#lives were lost that day- soldiers and innocent bystanders | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

renaerys · 4 years ago

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All right Anon. Since my blog was hacked and I had to delete and remake it, I know I lost some Tumblr-exclusive posts from back in ye olde Naruto heydays. Here’s a TobiIzu prompt I did for my friend Nicole called “Eclipse” that I managed to dig up in my Google Drive. It is 2013 quality (i.e., without the benefit of 7 years’ additional experience, so I’m sorry about that), but this is how it appeared as originally posted. Hopefully this is what you were looking for! :)

Eclipse (TobiIzu)

Generations later they would talk about Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara, the eternal rivals and fiercest of friends who created a kingdom and nearly destroyed it with their own hands. They would talk about Uzumaki Mito and how she saved them from themselves for as long as a person can be saved, going so far as to seal Hashirama’s love and Madara’s hatred within herself. But the sun and the moon have shadows even if no one can see them beyond the blinding light.

Senju Tobirama did not always hate the Uchiha. Some he even grew to depend upon. Every yin needs a yang.

“Suiton: Suishouha!”

At seven years old, Tobirama was well on his way to achieving notoriety as an heir to the illustrious Senju clan. His prowess with water techniques was unheard of at his age, and his father was more than happy to reap that advantage in any way possible. In a world where a mother’s protests fall upon deaf ears, Tobirama became more comfortable with the wails of his dying enemies than the sweet songs his mother used to sing at night as he fell asleep.

“Hhhnnngg!”

Strangled cries of those unlucky enough to be swept away with the deluge gurgled, unintelligible, as water filled lungs and doused fires. Tobirama drew his short sword and followed the path of his technique, searching for any Uchiha that had survived the flood. What he did not expect to find was one unharmed and charging straight for him.

“Damn you!”

The clang of steel made his ears ring as a young Uchiha soldier slammed into him with all the might in his small body. Twin daggers sparked against Tobirama’s own weapon, and he stumbled backwards under the shock force. Overpowered, he had to roll with his attacker’s momentum to avoid slitting his own throat. On their feet and panting for air, Tobirama got a look at his opponent and the fury boiling in his red eyes.

Red eyes.

“Sharingan...”

The unnamed Uchiha shook with rage. “You killed him. You killed my little brother with that, and now I’m gonna kill you!”

A flurry of hand seals had Tobirama taking a step back, unsure of what was coming until the Uchiha boy inhaled a deep breath and released a great mass of roiling fire. It careened straight for him at impossible speed, and Tobirama had to turn tail and run. His boots sloshed in the mud created from his earlier technique and an idea struck. Channeling his chakra, he called upon the muddy water beneath his feet to rise up behind him in like a shield. The collision with the great fireball was stunning. Steam hissed and mud melted, the water mixed in with it barely enough to keep the fire at bay.

“Tobirama!”

Butsuma’s familiar voice was a welcome sound. He and a young Itama joined his second son just as fire and water fizzled into a mess of charred mud and the smell of bog. Tobirama brandished his short sword at his attacker, ready to deliver the killing blow now that his father was watching.

“Izuna, that’s enough.”

Everyone knew Uchiha Tajima, the leader of the Uchiha clan, by face and name. He placed a hand on the boy’s—Izuna’s—shoulder in silent warning.

“He killed Kemuri!” Izuna said, taking a step forward with every intention of burning Tobirama alive.

Tajima did nothing to betray whatever he felt about the loss of one of his sons. It didn’t surprise Tobirama much. Lives were expendable. If the leader of a great clan were to break down every time he lost men, he would have no time to fight between the mourning. Tobirama shifted, thoughts wandering to his younger brother standing next to him. What if it had been him?

“I suppose I should thank you,” Tajima said, dark eyes fixed on Tobirama and a cruel smirk threatening to bloom. “Your actions have awakened Izuna’s Sharingan.”

Tears fell from Izuna’s transformed eyes and Tobirama had to wonder. Had he done this? Had he given his enemy a better weapon?

“Let’s end this, Butsuma,” Tajima said. “You’ve lost enough men for one day.”

“I should say the same for you,” Butsuma said, one hand on the hilt of his katana.

Tajima’s smirk widened. “Until next time, old friend.”

Izuna held Tobirama’s gaze, red on red as a promise of vengeance sealed in brother’s blood passed between them. Tobirama found himself leaning closer to his own brother, a silent warning.

“Tobirama,” Butsuma said once the Uchiha had withdrawn. “The next time we clash with the Uchiha, kill that boy. Forget about the others. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“We can’t afford to let that one grow stronger now that he has the Sharingan.”

The battlefield was a wasteland of mud, soot, and maimed corpses. Uchiha and Senju alike lay in piles, their armor warped with heat and some bloated from drowning. It was always the same story when they crossed paths, and no one ever seemed to get the upper hand in the long run. Destined to fight forever, Tobirama sometimes wondered about the point of it all. But Butsuma was right. If the stories were true, the Sharingan could mean the difference between a win and a loss for the Senju.

And so Senju Tobirama resolved to ensure Uchiha Izuna’s death the next time they crossed paths.

xxx

The day Kawarama died Tobirama was fourteen and still struggling to make good on the promise he’d made his father. Madara had set the field aflame, and Hashirama’s animate wood had only made it worse. Ever the faithful right hand, Tobirama shielded the newly christened Senju leader with his body, hands poised in the fortieth and final seal of the water dragon technique.

“Tobi!” Hashirama said, worry and relief melted together as his little brother bought him precious time to regroup.

But light never strays far from its faithful shadow. Tobirama barely had to time to block the knife to his throat, hissing as it nicked the unprotected skin below his chin. Izuna had a tendency to sneak up on him like this. It made double-teaming Madara impossible.

“Now we’re even,” Izuna said as he pushed harder, screeching metal hurting Tobirama’s ears as they vied for dominance.

In a dirty move, Tobirama kicked hard, forcing Izuna to leap backwards to avoid a blow to the stomach that could have cost him. Fire and water, brother for brother. To say water could douse fire was to underestimate the heat of Izuna’s hatred.

“We’ll never be even!” Tobirama said, redirecting his water dragon technique.

Sharingan spiraled red and black, red and black, and a piercing scream filled the area. Tobirama yelped, hands burning as though the skin were flayed off his palms. Sparks jumped across the body of his water dragon, the electricity having cut deep welts in his hands that blistered and smoked. Izuna, drenched from head to toe and panting, crackled with lightning.

“Lightning trumps water,” he said, water dripping from his long ponytail.

The fighting never stopped. Senju and Uchiha were doomed to repeat history, of this Tobirama was certain. Every time they clashed, more and more of their ranks fell under enemy fire and water, lightning and earth. There was no end to the slaughter and the power, each side becoming stronger only to discover the other catching up.

It wasn’t until Hashirama called a temporary ceasefire that Tobirama realized he’d never actually had a conversation with Izuna that didn’t involve them trying to kill each other. Negotiations were a farce when the Uchiha were involved as far as he was concerned. And yet, while Hashirama and Madara exchanged terms that everyone knew would never be enough to satisfy both sides, Tobirama and Izuna waited outside the chambers, silent and itching to hurt each other out of ingrained habit.

“This will never work, you know,” Tobirama said after nearly a half hour of silent brooding. “It never has before.”

He didn’t know why he’d decided to comment on something so futile. It was obvious to both of them without him pointing it out. Uchiha and Senju would never see eye to eye. There was too much bad blood between them now to reconcile. Hashirama was delusional and Madara was perhaps even more insane to hear out this ludicrous negotiation. Izuna did not respond right away, and Tobirama scowled. He should have known better.

“...And yet, they never stop trying.”

Izuna kept his dark gaze to the ground ahead, torches lending a soft glow to his angular features as they waited on either side of the door to the chambers. All around them, crack patterns danced upon carved stone with each flicker of firelight. There was no one around—Tobirama and Izuna had made sure their brothers would not be disturbed—and yet they spoke in hushed tones.

“It’s useless,” Tobirama said. “After all the Uchiha have done, there will be no forgiving.”

“Ah, and you’re an innocent bystander in all this. Hypocrite.”

The hilt of Tobirama’s sword called to him with an almost audible hum. A part of him wanted nothing more than to drive it through Izuna’s precious eyes right there and now. And yet, he paused.

“You’ve become more vicious over the years,” he said, finally voicing what he’d long suspected. “The older we get, the more hateful you are. Not that I’d expect anything less from an Uchiha.”

Izuna chuckled. “And you’ve become cantankerous. You’re just getting older.”

Murmuring filtered through the heavy wooden doors despite the soundproofing. It did not bode well for their brothers’ talk. Still, they would not move until summoned. They had set aside their mutual animosity and bad blood for this, and neither would betray his brother and leader. If nothing else, they shared that fierce loyalty.

“This will never work,” Tobirama said at last.

“Tell them that. They’re living in a dream world in there. But they’ll wake up. They always do. Hard to sleep when people are screaming all around you.”

“Is that all it is then? A dream.”

“What else would it be? You killed my brother and I killed yours, just like our fathers before us and their fathers before them. The sooner you accept that the better.”

Tobirama frowned. He didn’t like agreeing with Izuna, his brother’s murderer and the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t help but think that with Izuna out of the way, Madara would stand no chance against Hashirama and himself.

“Funny, isn’t it,” Tobirama said. “We hate each other, and yet we understand each other perfectly. There is no one who knows my sentiments the way you do.”

“You don’t know this hatred,” Izuna said, averting his eyes once more to stare into the gloom. “...This hatred is a curse.”

“Curses can be broken.”

Izuna bared his teeth in a smile, and when he met Tobirama’s gaze once more it burned like the fire illuminating the room. This Sharingan was different, and Tobirama half drew his sword upon instinct.

“There’s no cure for this curse,” Izuna said, making no move to attack. “It will kill me, and it will kill you, too. That’s the only certainty in this world.”

Tobirama was about to ask him what he meant by that when the doors burst open.

“—can’t ever reach a compromise this way!” Hashirama shouted from within.

Madara stormed out. “Who would take those terms? You’re as stupid as you look. Nothing’s changed.”

Izuna and Tobirama exchanged a look before the former tailed after his irritable brother. Hashirama emerged soon after, youthful features twisted in frustration and a little despair. It didn’t suit him at all, but Tobirama kept that thought to himself.

“At least he didn’t attempt to attack you this time,” he said instead.

“I just don’t understand, Tobi. I know he agrees with me, I just know it. But he’s so stubborn! He just won’t give into anything.”

“He’s an Uchiha.” He’s not your brother.

“You make it sound like they’re another species.”

“They are.”

Hashirama sighed and rubbed his eyes. “They’re not. They’re just... Madara’s just looking out for them, that’s all. We’re not so different from them in the end.”

Tobirama said nothing to that. For the first time in his life, he found he could not refute it with complete certainty.

xxx

“What did you mean?”

Blood fell to the ground as Tobirama’s short sword made contact with Izuna’s cheek, so light and delicate. The Uchiha sneered and pulled back, wiping it with a free hand.

“About what?” He fired off a rapid round of hand seals even as he questioned his eternal opponent.

“About the curse that can’t be broken.”

A searing jet of fire careened toward Tobirama at high speed, and if not for the grueling training he’d forced upon himself he would not have survived it. With only a single hand seal he created a water dragon from out of thin air to defend him, catching the fire before it could incinerate him where he stood. The collision birthed a wall of steam, hissing like a brood of angry snakes as fire and water clashed in an age old battle, neither able to overwhelm the other without taking equal damage. At seventeen, they were still stuck in a stalemate.

Forced to shout over the roar of their attacks Izuna said, “Love and hate aren’t so different. The more I hate, the stronger I become. And you make it so easy!”

Tobirama grit his teeth and pushed more chakra into his technique. The water dragon became engorged, slowly but surely pushing back the fire. He would have to be careful lest Izuna resort to lightning. That trick would only work once. All of a sudden, the air around Tobirama became heavy with heat, drawing sweat and turning his cheeks red. A low rumble resounded from the other side of the clash until black tongues peeked out from amidst the orange flames. They grew into thick shadows and slithered into the maw of his dragon, evaporating the water on contact. Alarmed, Tobirama swore and attempted to up the power.

It was no use. Stygian flames reared up and consumed his dragon until they forced him to release his technique and leap to safety. He’d never seen anything like it. Far hotter than any normal fire, there was something spectral about those flames.

“Izuna!”

He stood rooted to the spot, gaze slowly shifting. Tobirama felt a cold chill creep up his spine at the sight of his longtime rival with blood falling from his eyes like tears.

“There’s no cure for this curse.”

“This is what we are, Tobirama,” he said, drawing his twin daggers and advancing. “You and I...we’ll never escape it. Now fight me!”

No one would talk about their battles in the histories. Hashirama and Madara would change the landscape with their power, and Tobirama and Izuna would be there to pick up the pieces. Shadows follow their celestial masters, hiding behind the light.

xxx

“There’s something about the Uchiha that I think you need to know.”

Hashirama looked up from the paperwork he was reading by the light of a thick tallow candle outlining the terms of an alliance with the wealthy Uzumaki clan. He’d insisted on doing it himself even though Tobirama was better with this sort of thing. In any case, it mattered little. Uzumaki Mito, their closest contact and the clan representative, would smooth out any kinks Hashirama overlooked.

“Must we talk about this now? I know your opinion of them already, and I’m tired—”

“I think there’s a reason they are the way they are.”

Hashirama put down his pen and gave his brother his full attention. “Of course there is. We’ve wronged them for generations, as they’ve wronged us. It’s not like they’re doing this for fun.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Tobirama said, thinking on how best to phrase it. “They... It’s like they grow stronger the more they hate.”

“...I would assume so. Hatred is a powerful motivator.”

“No, I mean, they become physically stronger. That new Sharingan isn’t normal. You know it.”

Hashirama smiled a little. “Well, it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at.”

“Izuna said they were cursed. That I don’t understand his hatred.”

“You were speaking with Izuna? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything to him that didn’t involve a death threat.”

Tobirama stared at the wall of the small tent set up on the outskirts of Uzushiogakure, the Senju’s current outpost. His shadow flickered under the light of the candles, erratic.

“You don’t know this hatred.”

Why do you always have to be so stubborn?

“This won’t last forever,” he said. “One day, it will catch up to us. That’s what curses do. They fester.”

Hashirama was silent for a long while, and he wondered if his brother understood. “Then we’ll break the curse. That’s what I’ve been trying to do for so long. We’ll do it, Madara and I together. We will.”

“There’s no cure for this curse.”

The sun and the moon would always be the stuff of fancy, leaving the ugly truths of the world to the darkness of shadows. Tobirama left his brother to his dreaming without another word.

xxx

Years later they would talk about how Madara finally came around and made peace with Hashirama. They would talk about how Mito smoothed relations between the two leaders as a voice of reason and gentle influence. They would never speak of this day, the total eclipse of shadow over light, the first step into the abyss. Not until it was too late to turn back.

“Izuna!” Madara screamed in the distance.

His blood was surprisingly warm for someone so coldhearted. It caressed Tobirama’s hand, loosening the grip about the hilt of his sword. Even as he plunged it deeper through Izuna’s chest, his free hand came up to push too-long bangs out of his eyes. Gone was the angry red of the Sharingan. A cough drew bloody spittle.

“T-Tobirama...”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were equals, Senju and Uchiha, yin and yang. One could not exist without the other. One had no meaning without the other. A tight feeling in his throat made it hard to talk without his voice cracking.

“You were supposed to avoid that,” Tobirama said, kneeling them on the ground and supporting Izuna’s weight. “Any idiot could have avoided that.”

“I’m n-not an idiot.”

He was angry. So angry. “Damn you. Damn you to hell.”

Izuna smirked, blood dribbling down his chin. “Then I’ll wait for you there.”

Tears burned as Tobirama felt Izuna grip the hilt of his sword, only blood separating them. That was always how it had been. They were connected in every way but by blood, and in death he was sure of it.

“I suppose...you do know me...best.”

“Izuna, I—” I’m sorry.

“I know. I kn-know.”

Madara and Hashirama were running toward them, coming to their aid for the first time. The world was upside down. It should have been Madara, not Izuna. Shadows are incorporeal. They cannot die.

I am not my brother.

Izuna pushed the sword deeper and twisted it, dark eyes glazing over with the shock of pain. And still he smiled. Tobirama had never seen him smile. Hot tears dripped onto his hand, mixing with Izuna’s blood.

“Maybe...curses can be b-broken...after all.”

Not like this.

He was gone before their brothers could reach them.

xxx

It was a beautiful day in the Hidden Leaf Village. The sun was warm and a light breeze carried the scent of wildflowers to Tobirama’s porch where he sat enjoying the lazy afternoon. It was too hot for his Hokage regalia, so he’d discarded it over the back of his chair. He sensed her long before she turned the corner onto the street leading to his small abode.

“Mito.”

The redhead smiled and took a seat next to him. “Contemplating again, Hokage-sama?”

He stiffened. “Please don’t call me that.”

“It’s your title.”

“It’s my brother’s title.”

Mito’s smile faltered. “It’s yours now. He would be proud.”

Tobirama sighed. After all was said and done, he and Mito were the only ones left. It made no sense. How could shadows linger without light to guide them? He supposed he would lose his mind if not for her.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Every day...how do you do it?”

Mito put a hand over her navel, perhaps without thinking, and Tobirama could almost see her eyes run red with the Kyuubi’s hatred as it tried to consume her. How did one overcome something so potent?

“I remember what it was like to love,” she said. “But it’s impossible without knowing hatred. Otherwise, you can’t tell the difference.” Knowing eyes as verdant as the forests her husband raised for them seemed to look right through him. “Izuna understood that, and I know you do, as well.”

Tobirama clenched a fist at the memory of his late rival. His enemy. The only one who had ever understood him. Darkness may give light a place to shine, but it can never receive the same courtesy in return. They’d never needed it, anyway.

“I can’t be Hashirama. I’ll never be like him.”

“You don’t have to be. Just don’t forget him. Any of them.”

How could I?

Mito smiled and rose to leave him in peace, but his voice stopped her.

“He was wrong, you know. The Uchiha’s curse couldn’t be broken in the end. That’s why I have to do what I’m doing.”

She watched him with an unreadable look in her eyes. After all that she’d been through with Madara and Hashirama, he supposed she could understand better than most what it meant to live with a curse.

“You’re wrong. You succeeded where Hashirama failed. Stop blaming yourself for saving him.”

He let her go, too stunned to refute her statement. He could not, just as he could not bring himself to disdain Uchiha Kagami when he saw so much of his uncle in him. And he wondered if Izuna had seen Konoha, would he have smiled the way he’d smiled in death?

The sun began its descent toward the horizon. Soon, the fireflies would be out and children would run through the streets to chase them, their laughter filling the air. Tobirama would watch from the shadows as he always did.

“You and I have the best view of the light from where we stand in the shadows.”

He sighed, a smile fighting to spread. It was easy to imagine Izuna next to him here, his silent companion in the darkness even now. He never really was alone in the end.

“Yes, we do.”

#naruto fic #tobiizu #hella old fic i did 7 years ago wow the time where doth it go?#read more got messed up so reposting

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a2000yearjourney · 4 years ago

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Rome 49BC: Order from Chaos

Two thousand years ago, at the dawn of the first century, the world was ruled from Rome. Rome was in turmoil. Civil war had engulfed the empire’s capital city. Dictators seized power, and the Roman future seemed bleak. But from the chaos, the Roman Empire would rise stronger and more dazzling than ever before. Within a few short years, it would stretch from Britain, across Europe, to southern Egypt, from North Africa around the Mediterranean, to the Middle East. It would embrace hundreds of languages and religions and would till those diverse cultures into a rich soil, from which western civilizations would grow. Rome would become the world’s first and most enduring super power, spanning continents. The glory days of Rome were studded with names that reach out to us across two millennia: Ovid and Nero, Seneca and Caligula. But the story of Rome is more than the story of famous men. Millions of less familiar figures struck different chords in the symphony of empire. People such as the wealthy benefactor, Umachia. The rebel queen, Boudicca, and countless uncelebrated soldiers and slaves, senators and peasants.

