looks up at you sharply, confusion clearer on his features now.

“Funny?” He asks, voice flat, as if he suspected you might be making fun of him. You nod.

“It’s funny because these days I feel safest when you are around.” You confess, feeling very raw and open, feeling like perhaps he would see right through you.

Bucky just watches you for a while, his face returning to that unreadable expression he often wore, the confusion now gone. You start to wonder if he’d understood you properly.

“It feels like even if somebody did try to take me, you might not let them…”

“I would never let them.” Bucky says quickly, hurriedly, as if snapping out of a trance. You blink at him, a little surprised by the intensity behind his words, but he just shakes his head, frowning as he leans forward to put aside his coffee cup, and turns to face you on the couch.

“Listen to me; I will never let that happen again.” Bucky reiterates, firmer this time, making you jump slightly when his hand curls around yours. You inhale sharply, suddenly thrown off kilter and off course. You’d only wanted to make him see how much he’d done for you, but now you have no idea what was happening.

You look down at his hand in yours, and then back to his face with bewilderment, startled again when he squeezes your fingers in prompt.

“I… I believe you. I know.” You stutter and stumble over the words, feeling suddenly like there wasn’t enough air in the room. Bucky nods, and swallows, and then he’s kissing you.

You can’t help but gasp against his lips, and you’re almost certain that this whole morning has been a fake out, and you hadn’t really woken up yet. His hand not held in your own comes to gently hold your face, and even though you felt like you were drowning, responding feels bizarrely natural.

His kisses you sweet, contrary to the suddenness of it all, lips dancing slow and smooth across your own, tentative and hesitant behind the bold move. Your mind spins, elation and happy disbelief shooting through you, that you weren’t alone in having developed strange feelings. Your hand is released for a moment, only for your coffee to be tugged lightly from your other, and you don’t know where it goes, don’t really care, because now you were free to return his hold.

It feels a little awkward at first, it wasn’t as though you’d done anything like this in more than a decade, but you eventually let your arm wrap around his shoulder, slipping your hand a little shyly up to the hair at the nape of his neck. Bucky hums against your mouth in what you think is approval, and you scratch the spot a little more confidently.

And then, as if a brick had been tossed through your window, you’re shocked back to your senses.

You pull away from him quickly, jumping back and tearing yourself apart. Bucky looks surprised, and you can only stare back at him with wide eyes, breathing harder than you’d like to admit.

“What are you doing?” You manage to get out, your voice far too breathy and affected. Bucky’s brow furrows.

“You– You have a soulmate!” You tell him, trying not to sound like you were scolding him, gesturing to the hand that had previously been holding your face, the little black mark on his wrist clearly visible.

You wait for him to reply, and his expression seems to go through a journey before he focuses back on you.

“You said to me once that soulmate or not, there was still choice involved,” He speaks carefully, looking as anxious as you felt. He sucks in a breath, and looks at his wrist, before pulling his sleeve over it, and slowly holding his hand out toward you.

“I don’t– I don’t know who this is. But I know you.”

The words may as well sucker punch you in the gut, and you feel just as winded as you had in your dream. You can only stare at him, and his hand, in mild disbelief, but he doesn’t budge, doesn’t take it back.

“… Really…?” Your voice is meek, small, and belongs to the tiny part of you that didn’t feel damaged, or broken, the part of you that had still held out hope. Bucky’s lips quirk in the corners, and understanding that you won’t be able to reach for him yourself, he moves closer again, both hands cupping your face now, but instead of kissing you properly, he leans up to press a kiss to your forehead. Somehow it feels even more intimate, confirms the truth in his words even more than his lips on yours would have.

“Really.” He promises you.

If you like or enjoy, a comment or reblog is always highly appreciated! Thank you for reading!!!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you #story: TTTB

182 notes · View notes

genshin-impacted · 4 years ago

Text

empress of the first water // Zhongli x Reader (4)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Palace/Harem Imperial Drama AU: You are a princess, soon-to-be-Empress, and Zhongli is the teacher invited by the royal court to show you the ropes before you ascend to the throne after a royal tragedy.

Notes: female!reader (she/her), Zhongli/Reader, Zhongli POV, mutual pining ofc, fake politics, can I call this slow burn yet

[Previous] [Next]

Chapter 4 Synopsis: Of the secrets that people keep, how much can they say without saying anything about it at all?

