#it's so thick with history that it almost forms a mind of its own

[strawberrygiorno]

gonna tag ramble about shivers

[sonsofbal]

X. Harkon's proposal

In this chapter, enter the shadowy halls of Volkihar Castle, where Seth faces the weight of family expectations and a destiny tied to ancient, dark forces. Amid flickering candlelight and crimson-stained tables, a tense conversation with the enigmatic Lord Harkon challenges Seth's beliefs and sets him on a perilous path. The secrets of Molag Bal intertwine with the mystery of the Mehrunes' Razor, drawing Seth closer to truths he's not yet ready to face. A tale of power, strategy, and domination unfolds - will Seth rise to the challenge, or be consumed by it?

If you want to read the book from the start, here's the INDEX. You can also read it in AO3.

Volkihar Castle dominated almost the entire length of the rocky island on which it was built. Seth had thought that the men who had lived there must have carved it out of the same stone that formed the island when he first saw it in the mists of the Sea of Ghosts. But that was many years ago, and he was no longer a child. Now he had a better understanding of the history of the place and of its leader, the former tyrant Harkon Volkihar.

Inside, the flickering candlelight from the candles of a huge iron chandelier illuminated the main hall, which was connected by a thick chain to the keystone of the ribbed dome that gave the room its structure. From the parapet of the entrance, Seth watched with a clenched jaw as the Clan's slaves worked quietly and efficiently to clean the long wooden tables of the blood that had been spilled during the meal. Overhead, the light of Masser and Secunda filtered through the red glass of a huge rose window, tinting the atmosphere with that color and giving it a macabre air.

Seth wanted to leave, but he felt so outraged that his anger immobilized him.

The conversation with his father did not go well. It never did. Still, he hoped for some recognition with each visit. He had not even wished him a happy birthday. Ever since his mother broke up the marriage, he had the frustrating feeling that no matter what he did, it was never enough for his father. His father was always looking for the little flaws that would overshadow his accomplishments.

Still, Seth knew that if his father hadn't raised his older brother, it wouldn't have affected him quite so much.

"At your age, Parker was already in control of his emotions. Even he knows how to deal with them without neglecting his duty," he'd said. Seth was still not sure what offended him more: that his father would compare him to Parker when, according to his own words, his brother was his greatest disappointment; or that he would use the present instead of the past to let him know that he was aware of what Parker was doing in the present.

Of course, he knows what he is doing. But I have to come all the way down here to do a report myself to him.

He was jolted from his reverie by the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs to his left. Harkon paused beside him, both standing silently contemplating the hall below. Seth inhaled and pursed his lips in disgust; the slaves' efforts to clean the blood and remove the bodies were in vain, the stench of death never leaving the place.

The vampire sighed dramatically, and Seth gave him a sideways glance. On this particular night, Harkon was wearing one of his best suits, black and burgundy red, and his gray hair was slicked back neatly. Unlike his father, he looked pleased to see him. Seth looked away again, suddenly exhausted.

It's like they're playing good cop/bad cop, said the voice of his conscience. Seth pretended not to listen.

"You look tired," the vampire said.

"At least I don't look dead," Seth replied.

At his attempted insult, Harkon laughed.

"Will you tell me what is on your mind, boy?"

Seth didn't want to, but he felt the need to unburden himself to someone.

"My father still has an eye on Parker," he said bitterly.

"He is his son, after all."

"Don't tell me that he's doing this because he loves him deep down inside," Seth asked. He knew he sounded childish, but if there were anyone he could be to, it would be Harkon.

"Keeping an eye on him is what he loves. Parker is not you."

Seth stepped away from the parapet and pressed his back against the jamb of the archway that connected the hall to the foyer. Then he crossed his arms and snorted, annoyed.

"Yes. That's what he said."

"Your father knows you do what you have to do. With Parker, however, there is never any certainty."

Despite everything, that cheered him up.

"You may be right," Seth admitted.

"And that is all?" Harkon's incredulous tone annoyed him. "A reference to your brother? I thought you had moved on."

Seth looked away, on the fence about whether or not to answer. His mind was on Alicent, on her sweet features, her naive kindness, and a quiet innocence that both comforted and unsettled him. And also how good it made him feel the reverence with which she treated him, without even having a full understanding of who he was. No, she would never dare to treat him with the contempt of his father, nor with the condescending sneers that Harkon used to make.

"Let's say I did sacrifice something for the mission, and he didn't put any value on it," he finally confessed.

"Was it something of great importance?"

Seth shook his shoulders.

"Even though it was just a game, I liked it. Father always said to keep my mind on what I'm supposed to do. And yet, all he seemed interested in today was finding out more about her," he complained, his voice tinged with bitterness.

"Oh, of course." Harkon gave a nasal laugh. "The first desire is always the strongest. Let me give you a piece of advice, young man. Enjoy the pleasures of life. Otherwise, you will end up bitter.

"Easy for you to say." Seth protested, filled with frustration. "You are not meant to be the champion of a Daedric Prince."

Seth had heard it countless times since he was a child: it was his destiny to become the champion of Molag Bal. But what had once been a source of pride had now become a crushing burden of responsibility.

"Sometimes I wonder if you really understand this destiny you speak of," Harkon commented, whispering as if thinking aloud.

"Of course I understand." Seth defended himself, a challenging look in the vampire's eyes. "I will enforce his word upon the world when I become his champion. And I will be powerful, more powerful than any other. " Harkon raised both eyebrows, forcing him to reformulate. "More than many. And then everyone will have to respect me," he said. He looked back at the crowd after hearing several roars.

Seth watched in silence as some of the clan members fed their Nix dogs. They were fierce, muscular beasts with long, sharp teeth. One of the vampires tossed the thigh of one of their dinner victims into the center of the room, and two of the dogs fought over the piece of meat.

"I am afraid you are wrong about the order," Harkon continued. Seth looked back at him. The vampire had turned his back to look at the scene, but he could clearly see a barely suppressed smile on his face. "Who will have respect for you as long as you act like a child? If you cannot even enforce your own will, how are you going to force it on anyone?" Seth clenched his fists in anger. "Think about it like this: Molag Bal represents the will of the strongest over the weakest. Your blood is strong. In a sense, you already have the power. Your lack is respect, and only when you have respect will you be ready for your destiny.”

Seth broke away from the wall, shortening the distance to face him.

"What did you just say, old man?"

Harkon's smile was back, undaunted. His eyes had taken on an icy blue tint after he had fed, and he looked at him with a defiant expression.

"That as long as you continue to walk without leaving the path that your father has marked out, you will, of course, remain a child who is unworthy of any title."

Seth gritted his teeth and glared at him hatefully, knowing he was right. Frustrated, he snorted and leaned both hands against the cold parapet stone, arching his head and reversing his words.

"And what do you propose? Disobey?"

Harkon shook his shoulders.

"For a change. You say your father was interested in the girl, correct? Since when does he inquire about someone without an agenda?"

"But it makes no sense. It’s only going to distract me from my duty. I have to..."

"I have to," "I must." Listen to yourself, boy," Harkon interrupted, his tone sharp but almost playful. "You speak like a servant. What do you truly desire?"

I want to return home. To Markarth.

“I want her for myself," he said instead.

Harkon was pleased with the answer.

"Then take the girl and find a way to make her useful."

Not knowing what to say, Seth remained silent. He couldn't see how Alicent could serve his purpose, no matter how he thought about it. He could see the usefulness of an alchemist, yes, but she was a child, and from what he knew of her, Seth was sure that she must not have much knowledge yet.

"Alicent is just a child. There is no way that she can be of any use to us," he said.

Harkon shook his head as if it were some sort of foolish statement.

"Not everything must serve a plan. That is enough, as long as it serves you. And just between us, I do not think it is going to hurt you to rebel a little. Start acting like a man if you want your father to stop treating you like a child.”

Seth stared at Harkon for a few seconds before nodding. He was right, he had to start to stand up for himself if he wanted to be respected. This brought him directly to another issue that had been on his mind for quite some time before the start of his journey.

Harkon let out a sigh.

"What is it with that face now?"

"Speaking of respect, a necromancer attack in Morthal? You expected me not to know? "

Though Harkon was good at hiding how he felt, his lower eyelids tightened for a moment, surprised.

"What is the source of this nonsense?"

"Since when did nonsense rule the ruins?" Seth replied in a cynical tone while still maintaining his firmness.

"I see you have been to Snowhawk," Harkon muttered, turning his head toward the dining hall. "I have no idea why a bunch of necromancers should be of concern to you. You did not expect us to send our forces away for you, did you?"

The name took him by surprise, and he had to think back in time to understand what it was referring to. The ruins of the Fort, where the Necromancers had their lair, were the only witness to what had been a great city in another era; there were still times when he struggled to understand the implications of his allies' longevity. Anyway, Seth snorted. He knew Harkon was lying, and even though he felt the urge to remove all doubt in one fell swoop, Idgrod's visions were an ace up his sleeve he didn't want to reveal.

"I know they are preparing to attack Morthal, Harkon. I visited the fort to buy a spellbook and overheard them planning it," he lied. "Attacking a town so close to Solitude will draw the Guard to the area. There will be an investigation. This will jeopardize everything".

"I see you are still into that Cyrodylic vampire nonsense. In my time, we conquered with armies, not with tricks or politics."

Seth rolled his eyes.

"Times change, old man. That's why Morthal is debating whether Skyrim belongs to the Nordics or the Imperials, while we rule a lost castle in the middle of the sea."

Harkon shot him a hostile look, which prompted Seth to defend his plan for the umpteenth time.

"If we take Morthal by force, there will be an army ready to conquer us in a week, and it will all have been in vain. But if we enslave the villagers and bend the Jarl to our will, Hjaalmarch will be ours and no one will know until it is too late and we have our own army. My plan is the best choice. Or will be if you don't mess this up".

"That will be the test of time," Harkon grunted. Seth didn't know if it was because something he'd said seemed like a good idea or because he'd had enough of the argument. "Anyway, the attack is not about your soft conquest," he finally admitted. “It is bigger than that.”

Seth frowned.

"What could be more important than our plan?"

“Our lord wishes to recover something that was taken from him.” Seth stared at him, not relaxing his expression. Harkon sighed again. For an undead, he loved to play with his breath. “His razor.”

His razor? 

"I understand that our Lord's weapon is the mace. And as far as I know, it is in this castle."

Once again, the condescension shone in Harkon's eyes.

"I speak, of course, of the Mehrunes' Razor. At the fall of the Mythic Dawn, the weapon was destroyed, and its pieces were guarded by those who called themselves its keepers. A few years ago, our forces captured one of its descendants, but did not find the fragment. After some research, we believe that it may be located in Morthal".

Mehrunes Dagon was one of the Daedric Princes. The lord of revolution, of ambition, of change. Try as he might, Seth could not make the connection. Why did Harkon talk about Mehrunes's razor as if it belonged to Molag? Then, overriding all previous thoughts, another memory assaulted his mind. Alice, her missing father, and the story she had told him and Idgrod behind the sawmill.

"Well?" Harkon asked. 

Telling him would put Alicent in danger.

"It's just that I have no idea what Mehrunes Dagon has to do with us.” 

There was a short, mysterious laugh on Harkon's face.

"You have much to learn, boy. Mehrunes is all about us. Look, son, let's do one thing," he said after a short pause. “If you want to avoid the attack, find the Razor’s Hilt. If you cannot, I trust you will find a way to take advantage of it.”

Seth looked at him with determination, resolved to find the hilt. He had to do it, so besides scoring a point with his father, he could keep his word to protect Alicent.

At that moment, before either of them could utter another word, the echo of the creak of an old door rang out through the room. Guarded by two of Harkon's maids, Alva emerged. Seth took a good look at her; she was trembling, and even from up there, he could make out her nakedness beneath the thin, white cloak that covered her. He found the choice of color ironic. Alva was as pure as a Dibella worshipper.

As if she knew that he was looking at her, Alva raised her head proudly and her eyes, filled with hatred, pierced through him. He returned her look with false indifference. Somehow he knew that if she was claimed, it was because he had mentioned her whereabouts in a letter to the castle. Seth felt himself start to feel guilty as he thought of his brother again. If Parker found out, he would never forgive him.

Always trying to confront you. Seth silenced the voice of his conscience once more.

"It looks like the annual sacrifice is ready," Harkon announced. "I imagine you will leave now."

Seth nodded without taking his eyes off of Alva.

"So will she die?"

"She will be offered to our Lord. She will have the honor of being a pureblood among us if she survives his company. A daughter of Coldharbour. Then she will be allowed to return to Morthal."

Seth pursed his lips in response.

"And do you think she'll make it?" he asked warily, looking at him.

Harkon denied gently.

"It's a rare event."

After thinking about it, he took one last look at Alva, hoping with all his being that this was the last time they would see each other. For his sake, and for the consequences. He had no doubt that if Alva survived, she would be a real headache.

"See you in a few months, I guess," Seth said, turning to leave.

"Have a good trip, son. Have fun. I hope you have some less formal anecdotes with you on your next visit.”

Seth turned his head and forced a small smile. He crossed the archway separating the hall from the foyer and pulled on his cloak, preparing for the long journey back to Morthal. He had too many things to work through after this visit, but there was a good feeling in his body after the last conversation. Harkon's proposal to disobey his father and start a new chapter with Alicent even managed to arouse in him the desire to already arrive in this small town that was somehow becoming his new home.

[featherfloof]

Handsy (A guilty pleasure MercyRat short)

                Angela sighed mentally for what felt like the hundredth time since this meeting had commenced well over two hours ago. Policy and agent safety updates were paramount in running a tight organization, but certainly the higher ups could have split this update into two separate timeframes? A quick glance around the large table at the surrounding agents made Angela laugh internally as the expressions they wore were an almost direct mirror to what she herself was feeling at the moment.

                Abject boredom. Maybe even a little hunger, and a whole lot of tired.

                Her eyes drifted down beside her to observe what new doodles had been added to the rather obscenely thick packet of meeting notes her neighbor had scribbled since the last time she had peeked, but Angela was acutely disappointed to see that the scene of bombs, explosions, and crudely maimed stick figures hadn’t changed in the fifteen or so minutes since the last time she had looked.

                Angela had been secretly pleased beyond measure that Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes had taken up the seat beside her at the table. Aside from assuaging the concealed crush she had on the quirky ex-Junker; Angela had discovered on previous meetings that being privy to his murderous masterpieces proved to be an endless supply of much needed entertainment to get her through drole congregations.

                It was certainly peculiar that the scene hadn’t expanded because in the past, on average by this time in the meeting, Jamison had nearly filled every free bit of real estate on the cover page with his scribbles. Curious, Angela focused on his form in her periphery and noted that his figure had slumped over to the side at an angle that left no room for her imagination to contemplate why he’d stopped drawing.

                The man had dozed off.

                Not that she could blame him in the least. The thought had certainly crossed her mind a time or two. But the higher ups were notorious for honing in on those they suspected weren’t up to par with expectations and Jamison certainly didn’t need to be placed under an even higher power microscopic lens that Angela felt he was already scrutinized beneath, given his criminal history.

                Surreptitiously, Angela tilted her head so that she could observe Jamison more clearly in order to confirm her suspicions and nearly choked on a laugh at the column of drool that was currently streaming from the corner of his lips to pool against the collar of his shirt. He was no doubt fast asleep and a part of her was surprised he hadn’t thought to paint false eyeballs on the back of his lids to give the illusion that he was awake and attentive. The mental image of that nearly pushed Angela over the edge of holding in her amusement and she bit her bottom lip to quell the giggle that threatened to bubble up her throat.

                Sucking in a fortifying breath through her nose to calm herself, Angela became determined in that moment to save Jamison from any unnecessary scrutiny and tentatively reached out beneath the cover of the table to poke her fingers against his person. Her digits found themselves brushing against his own where he had placed his hand to rest against his knee. With a gentle firmness, Angela nudged the side of Jamison’s palm and felt his leg swing away from the pressure of her touch, but he didn’t wake. Undeterred, Angela poked at him again with increased urgency and to her utter shock, suddenly felt his hand move as his fingers captured hers within his own; lacing them together before returning his palm where it had been resting before, but now with her hand held captive beneath his.

                Angela froze and she quickly turned her head to the side to fully observe the mercenary now. He was still asleep, but at least he’d righted his head from its lull to the side and he was no longer watering himself with his drool.

                Thank goodness for small miracles, Angela mused, but then riveted her attention back to where their bodies were currently joined. She fought against the reflex to jerk her hand back out from beneath his grip, not wanting to startle him awake and draw unwanted attention, and after a moment, as the heat of his skin seeped into her own, Angela sheepishly, and selfishly, found herself enjoying the contact.

                It would make for an incredibly awkward moment if he were to wake right then with her hand twisted so intimately with his own and Angela felt a blush creep up her neck to heat the tips of her ears at the thought. She imagined it would take a second for it to register in his mind before he’d start sputtering and flailing in true over-the-top dramatic Junkrat fashion, no doubt causing a scene she had been trying to avoid in the first place.

                Cautiously, Angela tugged her hand ever so slightly in an attempted to dislodge it from his grasp, but his fingers flinched and tightened over hers, unwilling to relinquish hold of their stolen prize. Beside her, the ex-Junker inhaled a long breath and shifted, but still the man remained completely oblivious to the world around him, and as he exhaled, his lips whispered with a hint of lazy amusement, “It’s mine now.”

                Angela froze once more, torn between wondering if he were awake and messing with her, or asleep and dreaming about holding someone’s hand for ransom. Surely, he couldn’t be awake. In no uncertain terms had the man ever did anything to make Angela think that her silly crush would ever be reciprocated. Sure, he was goofy and friendly towards her, which one may interpret as flirting, but he was that way with everyone. Only, everyone else treated Jamison with a benign neglect that was reminiscent of how people back home would treat a mangy stray dog that just wanted to be loved. She certainly appreciated his antics and couldn’t remember a time when she had brushed him off as an annoyance like she’d seen so many others do.

                So, perhaps he was awake and was taking immense pleasure in messing with her. Such a ploy certainly would align with his mischievous side, especially knowing, at least Angela hoped, that it would be positively received by her, out of everyone else he could have done it to.

                Slowly, so as to not draw attention to herself, Angela leaned in closer to Jamison’s side and squeezed her fingers around the top of his knee where he had placed her palm to rest beneath his own. At the same time she whispered, “careful Jamison, it might bite you.”

                It took a second, but the man suddenly snorted a laugh that made Angela jump upright in her seat. This time, several pairs of eyes turned their way, casting a collection of questioning, withering, annoyed, and humorous glares in equal turns. Angela felt as if she could melt away with the heat of her embarrassment until they all finally lost interest and looked away from her and Jamison.

Angela relaxed and turned to cast a suspicious leer towards the ex-Junker. His face was serene. Features that were usually pinched into a smirk or scowl were placid and calm. Even the dimple Angela had noted in the past that appeared over his left brow during a moment of laughter or amusement was absent. Cautiously, she leaned in towards him once more.

                “Jamison?”

                This time his brows flinched and a moment later he cleared his throat softly and actually answered. “Mmm?”

                “Are you awake?”

                “Jus’ barely, luv.” His voice rumbled, deep with sleep, before he moved to sit up straighter in his chair. His fingers flexed against her own and yet he still hadn’t let her go.

                Angela swallowed thickly, helplessly wailing in her head. He had to have noticed by now!? It was in that moment that his fingers squeezed against hers once more and a thoughtful hum exhaled from his throat as he leaned forward to plant his right elbow against the table, rested his chin in his prosthetic palm, and canted his head to the side to pin her with an intensely curious stare. Those darkened whiskey hues caused her stomach to flip flop as soon as they made contact with hers as did the lop-sided grin that tugged on one side of his lips. His fingers gently flexed against hers now with purpose as he stared into her eyes and Angela wasn’t sure whether it was embarrassment or attraction that caused her insides to suddenly combust.

                Perhaps a little of both.

                “I was trying to wake you.” She murmured quietly, immediately on the defensive. “Then you just took hold of me.”

                “Oh, suuuure,” Jamison whispered. “Put the blame on a defenseless bloke while he’s sleepin’”

                Angela opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Instead, she sat there gaping like a fish and watched that aforementioned dimple appear above Jamison’s left brow as he watched her struggle.

                “’Sides, I told ya it’s mine now.” He harrumphed as if that was the end-all-be-all and abruptly returned his attention to the speaker who had amazingly kept droning on about the topic at hand despite their obvious whisperings.

So, he had been asleep, though Angela had been incorrect in assuming he’d be dramatic in his reaction in waking to her hand in his. Curiously, he seemed rather fine with it, which was either because he was fine with it (which opened the flood gates to a whole slew of new questions), or was playing it off to save her the embarrassment. He certainly wouldn’t care on his part. Jamison never seemed embarrassed about anything and that was one of the qualities she adored about the man.

He was always unapologetically himself.

                Surely though, if it was to save her from embarrassment, he would have released her hand by now, right? Oh God, Angela squealed mentally and though her eyes had shifted once more to fix on the presenter, all of her focus was currently channeled to the sensation of Jamison’s fingers pressed between the valleys of her own; his palm pressed flush against the top of her hand, and how the rough and calloused pad of his thumb traced a slow, gentle circle against the base of her pinky where it met the side of her hand. Every full pass caused a jolt of heat to spear straight through her belly, which just kept growing in its intensity. His hand was so much larger than her own, Angela mused, it nearly swallowed hers against his knee, and it was a peculiar thought, to think that a hand that was capable of wreaking such havoc, pain, and destruction was currently holding her with an almost tender reverence.

                Did the man even realize what he was doing to her? He seemed completely oblivious to her increasing intoxication to his touch.

                Now perversely, Angela had gone from hoping the meeting would end to wishing it would continue on. It had been a pathetically long time since any man had made her feel the sensations that were currently twisting her insides the way Jamison was, and all he was doing was holding her hand captive.

                Imagine what other feelings he could elicit from her?

                Then, as if midnight had finally tolled on her Cinderella moment, the presenter called an end to the meeting and everyone around them began to stand with a collective sigh, effectively bursting the bubble that had surrounded herself and Jamison ever since he’d taken hold of her.

                Angela mentally cried in dismay when Jamison gave her hand one final squeeze before he lifted his palm off of hers, leaving a chilled void from the loss of his touch. Angela finally reeled her hand back and began to numbly gather her note pages when she felt Jamison stand and hover over her at her side. Belatedly, she finally stood and turned to face him and was relieved to see the easy smile on his lips and a mischievous glint reflected in the honeyed gaze of his eyes as they drifted over her features.

                “Y'know, Doc…” He started then leaned in closer to lower his voice in a hushed tone close to her ear. “If ya wanted me to hold your hand, all ya had to do was ask.”

                Angela smiled despite herself and felt her face heat all over again from his teasing. “Thanks, Fawkes. I’ll remember that for next time.” Angela retorted cheekily and watched his lips twist into a conspiring smirk.