Above them all, is this man, Caesar Augustus. This was the emperor who set the tone for the astonishing renaissance of Rome.

Part one of my history tells the story of Augustus, (the great-grandfather of my 51st great granduncle) and his people, the men and women who wrested order from chaos. They shaped the greatest empire the world has ever seen and launched the Roman Empire in the first century.

Two thousand years after Egypt’s pharaoh’s reigned supreme, four hundred years after the flowering of Greek culture, three hundred years after Alexander the great - a boy named Octavian was born in a small Italian town. The child would one day be called Augustus, and his birth, one ancient historian tells us, would be gilded by legend. His father, leading an army through distant lands, went to a sacred grove, seeking prophecy on the boy’s future. When wine was poured on the altar, flames shot up to heaven. The signs were heard only once before, by Alexander the Great. The priest declared that Augustus would be ruler of the world.

Suetonius tells the story. Writing at the turn of the first century, he based his biography on eyewitness accounts, on common gossip and on research conducted as imperial librarian. In truth, he writes that the prospects of young Augustus were far from grand. The boy was sickly, with few connections. His family were country people. His father was the first in their line to join the Senate. But worse - Augustus was born into dangerous times. Civil war had flared for decades. Feuding nobles fought to gain power for themselves. And Rome’s traditions of open government were often trampled underfoot. So too, were innocent bystanders. When Augustus was just four years old, his father suddenly died. Without a male mentor, the boy’s future looked bleak. But in 49 BC, when he was thirteen, Augustus’ fortunes took a dramatic turn. For in that year, his great uncle, Julius Caesar, gained the upper hand on the battlefield. Leading an army across the Rubicon River, Caesar declared himself master of Rome and ruler of an empire still aspiring to greatness. At the time of Julius Caesar, the Roman Empire was a bit like a boy who has reached six feet tall, yet he’s only fourteen or fifteen years old. He’s not yet a man. The externals of empire were there - the armies were there. The Romans governed most of the coast of the Mediterranean, with the exception of Egypt. However, they had not yet learned to bring that into a functioning organism. The past decades of internal fighting had weakened the empire. Northern tribes harried the borders. Enemies were confronting Rome in the east. And the province of Spain threatened to break free. Julius Caesar moved quickly to bolster the frontiers, and his own legacy. Caesar had no heir, so when Augustus completed a dangerous mission, Caesar adopted the teenager in his will. Karl Galinsky, Professor of Classics, University of Texas, Austin:

“Augustus realized this was a tremendous opportunity. Mind you, he had no military training, but he was the heir of the greatest political figure that was under the Roman sky at that time - and he cashed in on it.”

It was a heady opportunity for Augustus, but also a perilous challenge. For in 44 BC, foreigners were not the only threat to stability. There were enemies within Caesar’s small circle of advisors. They murdered Caesar at a meeting of the Senate. For the second time in his life, Augustus lost a father. Now, on the verge of manhood, he thrust himself into the maelstrom of Roman politics. Keith Bradley, Professor of Greek and Roman Studies, University of Victoria:

“The death of Julius Caesar was not just a turning point in Augustus’ life, it was a turning point in world history. Augustus was extremely young at this time, only in his nineteenth year. Yet when he knew that he had been made Caesar’s heir, he immediately took up the political legacy of Caesar. He entered the mainstream of Roman politics. He didn’t hesitate to try to avenge his father. That meant, of course, stepping onto the stage of politics, raising an army and immersing himself in a contest for supreme political power in Rome.”

He displayed brutality against enemy prisoners. Once, when a father and son were begging for their lives, he ordered that they should draw lots to determine which one should be executed. The father offered himself and was killed. Because of this, the son committed suicide. Augustus watched them both die. Suetonius describes the crisis as “trial by fire” and Augustus didn’t flinch from the task. He formed a strategic alliance with Marc Antony, a powerful general, who also wanted supremacy. Together they massacred their enemies in the capital. Then they pursued their rivals to the shores of Greece, where they fought and won two of the bloodiest battles in Roman history. When the carnage ended, the empire was theirs. Augustus and Antony divided the spoils of war. Augustus remained in Rome. But Antony took control of Egypt, a land not formally joined to Rome, but firmly under the empire’s command. There, he joined forces with Egypt’s queen. Ancient historians, like Cassius Dio, believed that was a fateful move. When Antony fell deeply in love with his new ally, many feared the ambitious queen was scheming to rule Rome herself. Her name was Cleopatra. Cleopatra’s brazen desire for passion and wealth was insatiable. By love, she had made herself queen of Egypt. But she failed in her goal to become queen of the Romans. Judith P. Hallett, Professor of Classics, University of Maryland, College Park:

“Cleopatra did not enjoy a good press in Rome. What really irritated people about Cleopatra was that she was a powerful woman from the east, and from a very wealthy country with a monarchic system of government. She therefore symbolized lack of moderation, lack of control, frenzied fury, everything that Rome tried not to be. Cleopatra and Antony were cast as leaders of the evil empire.” Antony’s alliance with Augustus withered. But Augustus struck first. The poet, Virgil, later cast the battle as an epic struggle of east against west. “Standing high on the stern, Augustus leads the Italians into battle. Carrying with him the bite of the Senate and the people. Opposing him, with barbarian wealth, is Antony, suited for battle. He carries with him the powers of the orient. And to the scandal of all, his Egyptian wife, their monstrous divinities raised weapons against our noble, Roman gods.” Three quarters of the Egyptian fleet was destroyed. Anthony and Cleopatra committed suicide - and the land of the pharaohs was formally annexed to the Roman Empire. Judith Hallet:

“The annexation of Egypt for Augustus was immensely important. It was the equivalent of Hitler’s troops marching through the streets of Paris. Here was a wealthy country that was going to be providing food, that was going to be providing land. But above all, it was a country of great cultural prestige, and once Rome had Egypt as part of its empire, they had truly arrived.”

A Voice:

“There is nothing that man can wish from the gods, nothing the gods can do for men which Augustus, when he returned to the city, did not do for the public, the Roman people, and the entire world. Civil wars were finished - foreign wars ended and everywhere the fury of arms was put to rest.” Upon Augustus’ return to a war torn Rome in 29 BC, the city went wild with enthusiasm. The triumphant general vowed to restore peace and security. It was a promise he would keep. The victory of Augustus launched a period of stunning cultural vitality, of religious renewal and of economic well being that spread throughout the empire. It would be called the ‘Pax Romana’ - the peace of Rome. To many, it marked the return of Rome’s mythic and glorious past. But Augustus himself would never return to the past. He was now a hardened thirty-two-year-old man - the sole ruler of the Greco-Roman world, Rome’s first emperor. Victory had been costly, but the greatest challenge still lay ahead, for to avoid the fate of Julius Caesar, Augustus must disarm the Senate and charm the masses. He must do better than win the war. He must win the peace. That challenge would occupy the rest of his life. A Voice:

“Let me step forward, clear my throat, and announce that I am a native of Soula, a few days’ journey eastward from Rome.” While Augustus fought his way to the pinnacle of power, a boy named Ovid was coming of age under less demanding circumstances. Ovid Speaks:

“I was the second son, a year to the day younger than my brother. We always had two cakes on the birthday we shared, and were close in other ways as well. We studied together, and then went up to Rome to seek our fortunes. I used to waste my time trying to write verses. My father called it waste. He disapproved of any pursuit where you could not turn a decent living, and always used to say, ‘Homer died poor.’” Ovid came from the same stock as Augustus. They were both landed gentries, and like Augustus, the young man found his identity and his ambitions moulded by his demanding family.

Ovid:

“I tried to give up poetry, to stick to prose on serious subjects, but frivolous minds like mine attract frivolous inspirations, some too good not to fool with. I kept returning to my bad habits, secretive and ashamed. I couldn’t help it, I felt like an impostor in serious matters, but I owed it to my father and my brother to try to do my duty.” By Roman law, a father wielded absolute control over his children. Those who displeased him could be disowned, sold into slavery or even killed. The young Ovid tried to meet his father’s expectations. He married, studied law - but the strain proved unendurable. Miserable, Ovid and a friend set out on a journey of self-discovery. Ovid:

“We toured the magnificent cities of Asia. We watched the flames of Mount Etna light up the heavens. We ploughed the waves in a painted ship, and also travelled by wagon. Often the roads seemed short, as we were lost in conversation. When we walked, our words outnumbered our steps - and we had too much to say, even for the long evenings of supper.” Eighteen months later, Ovid settled in Rome, older and more self-confident than before. He resolved to become a poet. He cultivated new friends in Roman literary circles, and soon, Ovid made a name for himself as Rome’s reigning poet - of stolen kisses. Ovid:

“So your husband is coming to this dinner party? I hope he gags on his food. Listen - and learn what you must do. When he settles on his couch to eat, go to him with a straight face. Look modest and lie back beside him. But secretly touch me with your foot. Don’t let him drape his arms around your neck, don’t rest your gentle head against his chest - don’t welcome his fingers to your lap or to your eager nipples. Most of all, no kissing. When dinner is done, your husband will close the bedroom door. But whatever the night shall bring, tell me tomorrow - you refused.”

Keith Bradley:

“It’s a mistake to think that Ovid’s poetry can be read very literally in purely autobiographical terms. That wouldn’t be true, I think, of any poetry from antiquity. But at the same time, Ovid is writing of subjects of which he has some sort of experience and he certainly, through the love poetry, opens up a world that is very different in tone and quality from the official atmosphere.”

While Ovid bloomed as a man of words, the new emperor thrived as a man of action. He rebuilt Rome - and his own family. Divorcing his wife, Augustus married his heavily pregnant mistress - Livia. The move raised eyebrows and hackles, as love was not the only motive. Although Augustus shunned the trappings of absolute power, many suspected he was building a dynasty - a line of heirs to rule Rome for generations to come. Augustus knew it was a dangerous move. He knew that Julius Caesar had been murdered for appearing as a king. Augustus would not make the same mistake. He relinquished high office and struck a delicate balance between fact and fiction.

Augustus writes:

“Having, by universal consent, acquired control of all affairs, I transferred government to the Senate and the people of Rome.” Judith Hallet:

“Augustus was a very cagey political leader because he pretended to be restoring all of these republican political traditions. In fact, what he was running was a full-fledged dynastic monarchy.” A Voice:

“Augustus conquered Cantabria, Aquitania, Pannonia, Dalmatia and all of Illyricum, as well as Raetia.” Augustus not only changed the empire, he expanded it. Egypt had been added early in his career. Soon, Northern Spain was joined. Augustus drove across Europe, into Germany, and he united east and west by adding modern Hungary, Austria, the Balkans and central Turkey. These victories employed Roman soldiers and senators and offered welcome distractions to the city’s poor. When Augustus wasn’t staging chariot races or gladiator shows, he displayed exotic animals, the quarry of Rome’s far-flung empire. A rhinoceros appeared in the arena, Asian tigers in the theatre and a giant serpent in the forum.

Karl Galinsky:

“One key constituency for Augustus was the plebeian population of Rome, and that is basically the city mob. You have several hundred thousand folks here who have no jobs, and to put it very simply, who need to be kept off the streets, and kept from making trouble, because it’s a very volatile, combustible mixture.” The volatile mix that made up Rome stayed quiet for the first four years of Augustus’ rule. Then, in 23 BC, events took a critical turn. Cassius Dio writes that a series of disasters convinced the people that Augustus needed not less power, but more. “The city was flooded by the over flowing river and many things were struck by lightning. Then a plague passed through Italy and no one could work the land. The Romans thought these misfortunes were caused because Augustus had relinquished his office. They wished to appoint him dictator. A mob barricaded the Senate inside its building and threatening to burn them alive, forced the Senate to vote Augustus absolute ruler.” The demands threatened to unsettle the emperor’s precarious political balance. Augustus fell to his knees before the riders. He tore his toga and beat his chest. He promised the mob that he would personally take control of the grain supply. But Augustus refused to be called a dictator. The crowd disbanded, but the lesson was clear. Augustus was riding a tiger. To keep order on the frontiers, the streets and the Senate was a super human task. Super human skills were needed. Luckily for Rome, Augustus had them. Karl Galinsky:

“Then something very fortuitous happens: Halley’s Comet shows up and the word is given out by Augustus that this is the soul of Julius Caesar ascending into heaven. So from this point on he is called Julius Caesar the divine. Politically it became very potent, because what does Augustus do at this point? On all his coinage on all his writings, on all his symbols, whatever, he puts on the words “DF”, meaning Son of the Divine. And it’s really quite an asset in politics to be the Son of the Divine. There are modern politicians I think would be very jealous of being able to do that.”

Augustus enhanced his pious new identity with stories of his lean habits. It was said that he slept in a modest house, and slept on a low bed, that he ate common foods, coarse bread, common cheese, and sometimes, even less.

Augustus:

“My dear Tiberius, not even a Jew observes a fast as diligently on the Sabbath as I have today. I ate nothing until the early hours of evening when I nibbled two bites before my rub down.”

Moral change, Augustus began to argue, was the enemy of Rome. He believed that its future ran through its past, through the restoration of the values he thought had first made Rome great. Augustus:

“I renewed many traditions which were fading in our age. I restored eighty-two temples of the gods, neglecting none that required repair at the time.” In public, Augustus led by example. He sacrificed animals in traditional rituals and he re-established traditional social rules. New laws assigned theatre seats by social rank. Women were confined to the back rows. Adultery was outlawed; marriage and children were encouraged. To many, Roman society had recovered its true course. The son of a god was building an empire for the ages. Augustus:

“Who can find words to adequately describe the advancements of these years? Authority has been returned to the government, majesty to the Senate, and influence to the courts. Protests in the theatre have been stopped, integrity is honored, depravity is punished.” But amid the applause, there were also cries of protest. The emperor’s new traditional values rankled friends and enemies alike. It even rankled his own daughter, Julia. Long a pawn of family politics, Julia assumed that she was exempt from her father’s stringent views. She was wrong. And in the coming years, Augustus, son of a god, would have to confront Augustus the father.

“If there is anyone here who is a novice in the art of love, let him read my book. With study, he will love like a professional.” As the emperor, Augustus firmly charted a course of moral rigor. The poet Ovid staked out different ground. He was now Rome’s most famous living poet, and his boldness grew in step with his reputation. Having all but exhausted the conventions of love poetry, he decided to stretch them. He began composing a manual of practical tips on adultery.

Ovid writes:

“Step one - stroll under a shady colonnade. Don’t miss the shrine of Adonis, but the theatre is your best hunting ground. There you will find women to satisfy any desire, just as ants come and go, so the cultured ladies swarm to the games. They come for the show - and to make a show of themselves. There are so many I often reel from the choice.” Many Romans yearned to follow their emperor back to the good old days of stern Roman virtue. But others reveled in the promises of Rome’s newfound peace. Ovid was one of them. To the youthful poet, old limits seemed meaningless. “Do not doubt you can have any girl you wish. Some give in, others resist but all love to be propositioned. And even if you fail, rejection doesn’t hurt. Why should you fail? Women always welcome pleasure and find novelty exciting.” Indeed, the earlier civil wars had unleashed enormous social change. Some women had gained political clout, new rights, and new freedoms. Tradition holds that one such woman was Julia, the emperor’s only child.

“Julia had a love of letters and was well educated - a given in that family. She also had a gentle nature and no cruel intentions. Together these brought her great esteem as a woman.”

Julia didn’t reject traditional values wholesale. She had long endured her father’s overbearing control. She dutifully married three times to further his dynastic ambitions, and she bore five children. Her two boys, Guyus and Luccius were cherished by Augustus as probable heirs. But like Ovid, Julia expected more from the peace. She was clever and vivacious, and she had an irreverent tongue that cut across the grain of Roman convention. Her legendary wit was passed through the centuries by a late Roman writer called Macrobius.

Macrobius writes:

“Several times her father ordered her in a manner both doting and scolding to moderate her lavish clothes and keep less mischievous company. Once he saw her in a revealing dress. He disapproved but held his tongue. The next day, in a different dress, she embraced her father with modesty. He could not contain his joy and said, ‘Now isn’t this dress more suited to the daughter of Augustus?’ Julia retorted, ‘Today I am dressed for my father’s eyes. Yesterday I dressed for my husband.’

But apparently Julia’s charms were not reserved for her husband alone. The emperor’s daughter took many lovers.

Judith Hallet:

“Her dalliances were so well known that people were actually surprised when her children resembled her second husband, who was the father of her five children. She wittily replied, “Well that’s because I never take on a passenger unless I already have a full cargo.” The meaning here is that she waited until she was already pregnant before undertaking these dalliances, so concerned was she to protect the bloodlines of these offspring.“

Julia, like Ovid, was a testament to her times. But neither of them were average Romans. The life they represented shocked traditional society to the core. And as Julia entered her thirty-eighth year, crisis loom

"In that year, a scandal broke out in the emperor’s own home. It was shameful to discuss, horrible to remember

One Roman soldier voiced deep revulsion at Julia’s extraordinary self-indulgence. "Julia, ignoring her father Augustus, did everything which is shameful for a woman to do, whether through extravagance or lust. She counted her sins as though counting her blessings, and asserted her freedom to ignore the laws of decency.” Julia’s behavior erupted into a full-blown political crisis, which was marked by over-blown claims. The emperor’s daughter was rumored to hold nightly revels in Rome’s public square. She was said to barter sexual favors from the podium where her father addressed the people. When the gossip reached Augustus, the emperor flew into a violent rage. He refused to see visitors. Upon emerging, Suetonius reports, he publicly denounced his only child. “He wrote a letter, advising the Senate of her misbehavior, but was absent when it was read. He secluded himself out of shame, and even considered a death sentence for his daughter. He grew more obstinate, when the Roman people came to him several times, begging for her sake. He cursed the crowd that they should have such daughters and such wives.” As a father, Augustus could not abide Julia’s behavior. As an emperor, he could not tolerate the embarrassment. Augustus banished Julia for the rest of her life. “I was going to pass over the ways a clever girl might elude a husband or a watchful guard. But since you need help - here is my advice.” Soon after Julia’s exile, Ovid released his salacious poem. It couldn’t have been more poorly timed. “Of course a guard stands in your way, but you can still write. Compose love letters while alone in the bathroom and send them out with an accomplice. She can hide them next to her warm flesh, under her breasts or bound beneath her foot. Should your guard get wind of these schemes, she can offer her skin for paper and carry out notes written on her body.” Ovid’s poetry extolled behavior for which the emperor’s daughter was banished. Her fate loomed large as a warning. For the present, the emperor remained mute towards Rome’s most gifted rebel. Ovid turned his hand to less provocative forms of poetry. He remarried, and he embraced a new appreciation for discretion.

“Enjoy forbidden pleasures in their place. But when you dress, don’t forget your mask of decorum. An innocent face hides more than a lying tongue.” Ovid was on notice. The order of Augustus had firm bounds of propriety and Ovid had tested them to the fullest. “Now consider the dangers of night. Tiles fall from the rooftop and crack you on the head. And the drunken hooligan, spoiling for a fight, cannot rest without a brawl. What can you do when a raving madman confronts you? Or tenants throw their broken pots out the window? You’re courting disaster if you go to dinner before writing your will.” At the turn of the first century, the poet Juvenal, was writing verses, which exposed much of Rome to scorn. He was acerbic and had a keen eye for the gritty realities of urban life. Juvenal writes:

“Our apartment block is a tottering ruin. The building manager props it up with slender poles and plasters over the gaping cracks. Then he bids us sleep safe and sound in his wretched death trap.” Ronald Mellor, Professor of History, UCLA:

I don’t think our notion of Rome bears much relation to the Rome of every day life. Because what is left today are the big public buildings, not the squalid hovels without plumbing and sanitary conditions that ordinary people lived in. That’s precisely the reason members of the elite preferred to withdraw up into the hills, and to have their villas up on the hills, a little bit away from the noise and away from the stench and away from that incredible hoard of people pressing close together. Juvenal writes:

“I would love to live where there are no fears, in the dark of night. Even now, I smell fire and hear a neighbor cry out for water as he struggles to save his measly belongings. Smoke pours out from the third story as flames move upwards, but the poor wretch who lives at the top with the leaking roof and roosting birds, is oblivious to the danger, and sure to burn.” In the year 4, in the imperial palace, the emperor, Augustus also lost sleep, but not from fear of fire. Now an old man of sixty-six, Augustus has lost much of his youthful vigor. “His vision had faded in his left eye, his teeth were few, widely spaced and worn down, his hair wispy and yellowed. His skin was irritated by scratching and vehement scraping, so that he had chronic rough spots, resembling ring worm.” As the emperor neared death, plots to succeed him sprouted. His grandsons and intended heirs had both died, unexpectedly. And the emperor himself lived under constant threat of assassination. Speaking for Augustus, one ancient historian voiced his dilemma: “Whereas solitude is dreadful,” he wrote, “company is also dreadful - the very men who protect us are most terrifying.” Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Director, British School, Rome:

“In many ways, Augustus looked so solid, and what he created looked so solid you forget the fragility. I think contemporaries were very aware of that fragility. And surely Augustus was, he was - over anxious, in a sense, to provide a secure system after he’d gone.”

