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wkemeup · 5 years ago

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By Any Other Name (12)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.7k warnings: the moment of truth 🌹series masterlist 🌹

It was pitch black outside; the only light surrounding you from the stream of your headlights and the cast of stars gently illuminating your path huddled by acres of trees. The countryside was untouched by the pollution of the city and it was almost unbearably quiet amongst the woods, with only low hum of your engine and the faint chirping of crickets outside the crack of your car window to fill the emptiness around you.

The ink hastily written on the scrap of crumpled paper curled up in your hand was smudged. You couldn’t quite make out if it was a six or an eight in the address, but your GPS had long abandoned you several dirt roads ago, so you supposed it didn’t matter much anyway. There was nothing else around for miles.

When you finally pulled up to what looked like an abandoned warehouse, there was no relief. It looked like something out of a horror film. The paint was chipped on the walls, the name of the metalworks company faded under years of weathering and neglect, tiles of the roof were gathering in piles on dusted, dirt roads. There wasn’t a single light in sight.

You swallowed as you turned off your engine. The headlights stayed on, reflecting on the single silver door. It was rusted along the hinges and looked completely untouched.

You had half a mind to call James to help ease the steadily increasing rate of your heartbeat, but he had been very clear when he asked you to turn off your phone and leave it behind at home. He couldn’t risk anyone tracking your location, so he said. He was acting so strangely lately, but you could sense the heaviness weighing on him.

You didn’t have much in the range of weapons in your car, not that it would have done you much good, but you stuck your keys between your fingers as you pushed open the side door. The air was brisk, sending a chill up your spine as clouds of dried dirt puffed up in clouds with every step you took. You crossed in front of your headlights until you paused in front of the warehouse.

With a heavy inhale, one you weren’t sure you’d let go of anytime soon, you turned the rusted knob and locked your car. The lights flashed off, leaving you surrounded in darkness.

You quickly hurried inside, more afraid of the darkness of the countryside than the unknown of what laid beyond the door. The slam of the door to its hinges behind you was louder than you prepared for and you winced as it echoed through the rafters.

You glanced up to find a group of people stood at the center of the room, all huddled over a long metal table filled high with piles of papers. Their heads turned abruptly in your direction.

One of them separated from the crowd, relief evident on his face as he quickly jogged in your direction; hair bouncing around his shoulders with every step, a half smile on his face though it struggled to reach up by his eyes. Ocean blue, and swarming in something darker, something pulling him under.

James.

But it wasn’t him you were looking at.

The inside of the warehouse was like something out of one of those spy movies Peter used to marathon on Saturday nights. The walls were lined with monitors, some filled with maps of the city, others with profiles and mugshots of men you recognized as friends of your husband, but the one displaying live security footage outside of your home caught your eye.

You could see the driveway, the row of plain, well-kept bushes lining the pavement, the lights on above the garage. One of the security men you snuck past was on a lap around the perimeter and stopped to take a drag of his cigarette before he tossed the butt unto the grass.

An unpleasant shiver swept up your spine; cold and detached, and it nestled deep into your stomach.

“What the hell...” you exhaled, hardly able to take it all in.

You felt a hand graze your arm and you flinched, shocked by the sudden touch before you realized who was behind it. You turned to find bright blue eyes watching you cautiously as James chewed on the healed scar at the center of his bottom lip. He glanced sadly down at your hand, noticing the keys nestled between your knuckles and you quickly released them, slipping them into your pocket.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” he said quietly and there was a slight tremor in his voice, a nervousness, as he looked back to the group of people watching him from the metal table ahead of them.

“James, what’s going on?” you asked and he forced a smile to his face, one that was meant to reassure you, though he could hardly muster it.

“Come with me. I promise, I’ll explain everything.” He extended his hand to you, open and waiting, patient, and you studied the lines in his palms, lines you’d come to be familiar with, and suddenly you weren’t sure if you knew much of anything at all.

Still, you took his hand blindly as he guided you further into the room. He pulled out a chair for you at the table, just ahead of a particularly high stack of papers. You didn’t say anything as you glanced around at his friends and took a seat.

The tall, blonde man with broad shoulders and the clear line of muscles visible through the thin fabric of his t-shirt wore a slight frown on his face, though the way his eyes drifted to James protectively suggested he was concerned more than he was angry.