                “Anytime, babe.”

[theredconqueror]

"How can you be so sure?" He dares with a dark, brilliant smile, with eyes that gleam with a put-upon actorly hint, though it is in fact that facade which is false; he knows he is doom upon the world. Upon all who come into contact with him. Soon, they delve Fade deep into matters, and he enjoys doing such, conundrums of philosophy and magic taking his mind off ones of sin and morality. Though such things are always intertwined when it comes to him. Oh, he has stories, ones he cannot share, lest he be forced to use Solas' old trick of passing off the tale as one from a spirit. It might not be entirely untrue, ghost as he is. "During my time with the Inquisition... perhaps to use a metaphor, it is a little like the Necropolis, with its shifting rooms. At such a time, we only ended up in some side hallway... not here, its epicenter. It was not as..." Explosive, the word comes, but he reconsiders. "Potent with magic. Nor as thick with regret. Here... in a way, it is like being in the chamber of the heart. Even Solas cannot hide himself or his memories." He almost feels sorry for the traitorous elf, with these strands of the past strewn about for others to find He thinks if it were him, how awful he would feel for others to peer into the worst of him. He twists a smile on his lips, one of scholarly debate at the next question. He idly places a hand over his own heart. "Whose existence would that be? Humans?" The different tribes of Thedas all have their own pasts, some academically assumed history, more or less. "The elves have yet to take credit for us yet," he muses, with only the faintest sarcasm as he thinks of the Old Gods, which had been meant to be uniquely his. Shall he come to find out that he is nothing but some dream of an elf's? He considers what the necromancer has said, and the way he said it. He thinks of the man tending to the graveyard with kindness and care. "There is beauty in mere chance too, Emmrich," he explains, with a gentle smile as his eyes float among the other's form. "Is there not some small, precious miracle in the fact that you and I should meet? What have we both endured that should see the other of us dead, but instead, we are alive here, to enjoy each other's company and wonder about the nature of fate and randomness?"

Misted moonlight casts a delicate glow upon the gardens and its current visitors; time has worn the stone statues and gravestones, and through such gradual erosion is Emmrich able to appreciate the precious nature of conversation, the flow of it a force equal to the inexorable ticking of the clock. "Unlike the blight, the sight of you is no portend of the world's end." Laughter brief, followed by the shake of a head as he sets the book aside to fully focus on his companion, he observes the lunar moths gather near the fade-flames. As ever, taking the necessary pause to construct a thoughtful answer rather than a hasty one. "Scholars from the Inquisition have published the most curious theories. Have you been to the Crossroads in those years? I'm quite curious to hear about your experiences, and whether it felt any different compared to now." His eyes are jewel-bright, glimmering with multi-faceted ruminations. "Before Solas brought up the Veil, and before the first elves took to physical form, did our world exist with the same fundamental principles of the Fade? If everything was as malleable... I wonder how much of the known land was shaped by a gardener. A caretaker," he says, voice colored by the deepest of introspection. "Or perhaps would you consider our existence the result of mere chance?"

[tomurasprincess]

Kinktober Day 24: Monster (The Asylum)

Day 24: Monster Title: The Asylum Pairing: Mothman Shigaraki x Reader Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Noncon, monster mind control stuff, oviposition, cumflation, belly bulges, breeding, forced orgasms, some slight descriptions of gore and blood, yandere Note: The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is a real place, although parts of what I wrote is fake, mostly the part where they close down a second time in the fic. IRL, they’re still open and doing tours. Tagging @ichor-and-symbiosis​ and @kazooli​ as two of the OG Mothura writers 👀

Sequel: The Brood

Kinktober Masterlist

You’ve always loved urban exploring, going to old mental asylums and hospitals to look around and see the decay of places that used to be so bustling with people. You especially liked the places that had tragic pasts, the ones where horrific things occurred. It sounds morbid to anyone you talk to about your interests, but it was the truth. You’ve always believed in monsters and ghosts just out of sight of humanity, lurking in the dark corners of abandoned places.

That’s why you instantly planned a trip to the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum the second you heard about it. It had been abandoned years ago due to extreme abuse of patients. A historical society had moved in later, renovating the place and making a history tour of it that also did ghost tours at night.

But even they ended up abandoning the place due to the fake ghost tours apparently starting to become real ghost tours. People began to see creatures out of the corner of their eyes, something they said was much larger than a human, with wings on its back and piercing red eyes.

It was initially dismissed as overactive imaginations, people who wanted to see ghosts so badly that they were seeing things that weren’t there. Or people who just wanted to start tall tales  for attention and were flat out making things up in order to scare the rest of the group.

But then the disappearances started to happen. It was almost always young women who got separated from the tour group, although a few times it was a boyfriend and girlfriend who got lost together. The tour guides scoured every inch of the asylum looking for the missing people, but they found no trace of them. At first it was dismissed as the people getting scared and running off without telling anybody.

Until one day, a regularly scheduled tour group stumbled across the bodies. Not the bodies of the missing girls, but their partners. They were viciously torn apart, with limbs scattered all over the room. Their blood covered the walls, the floor, even the ceiling of the room. The women were alive but traumatized, rocking back and forth in a corner of the room absolutely covered in blood, none of which was their own.

They told the same tales that the rest of the people did. They were captured by a monster, around 8-9 feet tall, with large moth-like wings and red eyes. The creature was surprisingly gentle to them, they said, at least until they saw that they were with someone. The creature had become enraged, tearing their partner to pieces as they watched. They knew for certain that they would be next, their eyes squeezed tight as they waited for their death.

But the creature did nothing, simply turning away and leaving the room like they were not what the creature wanted.

Although everyone agreed that something horrible had happened to the young women, none of them believed their story. They had stayed in that room for several days, covered in the blood of their loved ones, not knowing if they were ever going to make it out. Of course they were traumatized, thinking they saw monsters. But monsters aren’t believed to exist, and so everyone began to look for a human murderer that was never found.

The asylum tried to recover from the tragedy, but it was never able to. The amount of bad press they got for having lax safety standards and not taking care of their tour groups caused everybody to stay away. Finally, having no other choice in the matter, the asylum had closed.

When you heard this story, you were over the moon excited. Not just a historical landmark, but also a place with a possible real life monster sighting. Nothing was going to stop you from going there and seeing the place for yourself.

And now here you stand, in front of the building with a backpack full of supplies slung over your shoulder. You had your phone, flashlights with spare batteries, a spare change of clothes, matches and lighters, even a rope and various other tools should something happen inside of the building.

And so, with a deep excitement bubbling up in your stomach, you find your way through a hole in the fence and walk through the front door. The first thing you see is the reception desk with various odds and ends left over from the closure. There are even still brochures describing the various types of tours and listing prices.

You walk down the first corridor you see, going past various closed off rooms that look to be basic examination rooms. There is surprisingly little decay, mostly everything still looking rather clean and intact besides a thick layer of dust and cobwebs covering everything. You’re a bit discouraged but decide to continue on to see if things get more interesting.

After all, the murders occured in the basement, and you’re not anywhere close to that yet.

Soon you find yourself in the medical ward where the patients were kept, and you instantly realize one of the reasons this hospital was so nightmarish. The rooms are even smaller than jail cells, leaving barely enough space for patients to lay down in. There are so many rooms of that exact size that you wonder how the staff could accurately take care of the amount of patients there had to be. But you remember your research, remember the fact that they couldn’t.

That was why so many brutal procedures were performed such as lobotomies, in order to keep the peace at the asylum and make things easier for the doctors and nurses. You give a quick shudder and begin to move on, feeling a strange sensation that you desperately want to get away from.

The decay gets worse and worse the closer you get to the basement, rust and decay beginning to cover every surface you see. You walk past some of the surgery rooms and feel horror at the utensils and instruments you see in them. The historical society tried to keep things as accurate as possible, and as such, they had kept most of the equipment that you would see back in those days.

You’re beginning to wonder if this is a good idea, as that strange sensation continues to worsen and worsen. You realize with a start what this feeling actually is.

It feels like someone is watching your every movement. You whirl around, shining your flashlight in every direction as you try to see what’s watching you. But there’s nothing but darkness and the decaying walls of the hospital. You shake your head, laughing quietly at the fact that you’re spooked out by a few weird shadows and an odd feeling.

You’re not going to let it stop you from your goal, however, and you continue forwards until you get to the doors of the basement. The feeling here is overwhelming, simultaneously telling you to run and move forward all at the same time. The conflicting emotions leave you off balance and light headed, and you reach your hand out instinctively when you sway on your feet. You touch a section of the wall and instantly pull your hand back.

The wall is warm, not cold like it should be. A sense of unease crawls up your spine, and you decide then and there that it’s time to go. Making it to the basement is not worth this, whatever it is you’re feeling. But then you hear a soft humming and the flapping of wings, coming from deep within the basement of the hospital.

Instead of being terrified, however, you feel entranced. It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard, and it’s calling you. You open the basement door without even thinking about it, walking down the stairs in a dreamy haze. You don’t even pay attention to how heavy the rot here is, how the walls are entirely blackened by decay that spreads out like veins on a body.

You don’t pay attention when the door slams closed behind you, locking you in with whatever is calling you closer. All you can think about is getting to that beautiful sound, that lonely haunting call that seems to burrow deep into your brain. You walk as if you’re in a trance, turning corridors that you’ve never seen before but somehow know where they’re going.

Finally, you get to a door that is deep within the bowels of the basement, a bright red door that seems to beckon you inside. You push open the door with no hesitation, walking through and letting it close behind you.

And you finally come face to face with the creature. He is about 9 feet tall, towering over your small form. He’s not overly muscular, but he has a thin wiry look to him that says he is deceptively strong. His red eyes bore into you like they’re staring directly into your soul. On his back are two massive wings, spread to their full wing span and utterly gorgeous.

The creature makes a small chittering noise as he motions you towards him, and you follow like he’s a puppeteer holding your strings. He pulls you tightly into his body, burying his nose into your neck and taking a deep whiff of your skin. His hot breath on your sensitive skin pulls a shudder from you. and he tightens his grip as if he’s worried you’ll get away.

A long tongue pokes out of his mouth, licking at the pulse point that is frantically beating. “Mine,” he groans into your skin, sharp teeth grazing you. “Mate.” You’re lifted up off your feet before being laid down on the ground, hips in the air and face down on the floor. He rips your pants off easily, leaving your panties on as he lowers his head down. You feel a flash of embarrassment as he sniffs them like he sniffed your neck, groaning again as his tongue drags across the wet abric. “Fertile,” he whispers as he pulls your panties aside, “fertile mate.”

The haze parts from your mind long enough for you to feel a sharp flash of fear, and then his tongue is lapping at your folds and the fear is quickly chased away again. You dig your nails into the floor as you feel him work his tongue inside of you, using it to fuck you like a cock would. You gasp when he hits your cervix with his tongue and keeps going, wiggling against the barrier like he’s trying to break through it.

Something in his saliva causes your body to heat up and your muscles to loosen enough for him to batter his tongue harder against you and push through. Your scream echoes through the walls of the room, but not of pain. Instead, a fierce pleasure overtakes you as your cervix gives way to the creature’s tongue, allowing him to enter into your womb.

The feeling of this tongue wiggling around in your empty womb causes you to tip over the edge and cum around the creature’s tongue as he eagerly laps at your juices. He withdraws his tongue, causing you to let out a whine of disappointment, only to be surprised when you feel something prodding at your entrance. It doesn’t feel like a human cock at all, with ridges and bumps along the length and much thicker than a human cock would be.

You have a single moment to wonder how it will fit inside of you before it’s pushing in, stretching out your tight outer ring of muscles and causing a sharp burning in your lower stomach. You whine and try to pull away, only for the creature to let out a snarl as claws dig into your hips, causing your blood to drip down onto the pavement.

Even though there is no pain, only more pleasure, you learn your lesson and don’t try to move away as the thick cock slides even further into you. It’s so much thicker than anything you’ve ever taken before, and you’re shaking like a leaf when he finally bottoms out inside. You think he’ll start thrusting like a human male would, except that he doesn’t.

He keeps pushing, humping into you with sharp movements designed to force your cervix open even further. You squeal as the cock makes it past the barrier, burying deep inside of your womb. You glance down and let out a choked sob at the bulge in your stomach where the tip of the creature’s cock is.

“Pretty - pretty mate,” the creature says hesitantly, rolling his hips experimentally into you and drawing a groan from your throat. “Tomura,” he adds, and it takes you a second to realize that’s the creature’s name.

“Tomura,” you murmur, and the creature chitters happily at the sound of your voice saying the name. You try to think of something else to ask, maybe even to beg to be released as the haze seems to clear a bit, but Tomura begins to hum again, and you instantly smile in bliss as all of your concern fades away.

You feel something else pushing into your entrance, and it takes a long moment to realize what it is as you feel it slip up your stretched out tunnel.

Eggs. The creature is filling you with eggs. Instead of being horrified, however, you moan as they continue to move inside of you. There are multiple eggs at once, small and gooey, and they coat your insides with wetness as they make their way to your still stretched out cervix.

You feel them pass through the opening to plop down into your womb, and you cry out and cum hard, pussy wildly fluttering around Tomura’s cock. He lets out a deep grunt of pleasure as he rocks his hips against you, and you feel more eggs pushing into you. This time, a few of them get stuck against a spongy spot inside of you, and you scream out your orgasm, legs shaking and eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck, oh god, shit, Tomura - “ you babble mindlessly as more eggs push into you, “it feels so good, why does it - “

Before those eggs can push fully in, there are already more entering you, and you feel so incredibly full. They drop down into your no longer empty womb, wringing another orgasm from your tired body. The skin of your stomach is stretching, making you look bloated, and Tomura still isn’t done.

You lose track of time completely, only aware of your body twitching and convulsing as more and more eggs push up into you, settling into your womb with the rest of them. Your stomach already looks 9 months pregnant, and you can barely hold yourself up.

Tomura sees this, and he gently picks you up and lays you down on your back. “Pretty mate,” he leans and kisses your forehead, “look so good with my children. Our children.”

“Oh god, no more, please no more, I’m so full Tomura,” you whimper as more eggs push into you. “Please, so full - “

Tomura hums softly at you, and you smile with bliss as the final eggs plop down into your womb.  His movements become more savage, thrusting hard into you as he grunts and groans. The force of his thrusts has you sliding up, breasts bouncing and your belly jiggling. The feeling of the eggs moving around inside of you has you howling out your orgasm, blackness dotting the edge of your vision as you almost lose consciousness.

Finally, Tomura is finished, and his cock begins to twitch inside of you as hot ropes of cum fill you up, shooting directly into your womb where the eggs reside. You sob as you watch your stomach bulge out even more as the creature’s cum fertilizes the eggs inside. You can no longer see the dents and valleys of the eggs along your stomach, and you reach down to gently run your hand over your bloated stomach.

You can feel the eggs through the barrier of skin, and it causes your eyes to roll back at the pleasure. Tomura gives a soft, happy chirp as he places his hand over yours on your belly, rubbing it gently. He pulls out slowly, causing a mixture of your cum and his to gush out of your now gaping pussy.

He reaches down to pick you up as he walks towards a door in the back of the room that you hadn’t noticed before. You’re shocked by what you see when you walk through. It’s an utterly untouched room, still looking brand new and with none of the decay that covers the rest of the basement. There is no bed, but there is a pile of clean blankets and pillows in the corner, piled up high and in a circle.

A nest, you realize. It’s a nest. For you. He tucks you in gently, chirping again as his clawed hand runs over your pregnant belly. “Mate,” he says happily, “my pretty little mate.” He stands up and walks towards the door, turning to you one last time as his gaze narrows and darkens just a bit.

“No running. Don’t want to have to tie mate down.” He continues to gaze at you, as if waiting for something.

“I won’t run,” you say quietly, and the dark look on his face is gone instantly as he beams at you.

“Good mate, good.” And with that, he’s gone.

With his absence, some of the haze lifts and you’re able to realize the horror of the situation you’re in. Nobody knows where you are, and you’re trapped. Even if you wanted to run, you don’t think you could with how large your belly is. No escape and no help coming for you, and the creature already seems so possessive of you that he’s not going to let you easily escape.

If only you had listened to your instincts earlier, if only you hadn’t been so fascinated with the grotesque, if only you had simply chosen to stay home.

You’ve always believed in monsters. You just never thought you would find one.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Kinktober: @thewheezingwyvern​, @vixen-scribbles​, @katsukisprincess​, @hisoknen​, @trafalgar-temptress​, @leeswritingworld, @burnedbyshoto​, @bakugotrashpanda​, @dee-madwriter​, @kittycatkrissa​, @reinawritesbnha​, @yanderart​, @dabilove27​, @anxietyplusultra​, @flutterfalla​, @angmarwitch​, @nereida19​, @babayaga67​, @fromsunnywithlove​, @dabis-kitten​, @bakugos-cumsock​, @yumeneji​, @the-grimm-writer​, @iwaizumi-chan​, @slashersheart​, @bunnyywritings​, @bakarinnie​, @angie-1306​, @lalalemon101​​, @videogameboiwhowins​​, @f4nficbaby​​, @tenkoshimmy​, @baroque-baby​​, @bbyspiiice​​, @thirstyforthem2dmen​​, @blissfulignorance2000​, @bluecookies02-main​

[kallikrein]

FORCE OF NATURE

— in which bonten!mikey decides for once, and it’s all for you.

genre. angst.

contains. gn!reader, manga spoilers, mentions of death, possibly ooc and bad writing.

word count. 1.4k.

note. idk what i just wrote but this was inspired by a song of bea miller’s. this is two requests made into one hehe. lmk your thoughts.

requested.

Misunderstandings were something you were bitterly familiar with. It’s a natural occurrence of the world and no one could ever avoid disagreements, let alone them being the cause of great wars that made up the world’s history. It’s simply inevitable, much similar to a rainstorm meant to wreak havoc in its path and only leave ruins in its wake.

You supposed it was somehow parallel to your current predicament. Wherein the instability in the air forms the dark, looming clouds and its impending downpour, numbing your human body with its harsh coldness regardless of the home that warmly shelters you.

But you were mistaken, serenely so, for the ought to be heavy rainfall was nothing but a light drizzle. It showered your delicate skin down to your very soul, almost giving you bliss, even with the existing sullen atmosphere in the room, placated by the thought that such silent storms exist and in the shape of your lover too — the personified calm and chaos, all in one.

You both were standing on one of his hotels’ rooftop one late evening, neither of you were talking and simply basking in each other’s presence. The city lights continued to sparkle in your line of sight, mesmerizing you until Mikey raggedly whispered your name.

“Why are you still fighting?”

Your gaze became unfocused when moments earlier you were counting the men that were guarding down the hotel’s entrance, mind digesting the heavy words he laid out so casually because why indeed? More so, why ask now when it has been long forgotten, the reason for fighting, and the only thing left in you was the deeply rooted loyalty running through your system?

Why were you even here, in the same place and breathing the same air as him, however thick and full of tension it was because of his query, it still brought you peace knowing he was there standing beside you? Why were you still with him all these years, despite the red flags he raised and even the criminal wrongdoings he committed, that if you knew what’s best for you, you should pack up right now and leave?

Mikey brought up a subject you were terrified to divulge in, re-discover your own purpose, and you surmised it was what kept you safe from the pain, from the raging turbulence, from being lost in that same dark and empty void as him.

It was a cherished piece of time when everyone was still young and naive, where everyone could still differentiate what was legal and what was not. Whereas now, all it took was a flick of his hand, a lazy nod of his head, or a clipped order and everyone would rush to finish his heedless demand.

What’s worse was you were aware of all of it, very much so to the point that you also lost the humanity inside of you. You even knew what to direct his men without him ordering you, and that you actually commanded some of them yourself. Mikey bringing it up now made you tremble with the realization you were unknowingly taking part in it as well, when you should have been doing that.

Back then, you have sworn on Emma’s cold body, as she lay on the morgue’s bed that you would protect Mikey from any harm, even if he would turn out to be the harm itself. You cried tears of blood for him that day, seeing how he was dazed and utterly shaken to the core, even letting Draken beat him up for the things nobody couldn’t truly control.

You saw how he accepted his every beating and blame as though he rightfully deserved it, as if he himself caused his sister’s tragedy, and you saw how he picked himself up as quick as a lightning bolt when he decided to join the battle against Tenjiku as the invincible leader of Toman despite his already breaking precipice.

Yet looking at him now, his thin and pale body looked very fragile against the loose black shirt he was wearing. You could have mistaken him for someone you never knew: an unpredictable man, that’s what he is. Not your charming lover, not even the Mikey you once befriended with.

“I swore to Emma.”

The truthfulness seeped right through your words, keeping you rooted on your spot. You wondered if it was guilt that came along with your honesty considering how he was tranquil as the dead of the night, compelling you to silently reconsider what you just said.

Was it truly a foul move to even utter Emma’s name? What will he do now that he knows your reason? Should you have told him an alibi? It was a mayhem in your mind and you quickly thought of possibilities, or rather casualties, he will probably unleash upon your revelation. Although, when he spoke, you didn’t anticipate his response at all.

“Then it doesn’t matter.”

He uttered it so surely that you somehow felt a strong force like a harsh blizzard colliding with your chest, like a hailstorm raining down in brutal pieces and leaving purple bruises on your body. You expected him to lash out, give you a deadly look or whatever he could just to remind you that it wasn’t your place to look out for him, and in the name of his sister at that.

But certainly not this.

It painfully crashed on you how you weren’t close, more like nothing at all, to achieving the binding words you have made. When in fact, it chained you down, even compelled your life to take a hard turn when you only wanted to keep him safe and happy. You longed to see him smiling again, just as he did when he was a teenage boy alongside Baji and the others, or even back then from when Shinichiro was still alive.

You were there with him all throughout those traumatic years, even now when you could also label yourself as an outlaw and an essential part of their criminal organization. You were there for him as the gentle reminder of what he still has in this cruel world. Wasn’t that good enough of a reason?

Weren’t you?

“Get some sleep,” he quietly added.

When Mikey said that, you knew this confrontation will be forever buried — akin to a soil dampened by the violent floods, making it soak the nasty substance and expecting it to dry up and be back to normal when it had already absorbed the damage.

Though you held onto that sliver of hope, that miniscule prospect of going back to the way it was since he let you see the vulnerability he was feeling but alas, he still has the final blow.

“I’ll have someone pack up your things by tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened in utter bewilderment, breath hitching as if something — or particularly, someone — had squeezed your heart so swiftly that it left you immobilized. Was he trying to push you away? After all that you have done? For him?

Your toughened act crumbled down into tiny pieces, wetting your eyelashes with hot, painful tears you never thought you possessed upon embracing this life you chose. And before you could help it, you had him wrapped inside your feeble arms, nose buried in his skin whilst you listened to his heartbeat: calm and measured, unlike yours which was cracking open that it could even beat the sound of a raging thunder.