At this time, there were unusually strong earthquakes. The Tiber pulled down the bridge and flooded the city for seven days. There was a partial eclipse of the sun, and famine developed. Ancient historians report that natural disasters predicted political ones. In the year 6, soldiers, the backbone of the empire, refused to re-enlist without a pay rise. New funds had to be found. Then, fire swept parts of the capital. A reluctant Augustus turned to taxation. It was a dangerous tactic, and the emperor knew it. Fearing a coup, Augustus dispersed potential enemies. He recessed the courts and disbanded the Senate. He even dismissed his own retinue - Rome remained on edge.

“The mob, distressed by the famine of the taxes after the fire… openly discussed rebellion. When night fell, they hung seditious posters.” The crisis passed. But soon a new and even greater disaster battered the aging Augustus. It began in Germany, a land of fiercely independent tribes, and to the Roman eye, rugged barbarism. The region had been recently conquered, and Roman customs were taking root - or so they thought. “The barbarians had not forgotten their ancient traditions, their free way of life or the power of arms. But, as long as they were assimilated slowly, they did not realize they were changing, and did not resist Roman influence.” That peaceful evolution stopped, however, in the year 9. The year an arrogant young General named Quinctilius Varus became commander of the Rhine army, and brought an iron fist to the province. “He forced more drastic change on the barbarians, and exacted money as if they were his subjects.” Varus disastrously miscalculated the extent of Roman control, and misjudged German compliance. A trusted German chieftain organized a full-scale revolt, and lured Varus’ troops into a trap, deep in unfamiliar terrain. “The mountains were rocky and covered with ravines. The trees were dense and tall so that the Romans were struggling to make progress. Rain began to fall in sheets. The heavy wind scattered their numbers. The ground became slippery around the tree trunks and leaves. While the Romans were dealing with these troubles, the barbarians surrounded them, suddenly coming from everywhere. First, they came from afar. Then, since no one was fighting back and many were wounded, the barbarians came ever closer, and the Romans were unable to retaliate. They kept crashing into each other…They could not grip their arrows or javelins. The rain forced their weapons from their hands. Even their sodden shields were useless. And so every man and every horse was slaughtered.” Three legions were massacred - a tenth of Rome’s army. Augustus, his biographer reports, was traumatized. “They say he was so disturbed, that for several months, he let his hair and beard grow, and would sometimes bash his head on doors and cry out 'Quntillius Varus, give me back my legions.’” The disaster in Germany underscored a stark reality. The empire was born of violence, and to violence, it ever threatened to return. The emperor was in no mood for leniency. “Believe me, love’s climax of pleasure should not be rushed, but savored. But when you reach those places a woman loves to have touched, don’t let shame get in the way, don’t back off. You’ll see her eyes shine with a trembling light, as when the sun glitters on rippling water. She’ll moan and murmur sweet words just right for the game. But don’t outpace your mistress, or let her leave you in the dust. Rush to the finish line in unison. When man and woman collapse together, they both win. That’s the greatest prize.” Ovid’s sizzling words gripped Rome when they were first published. But a decade later, they would return to haunt him. For the patience of the emperor Augustus has reached its lowest point. Beleaguered, he saw plots in every corner, anarchy in every act of disobedience. Blaming the subversive book, Augustus banished Ovid from Rome. “Hello. Are you there? If so, indulge these verses of mine. They don’t come from my garden, or from that old couch I used to sprawl on. Whoever you are and in whatever parlor or bedroom or study, I have been writing on decks, propped up against bulkheads.” The poet was sent to an untamed backwater on the edges of the empire, on the shores of the black sea. For Ovid, the ultimate urban sophisticate, no punishment could have been harsher. His roguish aplomb crumbled to anguish. “When night falls here, I think of that other night when I was cast out into the endless gloom. We managed to laugh, once or twice, when my wife found, in some old trunk, odd pieces of clothing. This might be the thing this season, the new Romanian mode. And just as abruptly, our peal of laughter would catch, and tear into tears. And we

held each other. My wife sobbed at the hearth. What could I say? I took the first step with which all journeys begin, but could not take the second. I was barely able to breathe. I set forth again. Behind me, she fell, rolling, onto the floor, her hair swept onto the hearth, stirring up the dust and ashes. I heard her call my name. I thought I had survived the worst - what could be worst? But my wife arose, pursued me, held on to me weeping. Servants pulled her away. Whatever worth there was in me died there.”

Ovid was sure his talents would bring him home. He wrote constantly. And as he waited, he sought refuge in a remote frontier town. When the temperatures dropped, Ovid wrote, the wine froze in its vessels, the river in its banks. Across the ice thundered hostile horsemen, plundering and killing. It was a brutal life. Ovid wrote home from exile, a side of the empire that few Romans ever saw. “Beyond these rickety walls there’s no safety. And inside it’s hardly better. Barbarians live in most of the houses - even if you’re not afraid of them you’ll despise their long hair and clothes made of animal skins. They all do business in their common language. I have to communicate with gestures. I am understood by no one, and the stupid peasants insult my Latin words. They heckle me to my face, and mock my exile.” Writing for this audience, Ovid complained, was like “dancing in the dark.” As the years passed, Ovid shrivelled into a bony old man. He fell ill. Contrition replaced his former bravado. “Oh, I repent I repent. If anyone as wretched as I can be believed, I do repent. I am tortured by my deed.” Ovid, however, never got an answer to his pleas. And would never get a reprieve. As he approached death, he became sadly resigned to his fate. “Look at me. I yearn for my country, my home, and for you. I have lost everything that I once had. But I still have my talent. Emperors have no jurisdiction over that. My fame will survive, even after I am gone. And as long as Rome dominates the world, I will be read.” Nine years into his exile, Ovid died. He outlived Augustus, but he had bent to the emperor’s will. At the start of the emperor’s public life, Augustus had won the wars engulfing Rome. By the end, he had won the peace, and men like Ovid paid the price. In the years ahead, when lesser men would rule Rome, that price would rise higher still. “Oh Jupiter and Mars and all gods that raise the Roman Empire to ruler of the world, I invoke you and I pray - guard this prosperity, this peace, now and into the future.” In the year 14, prayers such as these were heard around the vast dominion ruled by Rome. For in that year, the empire stood at a precipice. The emperor Augustus had died. Augustus had been a towering figure. He had extinguished a century of civil war. He presided over forty years of internal peace and prosperity. He forged the vision and power that cemented the empire together. But the peace of Augustus came at a price. By the end of his life, Augustus had eclipsed the Senate, ruled as a monarch, and founded a dynasty that was fraught with troubles. His heirs, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius - these men would lead Rome through years of political terror, imperial madness, assassination - and through the distant founding of a new religion that would one day engulf the empire itself. The years to come would be years of trial - testing the endurance of subjects and citizens, soldiers, and slaves. The men and women of the Roman Empire in the first century.

#order from chaos

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yelena-bellova · 5 years ago

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Nights With You (Steve x Reader)

Plot: You and Steve have an unusual way of processing grief and stress after grueling missions. You know it’s unhealthy and the two of you need to be smarter, especially when there’s feelings involved. But damn it, you couldn’t stop even if you tried...

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning: heavy angst, STEAMY but only alludes to (and mentions) smut...

A/N: I was completely inspired by this cover of Toxic by Nina Nesbitt (check her out, she’s incredible...) and I love the concept of the type of relationship Steve and the reader have where it’s totally unhealthy but they’re two idiots secretly in love with each other so what could you possibly expect from them? LOL. I’ll leave it up to you guys if there should be a part two or not...Hope you enjoy! P.S. Apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors, the spell checker app I use messes up sometimes and I wrote this in a hurry...

You and the team had just returned from a grueling mission. The kind that warranted complete silence on the Quinjet ride home. Hostages had died, bad guys got away and innocent bystanders had been injured. Everybody was in their own little world right now beating themselves up for not doing more. Each of you piled in the compound’s elevator once home, one by one exiting to your respective floors. After Natasha walked out the door and mumbled a goodnight, it was just you and Steve left in the heavy silence.

The second the doors closed, Steve grabbed your hips and pressed your lips together.

You wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself, your legs already weak from the battle. As if he could read your mind, his hands slid down to your thighs and lifted you up to wrap your legs around his waist. Your lips were both battling for dominance, but there was an unspoken tenderness in every kiss you shared. You were so wrapped up in him, you hadn’t even heard the elevator ding announcing that you’d arrived on your floor. Steve exited the elevator, still carrying you, and headed towards your bedroom. You moved your lips away from his to his cheek, hurriedly moving down to meet his neck. Steve let out a soft moan at the action and quickened his pace down the hall, kicking your bedroom door open. You continued to work on his neck until your back slammed against the back of your door, shutting the two of you in your room for the foreseeable future. Steve slammed his lips against yours, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet. He lowered you to the ground and you began to strip each other of your uniforms, your lips only separating when Steve’s gear had to come off over his head. Your suit was much like Natasha’s, all he had to do was slide a zipper and you were free of it. Stepping out of it, you and a shirtless Steve stumbled to your bed and fell onto it. His lips moved from your lips to your neck and began administrating borderline sinful kisses. The moans that he caused to escape your lips caused him to give a ghost of a smile against your skin, he loved that he could have that effect on you. Though you loved what he was doing, you grabbed his face and lowered his lips back down to meet yours again. The two of you continued this until you felt Steve’s hands left your skin and moved to remove his pants.

It happened like this every time…

It hadn’t always been like this. You and Steve were best friends ever since you’d joined the team, which hadn’t been long after the Battle of New York. You helped him acclimate to modern times and the two of you were pretty much glued at the hip. He knew you better than anybody else in the world, and vice versa. Though you had always harbored feelings for the super soldier, you’d convinced yourself that you’d never be able to tell him lest you lose him from your life. So you continued as you were; best friends and teammates. Till one day, you couldn’t recall when, the missions began taking a heavier toll on the team. You came back more exhausted, more beaten down, and more emotionally drained. After a particularly heavy recon in Nigeria a few months back where Clint had been compromised and almost killed (had it not been for you, he’d have died), Steve had visited your floor after changing out of his gear. You were on your couch, already on your second glass of red wine, contemplating the events of the day. Steve came to sit next to you and wrapped you in his arms, you let out a few silent tears and buried your face in his neck. You felt the goosebumps come to life on him as your lips accidentally grazed his skin, a small groan escaping him. Steve’s body went stiff, afraid that you’d heard his reaction to the contact. You raised your head and looked at him, he was already sputtering trying to come up with an explanation. Call it adrenaline, call it alcohol, you decided to take a chance and press your lips to his. When you expected him to pull away and reject you as a lover, an Avenger and a friend, he ended up pulling you onto his lap and advancing the kiss. The two of you spent that night making love, talking through the mission’s emotional after effects and simply resting in each other’s arms.

That became your new routine. Anytime either or both of you returned downtrodden and burdened from the heaviness that came with your job as Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, you’d simply knock on each other’s bedroom door and lose yourself in each other’s arms for the night. You knew it was unhealthy and that you both needed to process your emotions another way, but you couldn’t say no to him or stop yourself from initiating it. Each time this man kissed you or touched you, you turned to putty in his hands and you loved it. You and Steve remained best friends, but the two of you would never address any feelings you may have, even though you both were aware there was something much more meaningful behind your nights together. You were in love with him, uncontrollably, but still too afraid to say anything.

Tonight, after the two of you had caught your breath for the third time of the night, you turned to face Steve. He was staring aimlessly at the ceiling, clearly in his own head thinking about something. You rolled over on your side and rested your hand on his sweaty shoulder. As if he could hear you silently wondering what he was thinking about, he explained himself. “I can’t stop thinking about them…” he whispered. You already knew that he meant the S.H.I.E.L.D hostages who died because the team hadn’t gotten to them fast enough. You were carrying the same grief in your chest, still seeing the helpless faces of husbands, wives, parents, friends who would never see their loved ones again. Yet here you were laying in bed with the man you loved and living in the same building as your best friends/surrogate family. It felt unfair to you that you got to continue living happily and they didn’t.

“I know we can’t save everyone, but…If we’d have gotten there a little sooner, we could have done it. We could have saved them.” Steve continued, a single tear streaming down his face. He quickly wiped it away and ran a hand through his messy head of hair. You didn’t dare speak a word, you wanted him to have total freedom to talk everything out that was weighing on him.

“You know what really scares me? Those hostages could have been any of us…What if one day one of us is on the other end of the gun?” Steve had just voiced the exact fear you had on every mission. Your greatest fear was rounding a corner to the target and seeing their gun pressed against Steve’s temple, unable to save him. Your eyes began to well up at the thought, losing him was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. As if he could sense it, he turned to face you and at the sight of you crying, he took your cheek into his warm hand. Your turned into his palm and tried to remind yourself that he was right here with you, not lost forever. Little did you know that he was feeling the exact same way. “Every mission I’m afraid that this one is going to be the one that I’ll lose you.” he confessed softly, his face illuminated only by a lamp in the far corner of the room. Every emotion on his face was visible; the true fear that he’d voiced, the little gleam of lust in his eyes still, the joy of holding you in his arms…And what you thought may have been a look of love. You nodded in response to his words, wishing that you could tell him everything you were feeling.

Unable to find the words, you simply leaned down to tearfully press a passionate kiss to Steve’s lips and allowed him to trap your body under his again. Though this time was not as frantic and heated as the rest of the night, this was filled with emotions you couldn’t put into words. Your lips moved together perfectly in sync, as they always did, and your hands grasped his biceps as if to anchor him to you. You both needed the physical reminder that you hadn’t yet lost each other and were 100% there.

You wanted to tell him everything you were feeling. How he could never lose you, how much you had always loved him, how badly you wanted to call him your own, how you wanted him for the rest of your life and how much these nights of passion meant to you…

But those confessions were better saved for another time. For now, you were just happy to spend another night in the arms of the man you loved. Even if it was under cruel circumstances…

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wakaoujisenhime · 4 years ago

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Can a request a fic where levi's s/o is still in the underground and practically runs it then something happens (maybe scouts getting killed) which gets her to a trial (just like eren in s1) and she gets to the corps but she's as rude as she was on the trial even when she sees levi then somehow levi manages to make up with her?? idk please do your magic

A/N: Ok so I didn’t intend for this to turn out how it did! It’s actually quite funny how the trial became some kind of Danganronpa/Phoenix Wright hybrid, but I hope I could capture what you wished for! Please enjoy it .◟(ˊᗨˋ)◞.

and yes...the ending was planned to be that way ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Tags: Levi x reader ✅ SFW ✅ slight fluff ✅ minimal angst ✅

━━━━☆ ━━━━☆ ━━━━☆

You idiot - Levi x reader

Humanity’s strongest soldier was quite the nostalgic type of person, despite his appearance. If someone claimed that he would like to stare out his office’s window and reminisce about the good old times in the underground, people wouldn’t have believed that. Yet here he was doing exactly that.

For him, it was perhaps the hardest and most lonely time in his entire life. Had it not been for Furlan, Isabelle, and you.

At first, it had been just the three of them, you joined their crew later on after witnessing a fight between them and some of your teammates. After separating and calming them down you proceeded with an introduction of yourself.

(Y/N)...

You led the majority of the underground people and their respective crews almost like a mayor. Every shop and every inhabitant knew of your capable and fair way of handling confrontations or business in general. They knew, respected, and loved you, especially Levi.

At first, he was reluctant to be one of your many supporters so instead of relying on rumors, he decided to construct an image of you by himself based solely on his own impressions.

That was perhaps the first time he came across gossip that turned out to be based on reality. You exceeded his expectations in more ways than one.

Whatever you did or said had a great impact on Levi and even made him change some of his bad habits, abandoning his laid-back gangster lifestyle was one of his many changes.

And not soon after, the young man joined the survey corps - a decision he wasn’t so proud of, so he decided to keep it from you. Being able to leave the underground and be a part of that squad was something you had wished for since long ago, so he thought that this news would’ve scarred your friendship.

So after some months, he disappeared without telling you anything, leaving you behind confused, sad and a tad scared.

You asked yourself if you did anything wrong.

Did you upset him by any chance?

Why would he leave without telling you anything?

You were friends...right?

Levi’s sudden disappearance left you with a sour and hurt feeling. You tried to come up with an excuse that should’ve erased at least some of your negative thoughts, but you failed...

The man frowned as he remembered the expression you wore the moment you first saw him again...in court.

Erwin had sent some of the scouts down to the underground to recruit more soldiers, some weeks ago. On that day Levi had to do some paperwork so he stayed behind in the headquarters. You, on the other hand, had to run some errands at the other end of the underground, so you ended up missing the survey corps.

The moment you came back the thing you were greeted with first was a pair of cold handcuffs around your wrists.

“You killed some of our scouts and hid them behind building XX...the exact same building you came out of some minutes ago.”

That was the accusation the police had thrown at you, based on the fact that your boots were stained with a few drops of blood and that you were the only person without an alibi for the time of the crime.

The majority of your followers supported you and knew that you’d never commit such a crime - especially not against the organization you wanted to be a member of - but much to your dismay, the military police were way more adamant than anyone would’ve given them credit for.

It was just a matter of time and the news had already reached the captain’s ears.

“There’s no way (Y/N) would do that…!”, he thought.

Of course, as Erwin’s right-hand man he had to be present during your trial and stand there, accusing the woman he had so much respect and love for…

Love…

Since when did he fall in love with you? What was the trigger and why did he never mention it to you?

So many questions and he still hasn’t managed to find a single answer to any of them.

He wanted to sort his feelings out before the trial so that you could return to the underground as the innocent woman that you were before the accusations of murder had stained your white vest. Unfortunately, the firm knock on his office’s door signalized him that the trial was about to start, alas there was no time for him to rearrange his thoughts.

———

The trial had barely begun and almost everybody was ready to vote you as guilty.

Firstly some of the guards had to literally drag you to the pillar in the middle of the room, some bystanders even had to help out in restraining your struggling figure.

When they tried to tie you to the column though, you managed to throw one of the several men onto the ground.

If that had not been enough to shift the jury’s opinion about you then fear not, since that wasn’t the end of it.

You insulted the police, stating just how incompetent they were for arresting you just because of your old and dirty shoes. You even went as far as to actually spit in front of you the moment the judge had commanded you to stop yelling and resisting.

“What is that idiot thinking?”

Looking at the way you mocked the entire courtroom kept Levi on his toes the entire time and luckily there was a person who knew why and was willing to help him out.

“Excuse me, judge, may I speak?”

The deep and raspy voice of the survey corps’ leader echoed throughout the entire room, silencing not only you but also the entire bench. It was the first time you looked to your left side and noticed the familiar face that had apparently one focus - namely you.

“L-Levi…?”, you whispered in disbelief. And even though no one heard your silent voice, he was aware that your immediate change in behavior was caused by him.

“Right captain Ackermann?”

Erwin suddenly calling him in such a formal fashion was something the soldier would never get used to, but it was the wake-up call he needed right now. The black-haired man caught a glimpse of Hanji who was pointing at a thick stack of papers she held onto.

Evidence.