You are falling for your tutor. That much, at least, is clear to you. Your quickened heart rate, the way your heart flutters when he smiles, and how your mood lifts when he praises you-- if wisdom is to know thyself, then you consider yourself wise enough to know that you see Zhongli xiansheng as more than just a teacher.

But what of him? You wonder, how does he think of you? Does he know what he means to you? Does he feel the same?

“My lady?" Amber asks you, when you dip your head underneath the rose-infused waters of your bath. "What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” you reply back quickly, hugging your knees to your chest. You take a glance at the mauve coat that Zhongli had left on your shoulders and think about how it will still smell like him.

Amber can only look at you in mild concern when you bury your heated face into your hands and try not to think of kind eyes, a warm embrace, and a gentle voice.

(But you do anyway.)

Zhongli finds himself talking more freely than ever in your presence, especially now that the two of you have made it a habit of walking around the compound or drinking tea to pass the time together. He talks about fantastical things or expands on random trivia he thinks you would enjoy, even though he finds himself more often than not overindulging.

Your eyes are bright and alert when he tells you about the folktales he had learned when he was younger, so he tells you as many as you can in the cold, wintry months. Under the cozy kotatsu imported over from Inazuma, Zhongli shares slices of mandarin with you as he retells the history of the Qilin to you-- a mythical creature whose stone statues stand at guard in front of the main compounds of the palace.

“In many stories, the Qilin is sacred pets of the gods and rank highly only below the dragon and the phoenix,” Zhongli says, accepting the last slice of fruit you slide into his hands. "It’s said to appear with the imminent arrival or passing of a sage or illustrious ruler."

“I see…” You listen to him attentively, hands absently clearing the table of the orange peels without saying a word. You let out a breath of laughter as you joke, “Hopefully, if I pray hard enough, the Qilin might gift their presence when I ascend to the throne.”

“Nonsense,” Zhongli replies immediately. “If the qilin does exist, you do not need prayer for the qilin to appear before you, as benevolent as you are, my Princess.” He takes the slice and brings it to his lips to taste the sweetness of the mandarin, catching a glimpse at the way you hide your smile behind your hand.

“You have a way with words as usual,” you tell him. “You spoil me with praises, xiansheng; how ever will I survive without them now?” You bemoan, laughing afterwards. Though he knows you’re joking--surely-- he still feels his heart tremble at your words. It is in these moments that he feels keenly how it is to be Amber, abashed by the praise that flows freely from your lips and by the fondness that rings true through the way you speak. To be at the center of your attention is something that Zhongli understands very well to be addicting.

It is only when Zhongli hears the light rapping of knuckles on wood does he realize how long he has spoken and how late it is.

"My apologies," Zhongli says, surprised from his thoughts to bow his head (you fussed at him about apologizing before, but even with your kind reprimands, it is hard for him to kick the habits ingrained in him). "I didn't mean to dominate the conversation this entire time. It's even time for supper--"

"Bamboo Shoot Soup," you pipe up instead, and he can only look up at you stunned as you thank the maid. She sets down the pair of utensils in front of the two of you and clears the table to make space for the large metal hotpot. "It's your favorite dish, isn't it?” You say cheekily, “I thought it was a perfect dish to eat during the cold weather."

What are the protocols to eating dinner with the royal family? Zhongli thinks to himself warily, feeling wildly as though he is constantly stepping out of line despite his learned nature. Still, you would scold him for his distancing, so Zhongli decides to do as the both of you please, as improper as it may be, and waits to be served.

The bamboo soup is beautifully slow-cooked, the broth milky white; just taking a waft of the aroma is enough for him to know that the meat is tender and the bamboo shoots are soaked to the center with flavor. The warmth that pervades is partly due to the fresh heat of the soup but also from the fact that you had remembered a detail he shared in passing. (He says ‘in passing’ but he had gone into detail about where to procure the best ingredients for each component of the meal while you listened to him with eager nods. The bamboo shoots, he recognizes, are from Qingce Village. Did you remember even the smallest details from your conversation when he speaks?) Like many other times before, he is speechless. It seems as though you are constantly surprising him-- for the better.

"What happens next?"