“No.”

“Listen to me.”

“No. That’s the only order I won’t take from you.”

“Why?”

The doubt in his voice was so childlike, reminiscing a time where he asked the same question to you and Draken, compelling a lone tear to run down your cheek with how differing in intensity the situations were. You saw how his own hopelessness flashed before his dark eyes that it once more gave you a temporary belief that Mikey was still indeed the man you knew, despite being the unpredictable storm that was the sole danger you should be running from.

Your own eyes held the answer he so curiously needed: to be the anchor to his unsteadiness, the safe refuge to his weakness that a moment later, his cold hands wrapped around your body so gently, as if he was scared to taint you with his own darkness. But to you, it was the sole indication you needed.

“Leave tomorrow.” He whispered, pushing you gently away from his frail body.

Yes, misunderstandings were something you were indeed bitterly familiar with, as you fought in silence for years for a man you have deeply loved but was clearly lost in time.

taglist. @sugokawata, @baji-san, @gwynsapphire, @eriskaitto and @manjiroarchiviste.

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Nanny Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x Nanny!F!Reader

18+

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: alcohol/drinking, food, corrupt cop, mentions of prostitution/smut, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, mentions of serial killers/murder, mutual pining, 

Summary:

Based on this Request: The reader moves to Meade/Knockemstiff while answering an advertisement for a nanny in the paper. We learn that the ad was posted by Sandy, who has the reader watch her child whenever she and Carl leave to do their secret thing. After one of these trips, Sandy and her husband never return, so the reader is left caring for their baby. With the new investigation into these events, she meets Sandy’s brother Lee, the older, out of shape, alcoholic bachelor, and they are suddenly thrown into each others lives as he begins looking into his sister’s disappearance. Through it all, Lee starts to fall for her, and they slowly become a family.

A/N: I got inspired re-watching one of my favorite shows and I want to know if anyone else gets the reference I’m using! If I missed anything I should include as a warning that I missed please let me know! This is also unedited!

Taglist Form is in my bio!

Series Masterlist

Your shoulders tensed listening to the radio in the morning. Sitting on your ottoman, you were painting your nails, using the coffee table as your nail station. It was a really bright morning, and you had the curtains pulled open to draw in light. Julie frantically rushed between her room and the bathroom getting ready for her shift at the diner. The newest single from The Beach Boys was playing through the little counter top radio, but at the top of the hour, the melodies playing through the speaker changed to the news. The top story of the morning was chilling.

“Jules,” you said, calling her over hesitantly, putting the cap back on the bottle of polish. “Come listen to this.”

She scurried out of her room while working to tie her apron in the back, and then she stood next to where you sat to listen to the story on the news. The color drained from her face as you both listened to the reporter describe the horrific scene that was under investigation early this morning.

Roy Laferty was an evangelical preacher whose body washed up by the lake very early that same morning. The news report talked about the police investigation, and also disclosed his wife Helen, is also reported missing. They are looking into the disappearance of Helen, as well as opening a full investigation on Laferty’s murder. They also urge individuals with any information regarding the two to call the Sheriff’s department and to provide a statement.

“That’s horrifying,” you mumble, shocked as you try to process the news. Julie nods in agreement but strangely doesn’t seem nearly as affected by the news as you.

“It’s happening again,” she mutters, obviously concerned but her lack of surprise worries you.

“What do you mean again?” you ask.

“There was a string of unexplained murders, all men, like this newest one,” Julie explained, “This was all over the news like two years ago- can’t believe you hadn’t heard about it.” All you could do was shrug; this was all new to you. “Obviously, there was nothing linking their deaths, but there were these five killings a couple of years ago that are still unsolved. There’s no evidence, but the town rumors it was like a serial killer or something. Nothing is confirmed, of course, just a story.”

“What makes people think it was all the same person?” you ask, hesitantly.

“All the people were always the same type,” she shrugs, “Men all in their 20s and 30s. Again, there’s nothing linking them all together. It’s just talk.”

You clicked off the radio, and didn’t know what to do with yourself. Julie patted your shoulder, comfortingly but she had to go on with her day. So did you, and you almost her ability to move about the apartment almost unfazed by the news. You suppose it makes sense, her growing up here she’s probably used to it. You didn’t have the experience or the thick skin she had.

You had decided to go to the library, still preoccupied by the news segment as well as the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff. You spent the better half of the morning looking at the library’s archives of old newspapers. You wanted to read more about the unsolved cases Julie had told you about, so there you sat for several hours looking through the microfilm reader. You even stumbled upon articles that featured the Sheriff.

There he was plain as day on the front page when it was announced he had won the election the first time he ran several years back. You couldn’t help but notice the changes in his appearance and demeanor compared to the man you keep running into. He was a little slimmer, and he looked a lot happier, a little fuller of life, you decided was a good way to explain it. His smile was wider, and you could see the difference in his eyes as well. It was seeing how he was before the stress of the job began to take its heavy toll. He had on the same leather jacket as well, you were fairly certain, even though the one in the photograph hung a little looser.

You continued to skim through articles, piecing your way through the history of Knockemstiff. Little articles in black and white that persevered the history of this dark little town. You were beginning to realize this backwater town was a lot more tangled and complex than you originally believed. It was a tangled history, riddled with crime and unclosed cases, that people seem to have either forgotten or choose to ignore for their own sake. Your mind wandered back to the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff and him being corrupt. You wonder how much of what you read about linked back to him. Though you imagine if he has any sort of political connection, which a man like him must have, the things he was involved in probably didn’t even make it into the paper. The thought made you physically shiver.

You put the large leather portfolios of archives you took and put them back into their proper place on the self chronologically. You grabbed your sweater from the back of your chair, and pushed the chair back into place. Looking up at the clock on the wall, it was only just one in the afternoon. You decided to head down to the diner and grab a bite, and also visit Julie during her second shift. It was a short walk from the library to the diner. Everywhere felt like a short walk here, probably because everything in downtown was not much bigger than a few blocks. The majority of people lived far from the center of town, on their own land and farms.

The little bell on the door rang when you stepped in and Julie waved at you from behind the counter and pointed for you to grab an empty table in her section. You put your bag on the table and took a seat. It was a fairly busy time, most people who worked at the surrounding businesses coming in for their lunch break. Julie brought you over a coffee and then said she’d be back to chat when she got to take her five.

Lee hadn’t been able to go home since the phone call. The symptoms of his hangover were worsening and he was growing more irritable. His five o’clock shadow was still evident on his tired face and his head was pounding. He tried his best to just power through it but the sound of anyone trying to talk to him just made his ears ring.

After leaving the scene, he had to stop by his office and then he was on the phone for the better part of an hour fielding calls from frantic citizens not only of Knockemstiff but also Meade, where Laferty was from. Despite how horribly he felt, he tried his best to keep his temper level and just reassure people he had things under control. He was losing his patience.

He opened up his desk drawer and grabbed his bottle of asprin. Empty. He threw it into the small waste bin and got up abruptly grabbing his jacket off the hook and storming out. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving and he didn’t care. It was a short walk to the drugstore from the station and he wouldn’t be five minutes. He just needed to do something to stop his head from hurting.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the pharmacist greeted when he walked in. He nodded his head upwards briefly to reply without having to talk. He just needed to get in and out. She went back to whatever she was working on when he came in, and he browsed the aisles for what he needed. After paying and walking out, he glanced in the direction of the diner when he was crossing the street. There you were, again. Sitting alone and chatting with the waitress that was refilling your coffee.

He let out a heavy sigh, and then continued walking. He didn’t want you to see him like this, hungover, unshaved, wrinkled uniform and heavy undereye bags from his lack of sleep. You looked- well, Lee thought you were the prettiest thing he’s seen in a while, maybe ever. There was something about you he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was just because you weren’t from here. You were a fresh face, and not ruined by this town. There was a sweetness and an innocence in how you talked to him, because you didn’t know him like the rest of people here did. He liked that.

Even when he left the station for the day, he couldn’t even go home yet. He had a meeting at the bar with one of Brown’s lackeys. He was just supposed to collect his cut so he couldn’t imagine it would take long, but he was still annoyed. Stepping into the bar he looked around as he took off his hat. It was a little more crowded tonight then when he was here last. The red curtain was closed and his eyes lingered there for a moment before directing his attention to the man he recognized who was waving him over.

“Sheriff,” the man greets and Lee slides into the booth across from him.

“Hayward,” he replies. Without even needing to order, the bartender comes over bringing them a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“You ever go back there?” Hayward asks, watching as a girl came out and brought a man behind the curtain who had been waiting at the bar.

“No,” Lee scoffs.

“They are amazing,” Hayward says, almost giddy. Lee feels sympathy towards the poor woman who had to take care of him. Lee doesn’t acknowledge the statement and just empties his glass and begins to pour himself a second.

“So, my cut?” Lee asks. Hayward frowns and goes into the breast pocket of his sports coat and pulls out an envelope of cash.

“You aren’t getting full,” the man says when Lee cocks a brow at the thinness of the envelope.

“Still?” Lee asks, pissed. Hayward nods. Lee’s jaw clenches.

“You didn’t keep things tidy on your end,” Hayward reminds him, “You got one job. Keep the cops out of our territory. We had two cruisers drive through last week. The only reason you’re getting anything at all is cause you managed to keep your people off us when we did the exchange with Deckard’s crew.”

The man finishes his drink, and then slaps the empty glass on the table. He pulls out his own envelope, which is much thicker than Lee’s and drops down more than enough for the drinks. He chuckles condescendingly and tells the Sheriff to get a dance. Fuck that. Lee takes the extra money and plans to just put it right in his pocket and go home. He finishes his third scotch and suddenly his headache was back. He felt worse than he did earlier today.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” a feminine voice asks, making him break his line of thought. He looks to his side and he recognizes her as one of the girls he sees bringing men to the back room, behind the velvet curtain. He shakes his head, and instead of leaving him alone, she slides into the booth next to him. Her hand grazes over his thigh. “You seem awful tense, Sheriff,” she says and then bites her lip.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. He knows she doesn’t actually want him, and it’s just an attempt to get him to spend money in the backroom. If he doesn’t focus his already hazing vision, maybe she could vaguely remind him of you. He can’t do it, but he wants to. Her hand moves up his leg and he pulls away. He adjusts his pants and she shrugs.

“Maybe next time then,” she winks before walking away. He rests his head back on the vinyl seat and sighs. He grabs his hat and jacket, leaving before he changes his mind. “Ask for Cherry when you come in, yeah?” she calls when he walks out.

You are just everywhere. You’re in his head and he doesn’t even know you. He needs to sleep, desperately, and part of him in the back of his mind hopes you’ll be there. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember.

“Have you heard about the Church fundraiser coming up?” Julie asks. You shake your head. “It’s a pretty big deal here. Everyone participates.”

“What is it?” you ask, kicking off your slippers so you can sit crisscross on the couch.

“Bid-On-A-Basket,” she says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing.

“Never heard of it,” you reply, “It sounds fun. What is it?”

“All us single gals put together a picnic basket with everything for a lunch,” she explains, “and then all the eligible bachelors bid on the basket and a date with the girl who made it. Last year, the dreamiest guy, Bill Whittier, bought mine- it’s so fun. Me and Bill didn’t work out but it was a good time.”

“I don’t know anyone here,” you say hesitantly.

“Perfect way to get a date then,” she teases. You bite your lip. You aren’t sure about this.

“And what if some creep is the highest bidder?” you counter.

“You get a bad date story for your next date?” she poses. “Please,” she begs, “It’s for a good cause, all the money this year is going to help the Sunday school.”

“What if no one bids on it?” You rebut.

“Look at yourself,” she scoffs, “you’ll get bids. Trust me.” You roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally. She smirks, completely planning to wear you down.

“Remember it’s for the kids,” she reasons, “It wouldn’t hurt to go and participate.”

“I said I’ll think about it,” you laugh.

Time passes and soon enough you get another call from Sandy, and you are suddenly back to taking care of Valerie. You had missed her, a lot actually. You definitely have gotten attached to her, and you think you’ve grown on her too. Sandy was vague this time for how long they’d be gone, but since the previous time went so smoothly, you didn’t worry about it.

About a week after Sandy and Carl left this time, there was another disturbing news report. You were sitting on the floor, changing Valerie and you had the television playing softly in the background. The news told the story of another body, this time found in the woods off of the highway. You finish changing the baby and hold her close, her little chin resting on your shoulder as you watch the news story. It was just like Julie had talked about. Another man, thirty years old. He was shot and his body abandoned. You jump at the knock at the front door.

You peep through the curtains, and you see the Sheriff waiting on the front porch. You wonder if he knows you’re there. Part of you almost wishes he knows it you here and he wanted to see you. It’s incredibly stupid on your part and you know better, but nonetheless, part of you hoped he came here for you. Very stupid. With Valerie on your hip, you open the door.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says walking into the house. He stops in front of you and presses a kiss to Valerie’s forehead and she squeals happily seeing Lee. You close the door with your foot. “May I?” he asks, and opens his arms. You agree, based on Valerie’s reactions to him whenever she sees him. He takes her in his arms, and she starts playing with his tie. He loosens it so she can play with it and not choke him.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” you ask. He reacts in a way in a way you can’t really read, but you don’t press.

His mind just goes back to the woman a couple weeks back in the brothel who asked him the same thing, and that his mind immediately had gone to you. He just clears his throat and snaps himself out of that thought process.

“Um, I just came by to see Sandy,” he says, “But I can fathom a guess that she’s not here?”

“Excellent deduction,” you joke, and he smirks. Valerie has his tie in her mouth and is covering it in drool. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nod. “You looked a little scared when you answered.”

“Just watching the news before you showed up is all,” you explain, “They were talking about how there was another man found dead.”

“Ain’t got nothing to worry about,” he says, “We’re on top of it. I’m on my way over there now.”

“Can I ask you something?” you ask hesitantly.

“Of course, darling.”

“My friend, you probably know her- Julie Grady.”

“Yeah, nice kid,” he says, listening but gently pulling his tie from Valerie’s grasp. She starts playing with the flap of the pocket of his jacket.

Kid. You almost grimace. That’s right. Of course, Lee would view someone your age that way. You weren’t. You chastise yourself for even caring, but you decide to continue. You shouldn’t care how he sees you.

“Yeah- well, she told me there have been others,” you continue, “I also read up about it, just the newspapers at the library- but she said people thought it was some kind of serial killer… I just, I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t think know,” he answers honestly, a little taken aback, not expecting you to approach him with something this serious. “I doubt it,” he explains, “Serial killers stay close to home. Now those cases you read about, and these two we are looking at- they sound close together but logistically, they aren’t really. Two of those unsolved were in completely different states- just like this new one.”

“So, no traveling serial killer?” you chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Most people like that stay in one area,” Lee explains, “They work jobs, they have a home, you know? They tend to stay near where they live.”

“That makes me feel much better,” you answer honestly.

“You got nothing to worry about, and that’s a promise,” he grins, although he supposes coming from him that probably doesn’t mean much. Regardless, it makes you smile.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” you offer again. He bites his lip, taking a moment to think.

“Sandy keeps a bag of candy in her cabinet,” he says, walking into the kitchen with you following close behind. He passes Valerie off to you and he chuckles under his breath at the state of his tie. He reaches up in the cabinet and pulls down a brown paper bag, filled with taffies and chocolates.

Something about this man who has a whole time scared of him playing with his niece and then stealing sweets from the cupboard is something you find so strangely endearing. He unwraps one of the brightly colored taffies and then puts the bag in his pocket.

“I gotta go,” he announces, “let me know if you hear from Sandy, yeah?”

“Of course,” you reply.

“Gonna head out to that scene, and do my report,” he discloses, not really sure why he’s telling you. “Then I have a meeting at the rectory about that fundraiser thing. Figure out security.”

“They need security at Bid-On-A-Basket?” you ask, with an eyebrow raised. He smiles.

“You going?” he asks, flirtatiously.

“Just seems weird to have police at a Church thing.”

“There’s been stupid fights,” he shrugs, “some guy will get outbid and cause a fuss. Nothing serious. Probably just gonna be me and a deputy in case. You going?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” you say sheepishly. “Why?”

He walks towards the front door, and you follow seeing him out.

“Cause I gotta know if I’ll be bidding on a basket,” he winks.

“You gonna start a fight if you don’t win it?” you joke.

“If it’s yours? Absolutely, darling.”

Taglist:

@adelaide-walker @thedepressolit @samanthadegaro @pyronack @greeneyedblondie44  @acciosiriusblack  @weenersoldierr @teenagemutant @witchybarb @iraot @my-love-darling @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @swiftieandthewintersoldier @letsfly-andbe-free @rebekahdawkins @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan @hersilencedscreams @unsaltedalmonds @dangerdolns @vintagepigeon @bluebouquetcupcake29 @goslytherin @captainofallfandoms @buckistan @aynanasstuff @everything-is-all-clear @rosalynshields @tinynshykitten​ 

[gothbfignis]

The Emergence of the Word "Magick" and Why I Don't Trust Y'all Who Use It

Okay, I'm gonna preface this with a disclaimer: I am not an academic in any way, shape, or form. This is a tumblr post, and it will be framed as such. I'll try my best to site relevant sources, but in the end, I'm just a person on the internet. Do your own research and come to your own conclusions.

It's almost completely impossible to spend any significant time on witchblr and not see the word "magick" at least once. And everytime I do, it makes me want to rattle my FUCKING cage. Especially from people who are trying to help educate other witches on this platform, because I believe they should know better.

Because when you use the word "magick", you are evoking Aleister Crowley, a name famous in witchcraft communities. And that's not a good thing.

So, who was Crowley? In the simplest terms, he was an occultist. He wrote some of the most influential works in witchcraft theory and occult practice of his time. He was a writer, a scholar, a mountaineer, and an irredeemable racist. In many of his works, you will find specifically xenophobia, antisemitism, and sexism. Phrases like "the objectionable type of jew [with] the gross, hooked, pendulous proboscis; the thick, flabby, moist lips; the patient stupid eyes, and timid, hunted gait". It's fucking nauseating. The amount of hate he had for jewish people is off the charts. I could share more examples, but it's literally making me sick having to read that shit, and I'm not subjecting anyone else to it.

As for the counts of racism and sexism. Well.

"Where Islam and Christianity meet in open competition, as in some parts of Africa, it is found that only the lowest type of Negro, such as is accustomed to arrange matters with conscience by hanging a rag on a piece of stick, accepts Christianity."

"White men and women must choose between these alternatives: Will they yield, content to be the black man’s slave, after having been his master? or will they stand to, and reply by an energetic spiritual reaction, which will restore the threatened equilibrium of the races?"

"The doctor was a Bengali named Ram Lal Sircar, a burly n****r of the most loathsome type. I am not fond of Benaglis at the best and he as the worst specimen of his race I have ever seen."

"Do we call woman whore?  Ay, verily and amen, she is that; the air shudders and burns as we shout it, exulting and eager."

"Just as a woman's body is deformed and diseased by the corset demanded by Jagannath fashion, so is her soul by the compression of convention, which is a fashion as fitful, arbitrary, and senseless as that of the man-milliner, though they call him God, and his freakish fiat pass for everlasting law."

Okay, but what does this have to do with modern usage of the word "magick"? Well, the first recorded use of "magick" (with this particular spelling) was by Heinreich Cornelius Agrippa, who was a bit batshit for altogether different reasons (and which is a discussion for a whole different post). Agrippa was a 16th century occultist, and the writer of the Three Books on Occult Philosophy - works which are considered by many to be the foundation of western witchcraft. He was not bigoted (as far as I can tell), just kind of 'out there'.

Anyways. "Magick" made its way back into the mouths of mainstream witches by means of Crowley when he founded Thelema, his weird cult that he believed himself to be the prophet of. The teachings of Thelema would go on to influence L. Ron Hubbard in founding Scientology and Gerald Gardner, the "Father of Witchcraft" (but really, just wicca).

So. Not great. Crowley and his Thelema cult would repopularise "magick" in the modern day by way of his bigoted teachings, paving the way for it to make its way into the vocabulary of 21st century witches today. Supposedly, this alternate spelling was to help differentiate witchcraft from stage magic, like pulling doves out of your sleeve or sawing your girlfriend in half. I don't know, I've never seen a magic show. Either way, this spelling is completely unnecessary. Like, I don't think that anyone would read a book on kitchen magic and mistake it for a Penn & Teller act.

Using the word "magick" in your writings is a choice - one that is full of history and hurt. I just want you to weigh that choice and really meditate on the worth of using this word in your craft for the ☆•°aesthetic°•☆, and realize what exactly you're bringing to mind when you do. If you do use it, know what it really says about you and the things you value when you do so.

Sources:

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Aleister-Crowley

http://www.arcane-archive.org/faqs/crowleyracistfaq.php

https://hermetic.com/crowley/confessions/index

https://lightwarriorslegion.com/magick-definition-and-etymology/

https://www.learnreligions.com/magic-and-magick-95856

The Equinox by Aleister Crowley

The Law is For All by Aleister Crowley

[casarolltroll]

Changeling Trio with human s/o Characters: Otto, Nomura, Strickler Warnings: None, just general fluff

Otto Scaarbach

He is not the smoothest man out there. But he certainly has a charm to him like no other. Maybe its the accent, maybe its the blue eyes, or maybe its just cause you find him cute.

All things considered this German Changeling was certainly lucky to have you come into his life. He wasn't really looking for anyone , it kind of just happened. First you started seeing more of eachother. Then it was that time in the bakery, and before he knew it he had asked you to have lunch with him.

After that things took off on their own. You two spent a lot of time together, outside of his work hours with the Janus Order of course, he tried to hide it from you really. And boy was he good at that.

It would definitely take him a while to become comfortable enough to tell you he is a Changeling. History has not exactly been kind to his species. And he really values you as someone he holds dear, so he is really risking ruining things with this.

But he shows you that he's not human. You stare at him bewildered for a moment, before you get up slowly and take a step forward eyes gleaming with curiosity. You gently but a hand to his cheek while he's in troll form. Its warm and surprisingly smooth. You tenderly massage his cheek in a loving way and you say "Its you, no matter what you look like you are still my Otto"

At that he lets a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He is so relieved that you dont mind thats he's not human. You tell him sure you were surprised but at the end of the day he's still the same persom no matter what form he takes.

At that he picks you up with strength you never knew he had and gives you a gentle kiss while he holds you in his arm. He tells you how much he loves you and how happy he is that you accept him no matter what he is.

Zelda Nomura:

She is a creature that prefers to keep more to herself. If she's in a relationship its open with benefits. And it was almost always with another Changeling.

But when she met you things changed. Suddenly she didn't want things so open. She genuinely found that she wanted to take it slow and get to know you.