He cleared his throat and looked up at the elderly man who eagerly awaited what Levi had to say...

———

“(Y/N), hold up!”

“Stop following me Levi, I want to be alone right now!”

Ignoring your plea, the man took a hold of your wrist, causing you to freeze up and involuntarily oblige. You didn’t want to turn around and faze him, too afraid to show the happy and relieved face you were making.

The reason behind your good mood wasn’t because you were pronounced innocent, nor was it because your long-lived dream to join the survey corps had finally come true, no...

Levi had saved you...and the way he did it, made your heart race.

“Your honor, I’d like to run this case by you one more time…”

“If I’m correct, then the military police arrested miss (L/N), because she had no alibi during the time of the crime, correct?”

“Did the officers take her statement about where she was because there have been some new findings concerning that…”

“There have been several people who saw her talk to XX during the time some of our scouts were murdered.”

“Furthermore...it has come to our attention that another person was seen with the victims just before they lost their lives.”

“Oh and concerning the issue with her shoes...they’ve been this dirty since I’ve known her.”

“(Y/N)...look at me.”

You hesitated but after some time you once again gave in to his request.

“How long has it been since the two of us looked into each other’s eyes like that?”

“Since you left the underground...you jerk”, was your answer, and to make sure he understood that the insult was just a joke, you softly punched his upper arm.

The frown that contorted his features reminded you of what had happened just a few minutes ago.

Just a few minutes after the judge had agreed to pronounce you as innocent, the three main faces of the survey corps took you to their main office.

Erwin had then started a speech, talking about how they had found evidence that the real culprits behind the killings were actually aiming for you and whatnot. You didn’t or better you couldn’t listen to the man you once respected and dreamed to work for...at the moment the only person you gave your entire attention to was none other than Levi.

The two of you were looking at each other, your expressions perfectly recreating the inner turmoil that occupied both of your minds.

Guilt. Sadness. Worry. Anger.

Annoyance. Relief. Wonder. Countless questions.

It was evident that right now wasn’t the best time to tell you the reason you became part of the survey corps.

It was not because of your skills, but because of the judge’s fear that you’d run rampage if the jury had voted for guilty.

Unfortunately, Erwin wasn’t a man to sugarcoat the truth, so he straight out told you that it was all just a pretense and that right now you were under severe surveillance.

“I’m leaving.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not some of your reckless cadets that need surveillance 24/7, I’m a full-grown woman that can look out for herself and besides I think we all saw just how good your ‘surveillance’ was when your scouts were killed off down in the underground, didn’t we?”

“(Y/N), what are yo-“

“Shut up, you ungrateful prick. I’ve had my fill of jerk for today, so please refrain from talking to me and Sir Smith...I think we can agree that neither you nor I want to play babysitter so let’s all just take care of our own business without the whole ‘I’m the leader so I have to do this’ mentality, ok?”

After saying that you straight out left the room, not even bothering to close the door and that’s how Levi ended up following after you...which brings us to the present situation.

“Even after so many years, I see that you still haven’t changed that rude attitude of yours.”

Your eyes widened at his sudden retort and caused you to chuckle.

“Render me surprised...who would’ve thought that the adorable Levi Ackerman who used to look up to me would one day become so sassy.”

He should’ve at least cracked a smile at that, but he oddly didn’t and you had a hunch why.

“(Y/N)...I’d like to explain some things to you, so will you listen to me for a second?”

“Well it’s going to take more than just a second, isn’t it?”

The moment that question left your mouth, you instantly regretted it.

In truth, all you wanted was to finally clear things up between you guys and luckily Levi appeared to desire that as well.

“I’m sorry that I disappeared without telling you, but I was afraid that the moment you found out about the offer I had gotten, it might hurt you since I-“

“Since you got the position I wanted before me?“

A reluctant nod followed instead of an answer and all you could respond to that was: “You idiot.”

After that, you couldn’t help but laugh at how pointless all of it had seemed and not soon after the man in front of you joined in.

Your laughing voices resonated around the silent and usually dull halls of the survey corps headquarters.

Levi was laughing at himself and how stupid of him it was to assume your reaction beforehand, despite knowing full well that all you ever wanted was the absolute best for the people who were most important to you.

You were laughing at how immature your way of acting was towards the court, Erwin, and most importantly Levi. It was no secret that you felt bad for making him feel that way and it honestly surprised you at how much he had grown as a person since he’d left the underground. His growth had really surprised and impressed you at the same time, you even played with the thought of confessing to him right then and there, but then again...that might’ve been a little bit too much for your first ‘real’ conversation after so long.

Is now a good time...?

A pair of grey eyes looked at your laughing face as you slowly started walking away.

If not now...then when?

His hands were sweaty and trembled ever so slightly causing his nervousness to go up on a higher level than it already had been.

It’s now or never!

“Levi? What’s wrong..?“

The man just realized that he had held onto your hand, stopping you from walking just like before.

“(Y/N)...”

Do it!

“...”

#snk scenarios #aot scenarios #snk x reader #aot x reader #levi x reader #snk angst #aot angst #snk fluff #aot fluff #━𝚂𝙽𝙺 #━𝙰𝙾𝚃 #━𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽'𝚂 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾

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thetunewillcome · 5 years ago

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The Weight of Ice

31 Days of Ineffables Prompt #16: ice storm

Word Count: 1817

London lay under ice. Everything was frozen in place, all the routines of all its citizens surrendered to the storm. Schools and businesses had closed. Most roads sat vacant. Some motorways were littered with abandoned vehicles, not a driver in sight. Fresh snow covered empty sidewalks. Overnight, ice and quiet had spread in thin, fractal layers over the whole city.

The only sounds shattering the day’s silence came from parks. The city’s normally-green spaces had become playgrounds for bored and adventurous children, excited by the prospect of a whole school-free day ahead of them. In Greenwich Park, kids hauled sleds up the hill and then raced back to the bottom. In Regents Park, they tested the edge of the frozen pond, shuffling away from land until fear took over and they skated, laughing, back to solid ground.

And in St. James’ Park, a boy scraped together enough snow for a snowball and torpedoed it at his friend. It flew through the air, narrowly missing an innocent bystander, and hit its target in the chest. A chase ensued, complete with violent war cries, and while everyone else either ignored the boys or shook their heads in disapproval, a shivering figure in a dark coat, collar buttoned to his chin, watched with an amused half-smile.

Have you seen a sheet of ice seconds before collapse? The surface laced with growing scars; the crackling groan of anticipation, barely audible but there. The suspended moment when you realize it will all dissolve to ruin soon. Don’t blink. Don’t even breathe. Perhaps you can hold it all together if you want it bad enough. If you’re really still. But suddenly, it fractures. Shards fall, jagged edges that can never be patched together again. You’ve lost.

To Crowley, the whole world was an endangered pane of ice. In less than a year, a boy, who lived a few miles away and looked a bit like the one tackling his friend to the ground, would turn eleven. If they had done their jobs well, nothing would change. The surface would hold.

If they hadn’t done enough – and, really, when had they ever done enough to prevent human suffering, to divert divine plans? – the world would break apart. All this would shatter and disappear: the park, the people, the snow, the city. For now, all existed in suspended animation. Nothing to do but wait, keep still, and measure the cracks for signs of growth.

(Keep reading below or on AO3 here.)

From where he stood, leaning against a bare, frost-tipped tree, Crowley was barely noticeable. His red hair stood out starkly against the white blanketing the land, but if Crowley didn’t want to be noticed, he wouldn’t be. No one glanced in his direction, not even the parents, who were busy teaching kids to make snow angels or comforting little ones who had slipped on ice.

Not even Aziraphale, who had wandered into the park, neck wrapped up in a thick tartan scarf, and was now standing by the edge of the ice-laced water. Crowley smiled, tipped forward instinctively toward him, and then froze. They hadn’t arranged to meet; they had separately been drawn to the park on this bright, brisk day. With a hum of contemplation, he settled back against the tree.

On this day of rarities, when snow had stuck to London’s streets, Crowley seized the chance to study him. The square, sharp shoulders of a soldier. The light curls that matched the sunlight shining off the icy surface of the water. The way he clasped one gloved hand in the other behind his back. He felt pulled in his direction, but he resisted. A few more minutes, he thought, a child in bed on a bone-chilling morning, willing extra seconds into the day so they can soak in heat just a little longer. He’ll never know. It was a delicacy, getting to look without being watched in return. He was so used to keeping his guard up, minding where his eyes lingered, even when his lenses hid them, just in case Aziraphale could feel the fire of his stare.

Like a kid plunging a bare hand in the snow, covetous, foolhardy, Crowley let himself imagine. What it would be like, walking down to stand next to him and not caring who might see. Dusting snow off those rigid shoulders, feeling them sink a little, relax into his touch. Tugging apart those worrying hands so he could hold one in his own. Pressing his lips to the spot where a curl met his temple, forgetting himself in the smell of bergamot and book dust. Hastening him home with tempting tongue until he could warm his chilled, pink skin behind closed doors.

Aziraphale’s head turned to the side and a puff of frosted breath escaped his lips and Crowley watched, the familiar glowing embers of desire sparking to full flames. Tell him, whispered that reckless voice in his head. Tell him before this all falls to ruin. While you still can. The clock is ticking… Crowley shut it up with a practiced shake of his head, his jaw clenched tightly to keep words from spilling out, even though Aziraphale would never hear them from this distance. Someone else might. Someone who could use those words against them. So he kept quiet.

Then, somehow, Aziraphale noticed him. Their eyes met, and his face lit up with recognition. He waved - a little wiggle of gloved fingers - and then replaced his hand behind his back as if remembering he shouldn’t be excited to see the enemy. Something in Crowley’s chest snapped. Screw it, he thought as he let himself be willed down toward the water, toward Aziraphale. Maybe I should tell him. If we don’t pull this off… If this all goes up in flames and we’re forced into the war and he never knew…

“Crowley!” His name on those chaste lips, something chiming in the ring of it. Fresh from his self-indulgent fantasy, it licked wildfire down his spine. Aziraphale turned in greeting and then went back to watching the water. “Hello. Should I blame you for this cold spell, then?”

“Nah.” He may have taken advantage of the storm, bursting a few pipes here and there on his walk to the park, but he hadn’t started it. “Too quiet. Not my style.”

“It is quiet, isn’t it? Rare to see the city like this, so peaceful.”

“Mmm.” Crowley noticed that his eyes were the color of the icy water, then hated himself for noticing. Say it, but in the dead quiet, with the city hushed and the snow muffling all noise, it felt as if finally spitting out those words would rattle it all to destruction.

A scream of delight came from behind them. “The children do seem to be making the best of the storm.”

The boy with the snowball was now shoving a handful of snow down the back of a girl’s coat. He swallowed a laugh. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale studied him for a moment, a sad smile on his face. “Remind you of someone?”

Behind his glasses, Crowley winced. Always. Why could he always read him? He wasn’t one of Aziraphale’s precious books; if he was, he’d earn the touch of tender hands in exchange for all his secrets. Instead, he felt like some flayed creature, killed and cut until his heart was on display, pinned in place. He shrugged and shoved his chin deeper into the collar of his coat.

“I do worry about him, alone with his parents now. Ten is a bit old for a nanny, I suppose, but he was so attached to you. You did a wonderful job with him, you know. Er – wonderfully evil, I mean.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale’s admiring gaze. Crowley knew he was picturing skirts and bedtime stories and spelling lessons in the garden, and he couldn’t stand it. His dismissal and departure still stung; his short hair felt too light, made him untethered, bare. “He’ll be fine.” He tried to sound as cold as the water before him. “Gotta grow up sometime.”

Aziraphale made a face that told Crowley he wasn’t fooling him. Course not. Still, the angel knew to respect the lines Crowley drew in the sand – or snow – between them. Knowing what was coming, Crowley held his breath. “Well, I had best be on my way. I should reopen the shop for the afternoon, though I doubt anyone will brave the ice for a book.”

I’ll come with you, he wanted to say. But first, let’s walk the park. Make footprints in the untouched snow, yours next to mine. I’ve something to tell you. I’ll keep you warm, I promise. But Aziraphale didn’t need him for that: he could will himself warm. They didn’t live on the same grounds anymore, hadn’t since summer. They were back to needing excuses, one for each stolen minute together, and on this grey-blue day, with everything at a stand-still, there weren’t any left. “Alright, angel. Be safe. Mind the black ice.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at that. “Ah, yes, one of yours, if memory serves. I’ll be careful.”

He still hadn’t moved from Crowley’s side, and Crowley still hadn’t exhaled. Silently, Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it, reconsidering. The warm breath behind his unspoken words dissipated into the winter air. After a moment, he said quietly, “don’t be a stranger.” And then he turned, walking stiffly away, shoes crunching on the snow and ice.

When he was gone, Crowley let himself breathe out, watching the smoke-like vapor trail out of his mouth to be blown away in the biting wind. Ice shifted on the pond, pieces breaking off to float toward deeper waters. In the wake of Aziraphale’s departure, he felt splintered in places that had felt whole before, or at least numb. He watched the water for a while longer, frozen in place with the rest of London.

What hovered between them, persistent and powerful, was surely much too heavy for the fractured surface of their world. Aziraphale knew it: that was why he didn’t press him, hurried back to his rightful place, let him be. Nothing to do but wait. Hold strong. Hunker down. Stay the course. Never mind how the weight of ice can snap power lines, fell ancient trees if you let it build for long enough, layer upon heavy layer. He glanced down at the collection of footprints to his left and sighed. How he wanted to follow them. Not smart. Not safe. May as well linger, then, in the quiet paralysis of the city.

Just before sunset, the crowd of children began to thin. Stomping in their heavy boots, dragging sleds or siblings behind them, no one paid any attention to the figure by the water, snowflakes collecting in his auburn hair as he stood perfectly still, listening for something, perhaps, or waiting for the ice to thaw.

(Read my other 31 Days of Ineffables fics here on AO3. A million thanks to @drawlight for the inspiration, and best of luck at your new job!)

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ice storm #winter #pining #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #silences #ice #waiting for armageddon #former-nanny crowley #my writing #reblogs are encouraged #thanks for reading #stay warm everyone

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greenhairedninja · 6 years ago

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The Start Of Something New

My entry for the Overwatch Rarepair Week 2018

July 9th: perseverance | college au University AU

Masterlist of all my works here (haven’t added this one yet because AO3 won’t let me, as soon as it works again for me it will be added and you can read it on there as well)

This is also sort of a background story of my Reinhardt in a University AU. Big thanks goes to @gazeintotheiris for inspiring me with this AU and I hope there’s many more ideas and stories incoming <3

When Reinhardt Wilhelm had first signed his contract for the teaching position at a well-known international university, he had expected his life to change once more and many new things to happen. The changes that were going to happen, though, were something he could not have prepared himself for...he fell in love.

Moving from the city that was his hometown during his time as a student to a new city, even a new country, was a pleasant change of scenery and the first major change in his life in quite a while.

His extraordinary doctoral thesis had opened him the opportunity for this teaching position and the possibilities that were now in front of him seemed almost endless. Even though he had always stayed humble about his own achievements, Reinhardt was proud to have his research and the many stressful hours that he had spent on writing his thesis acknowledged in such a way.

After the first two years teaching he finally finished his first book, a small project he had been writing since his time back in Stuttgart. Much to his surprise, no one else seemed to see it as a ‘small’ project and the sales figures went through the roof. Never would he have thought that people would be so interested in history and philosophy still, but maybe there was something about an ex-soldier, now professor, writing about his experiences with different cultures and the daily confrontations with life and death when on missions in warzones.

As a result to his book being such a huge success, his teaching contract had been extended indefinitely and as a bonus, even though he did not need it thanks to the major sales of his first book, his salary had been raised.

Moving from the small apartment he had first gotten when he moved to the city, into a small house he had bought at the edge of town, Reinhardts life was beginning to settle into a pleasant routine. Time passed with him teaching, researching and writing a second book which kept him busy and content.

That was until he met him in one of his classes.

*****

The new semester had just started and Reinhardt was eager to meet the new students that he was going to teach.

His own background in history and philosophy made it possible for him to teach the lower semesters in almost all of the basic classes that they had to take. Every time he was able to meet young, eager minds who were just waiting to be filled with information Reinhardt found himself reassured that teaching had been the right one decision. Giving these young generations everything they needed so they could mold and form their own ideas, walk their own paths, stand up for what they believe to be right…just like Reinhardt had.

The five years he spent with the military had shaped him into the man he was now and they were the reason he would always thrive for will always make him thrive for peace and equality even if he was not able to actively defend the many, many innocent bystanders anymore. Just a couple of weeks before his 23rd birthday a bomb had gone off right next to Reinhardt and had ended his active duty in the military. Some of the rubble hit Reinhardt directly in the head, causing him to black out and wake up several days later, already back home in Germany in one of the hospitals taking care of wounded soldiers.

The shock of having lost the sight in his left eye and the realization hitting him that his career in the military was over had pushed Reinhardt into a dark place.

To pull himself out of it, Reinhardt decided to go to university and study. Pulling himself out of the dark place he had let himself fall into, Reinhardt decided to study, honoring the lives of his comrades who had been lost in the same attack that he had survived. Having seen many different places on earth and talking to all different kinds of people, he chose to study history in Stuttgart, his hometown. Over the years his interest in philosophy grew. Having seen enough death and war to contemplate the reason of life, the reason why he was alive instead of his comrades, the choice was an easy one. After finishing his Bachelor thesis he continued studying, taking on the philosophy master study of his university and finishing it a couple of months after his 30th birthday.

Thanks to one of his professors, who also became his doctoral adviser later on, Reinhardt decided to take on his doctoral degree. It took him five years filled with research and writing and not much else, all his free time spent teaching in the bachelor studies of both history and philosophy. not much more than research, writing and the first teaching posts in the bachelor studies of both history and philosophy.

*****

Now, being almost 38 years old, he found himself looking over to the faces of each and every student seated in front of him. Bright young eyes looking back at him with expectations.

“Welcome, students. My name is Reinhardt Wilhelm and I will be your professor for this class. We shall see each other quite a lot these first few months of your study so I hope we will all get along nicely.”

His introduction made the room break out in soft whispers and Reinhardt used the time until the small conversations settled once again to take in the room. He had gotten used to his students whispering and talking, and did not take it personally, knowing his presence is special, as his height and build easily set him apart from most other people. The scar on the left side of his face and the white of his blind eye were usually what people talked about the most.

Letting his gaze wander one last time over the rows of students it is suddenly caught by a young man he had not noticed before. His bright brown eyes caught Reinhardt’s blue one, holding his gaze briefly before blinking and turning towards the man next to him, replying to something he had just been asked. Reinhardt took in the sight of the young man, noticing that he was just as different from the rest of the class, his shaved head and darker skin making him stand out in the crowd.

And all of a sudden Reinhardt remembered hearing about him; the faculty had been informed that from this year on they would have a monk among the students, who had travelled all the way from Nepal and had gotten into their university thanks to a scholarship. Something Reinhardt did not judge or think about any longer, after all his own university time had mostly been paid by scholarships thanks to the military.

Shaking himself from his thoughts and finally moving his eyes away from the young man, he returned his attention to the entire class - after all, there was teaching to be done.

This short moment the two of them shared, holding each others gaze locked like that would be the beginning of the biggest change in both Reinhardt’s and in the life of the mysterious young man.

#ovwrarepair #overwatch rarepairweek 2018 #Reinyatta #Reinhardt Wilhelm #Zenyatta Tekhartha #University AU #my writing #my art

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etherealblasphemy · 7 years ago

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the story that doesn’t know what genre it wants to be

my brain had an idea for a sci-fi/adventure/dystopia story, and here we are. we have the wonderful Sanders Sides in the starring roles, along with some ocs because I needed to put the name “calrex bennova” somewhere. enjoy my headcannons as offering #1 :)

The Universe:

-Made up of thousands of galaxies, what we mortals call “AUs”

-Common languages include Laolae, Kirou, Aresan, and Falafel (I was hungry writing this)

-Rumors say that there is a dangerous creature lurking in the cold depths of space, but only conspiracy theorists on message holograms would believe that...