Zhongli blinks, the steam from his bowl rising up to his face. "Pardon?"

"Oh, never mind! We should eat first!" You say, smiling widely in a way that makes his heart leap. You pick up your chopsticks and click them together playfully. "But tell me what happens next in the story later on, Zhongli-xiansheng."

"One day you'll find yourself someone who listens to you and you'll talk their ear off."

Zhongli remembers Guizhong telling him this time and time again, though he never believed in it. He is old-fashioned, he always replies back. He is overly burdened by the expectations of his family and passionate in things that most others cannot care to relate to. How would he know that someday, as proof of the wisdom (or perhaps abundance of hope and love) that Guizhong held, he would find someone who cared enough to listen and look at him as though he knew the meaning of life itself?

The bright-eyed gaze you shoot at him lasts only a moment, and perhaps you don't even know the magnitude of your gesture, but Zhongli feels his chest burn nonetheless with gratitude and soften at the kindness you have shown him. He reaches out to place his hand gently on yours. "Thank you," he says, squeezing your hand. "I'll be sure to not lose my place in the story then so you can hear the rest of it."

He blinks when you look at him, frozen and wide-eyed, and that is when he retracts his hand, feeling as embarrassed as you look. "Ah, my apologies again--"

"No, it's-- it's alright," you stammer, looking down at your bowl. Zhongli feels his face redden and he drops his gaze as well. "But yes, you better remember! I'm counting on you!"

"Yes-- yes, of course," he says, clearing his throat. "It would be my pleasure to." Before Zhongli can wallow in mortification, he hears the beginnings of your laugh and looks up to see your smile as wide as ever. And just like that, he can feel himself be at ease again, just as you have always made him feel with your presence.

"Perhaps next time," he says, a small smile dancing on his lips, "my lady can tell me a story instead."

"Only if you fill in the details I missed," you quip back easily, and he laughs.

Even with an impeccable memory, Zhongli still cannot remember the last time he has ever laughed so easily and so readily as though he could never run out of laughter. He thinks of quiet hours in his study, pouring over pages of text without speaking till his voice grows hoarse from disuse. He remembers days of entertaining guests who never truly listened to what he was saying, and he finds that he is the happiest he has ever been for a long time.

He has you to thank for that.

This is why he responds back, with a soft reverence that is reserved only for you. "Of course." He returns your smile with his own. "I would be honored to, my Princess."

Reverence should be a tone well-practiced and used in the royal court, but when Zhongli stands aside during the proceedings, he hears very little of it directed toward you. You have half of the court talking over you despite your grace, and he can clearly see your patience wear thin when your presence goes unacknowledged by one of the court officials.

"My studies have been going steadily," you speak unto the crowd, clearly and powerfully, as though you have always known how to command attention. Projecting your voice, you maintain your gaze on all of them as you speak. Zhongli can see from the way your hands clench at your side that despite your display, fear has not left you, and for that, his pride for you seems to overflow.

"With the xiansheng, I can foresee being able to replace my great uncle for the time before the end of this year," you say. "I will have prepared myself dutifully until the time has come--"

"The end of this year?" One of the nobles exclaims in protest, making you pause. "How would you be ready at the end of the calendar when you have started lessons, not even yesteryear?"

"I can't imagine the magnitude of power placed upon the shoulders of the inexperienced,” another one drawls. “Perhaps, ah, the Princess will consider taking a husband to make up for it?"

Zhongli doesn't realize he's gripping imprints into the palm of his hands until he goes to raise his hand and realizes they have gone numb from his tension. The nerve of some of the nobles-- some of which he can recognize have never sought to be on your side. He wishes nothing more than to be able to provide them a verbal lashing, but he knows that neither you nor he can do anything at this point in time.

With knowledge comes power, and you do not know enough to utilize the title you have nor the inherent authority that comes with it. Though one day, you will, if he can help it, regardless of what has been expected of him.

It makes his skin crawl to know that many nobles look to him and believe he is on their side. How many times have they requested him to keep you away from the main chambers to check on your great uncle? How many times have they hoped he would provide falsities and ignorance in the guise of guidance so that you would never truly ascend to the throne? Even with the promise of power beyond his wildest dreams, Zhongli cannot bring it to himself to manipulate you in such a manner. Even though his hands are clean, he still cannot help but taste sin on his lips for knowing the harm that exists against you without your knowledge.