You are simple and plan, but you are who you are and that's what draws her in. The fact that you don't care what people think inspired her. Your thick skinned and stick to your morals.

She would see you day after day around Arcadia and one day she just got curious so she decided to take a seat on the park bench just across from you. She wouldn't say anything, she would just observe you. This would go on until, she deiced to approach you. You weren't a changeling, so you were new territory and that intimidated her as much as it excited her.

She started with a hello and the conversation took off from there. She had a spark in her that made you want to listen to what she was saying. It helped that you are both into artifact and relics. You enjoyed African artifacts and she fancied European ones more herself.

She felt safe around you, the two of you could talk about anything. You both had a spot in town where you liked to meet and it became a habit. You had slipped into her life so easily.

One night you invited her over for dinner and she accepted. The evening was going wonderfully until you heard something moving on the roof. She tried to assure you it was nothing but you insisted on going outside to check. The next thing you knew you were being attacked by a small swarm Goblins. She immediately sprung into action shedding her human form and killing them off with her giant blades.

She stood over you fear written in her eyes and you staired up at her mouth agape and eyes bugged out. She turned and ran away. You yelled after her but she was already gone in a flash.

It has been weeks since you had spotted her. She made a good effort to keep away from you after that night. However she got unlucky and one day you were able to catch her, grabbing her wrist before she could turn away. You pleaded for her to talk to you. You said you didn't blame her for what happened and you were happy she was there. You told her you didn't care what she looked like, that all that mattered was who she was. And that to you she was a beautiful person.

In a moment of vulnerability she lets tears slip down her face as you pulled her in for a hug. Relieved that the relationship you two had built wasn't ruined.

Walter Stricklander:

We all know Walt is smooth, so situation of romance more often then not tended to go his way. He could have anyone person he set his sights on.

For some odd reason he choose you. Someone he saw lost in a pile of history books at the Library. Maybe it was the way the sun shone through the window upon you in a poetic sort of way, or maybe it was that you looks so whimsically lost in your readings.

He began to frequent the Library much more often in hopes of getting to see you.

One day, perhaps by accident or perhaps by his careful planning the two of you reached out for the same book hands touching. You shyly offered to let him have the book as you had read that one several times. He mentioned that he had also read it dozens of times.

He offered to have a scholarly conversation with you over the book and it took of from there.

The two of you began to have regular Library dates where one of you would pick up some coffee and the two of you would spend hours talking over the material you both knew by heart.

Slowly overtime your relationship blossomed into something he would want to protects. And try as he might to keep you away from it all sooner or later his other life would catch up with him and he knew this.

So rather than wait for it to randomly happen one day, he made the decision to tell you before you two became more serious with each other

He invited you to tea at his place one day and that is how he would break the news to you, in the comfort of his own home. You could tell shortly after you had been inside that something was off with Walter.

Once he told you everything and then showed you he waited quite anxiously for your reply. You were taken very off guard by his transformation. You got up, excused yourself to the bathroom.

It took you 15 minutes to process this new information and when you came back he had changed back fearing he made you uncomfortable with his troll form.

You sat next to him and gently put a hand on his shoulder. Telling that this would take some getting used to, but that you were in no way uncomfortable by him or by his being a changeling.

To you he was the same old Walt after all, and if you really thought about it having a supernatural boyfriend really was kind of interesting.

He was happy and relived to say the least.

[lilyofthestyx]

Headcanons about each of the lords (+the Duke if you're writing about him) if they ever happen to adopt a little child?

THANK YOU ANON MY THE UNIVERSE BLESS YOU WITH PILLOWS THAT ARE COLD ON BOTH SIDES

okay okay okay okay this has definitely been on my mind so lets get into the thick of it

Alcina Dimitrescu

(im starting off with alcina for obvious reasons)

Alcina would be on the way to the church with the slimy moron, the demented doll, that disgusting manthing and Mother Miranda

She'd kiss her daughters goodbye and head off through the snow, quietly muttering about how cold her ankles were

while Moreau is literally up to his chin in snow but its fine

as she gets closer to the church she keeps hearing this. thing. it sounded familiar but she couldn't exactly put her finger on it.

she strays from the path to find it because it was just so familiar

as she weaves her way through the snow, her dress gets caught on something. she leans down to get her dress unstuck when she realises its this tiny basket.

like seriously. just a little woven basket in the middle of the snow. and it doesn't look like its been there for that long- there's hardly any snow on it

when she tugs at her skirts again, the basket makes the same noise she's been hearing

she stands back up to her full height, staring down at the basket with narrowed eyes

this cannot be a good idea, can it? opening a strange basket in the woods after being lured out here. it's probably some village manthing's trap.

she's about to step away when she hears the sound again- much more intense and much more clear

Alcina leans down and opens the lid of the basket

inside is this tiny thing- all soft and warm in a padding of blankets

a baby

she stands and looks around

who on earth would be so moronic as to leave their baby in the snow? it's much too cold for a baby to survive-

oh

she sighs, getting onto her knees to pull the baby from the blanketed basket

the meeting will have to wait. it's too cold even in the church for this tiny thing.

when she finally makes it back home, she's greeted by her daughters in a swarm of buzzing flies.

as they manifest in their true forms, they're asking what- or who, rather- their mother brought for dinner

Alcina smiles and shakes her head, unwrapping the small bundle clinging to her breast

"this... is your new sibling" she announces, "they'll be staying with us from now on."

and the sisters are ecstatic. a new sibling!

Daniela especially is happy that she is no longer the youngest. she usually is the one to parade around the castle with her sibling on her shoulders, showing them the coolest hiding spots for hide-n-seek and the windows with the best views

Bela is incredibly protective. like. incredibly.

she smelt blood from across the castle and when she found her little sibling sniffling about a skinned knee earned from a game of tag with Angie, she lost her shit and almost broke the damned thing with her sickle

And Cassandra has been caught reading bedtime stories by nightlight multiple times. she tries to play it off but everyone knows that she loves- absolutely adores- her newest sibling

we all know Alcina is such a wonderful mother to the girls so adding another baby to the mix was a guaranteed success

she's so doting and careful (a little overprotective at times but she means well) as she is with her girls

as the child grows into a teen, she panics a bit because "my beautiful baby is growing into such a beautiful, talented adult" so expect a lot of late night visits when she just sits on the edge of her bed and just admires how much you've grown

Salvatore Moreau:

now this one is an easy one too if i'm 100% honest

think Moses type beat

(if you don't know, Moses was found in the riverbank in a little basket)

apparently i really like baskets

anyways

Moreau was so out of his element when he found this tiny, screaming, writhing piece of soft flesh

the first few weeks were rough

but he eventually got the hang of it (with Alcina's help of course)

he would take his child fishing every now and then- just the two of them out on a boat for a few hours

the kid would literally swim more than walk and that little fact would make Moreau so freakin proud

also this kid would be so well-versed in movie and film history it's stupid

like expect this little 4 or 5 year old babbling not about toys or snow or how many sticks they found but instead about the copyright war over the film Nosferatu and the destruction of its copies

Moreau, as the child gets older (like 11 or 12) would have just a tad of trouble trying to keep the kid out of the village

he'd wake up one day and go out onto the lake, expecting his child to be swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water

and when he finds that they were not, in fact, swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water, he p a n i c s

i mean, full blown red alert

all of the lords are summoned to help Moreau look for his missing kid, the lycans are given an article of clothing to help find the scent, Mother Miranda goes to search the village herself- the whole shebang

and when the kid is found playing with the village children, Moreau bursts into tears

needless to say, the kid isn't allowed to go to the village anymore

until they're fifty (Moreau's words, of course)

but the kid sneaks off more and more as they get older, using Alcina or Donna or Karl as an excuse to be away

and Moreau knows but he never says a word

seeing his child happy and free with the kids their age makes him happy, even if he is a tad, a tad, a tad bit nervous

Donna Beneviento:

when Donna found this child huddled up against the base of the stairs leading up to her front door, she at first thought it was a doll of hers

it was only when she actually walked outside that she realised it was this shaking, shriveled child in tattered clothes

she spent a good five minutes just staring, wondering how on earth she's supposed to react

that's when Angie jumped in and pulled at her skirt, telling her to "let the kid inside, already!"

Donna went immediately to work on some clothes- why on earth were they wearing such ragged things?! it's freezing outside!- while Angie entertained in the parlour

honestly, it didn't go well

the kid was a little bit unsettled by the floating doll that moved and spoke on its own FOR GOOD REASON

and when Donna walked back in with her measurement tape and some fabric, the kid backed themselves into a corner of the room with their gangly legs tucked into their chest

Angie sighs from the opposite side of the room, letting her little feet fidget as she gestures to the kid. "they're no fun" she pouts, "wouldn't even let me know their name"

Donna puts her materials down slowly and lifts her veil back before attempting a small smile

it takes a while but upon the offer of food, the kid finally lets Donna make them some clothes while Angie makes conversation

she works in silence, only offering small awkward smiles

Angie finally brings up the topic of where their parents are when the kid's clothes are done

when the child goes silent, Donna nods in understanding before hurrying off to make a room for them

as Angie helped tug the blankets up to the child's ears, they promised they'd be gone in the morning

Angie was the one to tell them off.

"You'll stay as long as you need, you silly goose!"

and the child did

Donna would let them tag along for meetings so long as they promised to keep quiet and help keep Angie out of trouble

most of the time, it didn't work and they both would end up in trouble but Donna let them come nonetheless

and when the other Lords question where on earth this little kid came from- all dressed in black fabric that matched Donna's dress, she just shook her head and let Angie chase them off verbally

she'd spend literal HOURS locked in that workshop making new little friends for her child and when they were old enough, she'd let them into the workshop

and when they were even older, she'd walk them through making their very first doll on their own

she'd just watch with pride as they carefully painted the freckles with a shaky hand while Angie danced around their ankles singing of how excited she was to have another friend

The Duke:

he would be setting up shop near the base of the Dimitrescu castle when he catches a kid trying to steal some his wares

he wouldn't be terribly upset, more concerned

it wasn't something shiny or expensive that they were trying to steal

it was some of the steaming-hot food he had left to cool in the wintry air

he confronted the child gently and with a warm smile

"That's cordon bleu," he says, gesturing to the steaming plate. "I can make you some if you'd like"

and as the child eats, the Duke continues tidying up his shop for any future customers

the child, through a mouthful of food, points to different items and asks their purpose, their price, their possible enhancements

the Duke answers each question with patience, happy for the company

but he doesn't just let the questions go one-way

"How about a trade?" he asks as the child asks about the strange-looking bottle of green liquid. "An answer for an answer."

the child agrees and the Duke starts to peel back layers of why the child was here looking for food

they had been orphaned by the last lycan attack, only barely making it out by fleeing into the woods

they tried to forage off of berry bushes and successfully managed to kill a pig- only for the blood to attract lycans before they could properly eat it

the Duke nods and continues busying himself with his shop, feeding the horse that pulls the wagon

the thought had hit him when he watched the child petting his horse

that horse hated everyone. including him at times.

maybe...

when he offered to take the child in, the kid nearly burst into tears and thanked him repeatedly, swearing to earn their keep

and they did, seven times over

what started off as a purely business venture morphed into something more as time went on

when the child would come back from selling smaller household items like gasoline and the occasional package of bullets, the Duke would have them climb onto the roof of the wagon and watch the sun set together with a plate of food

speaking of which, like Moreau, the Duke would raise the most cultured child

this kid would know how to prepare and identify different dishes and their ingredients just by looking at them or smelling them

and their palate would be far more sophisticated than most adults

the Duke, as the child gets older, would eventually allow them to choose destinations to set up shop- even outside of the village

wherever his child wants, the shop would go

it allows them to see the world and its earthly wares together- something the Duke had lacked in his life before the child was brought into the picture

Karl Heisenberg:

listen to me very very carefully

this man would be the most chaotic father ever to walk this earthly realm

when he finds this kid in the elevator of his factory, he's kinda standing there like 🧍 "what the hell-"

and when the kid starts spamming the button while maintaining eye contact, he kinda snaps out of it and starts chasing after them as they drop down to a different floor

it goes on for a solid twenty minutes before he finally managed to track them down in the corner of his office

and when i say this man is confused, i freaking mean it

i mean

why the HELL would some random kid be in his factory? don't they like... play with ponies or something at this age?

to be fair, this man literally has never been allowed a childhood so

obviously he starts scolding the kid ("what the hell are you doin' in here? it's dangerous and there's some really freaky shit here, kid"), dragging them to a nearby sink because "holy shit kid, you're filthy"

the kid is silent essentially the whole time, just kinda staring into his eyes

and of course Karl's gonna be like "...the fuck're you doin'?"

the kid's face is cleaned off and Karl sends them back out towards the village with a scratchy blanket he pulled out of the bottom of his desk drawer

he's working on his 'equipment' one day when he starts reaching for a wrench, keeping his focus on the body on the table

when i say this man jumps skyhigh at the kid asking a question, i mean it

he drags the kid back out, yelling about how dangerous it is and how "you shouldn't do that! you're gonna get yourself killed! go back home!"

the kid doesn't listen

it becomes a regular thing- Karl finds the kid wandering around the factory, Karl brings the kid out of danger, Karl tells them to get lost

eventually (day thirteen of this) he asks why the child keeps coming back

and he hates the answer he gets

it was something along the lines of "it's warm and there's nowhere else for me to go"

so Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them stay

it's a lot of rules at first (a kid shouldn't be allowed to just wander around a bunch of mindless cyborg killers, let alone a factory) but eventually the child learns to mind Sturm and the others

doesn't mean Karl does not have a fullblown heart attack when he walks into his workspace to find the kid tracing their finger along the center of the battery for the Soldats

after a very long talk (and some deep breathing) Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them sit against the very far wall to watch him work on the machinery- not, under any circumstances, the actual bodies

as the child blossoms into a young adult, they start to help out with certain aspects of Karl's work

exclusively machinery because Karl could not physically handle having his kid watch him get elbow-deep into a corpse

and Karl is so freaking proud of it

when the Soldat is kicked to life, he's got his kid in his arms and cackling like the proud dad he is

yeah. paternal Heisenberg>>>

[watchmegetobsessed]

IN YOUR MEMORIES

a/n: alright so this was inspired by an amazing fic called Graveyard by @wkemeup​ if you haven’t read it... WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR??? honestly, i was amazed by the whole idea of having to “pay a price” for a super power and i’ve been really itching to try myself out in this concept, so that’s what this story is. im really excited to share this with you guys so i hope you’ll like it!

pairing: Bucky X Reader

warnings: a hell lot of Bucky’s past pain, a little bit of angst aaand idk im really bad with these warnings

word count: 7.6k

masterlist

“I’ve been trying to figure out an effective way to help him, but it’s been more complicated than I expected. None of my ideas were good enough to even attempt them.” Shuri lets out a frustrated sigh as you stare at the peaceful face of the sleeping man in front of you in the cryo pod. The glass in front of his face is frosty, but you can still make his sharp features out, his chiseled jawline under the stubble, the elegant line of his nose and the thick lashes fanning over his cheeks as his eyes are shut closed.

“His whole mind needs to be rewired, his corrupted memories should be replaced or wiped out so the trigger words wouldn’t work any longer, but I can’t do that on my own.”

Tearing your gaze away from the man you look at her, an apologetic expression adorning her features, because she swore you’d find shelter in Wakanda, a place where you can be just like anyone else and yet, she is now asking you to use your power.

“Do you think he would let me help him?” you ask, glancing back at the man. Bucky, as Shuri called him, doesn’t look as old as he was said to be. A hundred and six years is a lot for a human like him, though he is not as mortal as others on the planet. Shuri told you about the experiments he had to endure through his life and even though you haven’t even touched his mind, you could feel the pain inside you.

“He is desperate to get rid of his dark side, I think he would do anything.”

Reaching up your fingers graze the glass over his face before you plant your whole palm onto it, trying to feel him even under the surface and ice. Eyes shutting close, you take a deep breath as you let your senses open up and find your way to the man.

Because of the cryo pod, you don’t feel him the way you usually do. It’s like he is just an echo in a huge empty room, you can’t make out his whole mind, but he is there. And even with him sleeping under the ice, you still can feel the despair and pain he had to go through as an innocent man. You know he deserves to be saved, he deserves to be freed from his own past and you are his only chance as of right now.

“Wake him up,” you simply tell Shuri before turning around to go back to your room that was assigned to you upon your arrival in the palace.

Bucky doesn’t feel like he has been asleep under the ice for more than just a few hours. It felt like a nap, but in reality he woke up months after the day he closed his eyes.

Shuri welcomed him with the news that the cure has been found and it’s time for him to get rid of the Winter Soldier for once and for all. She didn’t say much about the method, just told him to get ready by the afternoon.  He was never one to question the genius young girl so he just obeyed.

After a hot shower he shaved and took the time to get accustomed to the prototype of the vibranium arm Shuri left for him. It’s not the final version, a lot of details need work, but it’s good enough for his everyday life for a while.

The world hasn’t seemed to change since he last saw it. Wakanda is just as flourishing and vibrant as he remembered, a truly spectacular place in his opinion. He wonders how his friends have been, what Steve is doing, if Natasha is alright… Is Tony still fuming after their last encounter? He probably is.

When it’s time, he leaves his room and heads to Shuri’s lab for their meeting. The guards let him in with just a nod, like he is an old friend and he finds Shuri at her computer as always. The girl beams upon seeing him again, complimenting on his freshly shaved look.

“So what did you invent for me, smartpants?” he smiles at her gently. Bucky owes a lot to Shuri and her brother, they took him in when he wasn’t welcomed anywhere else and now she is about to give him his life back. After this, he’ll forever owe her and her family.

“Well, it’s not my invention this time,” she chuckles shaking her head. Bucky is about to question her when the doors open again, both of them turning in the direction just to see you walk in. His eyebrows knit together at the sight of you, not entirely sure what it’s supposed to be. “Mr. Barnes, let me introduce you to Y/N. Y/N, this is Sergeant Barnes.”

You walk closer, Bucky’s icy blue eyes are glued to your form as you stop a few feet away from him, holding out a hand shyly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant James Barnes,” you smile softly as his flesh hand takes yours and shakes it gently.

Bucky is enamored with you instantly. He has never seen someone as delicate, soft and charming as you are, your whole aura just demands his attention and he wants to know everything about you. But he also notices that though you look a lot like any other human on the planet, he is convinced you are not from Earth.

What he doesn’t know is that the moment your hands touch, you can hear his thoughts and you can’t push down your smile at how well he is at inspecting his surroundings.

“Just call me Bucky, please,” he nods before your hands let go of each other and his thoughts quiet down again in your head.

“To answer your suspicion, I’m rorm a planet called Lortena. Life on my planet looks a lot like humans here on Earth, but our lifespan is a little longer and some of us have gifts, as my mother always liked to call them.”

“How did you—“ “How did I know what you thought?” you ask with a small smile, finishing his sentence as he nods in complete awe. “I’m what you might call… a mind reader. But my abilities go a little farther than just reading minds,” you admit and his lips part at the revelation.

Bucky glances over at Shuri, part of him thinking it’s some kind of joke or witchcraft, but the girl smiles back at him with an assuring nod.

“Why don’t we sit down and have a chat? I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” Shuri suggests patting Bucky’s shoulder before the three of you head into her conference room.

Though you’re not touching Bucky, you can sense his confusion and hunger to learn more about you. He is curious about what else you are capable of and though the news about your abilities are still quite odd to him, you can tell that he isn’t trying to shut you out entirely. He just has some reservations for now.

Bucky knows it’s rude to stare, but he can’t stop himself from inspecting you. Knowing that you are not from this planet is already enough for him to get his mind racing, especially because you look just like any other humans on Earth. But the little trick you did on him was enough of a convincing for him to believe that you are from somewhere else.

The three of you sit to the table and Shuri takes the lead to start the conversation.

“While you were asleep, Sergeant, life went on and we had a lot going on,” she smiles, her eyes falling on you. “Y/N is a refugee from her planet, Lortena. There’s a war going on there and she was sent away because she was a primary target. She wasn’t supposed to end up here, but there was a little mishap during her journey and landed in Wakanda.”

“Are you targeted because of your… powers?” Bucky asks, hoping he is not asking anything offensive.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s because I’m the king’s daughter.”

“Oh!” he breathes out.

Great, so she is not only a breathtakingly beautiful creature with superpowers, but she is royal as well, he thinks to himself.

“And how… where do your… powers come from? Is that a usual thing on your planet?”

“Not quite,” you chuckle softly.

You give a glance at Shuri who nods and brings up a hologram of Loki’s scepter with the mind stone in it. Bucky is already familiar with them, but he is curiously listening to find out what it has to do with you.

“Long before the mind stone was trapped into the scepter, it was in our possession. We used it as out main power source, kept locked away from preying eyes and hands. We all knew it’s capable of more than what we use it for, but we didn’t want to risk it and use it for the wrong purposes.”

The hologram changes and now the mind stone is on display on its own.

“But not everyone agreed with that. A couple hundred years ago there was a war for the stone. Though our people sacrificed everything to protect it, they didn’t succeed entirely. Unfortunately, the attackers didn’t know how great the stone’s power is. In the midst of the chaos, there was an explosion caused by the stone. Almost everyone present was killed, only seven survived and they were blessed with different powers coming from the stone.”

Bucky’s lips part as his eyes flicker over to you from the stone in the middle of the table, while you are staring at the hologram remembering back the stories your parents told you growing up. He feels like he is being shared with an ancient legend, a piece of history that is a privilege to know.

“The powers they were gifted with were held at great heights after the war was over. And while some of them could pass it on to their children, some couldn’t. The seven became four, then just two and there was one left. My grandmother. When my father didn’t show any signs of the stone’s power it was believed the magic was gone forever, but then I was born and…”

“And you had the powers,” Bucky chimes in, completely in awe of your origin story. You nod with a shy smile as the hologram of the stone disappears in the middle of the table.

“Yes.”

“And why is there a war on your planet right now?”

“Because though it’s been a miracle that I inherited my grandmother’s powers, the people want to get the stone back and have more of its powers. Unfortunately, the stone was lost through the years and I was informed that Thanos got a hold of it some time ago,” you explain, turning to Shuri for assurance about the accuracy of your words and she nods. “Who then gave it to Loki and now it’s in the scepter. People were demanding my father to start a war for the stone to get it back to Lortena, but he refused to sacrifice his army to get the stone back from a titan.” Sighing you lean back in your seat as you think about your home, your family that was left behind when your father sent you away because he was afraid the rebels would use you to get to him.

“The stone is not at Thanos’ any longer,” Bucky speaks up and your eyes find him as you snap out of your thoughts.