-Strings of galaxies are often ruled under one leader, because most species are kind and have their act together unlike humans

-Speaking of humans, Earth is dead. :) there was a great meme war (haha no, it was something much more dark...)

-Logan, Roman, Patton, and Virgil are all outlaws aboard the ship Sanders Yersinia, all with prices on their heads.

Logan:

-A highly advanced prototype of AI-ingrained people. They look like people, function like people, but don’t have icky emotions get in the way of reasoning and judgement.

-Oops Logan’s creator made a mistake so Logan does have something resembling emotions.

-His original name is L.O.G.I.C., but whatever it stood for was lost to a fire, in which Logan’s creator also perished. Patton called him Logan by accident, and the name just stuck.

-He is wanted for trying to break into a laboratory to “fix” himself and reprogram himself.

-Logan is quiet and suffers from love... of learning. He unfortunately doesn’t have infinite memory, so he sometimes must delete some of his knowledge in order to acquire new information.

-He is actually connected to the Cloud, which remained after Earth screwed themselves, so he understands all human languages and also has a secret habit of going onto human websites like Tumblr and YouTube. (He enjoys book commentaries and audiobooks.)

-The most mature of the crew of Sanders Yersinia; plays adult way too often for his liking

Roman Prionsa:

-A usurped prince from the Galaxy DR-34-M (i’m not creative lololol), on the run from the new King’s soldiers, who want to finish the job of destroying the royal family.

-The biggest idiot of the crew

-After Virgil introduced him to Disney, with the (unwilling) help of Logan, Roman won’t stop singing the songs and quoting them from heart. Virgil regrets his decision.

-He suffers from constant nightmares, in which his family is burned alive at the stake at the hands of the one who exiled him and he can do nothing but watch.

-Roman is very generous and understanding and gentle to everyone but can be extra and obnoxious with the flip of a Bitch Switch, which has landed the crew in several less-than-optimal situations.

-One time Roman tried to out-flirt a mermaid on an aquaterrestrial planet and ending up burning down a couple trees and getting his head blown up double its size by said mermaid. (“It’s finally big enough to fit your ego!” -Virgil)

-Despite his overly-dramatic “charm”, he won’t hesitate do run into battle if it means saving his crew members or innocent bystanders. He will also be extremely serious when the time calls for it.

-He occasionally wears make-up because a pRINCE HAS GOT TO SLAY

-Oh Roman also has butterfly wings he can unveil at any time and an everlasting flower crown/halo of light around his head. He was born glamorous.

Patton Hart:

-His real name is Pattryon Heartasea, but “Patton Hart” is so much easier to say (and it doesn’t autocorrect, so there’s that, too).

-He lived in a magical world called Noira, and is called a Drisine, also known as Shapeshifters.

-Patton’s “true form” is a woodland creature similar to a centaur, but galloping is not allowed in the ship, so he has to settle for running around as a human. Patton’s true form is beautiful, full of flowers and cookies and everything fluffy ever to exist. You will actually die if you look upon his true form (unless you’re a Drisine yourself) because no-one can handle something so pure.

-He has telekinesis, enhanced reflexes, and a larger spectrum of emotions.

-This makes it harder from him to articulate his feelings, leaving him feeling misunderstood and sad.

-The crew is known as the Patton Protection Squad, and will hunt down and destroy anyone who even looks at Patton wrong. They are alternatively known as the Virgil Protection Squad.

-Patton loves baking and enjoys visiting markets on whichever planet they visit to gain new recipes and is already to cook for his fellow crew mates.

-He is the closest thing the crew has to a fighter/soldier. But Patton doesn’t believe in hurting others who’re just doing what they’re told, so he refuses to fight, much to the dismay of everyone else.

-His crime is refusing to fight. Noira is very close to Roman’s home planet, and thus is also under the rule of Roman’s family. As a teenager Drisine (his seventies in human years), he refused to fight for the royal family because it was against his morals and was thusly imprisoned.

-Roman, on a tour on the castle in preparation for the day he would succeed his parents, saw Patton in a cell and immediately had him freed.

-Roman and Patton are now inseparable friends and will die for each other without hesitation.

Virgil Sorge:

-The last survivor from Earth. He witnessed its destruction and is now anxious that every little thing will destroy the last things he loves in his life.

-He was 20 when he was picked up by a alien ship surrounded by blue and red lights.

-He‘s quiet and moody and has really low alcohol tolerance, as discovered by Roman.

-One of the only things from Earth that he took with him is his hoodie, which his mother hand-knit for him for his sixteenth birthday and is basically the last thing he has to remind him of her.

-He knows every MCR, P!ATD, TOP, FOB, Green Day, Black Veil Brides, NateWantsToBattle, and Ivalo song there ever was (note: ivalo is not a real band, please don’t be confused when search results yield nothing about them).

-He’s overprotective of his crew members and is always the first one to offer medical help in any situation.

-Virgil is Logan’s apprentice. Logan knows there will be a day that he will break, so he’s training Virgil to do all of his jobs when that day comes. Virgil, of course, just thinks Logan wants to show off his knowledge, but he’ll do anything that’ll prove his worth.

-Virgil technically never committed any crime, he was just so grateful to be saved from the dying Earth that he fought alongside the crew and eventually people just decided four troublemakers in jail is better than three.

Calrex Bennova:

-My OC who I love. go and fight me. You can’t win against someone with a name this cool.

-Calrex is from a planet lost to time and space. They hardly remember anything from their past, other than screaming and their parents’ silver eyes full of tears. (Foreboding, I know. You’re welcome my brain writes nothing but angst)

-If they were human, they were be a mix between Alaskan Native American, Latinx, East Asian, and Pacific Islander. They basically look like a fusion between Yuuri Katsuki, Moana, Miguel from Coco, and an Inuit (I can’t name any Alaskan Native Americans because there’s NO REPRESENTATION in the media).

-They’re originally found by the crew in a dark back alley behind a pub called “Sleeping Stars” and are taken into the crew because 1. they’re a badass bitch and the crew needs an actual fighter and 2. they have some pretty rough injuries.

-When they wake up, they freak because why are they in a spaceship? and why is someone watching them as if they care? and if they don’t want to claim the bounty on their head, and they don’t want their body, what the fUCK DO THEY WANT? FRIENDSHIP?

-Cal is known intergalatically as “The Pirate” because they have a history of petty offenses. Oh, and they also are rumored to have wiped out an entire galaxy without mercy. But even Cal doesn’t remember that, so...

-They always wear combat boots. Always. Even to bed.

-Their first night in the ship, they refuse to sleep with everyone else in the Dorms, so they sleep in the Control Center on the floor. But a mysterious member of the crew brings a sleeping Cal a blanket and a pillow :) kindness still exists, happily

Thomas:

-The Sanders Yersinia’s A.I.

-Loves making puns, overanalyzing every possible outcome of every possible situations, informing their passengers of useful information at the worst possible moment, and playing Disney songs to wake Roman up from his beauty sleep.

-Logan even designed an avatar for Thomas that appears on the screen, though only his waist above is ever shown.

-He can never be sad. Ever. You are doomed to always have an optimist’s perspective at the worst of moments.

woooo I think this is long enough for now. AnYwHo, I hope you enjoyed reading my first attempt at creating an AU; hopefully I didn’t bore you all to death. Apparently some of you all actually wanted this, so here’s my first attempt at a tag list (so many firsts aaaaaahhhhhh...)

@asofterfan

@alix-the-skeleton

@hufflepuffsscrewdriver

@v-blue-writer

thank you all for wanting this and actually motivating me to write something :)

#sanders sides #sanders sides au #au #sci-fi #galaxy #roman sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #Thomas sanders #Calrex the Pirate #what the hell am I supposed to call this

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avengershumanresources · 6 years ago

Text

Dust to Dust (7)

Summary: Where did Hydra come from? An idea? A twisted dream? For an organization that spans centuries, it kept relatively quiet until contemporary times.The Super Soldier serum wasn’t dreamt up over night, but was the product of numerous experiments both unethical and violent over the course of the century. It was going to be the end of all conflicts between good and evil. Scientists died trying to determine the next level of the serum, only for it to be stolen by enemies. Back and forth until one side had the advantage.

Mabel Foster was everything the ideal woman should be in 1914. She was well brought-up, wealthy, educated and the heiress to a large fortune. When her father died in a much publicized U-boat attack by the Germans, Mabel made a decision that changed the course of history by enlisting in the French Army during WWI.

After an ambush gone bad, Mabel found herself captured by an early group of Hydra.100 years later she’s discovered in a desolate Hydra base and is taken by the Avengers for safe-keeping and questioning. Little do they realize that all of their destinies and pasts are directly connected through the nest that Hydra weaved.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC (Original Female Character)

Rating/Warnings: Mature- Graphic violence, torture, PTSD, smut

(Masterlist found HERE)

"You wasted all that sweetness to run and hide I wonder why I remind you of the days you poured your heart into But you never tried I've fallen from grace Took a blow to my face I've loved and I've lost."

-Ellie Goulding (Explosions)

Paris, France - October 30th, 1914

“Pierre warned me that I might be receiving a visitor soon,” Marie Garnier grabbed one of Mabel’s bags and hefted it over her shoulder. “I didn’t imagine in a million lifetimes that it’d be you."

Marie Garnier had been a childhood friend to Mabel while Pierre worked under Mabel’s father in New York. The younger sister of Mabel’s fiancé eventually returned to Paris to study fashion, though Mabel tried to keep contact, life circumstances got in the way. It’d been quite some time since the pair had gotten in contact

“It’s wonderful to see you too,” Mabel greeted, tucking a stray blonde hair behind her ear. The French woman rolled her eyes before pulling the heiress into a firm hug.

“So what brings you to this terrible continent? I would have thought you’d be begging me to hide in your gilded tower with you,” Marie led the way from the train platform toward a small neighborhood up the road. Newspapers shouted the latest disasters with bold print and Parisians sat in cafes, smoking and murmuring to one another about the most recent fatality.

“Change in scenery,” Mabel replied cryptically, unsure of the details that Pierre may have passed along ahead of her. Marie hummed in acknowledgement and continued forward

“Packed a little light for a long visit,” she commented, lifting the bag slightly. She gestured toward a nearby apartment door and set the bag down, rummaging in her pockets for a key. “Unless you aren’t planning on staying long.

Mabel remained silent while crossing the doorway into the small apartment. It had a certain charm to it; Marie had scattered various patterns and fabrics around the room; a half dressed mannequin was situated in the center of her kitchen.

“Make yourself at home,” Marie set Mabel’s bag on the dining room table and began to rapidly tidy up the main living areas. “I’ve been working on a project; I apologize for the mess.”

“You’re completely fine,” Mabel assured her friend, taking in the decorations and the photographs that lined the small window in Marie’s kitchen. “I don’t even have that one.”

She pointed to a picture of her and Pierre from last Christmas, the pair of them straining a smile into the camera. Her mother had been insistent that it be the photograph accompanying their engagement announcement in the Times.

“Pierre sent it a while back,” Marie commented offhand. “Something about an engagement. I didn’t bother paying attention to the rest. Lord knows you wouldn’t willingly marry him. Who’d want a lifetime doomed with him?”

“You jest,” Mabel began to pull off her traveling gloves and tucked them next to another small bag she’d brought for her journey. “He’s been very kind and helpful, helping me through everything so far.”

“I did hear about your father’s death, my sincerest condolences,” Marie’s attention was transfixed on a sheer fabric that she only lowered to look at Mabel an instant. “I’m afraid you’ve picked a bad time to come to the French countryside and grieve.”

“I’d beg to differ,” Mabel casually muttered, lifting one of Marie’s sketches toward the sunlight and setting it down on a nearby counter gently. “In fact, perhaps that is the exact reason why I’m here.”

Marie dropped her project and stared at the woman like she was speaking another language.

“Do you plan on winning the war as vengeance for your father?” there was a mixture of humor and disbelief in the Parisian’s tone. “Perhaps I could recommend a good hospital or sanatorium for you to stay in. Get your head clear.”

Mabel fidgeted with the paperwork Pierre had given her that she’d stashed in the lining of her dress for safe keeping.

“Pierre said it was a terrible idea as well,” she continued, taking a seat in a nearby armchair. “But he assured me you would be able to help with certain logistics."

That certainly caught Marie’s attention. She moved a few things aside and sat down next to her old friend.

“Who knows you are here?” she questioned, her brows knitted in concentration. Mabel realized that her companion was beginning to piece together her unorthodox visit’s meaning.

“Pierre,” Mabel replied simply. “And now you.”

“Your mother?”

“She is no mother to me,” Mabel shot back, her tone coming out like ice.

“Oh Mabel,” the French woman soothed. “I know losing your father is difficult… Pierre and I had nearly lost our minds when mother and father were lost but-,”

“It’s not just that,” Mabel interrupted, her face reddening at the outburst. “There’s more to it. I don’t just want to do this. I have to. The world is crumbling and I can’t sit back watching it from my- what did you call it? - Gilded tower.”

“This is war,” Marie pressed, trying to reason with the American woman. Her knuckles were white from holding the edge of her seat. “This isn’t one of your novels or plays. People are dying."

“What right do I have to sit quietly by while the world moves around us?” Mabel shot back with a frown.

“This isn’t even your country’s fight,” Marie reminded her, but Mabel shook her head.

“It became my fight when they took my father,” Mabel’s voice lowered. He’d been an innocent bystander. Sam had been an innocent bystander. “Who will stand up to the victims of these cruel acts against humanity?”

“You’re not going to save everyone,” Marie was almost hysterical, a laugh slipping past her incredulous demeanor. “There are no heroes here. Just dead men and women waiting for the inevitable.”

“You sound so sure,” Mabel shook her head and stood up from her chair, heading toward the kitchen. “I can stay in a hotel if you’d like. The decision was made long before I boarded the boat here.”

Marie stared down the blonde woman and sighed, the noise dragging out while she mentally ran through her choices.

“Don’t be silly, you will be staying with me,” she stood up and headed toward a small room in the back of the apartment. “We’ll have to share a bed, though I can assure you it’ll be more comfortable than the ground you seem to be so set on living on.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Mabel murmured softly, when Marie shot a look of pain to her friend.

“I think you do,” Marie pointed out while she grabbed an armful of extra blankets. “I just think you’re being blind due to stubbornness.”

“That seems a little risqué for 1917,” Bucky commented while Mabel was reading a section of A Farewell to Arms out loud. The particular passage he was referring to described an intimate encounter between the two protagonists during WWI in an Italian hospital.

“What do you mean?” Mabel set the book in her lap and glanced up at her companion. “They're human. Regardless of the generation. This sort of thing isn't new.”

Mabel had heard all kinds of stories of men paying for lovers throughout small French villages, often the women had been left behind or widowed by the war. Or someone powerful had hoped to make a few extra dollars by exploiting youth.

Bucky let out a grunt and repositioned himself in his chair.

“Did you not take lovers?” Mabel inquired with a small smile. “I would find that hard to believe with the stories Steve tells of your youth."

“That's not a proper conversation to have with a lady,” he pointed out. His voice cracked at the statement and he frowned at the floor.

“I think you forget I spent four years with a group of very passionate and frustrated men,” she simply replied before opening the book to a random page. “I have a feeling this story will have an unhappy ending.”

Bucky leaned forward and frowned.

“Why do you say that? I think he and Catherine will be able to live happily after the war,” he shook his head. “They're meant to be."

“Then they'll get to live through another war,” Mabel sighed. “And watch their children be pulled away by it. They are the same age as your own parents at this time. Remember that.

Bucky fell silent before he shook his head and grabbed the novel out of her hands.

“My parents had a happy ending. They watched my sister get married and lived long, happy lives together.”

Mabel had to swallow down the envy that rose in her chest. It was brief. A feeling of loss that she'd tried for decades to push away.

“Besides, they wouldn't have known the future,” he held the book up. “They just know they love each other.”

“What a simple life,” Mabel merely commented before taking the book back gently and flipping through the pages aimlessly. “It must be nice to be able to find love so strong you can hide from the monsters of the world.”

“You sound like me,” he laughed, standing from his seat and snatching the novel out of her grasp. He held it above her head teasingly. “Which means I'm being the positive one and that means we need to find something else to do before doom and gloom ruin us.”

“Perhaps I enjoy being bitter,” Mabel tried, jumping at the book with a small hop before giving up. Bucky was much taller than her, a fact he loved to tease her about on a nearly daily basis.

“I don't believe that,” he replied, setting the book back on a nearby shelf and ushering the blonde woman out of their little hideaway.

They stepped into the windowed hallway and paused at the looming landscape outside.

December had finally rolled around and the weather seemed to have shifted overnight.

A heavy snow had covered the trees and grounds surrounding the compound, giving the area an almost magical sense of wonder.

“When do you return to the city?” Mabel inquired quietly. Tony and the others had tried to be sly about it, but she knew the compound was only used during the warmer months. The Tower in the center of Manhattan was the Avengers primary base and Stark had been preparing for their return for a few weeks now.

“Next Monday,” Bucky replied, his eyes still locked on the white blanket in front of them.

No one had the heart to tell Mabel that she'd be stuck at the compound indefinitely- or at least until her head was a little more under control.

Mabel nodded at the information and remained quiet. She wasn't sure how she felt about him leaving. Certainly the pair had grown a certain fondness between them that she could only chalk up to a friendship. Yet, an unspoken voice in the back of her head ached at the emptiness that building would yield without her metal armed companion.

He was, after all, the only constant she'd had for the last few weeks.

“I can write,” he offered jokingly. “Or we can video call. Talk about how things are going with Sam and Bruce.”

“Or both,” Mabel offered with a shy look in his direction. It was seldom that she wanted to be selfish, but perhaps letter writing was the one thing from the past she so desperately missed. She hated how impersonal communication was in this time. She missed the tangible proof of someone's thoughts in her hands.

“Of course you want to write letters,” Bucky groaned dramatically. “Ya know, that was the worst part of the war in my day. I never know what to say.”

“You just put down your thoughts. Talk about what you've seen. What you've done. Tell me about the future.”

“We’re already in the future,” he chided and Mabel shrugged.

“It's not tomorrow yet, is it?” she replied with a small smirk. “Even ten minutes from now isn't promised to anyone.”

“But writing is so boring,” he complained with a huff. The duo continued down the quiet corridor, undisturbed by anyone else in the compound.

“I'll be staring at the same four walls, I will take any adventure I can live vicariously through you with,” Mabel admitted quietly.

“I'm beginning to think you're right. You must truly love bitterness and sorrow.”

“I strive to be transparent, Mr. Barnes,” she turned just in time to watch him open his mouth to correct her. Instead he fell silent. “When do you think you'll be back?

“Tony mentioned something about getting everyone together for Christmas. Though I'm not sure where,” he paused in thought. “Maybe if we're lucky…”

“Even if I can handle life outside of this place, I'm not ready for New York,” Mabel's tone wavered and she clutched at her arm. “It makes me feel a little childish, admittedly. At least here everything is a gradual learning curve.”

“You'll have to dive in eventually. There's only so much a book can explain,” Bucky reasoned and the blonde let out a drawn out sigh.

“My world was stopped at the end of a precipice that dove into where society is today,” she frowned and shook her head slightly. “It's as foreign as another planet to me.”

“It'll be okay. We're all here to make sure you get there,” Steve's voice echoed toward the pair and soon enough the soldier joined the duo. “I've been working with Tony and things aren't too different. The foundation is still there- just a little more sparkle to it.”

“Perhaps I should just return to Europe? They age slower, do they not? I'm sure the Eiffel tower looks the same. I'd fit right in.”

“I'm seriously going to shove you in the snow,” Bucky groaned running a hair through his hair and snorting. “You're worse than this melodramatic fool.” He shoved a thumb in Steve's direction. The American hero feigned innocence until Bucky started ahead of the two blondes with a huff.

“He's just a product of the millennium, too good for nostalgia,” Steve teased under his breath before gesturing for Mabel to go ahead of him. They went after their friend and ended up in the main living area where a handful of Avengers were lying about.

“Anyone up for a shooting session?” Clint suggested once Bucky and the others joined the group. His offer was met with a few shrugs and grunts, though Bucky was more than enthusiastic.