When is the right time to inform you, if at all? Is it kind or cruel of him to keep this ploy from you? (Is his judgment even sound, as muddled as it is with his rapidly growing feelings for you?)

You narrow your eyes, your lips pressed in a straight line, but you refrain, once again. And Zhongli feels a burst of pride at your show of restraint and composure fitting of a lady of your status. "Yes, this may be one of the things I will take into consideration, and I appreciate--" Zhongli feels himself tense at the way you spoke, "--the counsel of the court, though I still foresee my way coming to fruition regardless."

There is a stilted silence that follows your words, and you look toward the messenger who has come with the land's grievances in letters. "I believe this matter can be discussed at a later time," you say with finality. "Let us look at the first report from the harbor."

Using what you know from your lessons thus far, you guide the conversation towards solutions for the problems brought to the court by the people. You are too inexperienced to make decisions on your own, gathering opinions from your council; corrupt or not, they know more about managing land than you. But Zhongli sees how you watch carefully as the discussion continues, letting the information sink in so that you can utilize it in the future, and he is reminded again of how far you have come from a princess holding that urn to the prospective empress quietly learning how to lead a country.

(Is it any surprise at all that he is enamored with you?)

Court adjourns after hours, and Zhongli follows you as you leave first, your robes billowing behind you seamlessly as you hold your head up high. The guards bow their heads as you pass by them, your ladies-in-waiting slowly retreating from the room when you arrive, closing the door behind them. The moment everyone is gone, you sigh in relief, your shoulders dropping to a more comfortable height as you stretch your arms and legs.

“I applaud you on your conduct during court,” Zhongli says finally, amused by how nonchalant you act in comparison to how high-strung you are in front of others. “That was an impressive display of authority.” He sees your face flush from the compliment as you stammer out your thanks. He chuckles. "Perhaps I should start getting used to calling you 'Empress’ then, Princess.”

"Yes?" Zhongli replies, confused. "Is that not a title you would like to be referred to?"

"'Princess?'" He hears you echo, turning yourself to him, and Zhongli loses his train of thoughts when he sees your expression with brows pulled together, disconcerted. "Just... 'princess?'"

"No--well, yes..." you say, trailing off. Your hand, out of habit, nervously reaches up to fiddle with your brooch. "I was just thinking you would have normally referred to me a little differently is all."

Zhongli tilts his head slightly in thought as he watches you press your lips together in what he assumes to be in embarrassment. Has he been calling you differently without his knowledge? He doesn’t think so; you have always been the Princess for him, and he, your xiansheng.

But, ah, he thinks, he has not always called you ‘my Princess’ has he? (Astonishing what one word can change.)

For a brief moment, Zhongli’s mind wonders whether he has overstepped his boundary, but he quickly reminds himself with your words, that if you truly did not want him to call you by that, you would tell him. The fact you protested at his recent use of your title… It was the slip of the tongue; Amber has referred to you by the same title, and Zhongli has always, in some form, coveted the same level of intimacy that the two of you possessed. His fondness for you must have seeped into his words, and he would never have anticipated having you reciprocate.

That being said, could you blame him for feeling pleased that you wanted to be referred to as his Princess?

“But 'Princess' is fine,” he hears you say, gathering the composure to sweep your hands down your gown and appear nonplussed. You take out your fan and hold it to your face as you begin to walk toward the study. “I don’t mind it. You should call me as you so wish, I--”

Your laughter is enough as a sign of validation, but then he hears you say, shier than you have ever been, “My xiansheng,” and he thinks his heart balloons until it takes up the entire expanse of his chest with how much affection he feels for you.

"It is soon time for our next lessons," he says, following behind you without pause, "my Princess." And he watches, enamored, as you look back at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Is that... alright with you?"

“Yes,” he says to you, feeling as though that is the only thing he can say. You shoot him another captivating smile and turn, and all Zhongli can do is walk only a step behind you.

And he follows you for as long as you will allow him, hoping his choice to keep the darkness at bay is the right one.

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #zhongli #female reader #genshin imagines #sry for repost tags did not work n made me sad #also smth about the possessive pronoun hits diff #imperial drama au

176 notes · View notes