“I was informed of that as well. It’s um… it’s Vision’s now, right?” They both nod. “Well, the rebels think it’s Thanos’ and you better hope it stays that way. Because if they figure out that the titan doesn’t have it any longer, they won’t hesitate to attack you for the stone.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches at the thought of another war to take part in, but also because you had to go through such terrible events because of other’s greediness.

“I’ve been trying to find a solution to help you since you’ve gone to sleep, but I wasn’t able to come up with any,” Shuri speaks up. “But then Y/N arrived and I think she could be the one to do the job.”

“You think you can do that?” Bucky asks, eyebrows pulled together. “What else can you do, other than reading minds?”

You feel hesitant revealing the depths you’re able to reach with your abilities and you’re afraid he would find it too invading after everything he has been through. You want to help him but he has to let you. Though you’re powerful, if someone resists your attempts, the outcome won’t be the same as if they cooperated.

“If you let me… I can change your memories. I can make them appear differently in your head so what they did to you won’t have an effect on you any longer.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. He has no idea what he was expecting, but not this for sure. Letting another person get into his head, play with his mind like it’s just a toy, it’s something he vowed not to let anyone do it again. But as he stares back at you, he can tell the difference between you and the monsters who ruined his head before. He is at a safe place and everyone here wants what’s good for him.

“It only works if you let me do it,” you add and notice how he presses his lips together into a thin line.

“I would do anything to get rid of him. So… I’m in,” he nods at last and you let out a relieved sigh.

You’ve never tried to corrupt so much of someone’s memories before and you’re not sure how long it will take to complete the task so you requested to start the next day, giving you some time to get ready physically and mentally and of course, for Bucky to get himself ready for his mind to yet again get taken apart by someone else.

Not having much to really do since your arrival other than helping Shuri out occasionally at the lab or giving assistance for T’Challa around the palace, you’ve been able to explore your temporary home in the heart of Wakanda.

There is a hidden terrace near your room, one that’s not well-known even by the people living in the palace and you like the peace and calm whenever you are out there, surrounded by flowers and plants in hand-painted pots, some of them were made by yourself, watching over the breathtaking view of Wakanda in front of you, the sky turning from bright blue to shades of orange, pink, purple and eventually black as the Sun goes down behind the hills.

Tonight, this is where you are seeking peace again, sorting your thoughts out about what you’ll have to face tomorrow. Your power has a lot of benefits but it has its curses as well. You’ve only attempted to do something similar before and you had to learn the hard way what price you have to pay for having control over someone else’s mind, thoughts and memories.

Your brother was tragically killed in an uprising when he was only seventeen and you were ten. It was the result of a series of unfortunate event, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, no one could help him. Your mother broke under the pain of losing her own child and you listened to her cries every and each night for months before you decided that you needed to help her. She didn’t want to let you even try, afraid it might take too much of you to help her, but you insisted and she eventually gave in. You altered her memories and feelings about your brother’s death, only left her with the ones that bring her joy and happiness, but your gesture demanded a price you weren’t ready to pay.

Upon your own grief for your brother, you had to bear your mother’s as well, the pain of two people clutching your heart and mind in return for your mother’s happiness. You never told her how you cried yourself to sleep every night for an entire year, how you could barely control your dark flashbacks and the constant darkness that was pulling you down. No one knew what you had to go through just to see your mother smile again and you made sure it stayed that way. However, you didn’t dare to do it again, not entirely sure if you could handle the pain one more time.

You surprised yourself when you offered your help to Bucky. You don’t even know him, yet you are willing to take his pain and make it yours just so he can live a somewhat normal life. Though his memories and nightmares won’t torture you as long as they would have did with him, you’ll still have to fight his demons and he won’t even know it. Then why are you doing this?

You have no answer to that. Seeing him for the first time you just had a feeling that you have to do it, that he is worthy of it all and that you want to be the person to free him.

The glass door opens behind you as you’re watching the Sun disappear on the horizon and you’re surprised to see Bucky walk out to the terrace, stopping in his tracks once he notices you sitting on one of the wooden chairs.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be here,” he mumbles, his gaze snapping down at the floor.

“That’s what I thought too,” you chuckle.

“I’ll leave you—“ he starts, ready to leave, but you stop him.

“You don’t have to. Feel free to join,” you tell him, gesturing towards the other chair. His hesitation is clear at first, but then he closes the door behind him and sits beside you.

Bucky watches the sunset in awe, but he can’t shake his curiosity towards you, having to control himself not to stare at you as he tries to figure you out. You’re not the only one who doesn’t understand why you’re doing this major gesture for him, he’s spent the afternoon trying to find any alternative motives that might explain your willingness to help him. He couldn’t find any and it left him with even more puzzles in his tortured head.

“What is it like on your planet?” he finds himself asking, breaking the long silence between the two of you.

“It’s not too different than here,” you admit truthfully. “Though our technology is a little more advanced,” you add with a soft chuckle. “In a way I’m happy I ended up here, because Wakanda reminds me of my home.”

“You miss it, don’t you? Your home?”

“Who doesn’t?” you ask with a soft smile and Bucky nods. He misses his home too, but in his case, it’s not a place but a time, decades ago, when he was his true self instead of the monster Hydra forced him to become.

“I’m sure it’ll be nice to return once the war is over,” he hums to himself and he expects a warm and positive reaction from you, however all he sees is pain and sadness in your eyes. “What is it?”

You hesitate to share it with him, staring back at him you think about keeping your thoughts to yourself, but how could you expect him to let you get into his head if you don’t share your thoughts with him willingly?

“Bucky, I don’t think I’ll ever return to my planet,” you breathe out as your gaze moves back to the scenery in front of you, the burning disk of the sun already hidden behind the hills.

“What do you mean?”

“The ship I came with can’t be fixed and they don’t know that I ended up here. It would take them too long to find me here and that’s if… If my family will be alive by then. I have no idea what’s happening there right now, if the rebels are winning or my father is able to keep things under control. I see very little likelihood of my return.”

Bucky’s heart aches for you, knowing well the pain you feel, he finds it ironic how the both of you are stuck so far away from your homes, seeking shelter at the same place at the same time.

He thinks it’s fate.

“What’s your favorite memory from your home?” he asks and you turn to him with soft and shining eyes. He is expecting you to tell him about it, but instead you decide to show it.

Grabbing his hand that’s closer to you, you bring it up to your face and make him cup the side of your head, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone as you close your eyes and recall the memory, planting into his head as well, taking him back, like the two of you could travel time and space just that easily.

Bucky can barely believe what he is experiencing but he finds himself inside your memory and it all seems so real, as if it was happening in the moment. He is standing in the middle of a meadow filled with luscious, green grass and some kind of flowers, whites and purples and yellows dancing in the soft breeze. At first he thinks he is alone, he doesn’t see you anywhere around him and then he spots a woman in a long, light pink dress, her hair waving behind her in the gentle summer breeze and then he spots a little girl running behind her.

Bucky walks closer to the woman, but she doesn’t acknowledge his presence, she doesn’t even look his way and when he reaches out to touch her arm, his hand goes right through her figure, as if she was just a ghost.

The little girl finally catches up with the woman, a handful of flowers in her hands and when looks up Bucky realizes that it’s you as a child. Your main features can still be found behind the round cheeks and pouty lips.

“Mom! I picked these for you!” your younger self beams, holding the little bouquet of flowers up to your mother, who takes it with a bright smile.

“So beautiful, my love!” she hums, sniffing the flowers as you giggle at her. “But why don’t we use them for something?”

“For what?” you ask with a curious look and Bucky can’t help the smile on his face. It’s such a pure and joyful memory, he almost wishes it was his.

Your mother sits down in the grass, her skirt fanning over her in a circle as she pulls you down to her lap with your back facing her before she combs her fingers gently through your hair and starts braiding it, sticking the little flowers into the braid as she moves down. You start singing some kind of song, one Bucky doesn’t know, and your mother smiles brightly at your chiming voice. She braids with so much care and precision, at the end it looks perfect and very much princess-like with the flowers littering around.

“There. Now you are a bouquet of flowers yourself, my love” she smiles at you, kissing your cheek before letting you out of her arms, watching you dance around in your dress, singing to yourself without a care in the world.

Bucky wants to stay there, more than anything and see more of your younger version and your mother, but he is abruptly pulled back into reality when you pull his hand back from your face and the connection stops. His eyes snap open and they find yours, so enamored and in awe of what he just experienced, he feels like he was let in on a secret no one else knows in the world.

“Wow. That was… amazing,” he breathes out as his hand drops back to his lap while you just smile back at him shyly. “Is that… Is that what it’s gonna be like when you…?”

“Not quite,” you shake your head. “You won’t feel anything, you’ll just have to think back to all the memories you want to be changed or wiped. I’ll be the one stuck in your memories like you were in mine. And from inside, I’ll be able to change them.”

“Will I know later which ones were altered or they won’t be different at all?”

“There’ll be… a kind of shine to them when you’ll think of them after that. It’s gonna be the only tell that they were touched by me. But I won’t change anything you don’t give your consent to.”

Bucky nods, having answered his biggest concerns about tomorrow. Now he feels like he trusts you completely and you’ll be the first person he can open his mind up to without a worry.

No matter how much you tried to get yourself ready for what you’d see in Bucky’s head, nothing could have prepared to the pain and darkness he had to endure during his oddly long human life. All the torture, the blood, the hurt and fear of death, it all comes down crashing on you even after the first session you have with him.

It breaks your heart that such a sweet soul had to go through Hell innocently and now he has to live with everything he was forced to do against his will. You can only hope that the people who did this to him have gotten their rightful punishment.

The first time the two of you sit down to start his treatment you get stuck in his head for hours, going through memories and altering them to take away anything that is connected to the trigger words. You witness the time he was captured and the first time he was sat into the chair that broke him. You can’t help the tears rolling down your face as you use all your power to change the memory and leave him with just a faded picture of his cell and held captive. Bucky asked you not to wipe them entirely, leave him with reminders of what made you be the way he is today and that’s exactly what you do.

When you finally come back you almost faint from exhaustion, Shuri catches you right in time before you could fall off the chair in front of Bucky’s who is equally dizzy, but he still manages to reach out and grab your hand to help you steady yourself. You feel drained and almost tortured, Bucky’s memories imprinting into your own head and you already know they will haunt you for quite some time. Not as long as your mother’s grief did, you were just a child back then and you couldn’t control your power that well, but even though you’ve learned to use your abilities, it will still take a couple of months for you to get rid of the horrors you saw in Bucky’s head.

Bucky sees how broken you look after just the first session and he doesn’t want to believe you’ll be strong enough to finish what you started.

“It’s fine,” you assure him when he asks you again in the evening if you surely want to continue. “I just have to rest and we can go on,” you tell him, giving his arm a squeeze before returning to your room.

That night, you wake from a burning nightmare with a scream, gripping onto the sheets with terror running through your veins. In your dream, you were the one strapped to that chair, going through all the pain Bucky had to bear decades ago. It was vivid and torturous and you know it’s going to return.

But you’re determined to finish the work and you do it over and over again, every day for the next couple of weeks. You go through all of Bucky’s darkest memories, altering and changing them until there’s nothing left from the Winter Soldier in him, just some faint and blurry pictures of him being held by his captors. You take all the pain and let it sink its claws into your own head, clouding your mind with darkness.

Bucky can feel the change in himself instantly after the first time you get into his head and a few days later he sleeps through the night for the first time in forever, oblivious to the fact that not far away from his room, you are fighting his demons every night so he can have his peace.

He is always the one to help you back into your room after an exhausting session and he wakes you up with breakfast in the mornings, always making your favorite. You tell him it’s not necessary, but he insists that this is the least he can do for everything you are doing for him, and he doesn’t even know the worst things you endure for his happiness.

He is always the one to request days off from the treatment, not for himself, but for you. He sees how trying it is and though you would never ask for time off, you don’t have to, because Bucky does it for you. Every third or fourth day he tells you he needs some time to heal and get used to his new mindset, but he just wants you to rest and recharge and though you know it too, you appreciate the gesture.

Some days he asks you to join him for walks just to get you out of the palace and you gladly say yes, desperately needing something to bring the light back into your life and it doesn’t take long to realize that Bucky is that light that can ease the heaviness of the pain you are fighting.

You love seeing his smile as the first thing in the morning, you love how he squeezes your hands every time before you dive into his head and how insists to carrying you to your room even when you’re perfectly capable of walking on your own. You love how chivalrous he is always, something Shuri told you was more common in the times he was born and you adore it that it’s a piece of his past self still present after everything he’s been through.

Bucky is the only one who can pull you out of the dark hole you’ve been stuck in and you promised yourself that you’ll never tell him the price you had to pay for his happiness, because he deserves every ounce of it and you wouldn’t want anything to cloud over it, not even your misery.

It takes five entire weeks to go through everything that turned him into the Winter Soldier and then the day to test if it has worked finally comes. Shuri has made sure to have a capsule ready for the test, one that would keep him under control in case you didn’t succeed and he would be triggered by the words he already knows too well.

“Are you sure I won’t hurt anyone?” Bucky asked cautiously as he was strapped into the capsule, a good majority of the Dora Milaje guarding the lab as well in case the test goes wrong, but both you and Shuri are optimistic about it.

“Calm down, Sergeant. We can handle you,” Shuri jokes before finishing up. “Alright, I’m gonna close this now, but you’ll be able to hear us and we’ll hear you as well,” she informs him and he just nods as she closes the capsule, securing him inside.

You sit on the side, but still close enough to see his face in the capsule. His icy blue stare finds yours and you give him a soft, encouraging smile. You do believe he won’t be triggered and not just because of what you did, but because he has a strong will and if there’s still any part of the Winter Soldier in him, he’ll be able to come over it.

“Okay, ready for the words?” Shuri asks him and breathing out he nods, closing his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Желание,” comes the first word through a speaker and you hold your breath as you stare at his face through the capsule.

“Ржавый. Семнадцать,” the words carry on and you see him squeeze his eyes a little, fear taking over you that he might break, but it never happens. “Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный…”

The trigger words ends and your lips part when his eyes open, noticing the tears in them as he finally realizes that he didn’t turn. The Winter Soldier is finally gone.

“Congratulations, Sergeant. You’re free,” Shuri announces as she opens the capsule and lets him out, sobs shaking from his chest before he is freed from the straps and able to step out of the capsule.

He is quick to rush over to you and wrap you in his embrace, both of you sobbing and crying and you hold onto him tight, as if he was just a memory that could vanish any moment, but he is there, flesh and metal, the Bucky you know and adore so much.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he keeps repeating as his vibranium fingers tangle into your hair at the back of your head.

It’s been over a week of freedom for Bucky and he hasn’t felt better in his life, well, not in this decade. Without the sessions, he now has quite some free time on his hands that he prefers to spend with you, actually.

The two of you have been joined at the hips since his recovery and not just because Bucky feels like he owes his life to you, but because you both can’t help falling for the other in the light of your newly found friendship that’s starting to slowly turn into more.

Bucky hasn’t been shy about showing his adoration and gratitude towards you, not after you’ve seen the darkest side of him and could still look at him the same way. He feels like he has bared his entire soul to you and you accepted it gladly, so there’s no need to beat around the bushes.

However you’ve been still trying to keep him away from the secret you’re hiding. He can’t find out about the nightmares, the screams and the tears you shed every night when his demons come for you. You can’t let him get close enough to see the price you paid for his own happiness. But even with all the cautions you’ve been keeping, you still can’t stop fate from finding its way.

One night Bucky is staying up late, binge watching a series Shuri has recommended for him. He didn’t intend to stay up so late, but before he could realize how fast the time has passed, it was already past two in the morning.

Shutting the laptop down he decides to get himself some water before finally going to sleep. Padding his way down the dark and quiet hallways in only a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, he unintentionally takes the route that goes past your room. He didn’t plan on dropping by, knowing you’re probably asleep by now, just wanted to feel that sense of closeness even in the middle of the night, but his original plans immediately change when he hears your deafening scream coming from the other side of the door.

His blood freezes in his veins and he is quick to turn into combat mode, ready to fight whatever is threatening your life, but as he pushes his way into your room he doesn’t find any intruder, it’s just you, curled up on your bed and even under the thick layer of covers, he can see how badly you’re shaking, your beautiful face churned into a painful frown as you keep your eyes shut.

He immediately realizes that you’re having a nightmare.

He rushes over to the bed and sits to the edge, the mattress dipping underneath his weight as he carefully places a hand to your trembling shoulder.

“Y/N! Y/N, wake up!” he softly shakes you, trying to get you back to consciousness, but you keep tossing and whimpering, a thin layer of sweat covering your skin.

“No, no, please! I’m not the Winter Soldier!” you cry out and Bucky freezes, his jaw clenching at your words, an eerie feeling running down his spine.

“Y/N, it’s just a dream, wake up!” he tries again and your eyes finally shoot open.

Though you’ve woken up, you don’t instantly see what’s really happening around you and you are quick to flinch away from Bucky, pushing yourself to the far end of the bed as you stare back at him with fearful, wide eyes.

“It’s just me. It’s alright, it’s me, Bucky,” he softly reminds you holding his hands up so you can see them. Your chest is heaving and your hands are gripping the sheets so tight, your knuckles are turning white.

“Bucky,” you breathe out and he nods.

“Yeah, it’s me. You had a bad dream, I heard you scream.”

Letting out a shaky breath you close your eyes and try to shake the vivid images that haunted you tonight out of your head, with not much success. Tonight you were beaten up in a cold and dark cell, the man kept telling you that you’re just a monster, a soulless nobody as he kept hitting you before he reached for a weapon that sent electricity through your body until it was too numb to move at your will.

You know it was one of his memories, because you’ve seen this scene before in his head and you remembered it clearly. Only that last time you saw it happen to him and now you were the victim.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, loosening your muscles as you gain your contact back with reality.

“What was the nightmare about?” he quietly asks and your gaze snaps up to meet his. You can’t read his icy blue eyes and for a moment you think about touching him so you could hear his thoughts, but you promised yourself you would never use your powers on him.

“Just… some nonsense stuff,” you lie shaking your head.

“Didn’t sound like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you beg to someone, telling them that you’re not the Winter Soldier.”

His face hardens as he inspects you while you try your best to hide anything that would tell him more about what you’ve been keeping from him.

“I don’t… I don’t remember it,” you shrug, scooting closer to him as you fix your pillows.

“Y/N, I don’t need superpowers to know that you’re lying,” he retorts and you almost flinch at his words. “Are you having nightmares because of what you saw… in my head?”

For a split second you think about lying. You think about telling him that it’s just because of what you saw and not tell him the real reason of your nightmares, but guilt has been already eating you away for not telling him and you wouldn’t be able to lie straight into his face. So you shake your head and your eyes meet his icy gaze again.

“I’m having… your nightmares.”

He looks confused, eyebrows knitted together as he is tasting your words, not entirely sure about what you meant by them, so you go into the details you’ve been keeping hidden from him.

“I can’t just take memories away and turn them into nothing, Bucky. Memories can only vanish if they get forgotten with time,” you start explaining, hoping you can paint the picture as realistic as possible. “When I changed your memories, I took parts away and… made them mine. And now I have to be the one to fight and forget them, but it happens faster for me than it would have happened to you,” you quickly add, as if it could make it any better.

“Why didn’t you tell me this is the cost of my recovery?” he snaps, clearly mad at you and he has every right, but you just wanted to save him. “I would have never let you do it if it meant you’d be the one to suffer for me, Y/N!”

“I had the chance to help you, I wanted to give you the freedom you deserve!” Tears are stinging your eyes as you stare at his harsh expression, the soft and joyful Bucky you’ve seen these past weeks is now gone.

“But it’s not worth it if you are being tortured by my memories now!”

“It was worth to me!” you snap back, a tear rolling down you cheek. “I might have been selfish for keeping you the details of what it would take to free you, but now you are the one who is being selfish, because you wouldn’t have let me help you if you knew and that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you! I chose to do it and I knew what I was getting myself into and I knew what it’s gonna cost.” More and more tears run down your heated cheeks, soaking your skin before they drop to your shirt or the sheets covering your lower half. Bucky stares back at you in disbelief as you reason about why you did it exactly. “You deserved this second chance and I was your only chance. If I didn’t do it for you, I would have had to live with the guilt forever that I let an innocent man suffer. It’s a small price for the happiness I was able to give you.”

Bucky is in total shock. He has had Steve do selfless shit for him plenty of times, hell, he wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him, but what you did is just above everything that’s been ever done for him and he is having a hard time accepting that anyone would put up with so much pain and suffering for him willingly. He can’t decide if he wants to scream and shout at you for being so stupid or if he wants to fall to his knees and glorify your name till the end of times.

When you realize that he won’t snap at you again, you carefully scoot closer until you can reach out and touch his face, but you don’t even try to read his thoughts. Not this time. You let his thoughts wrapped in the darkness of the unknown. Bucky melts against your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a few moments.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Y/N.”

“But I did,” you breathe out with a bitter chuckle. ��And it can’t be undone, so you better accept it.”

He cracks a tiny smile, but it quickly vanishes as a thought pops into his head.

“If you have the memories that made me into the Winter Soldier, how come you don’t get triggered by the words?”

“I might own your memories now, but there’s a natural bond with the original owner that can’t be taken. It’s what makes them so vivid and real for you, but it will never be as real to me. The trigger words have no power over me, because the memories are not mine, I don’t have the bond with them.”

“But you still have the nightmares. My nightmares,” he breathes out, a hint of disappointment ringing through his tone, though you’re not sure if it’s because of what you did or because he couldn’t stop you from it.

“They will go away,” you assure him, but you can tell that his guilt is eating him away. “Bucky, I’ll be fine. A few weeks, at max a month and they will be gone. I promise you.”

“You don’t deserve this,” he mumbles under his breath as his hand reaches for yours, squeezing it gently before he brings it to his lips and kisses your knuckles softly. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

“But you deserve happiness,” you reply with a chaste smile that makes his heart flutter in his chest. “Let me give it to you. You’ve had enough pain, Bucky. I’ll take the rest now.”

Bucky stares back at you for a long second before he decides to do whatever he can to make sure you get through it as easily as possible. Pulling the covers back he slides under them, lying down next to you as he pulls you into his embrace.

“Go back to sleep and if you’ll have another nightmare, I’ll be here to wake you up from it and get your mind off of it. You’re safe with me,” he murmurs, as you lay your head to his hard chest, his flesh arm curling around your frame while his vibranium fingers lace together with yours on his stomach. You don’t try to protest against him, you know he won’t leave and quite frankly, you don’t want him to. Knowing that if you go back to the darkness again he’ll be here to pull you out relaxes you, doesn’t let you worry about what kind of horrific scene you are going to be forced to see when you close your eyes next. You melt against him, inhaling his scent, listening to his steady heartbeat under your head as you let yourself go back to sleep, for the first time, ready to face whatever is waiting for you on the other side.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed it!