“Yes. Please. Get me away from these saps,” he looked around for any other takers. “Ah come on. It's no fun with just Clint and I.”

“Only if I can spar the loser,” Nat offered and when an agreement was made, the trio disappeared toward the elevators. Sam and Bruce parted after a brief conversation and the flying Avenger stood at Mabel’s side.

“And I believe we have an appointment,” Sam nodded to her. She gave an affirming smile in his direction and with a small wave to Steve, they headed toward their designated therapy area.

Sam had opened up slightly once it became clear what they were working with. He offered counseling to her, as he did to all the members of the team, though she was the only one who took him up on it regularly.

The therapy area was relatively secluded in the event of another meltdown. An idea strongly supported by the majority of the team. Steve later explained that everyone was prone to outbursts from time to time and though she was the primary reason behind its installation, it truly benefitted everyone.

“Any more nightmares?” Sam asked before they settled into the sofas.

“Yes,” Mabel replied. She didn't even know what a full night of sleep felt like. She probably hadn't had a dream since 1913.

“What did you see?” He asked, digging around for his tablet that he stored near the sofas.

“A kid about 17 getting shelled,” she replied dryly. “And then just pieces of him. A leg here, an arm there.” Those had been the lucky parts. Everything else had turned into a brownish, red mush of organs and mud that splattered around the trench and soldiers alike.

“Real or fake?” Sam followed up, and Mabel paused in thought. This was a new game that Tony suggests after talking with Wanda about what he been found in her head. They needed to dig through what Hydra had planted and what was simply a cruel memory from the war.

“-Felt real,” she confessed, picking at her fingers. “But we were in German uniforms.”

“Did you see anything similar during your time on the front?”

“Of course I did,” she leaned into the sofa in irritation. How was that even a question? Did he not take American history? He was a military man himself. Did he not lose companions in violent and unusual ways? “No one I knew died that way though. Mustard gas or bullets usually took out the good ones.”

Sam’s eyebrows perked at the mention of the toxic chemical agent. The trigger word.

“Who’d you lose to the gas?” he asked, leaning forward, his tablet propped up in his lap. His full attention was on Mabel. They both knew where this was leading without saying a word.

“A lot of people,” she frowned. She could feel her expression boxing up, her face falling into that emotionless mask.

“A friend maybe?” he pressed, trying to dig the information out of her. Mabel knew what she was supposed to be saying, but she felt like repeating that moment out loud would be too much to bear. It’d make it realer than the montage that played in the back of her mind.

“Steve’s father,” she stated, averting her gaze from the man across from her. “He pushed through to the very end. He wanted to see his wife and child. They smoked him out like an animal. He didn’t even look like a human when he left this world.”

“Do you feel guilty about his death?” Sam asked once Mabel got the information out and tightened her posture in her seat. “Remorse? Regret? These feelings are completely normal when we lose someone.”

“He got gassed because of me.”

There it was. The biggest weight that Mabel carried inside of her heart. Every moment following Joseph’s death was tied to the night she and him were supposed to take down a nearby camp.

“I was supposed to be his second, keeping an eye on the firefight and covering him. Only him. But some kid got stabbed near me and I lost focus for a second. I didn’t even see that the enemy had abandoned their camp until it was too late. It was a set up. He was hit with a high concentration and died a few days later.”

“He made his choice,” Sam gently reminded Mabel, but the woman’s expression remained empty.

“He made his choice with the understanding I would provide back-up,” she corrected softly. “Unfortunately, sometimes people are to blame in things like this. I’d agreed to give my all and lost concentration. I didn’t fulfill my end of the deal.”

Sam’s expression softened with every word Mabel spoke, until finally, he voiced his opinion on the subject.

“I lost a man too,” he confessed. A flicker of pain shot through his body language and Mabel shifted slightly at the subtle change. “I was back-up and an enemy target shot him right out of the sky. I was too far away to do anything, and just close enough where I saw the last flickers of life in him. I was supposed to be on the lookout for any stray militants on the ground. I miscalculated and he suffered the consequences.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mabel murmured. She didn’t know what else to say. Truly, she was terrible at handling circumstances such as this.

“War is war,” he continued and leaned back into his chair. “Steve still kicks himself over what happened to Bucky- and the guy literally lives down the hall from him. Some of them are aching over recent losses, some are finally beginning to heal from scars caused by those they now look up to. It’s going to keep hurting, but you can’t let the hurt and anger and confusion… you can’t let it take you down. That’s how they win.”

They being Hydra, she reminded herself silently. Or they being the ghosts that haunt her nights.

The session continued for only a few moments more, before Sam received an urgent call and had to excuse himself. Mabel glanced at a nearby clock and realized that they’d only spent half the usual amount of time in their session.

She had a few hours to kill before she was supposed to meet up with Tony and Bruce to try one of the serums that had helped Bucky during his transition.

Where had the others gone?

She mused the question over before remembering that Clint and Bucky were contesting one another in shooting. From the stories she’d heard, it could be an interesting way to spend the remainder of her afternoon.

Would it be safe? She wondered aimlessly, walking toward the direction of the training level. No one was saying code words- she’d seen plenty of war documentaries… It should be fine.

A greedy voice in the back of her mind was curious if they’d let her have a try at a weapon.

“Clean shot,” Clint complimented the brunette with a short nod. “But not clean enough.”

“Millimeters,” Bucky complained with a grunt, glancing over at Nat, who was stretching for a sparring match with the shooting contest’s loser. He threw an arm over his shoulder, beginning to prep for the match against the Russian spy.

“I haven’t lost yet,” Clint replied with a smirk. “Primarily because I have no intention of fighting her."

“Because you know you’d hate to lose twice,” Natasha shot back, throwing a stray boxing glove in the direction of her partner.

“One hundred percent accurate,” Clint admitted, catching the glove mid-air and setting it to the side. “Though I wouldn’t mind fighting Mr. Barnes.”

“You just want to get close with me,” Bucky snorted in response, crawling into the ring and stretching his legs.

“You’re onto me, I just love big sweaty meatheads,” the archer laughed. “Though probably not as much as Miss Foster.” He said her name with a heavily exaggerated British accent, snickering at his own humor.

“I get the feeling Mae prefers men who are at least mostly made of flesh,” Bucky swung from Natasha’s legs and the redhead dodged the move with irritating grace. “And probably closer in age.”

“I don’t know; how many centennials do you know?” Natasha smirked, wrapping her legs around Bucky’s waist and pulling him down. The brunette rolled with the move and turned it against her, rolling her onto her back.

“She and Steve would make cute little blonde babies,” Clint noted casually.

Bucky wasn’t sure why, but the comment tugged at him the wrong way and he threw Natasha a little harder than expected toward the edge of the ring. He looked at her in horror and quickly helped her back up, but she responded by dropping him to the ground with a foot in his chest.

He laid there a moment, staring up at the ceiling of the training room before a new set of footfalls entered the room.

“I was under the impression he was one of the most feared assassins in the world?” he heard a familiar voice comment to Clint. The archer snorted in laughter.

She always sounded so polite, despite the sarcasm and rude comments she let slip. She could probably insult the pope and he wouldn’t even realize it.

“He’s just getting old,” Natasha commented. “Besides, I think more people are afraid of me."

“I know I certainly am,” Mabel confessed lightly, a small smile sent in the redhead’s direction. Natasha crawled out of the ring and approached the blonde, sizing the smaller woman up and down.

“You fight pretty well, at least in the brief moments of brainwashing I saw,” she noted and circled Mabel again. “You wanna give it a shot?”

“No,” Bucky voiced, immediately shooting up from his laying position. “I think that’s a terrible idea."

But the group continued their discussion, with Clint edging the soldier on, before finally, Mabel relented.

Why did he even bother? Bucky groaned, rolling off of the ring and approaching the group.

“Do you even know how to throw a punch properly?” he asked exasperated, trying to convince the woman otherwise. She narrowed her gaze in offense before throwing a perfectly formed punch into his chest.

Bucky would never admit in a million years, but it nearly knocked him off balance.

“I don’t know Mr. Barnes, perhaps I should go back to my needlework,” she shook her head and pushed past him toward the ring where Natasha was now waiting.

“Girl fight!” Clint cheered mockingly, earning a less than polite gesture from Natasha, before the two women began to circle one another.

Bucky watched silently while they continued circling the ring. They both had a similar approach. They were the same size roughly, and probably were used to handling much larger opponents.

Mabel’s downfall, however, was that Natasha had a little more experience fighting other women.

The redhead dove first, going for Mabel’s legs, but the blonde leapt up and rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the attack. She used Nat’s confusion to tackle her from the side, but Natasha brought up an elbow and pushed the blonde off.

“You fight dirty,” Natasha commented, wiping at some dripping sweat. “I like it.”

The redhead’s eyes were calculating, while Mabel’s hazel gaze was determined to take down the threat.

They collided again, this time Mabel winning the brief match. It went on like this for a bit longer before Natasha was, once again, determined to be the winner.

“My turn,” Clint announced once Natasha hopped out of the ring. Mabel didn’t even have a chance to react before the archer was charging toward her.

Their game was a dance of avoidance. Mabel moved swiftly away from each of Clint’s attacks, trying to throw a blow in whenever she could. Unfortunately, Clint was significantly more agile than the heiress, and managed a few more hits.

The fight ended with Mabel leaning against the ropes of the fighting ring trying to catch her breath and Clint rolling on the ground laughing about how they needed to get the kid in the field.

“Buck! Your turn,” Clint rolled toward his friend excitedly. Bucky shook his head firmly.

“Not today,” he replied, sending a look in Mabel’s direction. He expected a smile or an acknowledgement of sympathy, but instead the blonde grinned mischievously.

“It’s ok, it wouldn’t be very fair,” she shrugged and started toward the edge of the ring. “He’s probably too tired.”

Goddamn it, she knew how to get under his skin. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it at Clint.

“All right grandma, let’s go.” Mabel beamed, cracking her knuckles.

When Clint announced the beginning of the fight, it occurred to Bucky right away that the enhanced woman had been holding back against her non-altered counterparts.

There was significantly more force behind each hit.

He dropped her, she would subsequently bring him down to her level.

She threw elbows and used knees, which normally would have been called on, but Clint wasn’t judging by competition rules. This was a fight.

Bucky caught her in the side of the mouth, drawing a little blood. He paused in concern before she merely smirked, wiped it away and went for his torso.

They stumbled to the ground, her pinning him down for just long enough for Clint to call her the winner.

It was close- and if he hadn’t hesitated at seeing her hurt, he would have easily won.

Mabel lingered a moment, her elbows pinning down his chest, smiling in victory at the assassin.

“You can move,” he grunted in irritation, but she dropped more weight down, pressing further into his sternum.

“Make me,” she taunted quietly before he simply flipped her over onto her back. He could hear her catch her breath before he pinned her shoulders down on the mat.

“You’re a pain sometimes, you know that right?” he muttered before jumping up and crawling out of the ring.

She remained silent, her eyes trailing him on his walk back to Clint. Natasha soon appeared at her side and helped the blonde back to her feet

Why had he hesitated? Bucky ran through possible explanations all the way back to the shower.

Sure, he’d drawn blood in his sparring partners before. Shit, he’d probably made Steve bleed more than a hundred times, yet seeing it on Mabel made his mind go haywire.

He turned the water in the training shower as hot as possible, hoping the burning sensation would help clear his mind and give him answers.

France- January 1918

“We’ve located the German scientist; a local family was hiding him in their crawlspace,” Meyer nudged a pale faced woman, and three children forward. “What should we do with them?”

Mabel looked the family over for a brief moment before shaking her head. They’d seen better days, though she couldn’t understand their choice in aiding an enemy so cruel and manipulative.

“Treason is punishable by death,” she merely commented. There wasn’t a single hint of hesitation in her tone. “They were assisting a mass murderer.”

The mother dropped to her knees and began to beg for the lives of herself and her children; but Mabel turned on the boot of her heel and started back toward the regime waiting ahead.

“Meyer, you have your orders,” she stated with icy finality. She barely flinched when the gunshots echoed across the snow covered meadow. Quick and painless. Hunger probably would have killed most of the children by the end of winter anyway.

Meyer jogged to catch up, his pace lining up with Mabel’s almost identically.

“A little cruel, don’t you think?” he asked quietly. Mabel stopped in her tracks and looked him over with a narrowed gaze.

“Their interference allowed Hans to go undetected an additional month and a half,” she reminded him. “That’s a month and a half of loss time- a month and a half of information we could be pulling from him about their grand project.”

Meyer fell silent and shuffled ahead toward the squad. The men avoided eye contact with Mabel once she approached.

“We need to get to Amiens by nightfall,” she ordered and the soldiers began to move, dragging along a stumbling Dr. Hans behind their carts.

Joseph would have reasoned that she shown the family mercy, a small voice whispered in the back of her head. She kept marching along the road, adjusting her rifle strap slightly.

But Joseph is dead and I am not.

PART 8

#mcu #bucky barnes #marvel #fanfiction #ao3 #oc/bucky #original character #ww2 #ww1 #hydra #supersoldier #writing

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megsironthrone · 7 years ago

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Clumsy Confession

Requested by @holyjurassicassassin: Oh I live for your blogggg! *squeals in delight* and now you are doing GoT! Can I request one where the reader is hurt in the battle of black water (as an innocent bystander not in battle) and it breaks the Hounds heart and he admits to her very clumsily and nervous that he loves her with all his big teddy bear heart. Because let’s face it, he really is good deep down…. Thank you beautiful!

I do not own Sandor Clegane. He belongs to George R.R.Martin.

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury, fluff, awkward Hound

Pairings: Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

You could have strangled the queen. Why in the gods’ names did she need more wine at that very moment? There was a battle going on outside and you had absolutely no desire to go scouring the cellars of the Keep to find more wine for Cersei Lannister. You sighed as you made your way to the cellars. To your surprise, there were still some casks full of wine. You moved to fill the wineskin and jug the queen insisted upon when a sound above you caught your attention.

You were never the type of person to leave anyone in distress, so when you heard the sounds of someone crying echoing through the tunnels, you immediately sprang into action. From the cellar, you could follow the tunnels up to the streets of King’s Landing. You dropped the jug and went running, the wineskin tied to your belt.

You soon found the source of the cries. A little boy was standing there, one hand in his mouth and tears running down his face. “Shh,” you cooed. “Where is your mother, little one?” He simply shook his head and started sobbing louder. You quickly pulled him into your arms. “Shh. It’s alright. We’ll find her, but you must be quiet. We do not want any guards to find us.” You decided to try and find the boy’s mother.

Taking the back alleys, you lead the boy through the streets, hiding whenever you saw the soldiers of Stannis Baratheon’s army. Suddenly, you heard a voice. “My child! Thank you, my lady!” The boy’s mother was crying almost as much as her son. “It was nothing. Now hurry, before they find you. Go.” Once they were out of sight, you turned to go back to the tunnels.

You found the entrance to the tunnels and smiled, thinking you were home free. You rounded a corner and came face to face with a soldier. You couldn’t tell if it was one of Joffrey’s or Stannis’, but it didn’t really matter when you felt the cool metal cut across your side. You cried out in pain before falling to the ground. You placed your hand to the seeping wound, your blood dripping all over your fingers. The soldier ran back toward the street, leaving you there to bleed out.

A little while later, your vision began to cloud. “Y/N?” a raspy voice called and you were barely able to acknowledge the voice. “What in Seven Hells are ya doin’ down here?” You saw the face of Sandor Clegane just before you lost consciousness. Sandor ran his hand over his face. This was not what he expected when he wandered into the tunnels. Without pausing to think, Sandor lifted you into his strong arms.

He put you on the back of his horse in front of him and watched you. He hoped he could find a way to get out of King’s Landing and help you before it was too late. He urged Stranger into a gallop, all while keeping pressure on your wound. As soon as you were safely away from King’s Landing, Sandor pulled Stranger to a stop and got you off the horse.

He gently laid you down on his cloak and tried to check your wound. From the outside, he looked calm and collected, but inside, Sandor felt something he only felt around fire. Panic and fear. He was so worried you were going to die and he wasn’t sure he could take it. He’d only just realized his feelings for you and now, he thought he might lose you.

*short time skip*

Sandor looked over at you again. You had woken up a few hours after you left King’s Landing, but you were still weak and Sandor spent his days keeping an eye on you. “You’re staring again, Sandor,” you whispered, not looking up from the shirt in your hands. You were attempting to mend it. “No, I’m not.” You chuckled and shook your head. After a moment of silence, Sandor spoke again, “I need ta check yer wound.”

You nodded and put the shirt down. You felt your entire body heat up as Sandor removed the bandage and studied the wound. “Yer lucky there’s no infection.” You nodded and held your breath while he rebandaged it. When he finished, you looked up at him. “Why did you save me, Sandor? You could have left me in the tunnels to die, but you did not.” He met your gaze and his voice caught in his throat.

“I, uh, it did not feel right ta just leave ya.“ You quirked a brow. "Sandor, you do not have to lie to me.” He pulled away and turned where his back was facing you. “ ’M not lyin’. It wasn’t right.” You could tell he was trying his best not to stutter. You got up and walked in front of him to look in his eyes. “Sandor,” you said gently. His eyes were full of mistrust and fear. “If it was anyone else, you would have left them, except perhaps Lady Sansa, so why me?”

Sandor opened his mouth, but quickly closed it again, knowing he couldn’t speak without getting tongue tied. “Dammit, woman. Stop staring at me with those big doe eyes!” You laughed. “Tell me, please?” The giant of a man took a deep breath and opened his mouth once more. “I..Seven Hells why is this so difficult? I love ya, alright?!” You stared up at him in shock. Had he really just said that? “Ya happy? Now go on and laugh.” Instead of laughing, you reached up and cupped his cheeks. “I’m not going to laugh at you, Sandor,” you whispered before you pulled his face down to meet yours so you could plant a sloppy, clumsy kiss to his lips.

@brewsthespirit-blog @gameofwinters @fairytalesexistxx @littlemisscaptainfandom @line-viper @silverwingedfox @etherealpotter

#george r.r. martin #game of thrones #got #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #sandor x reader

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infinite-xerath · 7 years ago

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Bilel and Dakani: The Third and Fourth Acolytes

Bilel and Dakani are twin mages who have spent their lives driven by a grudge. The siblings were born to a wealthy merchant Tazu in the city of Gereshni, who acquired his fortune through the lucrative trade of Azirite, though none are certain what became of their mother. From and early age, Bilel and Dakani could have been considered opposites of one-another; Bilel preferred to spend his time by his father’s side, learning the tricks of the trade, while Dakani preferred to spend her time playing with other children her age. The twins seldom interacted with one-another, their interests seeming to take them on very different paths... Until the day when fate would force them together for survival.

From a land beyond the desert, soldiers dressed in red and black came storming into the city of Gereshni, demanding the peoples’ surrender. They were of the Noxian empire: the most feared warriors in all of Valoran. They had come to claim the city for its vast supply of Azirite, and were quick to siege control. Though Steward Ta’Fik was ultimately convinced to surrender, Tazu attempted to resist the Noxian soldiers, refusing to give up the source of his fortune. In response, the Noxian soldiers killed them on the spot.

They aimed to take the twins captive at first, but in their grief and rage, Bilel and Dakani awakened to an unusual power sleeping deep inside of them. As the soldiers approached, Bilel cried out in his native tongue for the man to keep back. In that instant, the windows of his home shattered, and powerful gusts of wind surrounded the siblings, creating a barrier that kept the men at bay. Meanwhile, as Dakani wept, she pleaded silently for someone, anyone, to come and take them away from these awful people. In that instant, a strange light surrounded the twins, and in a flash, they were gone.

Bilel and Dakani woke up hours later in the camp of traveling group of entertainers, who relayed that the children had appeared in a flurry of wind and light. Though at first scared that they’d attracted the attention of malevolent spirits, the wind and light soon faded to reveal a boy and a girl with tear-stained eyes, who soon collapsed from exhaustion. The twins realized then that they had awakened something deep within themselves; a great magic that had lain dormant all their young lives. In that moment, the two agreed to work together to channel this power, all to avenge their father and drive back the Noxians who had taken their home.