[redrobin-detective]

Delayed Mourning

Going Angst Day 5: Death

_________________________________________

It was 3pm when there was a knock on Maddie Fenton’s door. She huffed and set down the meal she’d been working on. Of course the one day she had time to pre-plan a nice meal from her family was the day she’d get interrupted. 

“Yes? May I help you?” Maddie asked, opening the door. She had expected a salesman. Possibly even a neighbor coming to complain, again, about the noise or the smells that came from Fentonworks. Instead she found a small woman who couldn’t have been much taller than 5 ft with dark brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was wearing a sharp white shirt and suit jacket with a matching white skirt.

“Mrs. Fenton, hello,” the woman gave a polite little head nod. “I’m from the the Government Institute of Interdimensional Warfare though I hear the locals like to call us the Guys in White.” She said with a knowing smiling, “of course, as you know, it’s not only the guys who are interested in ghosts. May I come in?”

“Oh yes, hello,” Maddie blinked, opening the door to let the agent in. The petite woman stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Her small frame, her oversized glasses and soft nature seemed so at odds with the meatheads Maddie usually found in the GIW. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” the agent demurred. “It’s more there was something I wanted to inform you of. If you’re not too busy, may we sit down and talk? Your husband and children are not home.” Maddie thought that last statement was a bit odd, framed as a statement of fact rather than an inquiry but moved on. 

“Yes, Jack’s out of town visiting a relative and my kids won’t be back for a little while,” Maddie said. “Let me just finish putting this roast together, I’m almost done. Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” The woman said quietly. “And please, continue while you’re doing. Let me give you a little bit of background.” The agent adjusted her large glasses with her tiny hands. “Let me introduce myself, you may call me Agent S. I work primarily out of Washington for the Institute but sometimes I am deployed on site for... special cases. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, your town is very special.”

“Now, as you may have noticed, I am not particularly built like the normal Institute agents you have probably come across. That is because I do not work in the field but behind the scene in Investigations. My job is study the history and happenings of hauntings and spectral entities.”

“Oh that sounds fascinating,” Maddie beamed as she finished with her final preps and put the roast in the over. She looked over her shoulder at Agent S while she washed her hands. “Jack and I dabble a bit in history and folklore but we’re more versed in the hard sciences of ghosts.”

“Yes, I’ve read some of your papers, you and your husband truly are the frontrunners in the field,” Agent S nodded. Maddie preened at the praise and sat down, delighted to have a sophisticated conversation with someone in her field who she wasn’t married to. If more of those GIW agents were like Agent S then Maddie would get along a lot better with them. “So, Maddie, may I call you Maddie? What date and time did your portal start working?”

“It was August 28th,” Maddie said proudly. “It didn’t work at first when we first plugged it in. I’m afraid I don’t have an exact time it started up as we weren’t here. Jack was convinced one of the electrical conduction pieces wasn’t fully connected and was preventing ectoplasmic distribution. We ended up driving 4 hours to Springfield and back for some specialty parts only to find the portal working when we returned.”

“I can help you there,” Agent S said with a soft smile reaching into her white briefcase and pulling out several thick folders. She laid them out gently on the table and Maddie was unnerved by some of the information: schematics of Fentonworks, past and present financial records, transcripts of public statements. Her shoulders tensed when she saw Jazz and Danny’s names on some of the files. “Toll camera captured your vehicle on the Jane Addams Memorial Tollway at exactly 1:26pm on August 28th. We can confirm you and your husband’s vehicle traveled to Springfield and back via video feeds and credit card statements at 10:45pm that same day and were therefore out of the city all day.”

Maddie suddenly felt very trapped by the woman’s sharp grey eyes as she plucked a piece of paper and pressed it towards Maddie. 

“At 3:18pm, the majority of the residential power in town went out for a period of 2 and a half hours. The cause was determined to be from a massive power surge that blew out the transformer. You may recall being blamed for this outage given your history with previous outages but the news that you were out of town settled that argument. However, I was not convinced.” She pulled out another piece of paper and Maddie bristled to see it was a Casper High attendance sheet.

“Your daughter, Jasmine was at her final summer cram session which ran from 2pm until 5pm. I spoke to her tutors and she never left the whole time and, in fact, stayed late to help a fellow student work through her study materials. But what about your son?” Agent S asked with with a curious smile but her eyes belied the fact that she had her own answers. 

“How dare you spy on my family, on my children,” Maddie hissed, crumpling one of the papers in her fist. “Get out of my house, I will sue the pants off of your organization for this invasion of privacy! Get out!”

“Now Maddie, don’t you want to know how your son started up your Portal?” Agent S asked coyly, that drew Maddie up short. Danny? No, he couldn’t have possibly. He had no interest in their work, in fact, now that she thought about it, Danny had been sick that day. Agent S pulled out a set of blueprints for the Fenton Portal. Some small component inside the Portal was circled.

“You left at approximately 1pm and your daughter presumably left not long after. Phone records indicate Daniel called both Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson. Your neighbor, Mrs. Benson, saw them coming into your house not long after but before the 3pm power outage which I was able to triangulate did in fact originate from your home.” Agent S tapped the circled part of the inner portal mechanisms. “Now did you happen to push the on button in the Portal before plugging it in?”

“On button?” Maddie asked with a dry mouth, overwhelmed by the amount of information being thrown her way. All she could think about was how Danny hadn’t seemed sick when they’d left that afternoon but had looked awful when they returned. Would he have really gone downstairs and messed with the Portal? Had he gotten hurt? Been contaminated down there? Images of Vlad’s sickly visage after his accident flowed through her head. She should have paid more attention but she’d been so excited about the Portal working...

“It’s right here in the blueprints you submitted to the patent office, buried under dozens of other hardware bits. Its small, such a little thing compared to all the moving parts required to open up a dimensional portal. Daniel was a bright boy, his middle school records prove it. A bright mind, friends to impress, no parents around to chastise him... I think you can see where I’m going with this.”

“No, no,” Maddie said, burying her hands in her hair. “No, I’m not. You’re saying -what? - that my teenage son turned on the Portal when we were gone? No, my Danny wouldn’t lie to me about that... Why wouldn’t he say anything?”

“I don’t blame him for not mentioned in because, if my hunch is correct, he was inside the Portal when it turned on, killing him instantly,” Agent S said with a carefully neutral face. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m afraid this haunting has gone on long enough.”

“My child is alive!” Maddie screeched, standing up in her chair. “Danny is alive and healthy and he is not a ghost!”

“I will admit the evidence of how he died is circumstantial but the fact that Danny Fenton is deceased is not.” Maddie fell back into her chair as he legs gave out underneath her. 

She watched the agent put paper after paper in front of her and detailed all sorts of data about her son that Maddie, who lived in the same house as him, had missed. Unusually high ectosignatures picked up by GIW (and their own) detectors, Danny being spotted in some form before most ghost attacks, faked signatures of hers getting him out of nurses’ visits. Maddie barely felt alive herself as she stared at a red light camera photo of her baby sitting atop a light post late, late at night. His eyes were a toxic green color.

“I know this must be distressing as a mother but your child never left that basement, never attended high school and will never achieve his dream of working for NASA.” Agent S said with carefully measured sympathy as she gathered up her papers and put them back in her case. “But you are a brilliant scientist, unlike your husband, you should be able to look past your emotions and see that your child is gone and the ghost he left behind is dangerous.”

“My husband?” Maddie asked blankly, running a finger down Danny’s unnatural photograph.

“I approached Jack two days ago, mistakenly believing he would be the most understanding of you both. He refused to believe the evidence and was, in fact, going to warn your son’s ghost that we planned on taking him. He is safe but he presently being held at one of our facilities until the capture is complete.” Maddie should feel outraged at her husband’s kidnapping but all she could think about was the fact that her son was dead, dead, dead, killed by her own invention over a year ago and she never noticed. How could she not have noticed?

“Daniel’s ghost is extraordinary, not only able to pass as human so accurately for so long but immensely powerful. We need to make sure he doesn’t harm anyone else. Think of his friends who are probably being forced to aid him and keep his death quiet. Think of your husband, your daughter, living in the same house as a dangerous ghost.” Agent S dropped some of her professionalism and plucked the photo of Danny out of Maddie’s hands and replaced it with her own tiny hand. 

“I know this is impossible thing to ask but I must do it anyway, will you help me capture what remains of Danny? There is a chance with his charade exposed, he will be able to move on and so will you. You have been wronged, Maddie. You have been denied the right to process and grieve your child by his own ghost. But a delayed mourning is better than none. Danny’s death is a tragedy but please don’t let it become someone else’s.”

“Maybe he’s not-” Maddie’s breath hitched, “he’s never shown any signs of aggression. Jasmine spoke of benevolent spirits... maybe-” Agent S sighed roughly and retracted her hand to grab another photo from her case. Maddie was surprised when she held up a picture of Phantom. 

“Ignore the glow,” Agent S instructed. “Change his white hair to black, his green eyes to blue. Think of how often Phantom is spotted in your neighborhood, around Casper High. Remember how he always has his hands on your technology,” the agent frowned. “Think of how he grins when he sees you, like he knows something you don’t. Like it all just a big joke you’re not a part of.” Maddie felt like she’d been slapped.

“Your son is dead,” Agent S said more forcefully, throwing the picture of Phantom next to the spooky one of Danny. “And his ghost has taken his place, taunting you, stealing energy from your family, from the portal that killed him. Phantom’s power is increasing too rapidly and soon we won’t be able to contain him. It’s why I was brought in to identify his haunt so that he could be stopped before anyone else died.”

“I will state this plainly, I am giving you the chance to participate in putting your child to rest but you are not required for this operation. If you refuse, you will be confined with your husband until Phantom is taken down. Do not let this monster with your son’s face trick you any more. So I ask again, Maddie Fenton, will you help us stop Phantom from making a mockery of your son’s memory?”

XxX

“Mom! Jazz! I’m home!” Danny announced, kicking off his shoes and grabbing a paper out of his backpack as he walked into the kitchen with a grin. “And I have a present! Jazz’s tutoring paid off, look at this A I got on my history test! Well A- but a solid A-!” 

“Oh... that’s great,” Mom muttered quietly. She was sitting at the kitchen table, not cooking or tinkering with some gadget. Just sitting there quietly, twiddling her thumbs and not looking at him.

“Is everyone okay?” Danny asked, dropping his bag on the floor and walking over to his mother. “I saw Jazz at school but is Dad okay?”

“No, everything is not okay,” she said turning and looking at him with tear-filled eyes. “Someone died, someone I love dearly and I’m not ready to let them go,” she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “But they've been gone for a long time, even if I’m just hearing about it now. I’m upset but it’s better to know and be grieve than to go on in ignorance, living a lie.”

Danny was about to ask who had died when something was jammed into his neck and he was shocked within an inch of his half life. His body spasmed to escape but his mother was gripping his arm to hold him in place. He transformed unconsciously but that only made it worse. He fell to the floor, ectoplasm leaking off his form as he could barely hold himself together.

“Mom,” he croaked, reaching for her despite everything. She stomped on his hand which was practically goo from such a vicious, destabilizing ectoplasmic shock.

“Don’t you ever call me that,” she hissed through angry tears. “I didn’t want to believe it but the proof is right in front of me you horrible, selfish ghost.” She kicked him in the side and half of him ended up on her boot. “How dare you, how dare you impersonate my son! How dare you string me along all this time, make me look like a fool who had to told that her own child was dead! I bet you just laughed and laughed at our stupid, human ignorance of what your were!”

“‘lease,” he begged through the ectoplasm in his mouth. “I’m still your....”

“My son is dead and he has been for a while,” Mom said, throwing the ecto-taser away from her. Danny vaguely heard the door being kicked in and in his rapidly diminishing vision, he saw black boots and white suits. “With you gone, I can finally come to terms with it and not be tormented by an inadequate replacement.” She turned her back to him. “Get that filth out of my house, I never want to see it again.”

“Of course,” a quiet feminine voice said as his goopy arms were restrained with ghost proof cuffs. “I know this is hard, Maddie but you made the right choice for your family and Danny’s memory. Jack will returned to you within the hour. I spoke to my superiors, for your cooperation, the Institute will take care of declaring Danny dead as well as covering costs for your boy to be laid to rest, the first step in moving on.”

“No, the first step will be removing that duplicitous monster from my home. It’s stolen enough of my baby’s life. Now please leave, I have - I have a funeral to plan.”

[sorcererrezan]

unconvinced

congratulations on outdoing yourself yet AGAIN with chapter 7 @ataleofcrowns 💛 you are truly on another level queen 😌✨

prompt: “Then tell me, how can I convince you?” (list here) pairing: X/crown rating: spicy T 😏 word count: 1,929 summary: ‘It would be so easy to make him kneel for you, the way he clearly wants to—’ 

Crown Navid shows Xelef that two can play his game.

—

Liar. 

It’s what the earth spirits had said, but now, ensconced in his palace, where he has invited in those who are merely curious about him at best and possibly strategizing his murder at worst, Navid hears it in his own voice.

The control he has maintained since Ishrah and Siham opened his doors this morning squeezes around his chest. It pinches and he can feel his heart bursting out of the gaps of its hold, turning into spikes.

Navid’s eyes thin into slits of piercing gold. His tone, now devoid of its casual charm, is flat. Unamused. “I’m not convinced.”

Xelef, just as persistent, gauges him. Navid can pinpoint the exact moment the sellsword decides on his next tactic, green eyes shifting hues like a turning emerald.

“Then tell me, how can I convince you?” 

Just as much as Xelef is surely leaning on his sensory abilities, Navid’s awareness of the situation rises. Above his disrespected aggravation and Xelef’s agile contortions he can see the conflict between his own present and Xelef’s past. In the back of his mind he notes a sense of affronted duplicity—isn’t this the same man that warned him against self-destructive paralysis, the one that saw through his worries leading up to today and offered reassuring distraction?

Why can’t Xelef use that insight to understand the position he’s put a newly coronated Crown in, instead of to devise an escape from the consequences of his impulses?

Xelef steps close, as skilled at wielding a weapon as he is his own body. Navid’s thick brows furrow at himself, at the way his reaction betrays him, heart rabbiting in response to the enticingly deep fragrance clouding the mercenary, the ridges and valleys of his form set in such a tantalizing display. Navid can feel the heat from Xelef’s bare chest even through the rich fabric of his ceremonial robes and the magic imbued in them. Xelef’s hand on his shoulder is a reminder of his size and strength, of his willful potential to overpower.  

“Shall I beg you again, on my knees this time?” 

Every single thing about him is a distraction.

If Xelef wanted to keep up their easy flirtation from this morning, he shouldn’t have soured it by testing the limits of Navid’s control. But now that he has…

An open palm finds the heated skin of Xelef’s abdomen, gliding across hard muscles; callouses catching on the random, puckered skin of his scars. Navid can hear Xelef’s rushed inhale before it turns into a low chuckle. He lets his lips brush against the goosebumps on Xelef’s neck before he murmurs, breath hot on his ear, “Kneel, mercenary.”

The last word is a sharp hiss, accompanied by the bite of his blunt nails on Xelef’s bare skin. The muscles underneath his touch jump as Navid pulls him down, fingertips gliding up his torso along the way. Xelef would look almost reverent, on his knees before him like this, if it weren’t for the devious gleam of getting what he wanted in his eyes.

Navid’s lips twist into something wicked.

“Beg for my forgiveness,” he repeats, voice husky, one hand cradling Xelef’s jaw in a commanding grip. Navid feels powerful. Different from the ways before when he has bent Xelef to his will because this time, there’s no perceptive audience. 

Distraction or not, this is all for him.

Xelef bites his bottom lip and Navid eyes the plumpness of it, gaze sharpening in vindication as the man in front of him lets out a shaky, almost whining, exhale. 

“Please forgive me, Navid,” dark eyelashes flutter in a practiced way that Navid is nonetheless susceptible to. The use of his given name throws him off guard, widening his stare. Another distraction, or an attempt at sincerity? Only the Void knows for sure.

Navid nods, letting some of his cool charm return in an inviting smile. The hand on Xelef’s jaw slides to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through the smooth locks of his hair. “You look good like this, Xelef.”

“So do you,” he eyes Navid hungrily, not even hiding the lascivious way his stare roves from right below his waistline, up the slim taper of his waist, the flare of his shoulders, then lingers on his lips before making eye contact and meeting fire with fire. 

Navid’s smile shifts into a smirk and he tightens his hand into a domineering fist, pulling Xelef’s hair, holding him in precarious place as he leans over him. He makes a show of sliding his eyes from Xelef’s to his mouth as he bends closer then closer still, until the mercenary’s long lashes flutter closed in anticipation.

Their lips are separated only by their breath when Navid tugs—not gently—and Xelef lets out a choked half of a groan.

“Don’t ever deign to undermine me like that again. Especially not amongst these vultures,” Navid spits the last word out, voice testy and dangerous in a way Xelef has never heard before. He conceals his unspoken ‘I need you on my side.’ in another jarring pull of his hair, forcing Xelef to bare his throat to him. “Do you understand, Pale Sword?”

From his vantage point he can see Xelef’s desperate swallow, can hear the submission in his shaky exhale of a response. “Yes… my Crown.”

“Good.”

Navid breaks away like a glacier’s cliff dropping into the sea. For half a second Xelef crumples, not expecting the loss of support so immediately, before his muscles clench and he regains his balance. Spirits help him, but he is not immune to the way Xelef’s abdominals, framed by the rich textures of his formalwear, dance under his tanned, hairy skin.

Navid keeps a calculated, cunning look on his face as Xelef rises on his own, eyeing him in equal parts defeated respect and surprised annoyance. 

“I suppose I deserved that,” comes the begrudging admission. Finally, Xelef’s sincerity outweighs Navid’s doubts.

“Don’t mistake my reciprocation of your attention for naïveté,” Navid pins him with a knowing stare, a reminder that as much as Xelef can see through him, he can see the same. And to let him know that, even still, he wants to continue cultivating this “whatever you want it to be” that’s growing between them. Navid doesn’t know what Xelef’s romantic past looks like—and doesn’t much care—but if Xelef wants to keep courting his favor, he needs to know that there are harsh lines that Navid will not allow him to cross. 

“I’m sick of people hiding things I should know from me.”

The last part comes out more resentful than Navid intends, tinged with his turbulent reflections about his parents’ debilitating omissions and how exhausting it is to think of learning to divine the nobility’s nebulous motives and intentions.  

“You’ve known me for mere days, and you expect me to bare all my secrets to you because I helped you once?” Xelef snaps back, patience run ragged after Navid turned the tables on him. It stings. The fatigue of the day’s emotions slams into Navid all at once, his hurt the delayed catalyst. 

He takes a deep breath, recentering himself. Is his pride worth it? They’ve both made their point. And he doesn’t quite yet know where the line for Xelef is, when taking advantage of their attraction to each other morphs into something destructive. 

He sighs. So many calculations today, mind overstuffed by the endless observations he’s made to try to perceive everyone around him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Navid shrugs, closing himself off from the weight of it all. He never asked for any of this responsibility, still doesn’t understand why the spirits chose him. Did they do it with the person he could’ve been before he spent a decade on the run in mind? Or with the decorated shell of a man he is now, desperately trying to fill his insides after those he trusted to protect and guide him failed? Maybe he really is naive, for dreaming that his problems could be solved simply by finding his sorcerer and finally becoming the Crown.

“You’re right, after all. We’ve only known each other a short time, and we’re not friends. I’m only your employer, right?” If Xelef wants to shield himself with that context, so be it. Navid is just as good at hiding.

“Navid…” Regret paints Xelef’s face an unfamiliar expression. 

“It is what it is. You have your secrets. I have mine.” 

“I didn’t mean—”

“Xelef,” he interrupts tiredly with an open palm. “It’s alright. I understand. Just don’t get me killed.”

Navid forces a smile to soften the jibe, retreating back into performance. Xelef opens his mouth as if to say something, brow bunched as he seems to sway between decisions.

“I’ll just see you—”

“The Mîrs of Rojan and I have a long, bloody history together. I don’t want to speak of Behram, but…” 

Xelef holds Navid’s gaze, still wavering for a beat before choosing his path. Something parts behind his eyes, something that allows both of them to see. How alike they are. How tired. How terrified and cautiously hopeful.

Xelef tells his story about Behram’s predecessor. Navid listens raptly, fully aware that this vulnerability could be fleeting, and hangs onto it. The part of him that doesn’t ache for Xelef as he unravels the tragedy of his childhood is grateful for the distraction from his own maelstrom of trauma and emotions.

“Then why did you help me?” Navid asks, feeling the gulf of his status between him and Xelef more distinctly than ever.

“I… had my own reasons,” he doesn’t meet Navid’s eyes when he answers. Though it’s not the reassurance that he wanted to hear—that he did it for more than just the potential of gold or vengeance—at least it’s the truth.

“In any case, does this sate your curiosity a little bit?” 

Navid recognizes the attempt at lightheartedness as a tool, though just like with his own attempt earlier, it’s outweighed by the ghosts that linger around them both. 

“Is this usually how you leave people sated after kneeling for them?” It’s not quite the same playfulness that’s usually between the two of them, not after what they’ve found out about each other today, but it proves that they can bounce back. Move forward, together.

“No, but today was a special occasion,” Xelef smiles, though it looks dim on his face. It flickers away, making room for the solemnity in his voice. “You should know—I told you that because I wanted to.”

“I do know.”

Navid reaches for Xelef, this time with no ulterior motive, but someone clears their throat before they touch. 

“Yes?” Navid tries not to let exasperation color his tone—the guards don’t deserve his ire. Still, he can’t help but be disappointed at the interruption, especially since this feels like some sort of breakthrough between him and Xelef.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Ah, right. The banquet and its accompanying expectations. Navid sighs, imagining the steam rising from the bath he plans on sinking into after all this. Alone.

“You go on ahead,” Xelef concedes. “I think I need some time to myself.”

“Will I see you later?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” relief flushes out Navid’s discordant emotions, and he holds on to the smile that Xelef sends his way to bolster him for the rest of the night. “You haven’t paid me yet, after all.”

“I’m good for it,” Navid hopes his returning smile, laden with the complications of things said and unsaid but sanguine nonetheless, does the same for Xelef. 

[literate-lamb]

can I kiss you on the dancefloor?

Steve Rogers/Reader

One year into a relationship, yet still dancing in secrecy. Steve thinks he’s protecting you.

When a civilian and a hero fall in love, anything could go wrong. But not in the way Steve would have thought.

Or how the media play with the lives of superheroes.

►word count: 7.6k

► warnings(!): slight angst, alcohol

A/N: My gift to @blue-like-barnes for the Hoelentines Fic Exchange! I’m sorry it took some time, giftee. I didn’t expect this to turn into a monster (yikes). Thank you for hosting @amythedvdhoarder @chrissquares @drabblewithfrannybarnes ! Dividers from @firefly-graphics​ and GIF from Giphy

On his day-offs, Steve Rogers was a man full of disguises. 

When they first started, it was the baseball cap and thick-rimmed glasses. He liked it, it was simple, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone would notice. How could one not when his face was the one plastered in old war propaganda, in the museums commemorating his achievements, and even flashes on the telly when you walk past the local electronics store. 

Hence, it wasn’t a surprise when the tabloids posted a photo of him in his disguise, waiting at a crosswalk on a cold night. 

‘Captain America spotted on a midnight stroll’ came the next morning. It was taken after he was done walking you home, thankful they didn’t catch a glimpse of you.

“So capsicle, where were you off to last night?” Tony greeted him at breakfast, offending paper in hand. He unrolled it, opening and making a show of reading, displaying the front page for all seated to see. “Nice reading glasses, wasn’t aware you needed them.”

Striding into the room, Natasha came and snatched the tabloid. She gave it a critical eye, judging, before turning towards him. 

“Hmm, recycling disguises, Rogers? I’m disappointed.” 

Steve just groaned in reply.

The second time it happened, he had gone to the Black Widow herself for advice. He had expected sound advice coming from a former KGB spy who spent her paycheck on hair, but all he got was a stick-on mustache. Something about ‘needing to blend in rather than pointing the obvious’.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Steve, but at least it’s better than that nerd get-up,” she smirked.

You had liked it. Giggling every time he kissed you, the fibres tickling your lips. He had ‘a caterpillar’ on his upper lip as you called it. And Steve had learned to get used to the itch.

But it wasn’t long before his new look was the star in barbershops. 

‘Captain America’s new look takes the world by storm.’ They had caught him again in another paparazzi shot. Tony had teased him for days after.

He couldn’t shake it off easily, constantly reminded of it when he walked the streets. Seeing them on screens when he’s channel-surfing. Even when he’s training new recruits, his vision filled with a sea of unshaved cadets, their hairy upper lips a prominent fixture.

He knew he had to do something when Bucky and Sam came in one day sporting twin mustaches. 

He discarded the strip of fibre in the bin. Reminding to pay Natasha a visit.

The third time he decided, he seeked out the help of Scott Lang, who was a master in keeping out of sight during his burglary days. Scott had given him a black beanie and told him to grow out his facial hair. 

The beanie hid his golden locks and the beard made him look rugged. You loved it, your thighs quivered when it was him and you in the four walls of your room. Uncontrollable groans as he went down. ‘Beard burn’ you had called it. Whatever it was, he loved the sounds you let out.

Four months. That’s how long the disguise lasted. His longest disguise to date. 

Before he became a trend.

‘Captain America is the new style icon.’ The internet sleuths found out where he got it too. ‘The sale of Walmart beanies skyrocketed by 70% thanks to Captain America.’

Tony had bought everyone in the compound a black beanie for Christmas, including the receptionist.

“Our grandpa’s a trendsetter, who knew,” he announced. Steve had smacked the back of Tony’s head with the beanie before retiring the disguise.

Now, sitting in The Sleeping Cat, Steve had opted for aviators and a Nasa baseball cap. He still kept his beard after your pleads, and he liked the look, he admits. It was back to basics for him and this was one of the only places where he was safe from prying eyes. Afterall, it was in this very café where he had met you.

The Sleeping Cat was a quaint little thing, a hole in the wall in a quiet part of the city. Not many knew of its existence, the entrance obscure, a blink and you’ll miss it. Which made it all the more perfect for him. The baristas knew him and minded their own business, offering him a smile every time he visited. ‘You’re safe with us’ they seem to say. 

He could say the same about the patrons. Most that frequented were regulars like him, they seemed the same, looking for a place to get away from the overbearing world. They seemed to share an understanding, paying him no mind as if he was just another man they passed on the streets. And that’s how he preferred it. 

Just a boy from Brooklyn.

Ding!

The chime of the door pulled him out of his thoughts. Facing the door, he saw you, smiling as you came through.

This was the best part of his days. 

You had met Steve Rogers at the most unexpected of times.

Terminated from your previous job at a small gallery, dumped by an ex-boyfriend after a 2 year relationship, you were at an utmost low. To escape your roommates —in case of pitying or prying, but if you were honest with yourself, it was to escape your own humiliation— you left the apartment on weekdays under the guise of going to work. In reality, you were at The Sleeping Cat applying for jobs on your laptop.

It was during one of the afternoon hours when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

Turning to your left, you were greeted by a pair of startling blues. They were bright but worn as if they’ve seen too many. Looking at the bigger picture, you took him in. Hair hidden under a cap, a sharp jaw and an equally sharp nose, and if you looked closely, you thought you could spot a few moles on his cheeks. He looked familiar, but you couldn’t put a finger to it.

Eyes fleeting to his lips, you realized he was actually talking.

“Huh?” 

“I was wondering if this seat’s taken?” He smiled, gesturing towards the empty seat opposite. He was clearly amused.

“Yeah, sure, sure,” you nodded, making room for his things. 

The following days, it became a routine and an arrangement. You would be at the café as early as the owner would allow, laptop in hand. While he would come in the afternoons in a different jacket each day, a sketchbook in hand. You would be propped up, sending application after application, praying for luck. While he would quietly sit, churning sketch after sketch, in a relaxed demeanour. 

Sometimes you would peek over your screen and watch him draw for a few minutes, lost in his strokes. When you look up, you’ll find his eyes locked with yours, and you’ll immediately reimmerse yourself behind the screen, embarrassed.

It was a comfortable routine. You came to expect him everyday. And on the days that he didn’t make it, you felt a bit forlorn looking at the empty seat. You both didn’t talk much, yet you were getting comfortable in his presence.

Until one day, he broke the silence.

“So, what is it that you do?”

You stared, dumbfounded. Looking around there wasn’t anyone nearby. 

“Were you talking to me?” you asked.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “It’s just that you’re always on your computer…” he trailed off.

“I’m an assistant curator at an art gallery— or, er, used to be,” you explained. “Long story short, I lost my job and now I’m looking for a new one, that’s why I’m here.”

He seemed to ruminate before replying, “So you know a thing or two about art?”

You both started a new routine; one with a lot of communicating. He would ask you about your mundane weekends and interests and in turn, you would ask about his. Except, he was anything but mundane. 

On the days he was absent, you learned Steve was away on a lot of ‘business trips’. When he returned, he had never failed to present you with a souvenir. From matryoshkas to sarongs, it was always a surprise accompanied by a tale.

“The pattern on the sarong is called a batik, and it’s amazing how they’re drawn using wax like a liquid crayon. It’s an interesting art form.”

Outside of your little routine, he was an enigma. You barely knew about the Steve outside of The Sleeping Cat. Sometimes he threw the names ‘Bucky’ and ‘Sam’ a lot —out of exhaustion— without giving away anything, remaining tight-lipped. While his mysteriousness should’ve been a cause of concern, you couldn’t help but gravitate towards him, wanting to peel more of his layers, like the shell of a matryoshka. 

The routine went on for a few more weeks, with calls of interviews and business trips in between. Before you received a phone call.

“I got a job! At the Whitney!” you squealed, shaking his shoulders over the table, oblivious to the other patrons. Steve endured it, smiling. 

“Congratulations,” he said when you’ve calmed down. “I guess this is the last time I’ll be seeing you?”

You froze, high coming down, realization settling in. After a few weeks of secret meetings, of getting to know him, of having lunch together, of sharing laughs, you’ve come to see Steve as a good friend. And maybe, there was the birth of something more.

“Let’s exchange numbers,” you said, opening your phone. “This way, maybe we can hang out again. Have lunch sometimes?”

“I’d like that.” He smiled. 

And the rest was history.

Making your way towards The Sleeping Cat, you amused yourself with past memories. Memories from almost over a year ago. 

Steve had come to give a speech at the opening ceremony of an exhibition at the Whitney. Your first exhibition as a curator. An exhibition on art from the war times. When they had announced his title, a loud ‘oh’ was the only thing you could muster. 

The ‘ding’ of the bell resounded, announcing your arrival. Heading in, you saw a head perked up, beaming, baseball cap securing his golden locks and aviators hiding his mesmerizing blues.

This was the best part of your days.

But maybe, you were getting a little tired.

If someone were to ask you months ago if you were happy and content with your relationship, you would’ve replied with a swift yes in a heartbeat. No hesitation, no reservations, no doubt. Now, sitting in the same cafe, the same one you frequent on dates, the same one you both met in, you weren’t sure of the answer anymore.

As Steve gets up to order for you both, your eyes wander to his sketchpad. It was filled with sketches of random objects; the flower on the table, the pastries on display, sometimes the patrons of the cafe, and occasionally, you. 

“You’re my favourite subject, so far.”

It was not for the lack of love or the lack of affection. Steve was the most loving; loyal in so many ways, gentle when asked, and protective to a fault. Maybe the protectiveness was the cause of it all.

Staring at Steve’s back, your mind shifted to a memory from the past week, when your roommate pulled you aside from a get-together at the ice rink.

“Hey,” she called your name, taking a hold of your elbow. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure, what’s up?” you followed her, leading you to the sides.

Her eyes conveyed her worry. It amplified with the chewing of her bottom lip, a nervous tick.

“Are you and Steve… okay?” she asked, her brows perked. “I’m not sure if you notice, but today, it’s full of couples.” 

You looked towards your group of friends. There was your roommate’s girlfriend tying her skates, your other roommate and her boyfriend talking to another couple —their friends— and they were all holding their significant other’s hand. Oh.

“I don’t want to throw you out of the loop, but there would probably be a lot of double skating involved today,” she said, widening her eyes, looking comical. “Do you want me to talk to Steve? Maybe I could convince him to come, y’know?” 

Out of your two roommates, she was the only one who knew of your paramour. Having walked in on you and Steve making out on the couch. She was sworn into secrecy, with the promise of autographs from all the Avengers. 

“Look, it’s okay,” you assured her. “I can handle skating alone, and you know why he can’t really come here with us,” you shrugged.

“Okay, but aren’t you tired? Of all this sneaking around? Don’t you want to shout to the whole world ‘I’m fucking Captain America!’” she flailed.

You shushed her, muffling her mouth with your gloved hand.

Part of the secret was how Steven Rogers was an engineered superhero. A superhero with many enemies, leading him to fear for his loved ones, and that included you.

You went into the relationship whole-heartedly knowing the challenges; discreet rendezvous, kisses in the dark, minimal contact in public. You were his secret and he was yours. It was for your own good, wasn’t it?

“What’s got your little head wrapped up?” Steve’s voice startled you, bringing you back to the café. On the table, two cups of coffee and a slice of cake was served.

“Hmm? Oh, just thinking about this party the museum’s throwing this weekend,” you took your cup, blowing, contemplating your next words.“Say, how about you and I, I don’t know, go as dates?”

Steve crunched his brows. “You know that’s a hard thing for me to do, especially with your colleagues around.”

“I know! But maybe… maybe, you can go in one of your disguises this time? Remember that one time we went to Central Park?”

Steve exhaled, he remembered that afternoon. It was the one-off that you both ventured on a date in the outdoors. 

Decked in his beanie, casually strolling through Central Park with you beside him. Although he was still wary, keeping his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to hold your hand. 

No one had recognized him; not the ice-cream man, not the kids running around, not the mothers pushing strollers. No one. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

You leaned forward, pecking him on the lips multiple times. “Thank you!”

“You sure this looks convincing?”

“Trust me, punk. Grade A assassin here, thank you very much,” Bucky boasted while fixing the wig on his scalp, untangling the unruly strands.

Steve had sought Bucky for help, with the belief that assassins were good at hiding in plain sight (and maybe, he just didn’t want to go to Natasha twice). Bucky was also his most trusted confidant and he knew about you, Steve trusted him not to tell. But now looking at himself in the opposite mirror, he wasn’t so sure of that anymore. 

Long dangly tresses hung on the sides of his face parting in the middle, a trimmed beard leaving a bit of goatee, and to finish it off, Bucky dressed him in a checkered shirt consisting of random coloured squares. He looked like he just stepped out of the 60’s.

“Oh, wear these,” Bucky handed him a pair of large wire-framed glasses. “Done.”

Steve took a look in the mirror. A seedy pimp was the first thought that crossed his mind.

“Thanks Buck, I owe you one.”

“Sure Stevie, just bring me around next time on one of your dates, I’d like to meet her,” Bucky winked. “Or make it double.” He wagged his brows. “Like old times.”

Steve snorted.

“Okay, I got—“ Steve’s words halted when an alarm blared overhead. It demanded their attention.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, your presence is required in Prep Room six,” called the disembodied voice. “There’s been a breach of extraterrestrial energy in the airspace of Sweden.”

Steve exited and rushed through the hallways, Bucky following close behind. He made it through the living quarters, trudging to the training wing before entering one of the many prep rooms. 

“Nice costume, Cap. Halloween already?” Sam quipped. Almost everyone was present, they were equally amused.

Before anyone else could follow, Tony strided in immediately, grumbling. “Okay team, there’s been an E.T synthezoid putting holes in the ozone layer. I’ll fill you all in the quinjet. Suit up and meet me at the hangover in 10.”

Everybody gathered their equipment and hurried to leave, passing by him. Before Tony could, he took notice of Steve and did a double take. And then a third. 

“What’s with the pimp daddy get-up, Capsicle?” 

Steve huffed, ignoring the jab. “I have something that I need to attend. How important am I in this, Tony?”

“We need all hands on deck. We don’t really know what we’re up against, Fury’s still running recon,” Tony explained, squaring his shoulders. “Whatever it is you have, Cap. It can wait. Lives are at stake here.” With that, he left, not standing by for a response.

“Darn it,” Steve cursed, removing the glasses and the wig.

He left the prep room with his shield in hand. With one hand, he shot a text to you. He’ll make it up next time.

Loverboy [6:30 PM]: Emergency mission

Loverboy [6:30 PM]: Can’t make it, sorry

You switched the screen off, sighing. Around you, the party was in full swing. Invitees mingling with refreshments in hand, discussing the pieces on display tonight, and bidding on the pieces they find exquisite. Hors d’oeuvres and champagne were being served, brought around by servers on silver platters. You’ve been munching on them non-stop, grabbing one every time a server comes your way, needing something to occupy you.

Surrounding you, you’d see the occasional couple walking around, enjoying their time. The palms of their hands locked in each other’s as they navigate together, rarely straying afar. 

You clenched your hand, reminded of how empty it felt. 

It was inevitable, you were warned of this, you were told to expect this. Dating a superhero meant that he was never solely yours. You were sharing your boyfriend with someone, except that someone was the world. 

“Hiiii!” a shrill voice broke your thought, calling you by name. A blonde woman, followed by a brunette emerged from the gathering of art-goers, headed towards you. “It’s been a long while!”

“Hey! Yeah, it’s been awhile,” you waved, recognizing the two. 

When they reached you, you were aware of the slight tension in the air, leaving the three of you standing awkwardly. After all, these two were your ex-colleagues and you didn’t exactly leave the previous gallery on good terms. Tonight was a night with masks, it seemed.

“So, how are you two doing?” you decided to get it over with.

“We’re fine, everyone’s fine! But how are you? We heard you worked here now, pretty impressive,” the brunette —Claire— winked at you. You laughed.

“Yeah, it’s so nice seeing you again, and at the Whitney? The pay must be good, you know what I’m saying?” Hilda chimed, knocking her elbows with yours. You didn’t appreciate it but you endured.

 “Say, what are you doing over here far away? Why not you join us over there,” Hilda pointed, towards a mounted canvas at the end of the hall. It was occupied by two men in a discussion among themselves. “Chat a bit to catch up, a bit of art philosophical debate in between. What do you say?”

You contemplated her offer, not wanting to seem pretentious, but thought about the false flattery and ego-stroking that would sure ensue in their company. The thought of it drained you.

“It’s okay,” you waved them off nervously. “I have to call my boyfriend sooner, gotta check up on him and let him know I’m... alright.” You held up your phone, playing on convincing.

“Oh? He isn’t here tonight?” Claire seemed to feign worry. 

“No, he got caught up with something. He’s a busy man,” you cooked up an excuse. No one could know. 

“Okay… In that case, we’ll leave you to it. Maybe we’ll bump into each other sooner.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys soon.”

They waved before backing away into the mass of patrons. You let out a breath you didn’t know you held in. 

While the interaction was unexpected, this was what you had to deal with when it came to the question of your relationship. The excuses, they became second nature to you. The lies. The deceit. Anything to protect Steve’s identity, and inadvertently, you.

Throughout the night, you mingled with any clients interested in a work of art, all the while stepping out of Hilda and Claire’s line of sight. You didn’t wish a repeat of the earlier evening.

When the crowd started dwindling, signalling the end of the night, you were relieved of your duties. You headed straight for the restrooms after, one getaway before leaving. You huddled yourself in a cubicle, locking it shut.

Seconds in, you heard the creak of the restroom door followed by the clicks of heels.

“Can you believe it? Someone like that got the chance of working here.” 

You recognized the nasally tone. It was Claire. 

“Yeah? Not like she deserves it. I mean look at her? Demure, slow. It’s like talking to a mouse. I bet she’s a prude too.” That was Hilda.

The gushing of the faucet muffled their voices, but their sharp words were clear as day, your ear catching every snark and hiss.

“And when she was talking about her boyfriend? He probably doesn’t even exist, it was just to get off our backs,” Hilda paused. “Last time I heard, her boyfriend dumped her. So, I guess she’s creating imaginary ones now.” 

They both cackled.

By now, you knew they were talking about you. Their words didn’t hurt as much, you knew the colour of their hearts beneath the masks. But was that how people viewed your hidden relationship? A facade? A farce?

Once the door clicked shut, and the tapping of their heels faded, you left the restroom, heart feeling heavier.

(y/n) [6:45 PM]: stay safe stevie ! remember to hydrate

(y/n) [6:46 PM]: punch those meanies

(y/n) [6:46 PM]: (`⌒*)⍟-(`⌒´Q)

Steve chuckled when he turned on his phone, amused at your texts. You always sent him good luck messages every time he went off for missions. Although he didn’t seem to get the emoticons that you sent, even after being taught by Peter Parker. He just didn’t get them.

Steve dialed your number, sitting on the edge of the bed as he dried his washed hair. Beeps ringed before you picked up, your smooth lilt permeating the speakers. 

“Hello? Stevie?”

Steve smiled, missing the caress of your voice after a day filled with explosions and cries.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted. “How’s my girl been?”

“Great, now that you called,” you teased. “But are ‘you’ fine?” you emphasized.

On the other end of the line, you mirrored his position, sitting on one corner of the bed. Picking the newspaper in your lap, you observed the front page: ‘Avengers saves the Arctic!’ 

“Same old, same old,” his voice carries. “Listen, about yesterday—“

“It’s okay,” you interrupted him, other hand gripping the newspaper. “You have to protect the Earth and that also means me. You don’t have to apologize, I knew what I signed up for.” 

Did you? Or was it now a hollow statement to convince yourself?

“I still want to make up for it, my girl deserves that much,” he responded.

You slowly unclenched the paper. It left Steve’s form crinkled.

“If you want to sooo bad,” you exaggerated. “There’s a Valentines charity ball for our arts program in three weeks time. You think you could make it this time?”

“You know no promises, but I plan to, even if I have to do everyone’s laundry for a week.” You heard rustling on the other line. “What’s the exact date? I’ll put it on my calendar.” 

“The 16th.” Scratchy scribbling filled your ear, the sound loud in the silence. 

“Done. Can’t wait to see you all dolled up, sweetheart.”

“Me too, baby,” you said. “At least put on a nice moustache this time.”

He laughed. Your heart felt lighter. To him, it was probably nothing, but to you, it was a form of reassurance. A reassurance that what you had was real.

“Steve, you got a moment?”

The aforementioned man turned around, taking a glance over his shoulder. Sharon Carter slowed to a stop, a small smile on her face. As always, she carried an air of superiority, matching that of Steve’s wavelength. Yet today, it seemed dim.

“I think we need to talk, you have time for coffee?”

Glancing at his watch, he nodded. “Sure, Sharon. Lead the way.”

She took them outside of S.H.I.E.L.D and into the chilly air of DC, navigating through streets and crowds while huddling in their coats. They chatted, breaths puffing as they caught up, the familiar scenes passing by.

He hadn’t been in DC in awhile, it felt good to be back. 

“We’re here.”

Sharon headed in first, holding the door for him. He thanked her. They ordered and got seated. A smile was shared, strained as it seemed. 

“Better just rip the band-aid off,” Sharon sighed. “I miss us.” 

“Sharon—“

“Please, hear me out first,” she insisted, showing her palm. “We probably shouldn’t have done what we’ve done after Aunt Peggy’s funeral. I just lost someone I looked up to the most, and you lost the woman that you loved. We were both grieving. It wasn’t fair to the both of us.”

“While I do miss us, I know that it wasn’t meant to be,” she continued, shooting a sombre smile. “I understand that now. I guess, what I wanted was closure.”

Her hand quivered on the table between them. Steve clasped his over hers, offering to soothe.

“I don’t regret what happened in Germany. While yes, it should have not happened, it was what we thought we needed at that time. We both lost someone we held dear,” Steve explained, hoping his words reached her. “None of it was a mistake, Sharon. You’re still someone I trust and hold dear, remember that.”

Steve clutched her hand tighter, running his thumb over her knuckles in circular motions, attempting to calm and show understanding.

In his efforts, unknown to the two, the shutter of a camera went off across the street.

Something felt off. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. At first, you thought it was your own anxious mind running. 

You woke up late on a work day, burned your eggs and toast, accidentally wore unmatching socks, and your roommate was acting weird. All jittery when you entered the hall, stammering her words, and performing this bizarre dance when you walked past the living room. You gave her no mind when you passed the threshold and slammed the door, phone gripped in hand.

Loverboy [6:00 AM]: Good morning, dear 

Loverboy [6:01 AM]: [image]

A photo of Steve, sweaty after a run showed on the screen. He was smiling, shirt stained and clinging to his chest. You had taught him how to take selfies.

You [7:20 AM]: morning, handsome

You [7:20 AM]: 😍😍😍 

The morning texts were the best part of your morning commute. It made the arduous and packed journey worthwhile. Even when you almost tripped at the doors, it couldn’t take away your joy.

You made it just in time and clocked in, meeting clients and discussions with artists throughout the day. It was uneventful, although the bad luck seemed to have followed when you spilled your coffee on the concrete.

It was when you left the museum that your day took a turn for the worst.

On the ride home, the man opposite you was reading a newspaper. Nothing unusual, but at a glance, you thought you saw a familiar face printed on the corner. Before you could take a closer look, the man folded it in half and got off.

A few minutes later, you arrived at your stop, exiting the station with the fast-paced crowd. That’s when you were bombarded.

Lining the streets, your vision was filled with the scattering of a crowd of papers. Every face you saw was plastered in them.