Years passed, and the twins grew even more powerful as they strove to protect their home from the foreign conquerors and tomb-raiders that sought to plunder Shuriman land and treasures. Bilel had taken on the mantel of the Raqi’Faya (Dancer of Wind) by using the wind to try and keep invaders at bay, while Dakani became the Niha’Salam (Wings of Protection) who brought innocent bystanders to safety. For years, the two have sought to protect their lands from Noxian conquerors and Piltovian miners, but despite their best efforts, the twins have only managed to delay and further provoke their foes...

That is, until the Ascended returned to Shurima. Bilel and Dakani first witnessed the might of the ancient demigods during the siege of a small trading town, fighting alongside a band of mercenaries hired to try and keep the town safe. The battle seemed almost lost when, out of nowhere, a furious reptilian beast carrying a large blade entered the scene, and started cutting down Noxian soldiers with ease. Shortly afterwards, a being of blue light encased in stone appeared and swiftly drove back any survivors. The latter introduced himself as Xerath, and proclaimed that he would be the new sovereign guardian of the people.

Xerath then approached the twins, drawn to their unusual gifts, and provided them an offer: “Join me, and we shall not only drive these foreigners out of the desert, but someday take their lands as well.” Though Dakani was reluctant, Bilel seemed convinced that Xerath had the power to avenge their father and take back their home. Unwilling to part with her brother, Dakani agreed as well. Soon enough, they became the third and fourth acolytes to serve the Magus Ascended. Though Bilel serves Xerath faithfully in order to eradicate the foreigner dogs that have caused he and his sister so much grief, Dakani is less certain of her master’s methods... But chooses to follow him until she can convince her brother to stray from the path of vengeance.

#Bilel & Dakani #WARNING:#LOTS OF TEXT #Oops I got carried away again :/#The Seventeen Acolytes

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sad-af1121 · 7 years ago

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Strangers In The Mind: Part 2

Summary: A cure has been found for Bucky and as he is going under treatment, he starts having bizarre dreams about you. He doesn’t know why or how. Never in his life has he actually met you but, he is determined to find you. (Soulmate AU) Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 2211 Warnings: Fluff, Angst A/N: Explains the “soulmate” aspects and yeah, enjoy. I tried to make sure it wasn’t too long but oh well :) Silhouette by Aquilo is a great song for this entire fic. Feedback is welcomed 💜

Part 1

In this world, people would dream about their soulmates once they’ve hit a stage in their life where they were ready for them. For some it would come earlier or much later in life, however, the dreams retold memories from a previous life, so it as up to the individual to try and find their soulmate.

Growing up, Bucky was never fond of believing you’d find your soulmate in your dreams. He hated the thought that certain people were “made for each other.” He wanted to pick who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Most of the young adults back in the 1940’s were finding their soulmates before the age of 25, which annoyed Bucky because he hadn’t dreamt of his yet. He didn’t mind that people would choose their soulmate to love, but he felt like it was a trap to stay in the norm. He didn’t want that.

Soulmates weren’t just people who you’d have a romantic relationship with. They are people who you can always count on, bring you out from the dark, help you through things not everyone quite understands. The amount of love they have for you is insane. They would do anything for you.

Anything.

Most importantly, they’d pick up the pieces that have been destructed by others and put them back as an unsolved puzzle, making you whole again. You had to cherish that time and the moment you had with them before waking up from your state of unconsciousness. It would feel as though you were being transported to another dimension, living a life that is too good for it to be true. It was an escape from what people struggle with daily.

An escape from yourself.

But Bucky never liked that. He wanted to be free in more than one way.

***

One Year ago

Walking down the street, Bucky pulled up the collars of his leather jacket as the cold crisp air ran across his skin. Not that it bothered him, it was out of habit. As he entered the bar, he shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of the barstool before taking a seat. He waved to the bartender who has seen Bucky come by every Friday, by himself to enjoy a beer or two. As the bartender handed him a napkin and bottle, Bucky grabbed the cold beverage, bringing the rim to his soft lips before taking a swig. He let the beer sit on his tongue, taking in the taste of wheat and barley before swallowing it. He sighed in content as the alcohol ran down his throat, soothing his craving. Right as Bucky was about to take another drink, he heard the door opening, the little bell on the top signaling a new customer. Looking over to his right, Bucky does a double take as he watched you walk in, taking his breath away.

Deciding not to wear anything revealing, you wore a casual long-sleeved v neck shirt paired with skinny jeans and ankle boots. Your hair fell around your face, resting on your shoulder as they curled a bit towards the end. Your light makeup accentuated your beauty, mostly your doll-like eyes. As you entered the bar, your sweet smile brightens up the dull, depressing atmosphere. The twinkle in your eyes made Bucky grin seeing your gentle smile. You took off your coat, hooking in on the coat rack before walking up to the bar. You sat next to Bucky, not minding him as the bartender smiles and hands you your drink. Bucky furrowed his brows, seeing how the server didn’t ask what you’d like.

Must be a regular.

“Thanks, Bryan” you beamed, grabbing your choice of alcohol and drinking the liquid. You smacked your lips together, squeezing your eyes shut as the alcohol courses through your body.

“God, I needed that.” you sighed out looking to your left, seeing the odd yet dangerously handsome brunette staring at you, smiling. Pulling your head back, you narrowed your eyes, not enjoying the way he’s gawking at you.

“May I help you, sir?” you raised an eyebrow before crossing your arms over your chest. Bucky’s eyes widen in shock, swallowing thickly by how cold you sound. He tried playing it off as he chuckles before shrugging, bringing his beer close to his lips. He couldn’t believe you called him that. Do I look that old?

“No, not at all doll.” He cringed as he hears his old Brooklyn slang slip through his lips. He wanted to say you had a beautiful smile, but he didn’t know how’d you take it, probably thinking that he wants to be in your pants. You tilt your head to the side.

“Doll? What are you from the 1950’s?” you sassed with a hint of sarcasm as you sipped your drink, waiting for the broad, buff man to answer.

“More like the 40’s but who cares in this generation, right?” He sassed back, giving you a thin-lipped smile. Jesus Christ, she’s got some fire in her.

You pursed your lips. “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

Bucky’s taken aback by your question. He turned to you, setting his beer down. “Why haven’t I seen you?” He questioned back quirking an eyebrow as a shit eating grin played on his face.

“I asked you first, gramps.” You narrowed your eyes seeing him shift in his seat as he blew out a long sigh. As you waited for his response, you noticed he was wearing a black leather glove while his right hand wasn’t. You tilted your head, lost in thought as Bucky sees your lingered gaze towards his metal hand which he took off the counter and dropped by his side, knocking you out from your thoughts.

“I come here every Friday… or whenever I get the chance to. My job gets out of hand, so I miss some days. Now you.” You shrugged before downing your drink. You gently placed the glass on the wooden surface and leaned back in your chair, fidgeting with your purple crystal necklace. Bucky looks down at the necklace, seeing the purples and blues highlighted by the dim light bouncing off it. It looked old like an antique jewelry, but it suited you.

“I come here whenever I’ve had a rough day. Been having those a lot lately.” You chuckled bitterly before releasing a deep sigh. “I used to work here when I was in training to be a nurse but now that I am, I work at the hospital around the corner.” You said wondering why you were telling him this.

You weren’t one to start up a random conversation with the locals who only drank their souls away, staggering out of the joint while shouting at innocent bystanders. But something about him made you want to tell him everything. He felt comfortable and safe. He didn’t seem like the one to take advantage of you or anything like you’ve came across before at the bar. You’ve experienced far too many unfriendly approaches from men who were looking for a good time. Breaking their nose or kicking them in the groin gave them the warning never to mess with you again. They never listened.

As the night went on, both of you spent the time talking about your life and interests. You clapped your hands together in shock once you realized who you were talking to, the infamous Winter Soldier a.k.a. Bucky Barnes. He chuckled as a light blush crept on his cheeks when you ogled over the super soldier and the rest of the Avengers team.

He kept his eyes on you as you went on and on about the incredible things you’ve heard about him and how every single person on the team is a hero no matter what happened in their past. Bucky only saw joy and happiness in you, not letting one upsetting thing bring you down. You were a heaping pile of energy like a kid who found their stash of Halloween candy and ate them all. You asked to see his hand, not pushing it if he didn’t want to but he didn’t hesitate one bit and took off the glove, revealing the robotic prosthetic.

Your eyes widened in fascination and curiosity. You always wondered what it would look like up close and well… you were speechless. With your knowledge of the human body and how it functions, you were blown away at how life changing this sort of technology was. Bucky placed his hand on the counter, balling his hand into a fist then releasing it to show you how it worked. The wide smile on your face warmed Bucky’s heart. He hadn’t seen anyone this optimistic about his metal arm before.

Suddenly you became nervous yet excited seeing it in front of you. Without thinking, you lightly trailed your finger along the prosthetic, outlining the indents and creases that made its way around his hand and wrist. It was cold, smooth, and mesmerizing as you traced circles. Your touch was delicate, light as a feather, figuring out if Bucky could feel it.

“I can sense the heat radiating from your hand… but I can’t actually feel your touch.”

You snapped your eyes away from the metal, refracting your hand. “Oh.” You said as you looked down to your hands that were in your lap. You felt bad for him. Who wouldn’t miss feeling someone’s touch? It would drive you insane not getting that type of affection from the one you loved… but then again… he didn’t have a choice.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said softly as he looked at you with his brows slightly furrowed. His voice lured you out of your thoughts as you gave him a small sympathetic smile. His chest tightened, watching your saddened look before playfully shoving you.

“I’ve still got this.” he smiled, showing off his flesh hand as he created waves with it. You instantly giggled, watching the charming man in front of you doing something utterly odd yet funny. You joined in on the fun, creating waves with your whole hand.

Since both of you have been drinking, it was obvious you were drunk but you weren’t shit faced. Bucky, on the other hand, was perfectly fine, enjoying the way you acted, spoke, and laughed. He couldn’t stop smiling whenever he heard a laughter erupting from you. The muscles on his face started to ache but he didn’t mind. He loved it.

The two of you sat there until the bartender had to kick you out. You two hadn’t realized how long you were in there, talking amongst yourselves as if everything around you disappeared. The white noise and the people entering and leaving the bar hadn’t pulled you out of this trace. It was like time had frozen, leaving the two of you behind as you bonded and got to know one another.

As you walked down the cold dark street that was lit by one street lamp, you hailed a cab that was already parked on the side of a curb. You saw the front lights turn on as it made its way towards you. You turned, suddenly bumping into Bucky’s built chest. Your cheeks burned bright pink as you stepped back, shaking your head in embarrassment at what just happened.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You laughed, looking up at Bucky whose cheeks were also blushed.

“N-no, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have been so close…” He breathed out as he smiles softly before sucking in a breath as the yellow cab pulls us. He didn’t want to leave you. He wanted more time.

He stepped forward, opening the passenger’s door. “I guess I’ll see you around…” He lingered on, hinting for your name.

You giggled, extending your hand in front of him, smirking. “Y/N.”

Bucky jolted awake as his eyes shot wide open, breathing ragged like he suffered from another nightmare but this time it wasn’t one… it was a dream. He swallowed thickly, sweat trickling down his chest as he threw the covers off, swinging his legs off the bed. He looked straight ahead and out the window as he tries to ground his mind.

“Another one” he breathed out quietly as he shut his eyes, thinking back to the “first time” he met you. Bucky didn’t want to believe it, but he was falling deep.

He was still curious as to how his mind could conjure up a place, setting, a time and most importantly, a moment in life. It was as if he was reliving a fond memory, however, he doesn’t remember ever doing any of that.

Or meeting you in person.

His chest tightened with uncertainty and anxiety as he fiddled with his fingers wondering if he should talk to someone about this. His old memories came fluttering through as he thought back to how strong he felt about his opinion about soulmates, but he didn’t have a choice now.

They won’t stop until I find her.

For a year, Bucky’s been keeping this from everyone, afraid of the worst-case scenario. He didn’t trust his mind, especially after what Hydra did to him. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to find you. Because after all…

He’s in love with you.

Even if his mind played a trick on him.

PERMANENT TAGS: @thatawkwardtinyperson @buckybarnesismypreciousplum @jezzula @finallybreathee @atari-writes @angryschnauzer @badassbaker @papi-chulo-bucky @amrita31199 @cumonbucky @soldatbarnes @fandomlyawsome @lostinspace33 @feelthemusicfuckwhatheyresaying @rda1989 @hello-sweetie-get-the-salt FIC TAGS: @justreadingfics @kellieabro @damnbuckyishot @vanessa-monique @theimpalasdoctorin221b

(Tags are open)

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #marvel AU #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #soulmate AU #Strangers In The Mind fic #Sebastian Stan #seb stan #sebby

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dfroza · 5 years ago

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An innocent man

betrayed.

His innocence revealed in an ancient dream such as read in Today’s chapter of the New Testament (Matthew 27) that is paired with Ezekiel 34

numbers that remind me of the alphabetic number 27 of the letters AKO on the Oklahoma license plate of my former Saturn Vue and the alphabetic number 34 of the word “grace”

and we see the True Shepherd revealed in chapter 34 of Ezekiel who declares freedom from bullying toward His sheep and who in the New Covenant has declared our innocence by a sacred act of grace on the cross that we read in Today’s chapter of Matthew

to be followed by the lines of Psalm 26 and Psalm 34 that reflect the same.

the writing of the ancient book of Matthew, Chapter 27:

Eventually the chief priests and the elders looked around and saw that it was morning. They convened a council meeting whose sole purpose was to hand down Jesus’ death sentence. They tied Jesus up, took Him away, and handed Him over to the governor of Judea, a man called Pilate.

Judas—the one who had betrayed Him with a kiss for 30 pieces of silver—saw that Jesus had been condemned, and suddenly Judas regretted what he had done. He took the silver back to the chief priests and elders and tried to return it to them.

Judas Iscariot: I can’t keep this money! I’ve sinned! I’ve betrayed an innocent man! His blood will be on my hands.

Chief Priests and Elders: We’re through with you, friend. The state of your soul is really none of our affair.

Judas threw down the money in the temple, went off, and hanged himself.

The chief priests looked at the silver coins and picked them up.

Chief Priests and Elders: You know, according to the law, we can’t put blood money in the temple treasury.

After some deliberation, they took the money and bought a plot of land called Potter’s Field; they would use it to bury foreigners, suicides, and others who were unfit for a full Jewish burial. (To this day, the field is called Blood Field, because it was bought with blood money.) And when the priests bought Potter’s Field, they unwittingly fulfilled a prophecy made long ago by the prophet Jeremiah: “They took 30 pieces of silver, the price set on the head of the man by the children of Israel, and they gave them for the Potter’s Field as the Eternal One instructed.”

Jesus was standing before the governor, Pilate.

Pilate: Are You the King of the Jews?

Jesus: So you say.

The chief priests and the elders stood and poured out their accusations: that Jesus was a traitor, a seditious rebel, a crazy, a would-be Savior, and a would-be king. Jesus stood in the stream of accusations, but He did not respond.

Pilate: Do You hear these accusations they are making against You?

Still Jesus said nothing, which Pilate found rather astounding—no protests, no defense, nothing.

Now the governor had a custom. During the great Jewish festival of Passover, he would allow the crowd to pick one of the condemned men, and he, Pilate, would set the man free. Just like that. Gratuitous, gracious freedom. At this time, they had a notorious prisoner named Barabbas. So when the crowd gathered, Pilate offered them a choice:

Pilate: Whom do you want me to free? Barabbas or Jesus, whom some call the Anointed One?

Pilate knew the chief priests and elders hated Jesus and had delivered Him up because they envied Him.

Then Pilate sat down on his judgment seat, and he received a message from his wife: “Distance yourself utterly from the proceedings against this righteous man. I have had a dream about Him, a dream full of twisted sufferings—He is innocent, I know it, and we should have nothing to do with Him.”

But the chief priests and the elders convinced the crowd to demand that Barabbas, not Jesus, whom-some-call-the-Anointed-One, be freed and that Jesus be put to death.

Pilate (standing before the crowd): Which of these men would you have me free?

Crowd (shouting): Barabbas!

Pilate: What would you have me do with this Jesus, whom some call the Anointed One?

Crowd (shouting): Crucify Him!

Pilate: Why? What crime has this man committed?

Crowd (responding with a shout): Crucify Him!

Pilate saw that unless he wanted a riot on his hands, he now had to bow to their wishes. So he took a pitcher of water, stood before the crowd, and washed his hands.

Pilate: You will see to this crucifixion, for this man’s blood will be upon you and not upon me. I wash myself of it.

Crowd: Indeed, let His blood be upon us—upon us and our children!

So Pilate released Barabbas, and he had Jesus flogged and handed over to be crucified.

The governor’s soldiers took Jesus into a great hall, gathered a great crowd, and stripped Jesus of His clothes, draping Him in a bold scarlet cloak, the kind that soldiers sometimes wore. They gathered some thorny vines, wove them into a crown, and perched that crown upon His head. They stuck a reed in His right hand, and then they knelt before Him, this inside-out, upside-down King. They mocked Him with catcalls.

Soldiers: Hail, the King of the Jews!

They spat on Him and whipped Him on the head with His scepter of reeds, and when they had their fill, they pulled off the bold scarlet cloak, dressed Him in His own simple clothes, and led Him off to be crucified.

As they were walking, they found a man called Simon of Cyrene and forced him to carry the cross. Eventually they came to a place called Golgotha, which means “Place of the Skull.” There they gave Him a drink—wine mixed with bitter herbs. He tasted it but refused to drink it.

And so they had Him crucified. They divided the clothes off His back by drawing lots, and they sat on the ground and watched Him hang. They placed a sign over His head: “This is Jesus, King of the Jews.” And then they crucified two thieves next to Him, one at His right hand and one at His left hand.

Passersby shouted curses and blasphemies at Jesus. They wagged their heads at Him and hissed.

Passersby: You’re going to destroy the temple and then rebuild it in three days? Why don’t You start with saving Yourself? Come down from the cross if You can, if You’re God’s Son.

Chief Priests, Scribes, and Elders (mocking Him): He saved others, but He can’t save Himself. If He’s really the King of Israel, then let Him climb down from the cross—then we’ll believe Him. He claimed communion with God—well, let God save Him, if He’s God’s beloved Son.

Even the thieves hanging to His right and left poured insults upon Him. And then, starting at noon, the entire land became dark. It was dark for three hours. In the middle of the dark afternoon, Jesus cried out in a loud voice.

Jesus: Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani—My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?

Bystanders: He’s calling on Elijah.

One bystander grabbed a sponge, steeped it in vinegar, stuck it on a reed, and gave Jesus the vinegar to drink.

Others: We’ll see—we’ll see if Elijah is going to come and rescue Him.

And then Jesus cried out once more, loudly, and then He breathed His last breath. At that instant, the temple curtain was torn in half, from top to bottom. The earth shook; rocks split in two; tombs burst open, and bodies of many sleeping holy women and men were raised up. After Jesus’ resurrection, they came out of their tombs, went into the holy city of Jerusalem, and showed themselves to people.

When the Centurion and soldiers who had been charged with guarding Jesus felt the earthquake and saw the rocks splitting and the tombs opening, they were, of course, terrified.

Soldiers: He really was God’s Son.

A number of women, who had been devoted to Jesus and followed Him from Galilee, were present, too, watching from a distance. Mary Magdalene was there, and Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.

At evening time, a rich man from Arimathea arrived. His name was Joseph, and he had become a disciple of Jesus. He went to Pilate and asked to be given Jesus’ body; Pilate assented and ordered his servants to turn Jesus’ body over to Joseph. So Joseph took the body, wrapped Jesus in a clean sheath of white linen, and laid Jesus in his own new tomb, which he had carved from a rock. Then he rolled a great stone in front of the tomb’s opening, and he went away. Mary Magdalene was there, and so was the other Mary. They sat across from the tomb, watching, remembering.