‘The Good Captain In Love?’

‘A Superhero & A Civilian Romance?’ 

‘Captain America’s Girl? Mysterious Woman Sighted’

The sight of them left you in a panic, your anxiety spiking through the roof. Your world started spinning, everything —buildings, trees, faces— blending altogether. Everywhere your eyes deflected, a headline invaded your sight, imprinting itself on your retinas. Had they found out?

Composing yourself, you headed towards the nearest news stall, mind boggled with too many questions and not enough answers. How? Why? When?

Only, it wasn’t your face they were publishing.

‘“Oh Captain, My Captain” America in love? Spotted last week in DC was Captain Steven Rogers with a mysterious lady. They seemed to be cozy with each other, an eyewitness told Us Weekly. Story on Page 11.’

The photograph showcased Steve with a blonde woman, sitting in a café with their hands clasped on the table. Your heart shattered at the sight, remembering how empty yours have felt lately. 

Was he purposely out with this woman in public? What did that mean for you? Why were you shadowed?

“Are you and Steve… okay?”

“She’s creating imaginary ones now.”

“Aren’t you tired? Of all this sneaking around?”

“You know that’s a hard thing for me to do.”

“Hey lady, you gonna pay for that?”

You were shaken out of your stupor. Looking down, you were clutching the magazine too hard, ripping the image of Steve and the woman in half, right in the middle where their hands met.

You apologized to the man and paid for the magazine. Immediately discarding it in the next trash bin you saw.

“So… you and Sharon?” Sam had asked him after training.

“What?” 

“You, and, Sharon,” Sam emphasized, pronouncing each syllable. “Are together. Man, when were you gonna tell me? I thought it was over.”

Steve froze before replying, “Because it is. A long time ago.”

“Well, this seems to say otherwise.” 

Sam showed him his phone, the screen displaying an article; ‘Captain America’s Girl Revealed. A Family Affair That Transcends Time.’ On top of the article was a photo of him and Sharon at the cafe in DC, his hand atop of hers on the table. A zoomed in version of their hands were provided, fueling the tabloid’s narrative.

Steve paled at the sight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was his fears manifested; his anonymity taken, his privacy invaded, but his worst fear was putting his loved ones in danger. And if it was due to their association with him, it would leave him racked with guilt. 

While the tabloids were wrong, he knew that Sharon could defend for herself. You on the other hand… 

His heart rate rose, a new wave of anxiety spiked. Steve wondered if you’ve seen this. No, you must’ve seen this. 

Fishing for his phone, with clammy hands, Steve quickly dialed your number, anxiously waiting for the beeping to end. 

‘The number you’ve dialed is not—‘

“Damn it!”

His outburst surprised Sam, shocking him. Sam gave him a look, inquisitive. 

“Sorry Sam, I have to run.” 

He left, heart in his throat.

When Steve arrived at your apartment, he was almost out of breath. He was still anxious, the ride here not doing much to his addled mind. But he was determined.

Rapidly knocking on your front door, Steve composed himself. When it opened, he was met with the sight of your roommate -- the one that he has never met before.

“Ca-Captain America?” she yelped, shocked to see him on the doorstep.

“Is your roommate in?” he steeled.

“Which one—” 

“Steve,” a voice interrupted.

The door pulled further, widening the entrance. Steve was met with your familiar roommate. She was tense, arms locked across her chest, eyes full of fury. Steve detected something else in them; worry.

“You fucked up,” she said. He winced.

“I know,” he admitted. “And I’m here to make things right. Can I please see her?”

She sighed, stepping in, nodding towards your room. 

Steve hastily walked in, stopping in front of your door. He knocked thrice, signalling you, before turning the knob. It was unlocked. The room was dark when he entered, every source of light switched off, except for your curtains. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed was you, figure illuminated by the street lights against pitch black darkness. When he stepped in closer, you looked up, eyes meeting his. 

Steve turned on the lights and closed the door. He took a good look at you; hair frazzled, eyes bloodshot and dry, nose red. You were the image of heartbreak.

“Are you ashamed of me?” you asked, eyes locked with his. 

“What? No, I—“

“Is it because I’m not strong?” you cut him off. “I know she’s Peggy’s niece… a-and I know how much you loved her. She was your first love.”

“She and I, it’s all in the past. She moved on and lived her life, and I… did too.”

“But did you really, Steve? Move on?” you whispered, getting up. You stood in front of him. Steve could see how puffed your eyes were from crying. “Or was I just… a rebound?”

“No. No, you were never a rebound,” he took hold of your forearms. “I care for you, too much.”

“Then why?!” you shrieked, shocking Steve. “Why the secrets? Why the hiding? Steve, you’ve never even introduced me to your friends. Shouldn’t they know?”

“I wanted to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?!” you roared, eyes full of fury. “The Avengers? If they knew about me, they would protect me. Don’t you think so?”

Steve had no words to that, his mind a jumbled mess.

“I’m… beginning to think that you’re embarrassed with me,” you sighed. “We’ve never been on a date publicly, as each other. We’ve never held hands in public. I want you to meet my friends. I want to introduce you to them, and maybe soon, I want you to meet my family.”

“B-but, I’m tired, Steve. Tired of all the hiding. Of all the sneaking around. I want to tell the world that I’m in love with Steve Rogers, not Captain America,” you sighed, shedding a few tears.

You waited for his reply, only to be disappointed. 

“You know I can’t do that.”

You saw red. All you saw was red. 

You started pushing him, swatting him in the chest. Steve didn’t fight back, letting you unleash your anger, your disappointment. He took your hits, letting you release your pent up emotions. He began backing away when you started advancing, back against the door.

“Get out! Get out!” you screeched, pushing him.

When he unlocked the door and crossed, you immediately shut the door in his face. Steve heard sobbing from inside, his heart shattering at the sounds. 

“This way, Captain,” your roommate approached him, showing him to the door.

Steve relented, shame flooding him. He fucked up.

You stopped visiting The Sleeping Cat, wanting to avoid him at all costs. You blocked his number. You immersed yourself in your work, prepping for the upcoming charity gala. 

Sometimes you find yourself thinking about him when sleep proved to be difficult. It’s when you’re laying at night that you missed him the most.

But it was for the best, you reasoned. For you and him.

The Avengers PR had pushed for a fix-it, publishing a story that spoke a truth. ‘Just Friends: Romantic Allegations Proved False’. Steve had hoped you’d seen it. 

He called you every day but found himself blocked from everything. He still tried, hoping you’d come around one day. He came by The Sleeping Cat every other day, sitting in the same spot, hoping to catch you. 

But you never came.

You clasped the necklace in place, admiring how it sat on your clavicle through the mirror. You took a step back and took yourself in, smiling at what you saw. It didn’t reach your eyes.

Today was the day of the Valentines gala and you weren’t feeling particularly giddy about it. 

Opening your phone, you stared at the one contact that stood out, finger hovering over his name. That name used to give you so many feelings, but today it was a reminder that you were going alone, again.

Sighing, you threw it in your purse and left. Another lonely night, and on an even celebrating love.

Days turned into weeks, and soon, before he knew it, the day of your Valentines gala arrived. 

Steve stared at the calendar. The heart-shaped doodle he drew called out to him, reminding him of fond memories. Fond memories that seemed like a distant dream. But then, he went back to last week, and it all came crashing.

He had hurt you. While thinking he was protecting you, he hadn’t realized he was inadvertently pushing you away. He had no one to blame but himself. 

He loved you. No, still loves you. You grounded him, gave him the normalcy that he craved. Reminded him of a distant time before he was Captain America. 

You made him feel like the boy from Brooklyn again.

While he was ruminating in his feelings, Steve was caught off-guard when the door burst open with Tony Stark coming through. From his peripheral, he could see Bucky and Sam peeking through the frame.

“Heard from the Manchurian Candidate that someone has a case of the achy breaky heart,” Tony said, smug.

“Leave me alone, Tony. I’m not in the mood,” he grumbled, setting down the calendar. 

“And leave you wallowing like shit while your girl is out there probably equally miserable? I know a thing or two about women, Rogers, and it’s that they don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Tony snapped his fingers and from behind, Sam came in with a tuxedo in hand.

“Thought you might need this,” Sam said. 

Bucky came out behind him, with a brush and can of hairspray. “And I still know how to do hair.”

“And I have friends in places,” Tony quipped. “I can get you in.”

Steve was surprised. His friends had surprised him. You would’ve loved them. He was left speechless.

“What are you waiting for, Cap? Suit up.” Tony winked.

Swirling the glass of rosé, your gaze fell towards the dance floor. An upbeat song was being played as people flocked near the middle, letting their bodies take charge for the night. You saw your former co-workers among the throng, hands thrown around their significant others, having the time of their lives.

The gala was in full swing, if the crowd and chatter was any indication. Red and roses were the main theme, with a red carpet stretching from the grand staircase towards the main hall and roses lining every corner and wall. Taking it all in, you were proud to see your ideas visualized and work came to fruition.

You sipped your rosé, enjoying every bit of the gala as you could. From the sidelines, you spoke with a few potential clients and art collectors. Their presence made you feel your importance, and if you dared say it, a little less lonely.

It was during one of your little chats that you didn’t realize when the hall suddenly fell quiet. You turned around when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Hi folks, mind if I crash your party?”

Steve smiled at Tony’s antics. They both had arrived at the gallery dressed in their best, and with Tony’s connections, they were granted access. 

Stepping down the grand staircase, Steve felt all eyes on him. He paid them no mind, the thought of you the only occupant of his racing mind. Gazing over the crowd, Steve spotted you to the side, occupied in a chatter. 

Taking deliberate steps, Steve soon found himself behind you. He admired your gown and hair, it entranced him. You still hadn’t registered his presence, even when your partner had ceased chatting and was now staring at him.

With a tap on your shoulder, he was taken away as immediately as you spun around. Steve took in your whole image; your dolled-up face, your intricate dress, your styled hair. It left him floored.

You always did manage to take his breath away. Was this what he had been missing out all this time?

Taking your unoccupied hand, Steve pressed a small kiss before meeting your eyes. 

“May I have this dance?”

Giving away your drink, you took his hand as he pulled your towards the centre, taking space among the crowd. A slow number started, and before you realized, you were swept in a slow dance. It didn’t take long before you felt the sensation of his two left feet.

“Sorry, a hundred years and you’d think I’d know how to dance,” he said.

A small smile lightened your face. Steve savoured it all he could. Gulping, he took the first step.

“I’m... sorry for what I’ve done. I realize now that you were right,” he started. “I thought I was protecting you, but now I see that all it did was push you away. You have all the rights to be mad at me. I was being an idiot, a selfish one. I didn’t think about how you felt about it.”

You winced. Steve had stepped on your toes again. He murmured an apology, resorting to swaying instead.

“Can we start again? No more hiding. No more disguises,” he breathed, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “ We can meet your friends, you can meet mine. Bucky’s been pestering me to bring you to the compound, he wants to meet you.”

You laughed. How Steve had missed the tune.

“How can I make it up to you? How do you want to take the first step? A picnic at Central Park? Dinner at the compound? A trip to the beach?”

You seemed to contemplate, a thoughtful look on your face. You both failed to realize all the eyes on you two.

“How about now?”

“Right here? Right now?” he asked.

“Yes, right here, right now,” you said, determined.

Without hesitation —no more— Steve dived in, planting a kiss on your wine-coloured lips for the whole world to see. Your first kiss in public, yet it felt as if it was only the two of you there, lost in the moment. 

You both didn’t notice the gasping crowd nor the clicks of cameras from photographers nor the booming laughter of Tony Stark. You both only felt the other in your orbit, and that was all that mattered.

“Can you put that down? You’ve been staring at it for the past hour.”

You pouted, setting the frame on the side table, where it has been designated since its publication. 

“I can’t help it, I think it’s a good shot. Don’t you think so, Alpine?” you petted the snowy white cat lazing on the arm of the sofa. Its’ purrs intensified.

“Dinner’s ready!” Bucky shouted.

You and Steve left the room, joining the others in the dining room for dinner. On the side table, the framed article sat neatly, showcasing the tale of the famed occurrence that took place at a charity gala.

‘America’s Girl: The Modern Woman of The Captain’s Dreams.’

Fin.

[ri-ahhh]

can u just give me mushy gushy shit with grayson like ethan has a girl over so the two of you decide to go out for a burger date and a walk at night? idk something like that pls 👉🏻👈🏻

A/N: I couldn’t even tell you how long this has been sitting in my drafts but I was looking through trying to find something to finish bc I was in the mood to write but not from scratch and found this lol. It was about halfway done and I have no idea where I was going with it but this is what it turned into as of today. Idek if there’s even anyone around here anymore to read this but whatever haha here it is.

You don’t usually mind being single. Even when your best friend/roommate Stella started seeing her boyfriend Charlie seriously, it didn’t give you any longing for a relationship of your own.

But there are some nights where you feel down and you just can’t handle it. The scenes of casual intimacy as soon as you get home and see them together — the vase of flowers on the kitchen island he must have brought over; the playful bickering across the room.

The incessant, unrelenting sound of a marathon session going on through the shared wall of your and Stella’s bedrooms.

You groan and turn the volume up on your AirPods, going straight to your messages next.

Wyd?

{G} 👀

Don’t be weird.

Pretty sure Stella and Charlie are trying to put a hole in the wall w her headboard and I can’t take it anymore.

Your roommate chooses that moment to let out a particularly enthusiastic “fuck!” If she weren’t your best friend, you might have given in to the urge to bang on the wall, but your phone lights up with Grayson’s reply anyway.

{G} E too.

{G} I mean like I can’t hear him but ik what’s going down in there

{G} I’d offer to pick u up but sounds like u need to get outta there lol. Meet me here?

You like the message and slip on some shoes, making sure to slam your bedroom door closed on your way out, as if it would make them pause even one thrust.

In the year that you’ve known him, Grayson Dolan has become one of your closest friends. The kind where you met as acquaintances, never talked much, but then you reconnected randomly and the conversation never stopped from there on. You talk about anything and everything, but recently you’ve bonded even more about being a perpetual third wheel. You knew he’d understand and not pass judgement on you in times like this, so it had been a no-brainer to text him as an escape from tonight.

He buzzes you into the gate when you get to his house, and he tells you over another text to go ahead and hop in the Porsche before he even gets outside. It makes you smile; night drives are your favorite, and while the Tesla is a vibe in its own right, there’s just something calming about someone (your attractive friend, no less) tangibly driving you around. It’s exactly what you need right now, no matter what destination he has in mind.

When he slides into the driver’s side not even a minute later, you’re almost overwhelmed by him. Looking far too good in your eyes for how casual he’s dressed in a well-fitting T-shirt and some grey sweats. Hair slightly damp from a recent shower.

He greets you with a grin and leans over the console to kiss your cheek, and you can smell the combination of his shampoo and a bit of cologne. You always appreciated that he doesn’t overdo the fragrance, and if possible it makes him even more intoxicating at times.

“Hey,” he says simply, sitting back in his seat and fastening the seatbelt.

“Hey.” You smile and watch him with a silent but fairly obvious appreciation as he reaches a hand to rest on the back of your seat, twisting the bit he needs to look out the back windshield. The Porsche has a backup camera, obviously, but he’s a cautious driver to a fault and insists he doesn’t fully trust them.

Grayson gets the car facing enough of the right direction to throw it in drive and exit down the long driveway. You shake your head and settle back, kicking off your shoes with a sigh and tucking your feet onto the seat beneath you.

“One day, we’ll be the ones making them leave the house,” he jokes, stopping for the gate to open.

You know it’s implied that he’s referring to the two of you with separate people, but you can’t help but consider the option that the two of you could make that happen together.

“I know for a fact you have a booty call list a mile long, Dolan,” you say with a raised brow. Despite the fleeting thought, keeping things lighthearted and platonic is much easier to deal with in reality. “You could have called one of them and done just that.”

He scoffs and pretends like you’ve just hurt him deeply, slapping a hand to his burly chest to clutch at his heart. “Excuse me, it is not a mile long.” He glances over at you with a held-back smirk. “A couple hundred yards, tops.”

You throw your head back with a loud cackle, looking out the window now as he turns onto the main road. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Damn, that’s a big word.” He likes to tease you about your extended vocabulary.

“Hopeless,” you elaborate, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes.

“Is that what that word means, or are you making fun of my high school dropout vocab?”

“Both.”

You let your head roll back against the headrest, turning to watch him, knees swayed to the side a bit. His form isn’t hidden in the dark at all, features lit up by the dash in front of him and the streetlights you’re passing by outside.

“Why didn’t you, then? Call one of them?”

Grayson shrugs. “Just didn’t really feel like spending time with people tonight.”

You’re silent for a moment and consider his answer. “Why did you agree to hang out, then? You didn’t have to.”

His eyes never leave the road, but you see the veins in his hand gripping the steering wheel bulge out for a moment as he squeezes it tightly.

“I guess I meant I didn’t want to spend time with people I don’t really care about.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you play it off with a sarcastic tone. “Aw, you care about me?”

“Of course I do,” he replies easily. “I’m not sure why, though. You’re so fuckin sassy sometimes.”

“You love it.”

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Grayson’s hand slides from where it’s lightly gripping the gear shift, to yours, which is picking at a loose string on your leggings.

Your easy smile at the comfortable banter between you and Grayson falters some in surprise, but you let him turn your palm over and trace the lines of your hand softly. Both of your gazes are fixated on the way he tickles your skin when he says, “Yeah. I do.”

Your eyes shoot up, just in time to meet his. He looks at you with a weird mixture heat and vulnerability, and there’s a thick moment of silence, no longer than the single beat of your heart that you can hear thudding loud and clear in your ears, when suddenly the car behind you lays on the horn.

Both of you startle, and Grayson’s attention returns to the road ahead. He steps on the gas and takes his hand away, carding it through his hair roughly as you sink back into your seat with a disbelieving scoff.

“Oh my God, dude, you can’t just do that to me,” you blurt out, your heart in your stomach and your brain even lower. A helpless giggle escapes you, and you tug on your own locks. “Shit...”

“What?” he asks defensively, but you hear the tiny bit of the grin he’s wearing in his voice.

You turn your head to deadpan him, eyes wide. “You can’t just... imply something like that and give me sex eyes and not think you did something to me! Are you crazy?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug with the arm resting on top of the steering wheel again. “Maybe. You’re proving my ‘sassy’ point all over again.”

“Oh my — don’t fuck with my head, Gray.”

“Hey.” His voice is deeper, more serious as the car comes to another stop. You’re only just now realizing you’ve reached the burger joint, and that the late hour made finding parking a nonexistent problem. He puts the car in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before doing the same to yours. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to fuck with your head, I promise. I just... didn’t want it to seem like I was coming on too strong too suddenly. I, uh, have a history of doing that.”

You stare at him, processing everything. “I know.”

He chuckles dryly. “Yeah, I know you do.”

There’s more silence. That heavy kind that happened right after his little impromptu confession.

“You know,” you finally speak up, finding your voice after mulling over your words, “I kinda love that you’re a douche.”

He looks a little taken aback, until understanding dawns on him, and his eyes light up in a way that has you smiling instantly with him. “Really?”

You nod. “Call me crazy.”

Grayson shifts closer in his seat, his pink tongue darting out to lick those plump lips. You mirror him, and this time you take the initiative to reach out for his hand. It’s warm and strong, just like the rest of him.

Like earlier, you watch your hands lightly caressing each other as you speak. “And I love that you come on strong. And that you put your heart out there.” You interlace your fingers, immediately in love with the contrast of his huge ones between your slim ones. “Makes things way easier for me.”

He grins wide. “There’s that sass again.”

You bite your lip through your smirk and tug him close to you with your clasped hands, your free one reaching behind his neck to drag his lips to yours. “Mm. Better shut me up, then.”

[titoist]

during a lecture on labour law, the workers movement & its historical development in interwar europe, the professor offhandedly mentioned the fascistic associations of the new prime minister of italy. audible, but nonetheless hushed celebration could be heard from the back. i've been tossing & turning it over… i think that, in the past, this would have(& certainly did, across numerous functionally identical situations) inspired an instinct to become rancorously upset, in a way which cripplingly affected my internal functions but never showed through my demeanor. deeply, deeply angry - for a long while, my only method of coping with my environment was habitual fantasization about violently harming people whom i felt recreationally contributed to my state of despair. it was a lot. & none of it would be particularly pleasant to describe. now, though, the only latent emotion i could feel resurfacing from the detritus of my mind was… a sort of slow sadness, diffuse grim discomfort, pity. and not so much a sadness at the objective facts of the situation, the fact that there were fascists in the lecture hall, but… a sadness arising from what i think should be the instinct of all in the room - empathy. the arising historical & material trends of the last 40 or so years have not been very kind… most of all, when you walk through the streets, you feel a certain sense of hauntological fixation with a past coming to haunt the present. and what a past it was! anyone above 40 can almost taste it, the dull & forgotten sweetness on the tip of their tongue, the walls of your childhood home, living in a state that matched western standards of living - no, exceeded them, even - decades… &, suddenly, a silent return to feudalism & war, as if nothing had ever formerly occupied its space. now, poverty is in vogue.

it all ties back around to this central point of contention, no matter where you really turn or look. and of course there are reminders all around, in the form of dilapidated, uncared-for buildings, something as banal as the faded logo of a company that went bankrupt in 1991 or the iconic red star on a surplus pre-war ambulance. it hangs like a thick fog, suffocating everything - a fog which is a crucial developmental facet of my childhood, & i imagine the childhood of many others like me. how do you even begin to cope with that? & i guess the answer is that you really, really don't. it's why people commit acts of terrorism & murder soldiers. you can only try to forget & move on from this aborted, stillborn state of existence, which is the conclusion everyone with half a brain has come to. what some people use to cope: violent, virulent nationalism. you take a look at the total absence of life offered to you, as a result of stochastic factors that were decided way before you were even a conscious thing, & decide to project your anger outwards. the albanians are the reason you have no job, why you are paid so little, why a subtle existential dread is the only emotion you have ever known, and so on… it is either this, or you recede inwards - & i guess… this is what it all revolves around, to me. every aspect of modern living here. the extent of this massacre has been stunning, no one has been spared. all potentials have been nullified from the outset, replaced with a societal-wide inclination to water down emotions, to deaden & cheapen yourself, to completely decimate your own properties & replace them with imposed ideas designed for you to settle for. this is what my empathy comes down to, essentially: this is what the last 40 years of horrible, cruel, unrepentant history have been leading up to, slowly washing in like a tide. & you can feel it almost emanating from the back of the room, in the form of 3 very deeply hurt, alienated teenagers cackling to one another in the back of a lecture hall. i can't help but to feel love & compassion for them, as victims in the same way i am, even if it is a fool's burden. it wasn't a decision any of us were allowed to make. it simply is reality.