The next day, which is the day after the Preparation Day, the chief priests and the Pharisees went together to Pilate. They reminded him that when Jesus was alive He had claimed that He would be raised from the dead after three days.

Chief Priests and Pharisees: So please order someone to secure the tomb for at least three days. Otherwise His disciples might sneak in and steal His body away, and then claim that He has been raised from the dead. If that happens, then we would have been better off just leaving Him alive.

Pilate: You have a guard. Go and secure the grave.

So they went to the tomb, sealed the stone in its mouth, and left the guard to keep watch.

The Book of Matthew, Chapter 27 (The Voice)

and the 31 verses of Ezekiel 34:

[When the Sheep Get Scattered]

God’s Message came to me: “Son of man, prophesy against the shepherd-leaders of Israel. Yes, prophesy! Tell those shepherds, ‘God, the Master, says: Doom to you shepherds of Israel, feeding your own mouths! Aren’t shepherds supposed to feed sheep? You drink the milk, you make clothes from the wool, you roast the lambs, but you don’t feed the sheep. You don’t build up the weak ones, don’t heal the sick, don’t doctor the injured, don’t go after the strays, don’t look for the lost. You bully and badger them. And now they’re scattered every which way because there was no shepherd—scattered and easy pickings for wolves and coyotes. Scattered—my sheep!—exposed and vulnerable across mountains and hills. My sheep scattered all over the world, and no one out looking for them!

“‘Therefore, shepherds, listen to the Message of God: As sure as I am the living God—Decree of God, the Master—because my sheep have been turned into mere prey, into easy meals for wolves because you shepherds ignored them and only fed yourselves, listen to what God has to say:

“‘Watch out! I’m coming down on the shepherds and taking my sheep back. They’re fired as shepherds of my sheep. No more shepherds who just feed themselves! I’ll rescue my sheep from their greed. They’re not going to feed off my sheep any longer!

“‘God, the Master, says: From now on, I myself am the shepherd. I’m going looking for them. As shepherds go after their flocks when they get scattered, I’m going after my sheep. I’ll rescue them from all the places they’ve been scattered to in the storms. I’ll bring them back from foreign peoples, gather them from foreign countries, and bring them back to their home country. I’ll feed them on the mountains of Israel, along the streams, among their own people. I’ll lead them into lush pasture so they can roam the mountain pastures of Israel, graze at leisure, feed in the rich pastures on the mountains of Israel. And I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep. I myself will make sure they get plenty of rest. I’ll go after the lost, I’ll collect the strays, I’ll doctor the injured, I’ll build up the weak ones and oversee the strong ones so they’re not exploited.

“‘And as for you, my dear flock, I’m stepping in and judging between one sheep and another, between rams and goats. Aren’t you satisfied to feed in good pasture without taking over the whole place? Can’t you be satisfied to drink from the clear stream without muddying the water with your feet? Why do the rest of my sheep have to make do with grass that’s trampled down and water that’s been muddied?

“‘Therefore, God, the Master, says: I myself am stepping in and making things right between the plump sheep and the skinny sheep. Because you forced your way with shoulder and rump and butted at all the weaker animals with your horns till you scattered them all over the hills, I’ll come in and save my dear flock, no longer let them be pushed around. I’ll step in and set things right between one sheep and another.

“‘I’ll appoint one shepherd over them all: my servant David. He’ll feed them. He’ll be their shepherd. And I, God, will be their God. My servant David will be their prince. I, God, have spoken.

“‘I’ll make a covenant of peace with them. I’ll banish fierce animals from the country so the sheep can live safely in the wilderness and sleep in the forest. I’ll make them and everything around my hill a blessing. I’ll send down plenty of rain in season—showers of blessing! The trees in the orchards will bear fruit, the ground will produce, they’ll feel content and safe on their land, and they’ll realize that I am God when I break them out of their slavery and rescue them from their slave masters.

“‘No longer will they be exploited by outsiders and ravaged by fierce beasts. They’ll live safe and sound, fearless and free. I’ll give them rich gardens, lavish in vegetables—no more living half-starved, no longer taunted by outsiders.

“‘They’ll know, beyond doubting, that I, God, am their God, that I’m with them and that they, the people Israel, are my people. Decree of God, the Master:

You are my dear flock,

the flock of my pasture, my human flock,

And I am your God.

Decree of God, the Master.’”

The Book of Ezekiel, Chapter 34 (The Message)

to be continued by lines of Psalm 26 and Psalm 34:

[Psalm 26]

A song of David.

Declare my innocence, O Eternal One!

I have walked blamelessly down this path.

I placed my trust in the Eternal and have yet to stumble.

Put me on trial and examine me, O Eternal One!

Search me through and through—from my deepest longings to every thought that crosses my mind.

Your unfailing love is always before me;

I have journeyed down Your path of truth.

My life is not wasted among liars;

my days are not spent among cheaters.

I despise every crowd intent on evil;

I do not commune with the wicked.

I wash my hands in the fountain of innocence

so that I might join the gathering that surrounds Your altar, O Eternal One.

From my soul, I will join the songs of thanksgiving;

I will sing and proclaim Your wonder and mystery.

Your house, home to Your glory, O Eternal One, radiates its light.

I am fixed on this place and long to be nowhere else.

When Your wrath pursues those who oppose You,

those swift to sin and thirsty for blood,

spare my soul and grant me life.

These men hold deceit in their left hands,

and in their right hands, bribery and lies.

But God, I have walked blamelessly down this path,

and this is my plea for redemption.

This is my cry for Your mercy.

Here I stand secure and confident

before all the people; I will praise the Eternal.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 26 (The Voice)

Revere the Eternal, you His saints,

for those who worship Him will possess everything important in life.

Young lions may grow tired and hungry,

but those intent on knowing the Eternal God will have everything they need.

Gather around, children, listen to what I’m saying;

I will teach you how to revere the Eternal.

If you love life

and want to live a good, long time,

Take care with the things you say.

Don’t lie or spread gossip or talk about improper things.

Walk away from the evil things of the world,

and always seek peace and pursue it.

For the Eternal watches over the righteous,

and His ears are attuned to their prayers. He is always listening.

But He will punish evildoers,

and nothing they do will last. They will soon be forgotten.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 34:9-16 (The Voice)

and concluded by these lines from chapter 26 of the book of Proverbs about the significance of the words we choose:

[Watch Your Words]

The one who is caught lying to his friend

and says, “I didn’t mean it, I was only joking,”

can be compared to a madman

randomly shooting off deadly weapons.

It takes fuel to have a fire—

a fire dies down when you run out of fuel.

So quarrels disappear when the gossip ends.

Add fuel to the fire and the blaze goes on.

So add an argumentative man to the mix

and you’ll keep strife alive.

Gossip is so delicious, and how we love to swallow it!

For slander is easily absorbed into our innermost being.

Smooth talk can hide a corrupt heart

just like a pretty glaze covers a cheap clay pot.

Kind words can be a cover to conceal hatred of others,

for hypocrisy loves to hide behind flattery.

So don’t be drawn in by the hypocrite,

for his gracious speech is a charade,

nothing but a masquerade covering his hatred and evil on parade.

Don’t worry—he can’t keep the mask on for long.

One day his hypocrisy will be exposed before all the world.

Go ahead, set a trap for others—

and then watch as it snaps back on you!

Start a landslide and you’ll be the one who gets crushed.

Hatred is the root of slander

and insecurity the root of flattery.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 26:18-28 (The Passion Translation)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for October 26, the 34th day of Autumn and day 299 of the year:

accompanied by a psalm sung by Zach Winters as the closing track #13 on Love is a Garden

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good-queen-bess · 7 years ago

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ARMADA: INVASION ~ a Story by Good-Queen-Bess (aka me) -- PART 1

Hey, fellow Queens! Whether you were waiting for this or not, I’ve finished some important scenes in this story, so I thought I should be able to start posting it here! :) :D I don’t know if there’ll be a pattern to how frequently I’ll post this, but anyway, here it is! As much as I adore writing, I’m going through one of those phases where my creativity/writing skill is rather awful or drained (not exactly writer’s block, but I suppose it’s something similar…) Before I post the story, I wish to make clear that this is a strictly artistic interpretation on how Queen Elizabeth I may have personally dealt with the Spanish Armada. I have tried to keep it at least somewhat historically accurate, when it comes to writing something of this genre (even though that’s pretty difficult)… Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it…! ^.^

INVASION: ARMADA

JULY 1588 LONDON, ENGLAND

I was sitting in my office when I was informed of the news. Dinner had finished only half an hour ago. I sat at my mahogany desk, pen in hand, allowing the pen to dance fervently between my fingers. I was resting my head heavily in my other hand, absent-mindedly furrowing my brow in deep contemplation. My advisor, Lord Burghley, had suggested that I should dance more often to keep my mind off of things. I heeded his word. I had finished dancing about five minutes ago.

I didn’t usually dance so soon after eating, but something deep down was nagging at me. The niggling feeling had begun at about five o'clock this afternoon, and as time passed by, it grew worse and worse. Robert, who was sticking around court a lot more frequently these days (and understandably so. I would question his motives otherwise), noticed that I wasn’t acting quite right. Apparently I had been deathly silent for most of the evening. I didn’t think I was, but, then again, my internal monologue was deafening me, so of course I wasn’t going to realise it… He had been trying his best to cheer me up by cracking jokes and attempting to sing duets. He had given out to me for not singing the female response lines. I countered his argument by retorting sharply, reminding him that we weren’t courting anymore (I felt a slight element of guilt ripple through my stomach after saying it, but decided against apologising at that point). So, as a compromise, Robert offered to dance with me, and I accepted.

Robert was standing over by the corner in the opposite side of the room, muttering to himself after Cecil made a snide comment directed towards him. I was about to scold the two men for acting like petulant children, but then the doors of my office flew open. We all jolted from fright. A messenger burst into the office, panting heavily. "YOUR MAJESTY!“ He doubled over slightly, trying his utmost to catch as much breath as possible so he could speak coherently. "King Philip’s…Spanish…ships…have been sighted…ah, Jesus…gimme a sec…have been sighted…off the coast of…Christ…off the coast of…the Lizard. I ran here as fast as I could.” His final sentence was almost like a whisper. He gasped for more air, still bent over. He looked up at me again. “I threw myself off the post horse I was riding with the news. Knocked a few rich lookin’ fellas over in the hallways back there. You can tell them I said sorry. I already did and tried to explain it was urgent as I was running, but they either didn’t seem to understand me or believe me. God, I think I’ve pulled a muscle.” "Oh, need a woman’s touch, do we?“ Robert insolently and condescendingly commented, now standing in a haughty stance. I glowered at him. "Robert!” Robert shrugged defensively, as if he were innocent of something. “What?” He then flicked some dirt out from underneath his middle fingernail. “Just saying what everyone else was thinking…”

I bit down on my smile of laughter. I turned my attention back to the allegedly injured messenger. I got him a chair to sit on and bent down ever so slightly to look at him better. "And are you certain that this is the real thing?“ I asked, speaking about the invasion. "It isn’t some practical joke again?” "One hundred per cent certain, madam. The first beacons were set alight early this afternoon, Your Highness. Everyone made sure that it wasn’t a joke. They’re really coming, Your Majesty.“

I stood up straight. I looked at Robert and then at Cecil. "Alright,” I began. “You know what that means. Call the rest of the Council here immediately. We are going to have a few emergency meetings from now on…” I returned my gaze to the messenger and smiled at him. “Thank you for your diligent hard work. You and your fellow colleagues shall be rewarded for your trouble.”

I excused myself and walked into a smaller connecting room alone. I closed the door quietly behind me. I leaned up against the door, tempted to slide down it and crawl into a ball. I stayed standing, though I wasn’t sure how. I had lost all feeling in my limbs. I could feel my heart beginning to race, beating and galloping violently at an uncontrollable pace. I looked down and saw that my hands were clenched into tight fists. I was shaking. I was shaking everywhere. I let out a nervous laugh of disbelief. I suddenly noticed that my face was wet. Tears were streaming out of my eyes, soaking my cheeks and leaving a salty taste on my lips. I fought back the rest of them, blinking furiously. I took an unsteady breath and inhaled deeply.

Hold for three, let go for three. Fuck it, hold for five and let it all out.

I inhaled and exhaled several times, their durations varying in length. I couldn’t believe that this was happening. I refused to believe this was happening. After all of this time and planning and secret panicking, it was truly happening. I managed to calm myself down after another few minutes. I was still shaking, and I was still experiencing my involuntary and anoetic silent sobbing, but it was not so starkly uncontrollable as it was before. I looked up at the heavens above me.

“God, if you’re listening to this – well, if there is a God; if you truly exist, that is; and I know you do – …please be on our side. Not for my sake, – though I do fear what may happen to me after the Spa– if the Spanish invade and conquer – but be on our side for the sake of my people. Our people. I cannot bear to live with the thought that some innocent bystander will have their final sight being the imposing image of the barrel of a Spanish gun staring them down. I cannot live with the idea that a little boy teaching his younger sister how to count to ten would be dragged out of his home and be beaten to death or be thrown into the river because their home just happens to be in the invaders’ way. I cannot continue if I must have the image of my soldiers dying lying on my conscience before they have the chance to return home to their wives and newborn children.

"I can’t let myself live if a young maid is captured and raped on my English soil, solely because her existence ‘provoked’ a Spanish soldier. I cannot call myself a Queen if a single mother is torn away from her child for the sake of escaping Spanish invaders in an allegedly safe manner. I am not a worthy ruler if a homeless man on the street is kicked to death because he was a mere obstacle in the way of those intruders!

"So please, do not guide us to victory for my sake, but for England’s sake. I pray that I am a worthy safeguard to protect her from invasion. Do whatever you must in order for us to win. Let the winds bellow with beastly ferocity; let the waves roll and roar; let the rains pour down from the heavens; let the thunder boom and crackle throughout the blackened skies; let the lightning flash and strike any foreign ship that comes ten yards within our English waters!” My voice was beginning to break with emotion. I shut my eyes tightly and continued to speak. “Because if I must die with England, then I want me and my country to go down in flames, so that no-one may ever find us again and disturb our peace!” At this point I realised that I was roaring with frustrated fear. I had never felt such a mixture of emotional anger so intensely in my entire life before.

I suddenly felt a fluttering feeling in my stomach. A quick wisp of energy shivered up my spine and resonated throughout my whole body. I felt that I was powerful enough to kill a man with a mere glance of my eyes. I gruffly wiped the angry tears away, spun around and swung the doors open. I stormed through the chamber and down the hallway, heading for the quaint, little meeting room that I knew was going to be too small – and certainly overcrowded – with all of my Councillors in it.

Chaos ensued the hallways. It was a strange sense of chaos. It was a silent form of chaos. The servants quickly moved aside, staring and holding their gaze on me as I blazed by. It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. I didn’t expect it to be like this, when this inevitable time came. Nothing was verbally exchanged between anyone, but there seemed to be this unspoken understanding amongst everyone. Everyone seemed to understand what news had been delivered. We all knew that the time we had all hoped would never come, had in fact arrived. Nothing could be heard in those hallways except the fast-paced and strong click-clacking of my shoes against the stone floor, occasionally echoing in a menacing tone.

I had dismissed my ladies-in-waiting earlier that day, and I was now glad I had done so. I didn’t want them to be anywhere near me at this time. They wouldn’t have recognised me. I pushed the heavy doors of the meeting room open. Five Councillors were already crowding around a table that had a map splayed out on top of it. They looked up at me, locking their eyes with mine. Some mouths would open, but no words came out. Nothing needed to be said. We all knew why we were in that cramped little meeting room. I approached the mapped table. "Gentlemen, it is time.“ I looked around. "Where’s Leicester?” "He’s moved off to Tilbury, Your Majesty,“ one of the Councillors quietly responded. I rolled my eyes and tutted loudly, shaking my head in annoyance. "Stupid man – he was meant to stay until you were all briefed!” "Please contain yourself, Your Majesty,“ Lord Burghley soothed. "We all know why he went there. Besides, you were going to staton him there, anyway, so there isn’t any need to fret or rile Your Highness’ self up. We can always send a messenger to him with news of our plans from this meeting.” I took another breath to cancel out any anger that was burning up inside. I looked at Burghley. “Yes, I know, my lord, but I just don’t like the idea of classified information being given to someone like a messenger. Who knows, the messenger might leak the information. To whom, I know not, but more than likely to someone other than just Leicester!” Burghley rested a hand on my back in an effort to calm me. “Then we shall write down the plans and have a messenger who can’t read deliver the letter, unbeknownst of what lies in its contents.” I grunted. Finding an illiterate messenger these days was like trying to find a married woman who was still a virgin. Burghley should have known that. In fact, I knew he knew that; he was just promising me little nothings for the sake of making me focus on the larger matter at hand. My upper lip twitched. “It’s his own folly for not being present while we discuss these important issues.” I examined the map. “Can somebody explain our current status around our stations?” Walsingham stepped forward. “Well, seeing as they’ve been sighted near the Lizard, from what I gather, then I believe we should disembark from Plymouth and pursue them. I can have word sent to them immediately or by the end of this meeting, Your Majesty.” I stared at him. “How do you know that the Spanish have been sighted off the coast of the Lizard?” Walsingham smirked at me, his eyes flashing with a playful twinkle. “Your Majesty, I am your spymaster. I know these things.” His smile suddenly disappeared, and became unusually casual forthwith. He cleared his throat with a shrug. “But realistically, the doors were left open just enough after that messenger barged in, so I was able to hear the more important information. You know, that poor messenger was limping, but he still made himself sprint.” "Ah.“ I couldn’t tell if this was in acknowledgement of Walsingham’s former or latter statement. I felt bad for not believing the messenger when he said he was in pain.

One of the younger Councillors stepped forward. "Excuse me, Your Highness, may I use the toilet?” "No, you may not,“ I said, looking over at him as I sat down by the table. "I need the bathroom too, but you do not see me rushing off to use it.” I addressed everyone in the room. “So, gentlemen, I advise you all make yourselves comfortable, because nobody is leaving this room until we discuss everything.”

~*~*~*~

Seven hours and many mental breakdowns later, the meeting finally had drawn to a close. Another one was scheduled for half past nine later that morning. We were all exhausted, all irritable (hence the mental meltdowns experienced by everyone), and I knew we would all be lethargic zombies by the time the next meeting came around. I doubted that any of us would be able to sleep well.

Lord Burghley approached me before I left. “You know, Your Majesty, I know we all had our moments back there, but you seem incredibly calm overall. I doubt that even any of us would be able to handle such situations so well…” "Well, I did start to feel numb about halfway through the meeting,“ I quietly admitted, yawning afterwards. "But I managed to remain focused, and that’s all that matters.” "Yes, I think that fifteen-minute toilet break three hours in was greatly appreciated by everyone.“ I laughed softly. "Yes, everyone seemed so much better after that. I’m so glad we brought food in afterwards, too. I think we really needed it.” "Indeed,“ Burghley agreed. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched a little. "Anyway, goodnight, Your Majesty. Try your best to sleep well.” I smiled meekly at him. “I shall try. Goodnight, William.”

I made my way to my bedchamber and closed the door behind me. I took off my wig and some of my jewellery. I wiped off most of my make-up. After battling my way out of my dress, I somehow managed to undo my corset and threw it across the other side of the bedchamber. I didn’t want to wake any of the ladies-in-waiting to help me. I was still wearing my chemise, but decided I was too tired to change into a nightdress. I walked over to the dress I was wearing, knelt down, and took a small stained-glass vial from one of the secret pockets. I stood up and headed over to the balcony. It was pitch black outside. Only hints of midnight blue and rich wine or aubergine purple tinged the skies that were covered mostly by charcoal clouds. One could barely make out many stars trying to outshine the darkness. A cool breeze blew gently by, causing my skin to form goosebumps.

I gazed down at the small, belladonna black vial of cherry seeds and deadly nightshade in my hand. I looked up at the heavens above me once again. "Please, God, let us win.“

#my writing #queen elizabeth i #lord burghley #william cecil #spanish armada #armada week #good-queen-bess #idk does this count as fanfiction?#historical fiction #robert dudley #idk if this is a mistake posting this #oh well!

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