Beside him, slumped down into a chair of his own, was a dark-skinned man with a large, toothy grin, and dimples in cheeks. He smiled at you, like he knew something you didn’t, and you suspected that was more than the case because he was almost giddy with excitement, shifting in his seat and stealing looks at James.

“We don’t have much time before Rumlow finishes up in Harlem,” a red-haired woman to your right said.

You narrowed your eyes, recognizing her short, rounded nose, pointed stare, and perfect curve of a cupid’s bow on her lips outlined in dark red. She was familiar -- they all were -- like you’d seen them in passing but couldn’t place exactly where.

She pointed to a monitor behind you and you turned to find grainy footage of your husband sitting in at a table surrounded by men in suits you recognized from one of the dozens of parties he’d dragged you to over the years. It was from a Chinese restaurant in Harlem you got takeout from once with Peter. You gritted your teeth as you watched him clap a hand on the man beside him, throwing a wad of cash onto the table.

James nodded to his red-haired friend, pulling up a chair in front of you and turning it to face you properly before he took a seat.

“Where am I? Why am I here?” you asked tensely, unable to tear your eyes away from the monitors. You watched as one flickered from your living room to the hallway outside your library, to the staircase leading up to your room. Empty, haunted, in your absence.

A ruffle of papers to your left stole your attention and you found yourself staring at the blonde man with a file rifling through his fingers. A picture of your husband slipped out from the center and fell to the table. Even in his mug shot, his eyes held a kind of possessiveness, an arrogance, that transcended the page.

“Why do you have security footage of my house and—and Brock’s old RAP sheet?” your gaze flickered to the man sitting in the chair, watching you with a familiar kind of look in his eye, and then to the woman who was busying herself behind her laptop. You turned to James. “Who are these people?”

You could feel your breaths increasing in pace, the panic that was starting to take hold, but you stifled it down, buried behind closed doors and cement until it suffocated under the surface and all that remained was a vagrant stare and a jaw wired to stone.

James brushed his lips over with his hand, a heavy breath before he spoke again.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how to say this.”

“Try,” you muttered out, voice like sandpaper.

You didn’t realize your hands were clenched onto the bottom of the metal chair until your fingers started to ache. James’ eyes wavered down to your grip and he nodded quickly. Your heart was pounding so painfully, you wondered if he could see the thump of it through your chest.

He dug his hand into his pocket, let out a breath that looked near painful, and slowly set a shiny, golden badge onto the table. The shine of it reflected in the dim lighting of the warehouse. You dug your hands into the metal edges of the chair until you felt a sharp burn.

“My name isn’t James Karpov,” he exhaled. Blue eyes flickered up to yours, gaging for a reaction on your face he wouldn’t find. He glanced back nervously at the blonde man pacing behind him before he continued. “I’m a special agent with the FBI and I’ve been undercover in Hydra for over a year now.”

Your features hardened over like stone, a protective layer to shield the surge of a storm thundering inside of you; the answer to a question you’d been suspecting for a while without realizing it.

You’d seen the way he flinched at his own name, how he got that kind of solemn look in the blue of his eyes when you talked about your husband, about wanting to escape it all, how he’d promised for things to be different when this was over, if he had more time. Pieces started to fall together and somehow you were still more lost than you’d been in years.

He paused, watching you, waiting for a flicker of the woman he knew to break through the blank stare currently consuming your features, but when nothing came, he let himself exhale. You focused on the soft footsteps of his friend pacing along the wall behind him. It was comforting to use his steps as a metronome, something to ground yourself because you could feel your world pulling apart at the seams.

It was a single string at the very edge of everything you knew. It only took a moment for it to unravel, within an admission of a name that was not his own, and soon the floor at your feet was covered in the broken pieces of what you believed to be true. Tattered and tangled threads.

“It started after Jack Rollins was murdered in lockup. I was assigned to this case to gather evidence against Rumlow and his men, so that we could dismantle Hydra completely; prevent it from ever coming back again,” he continued, his voice even, almost matter-of-fact, and it didn’t sound much like your James at all. It was too clinical, too rehearsed, and you could feel the sharp twist of a knife embedding itself deeper into your chest with every word he spoke.

You listened quietly as he told you of when he first learned your name on a single page in the back of your husband’s file, how he’d known who you were before you even stepped foot into Brock’s office that first evening. He told you how he’d been assigned a cover, a new name and a history, to replace the role of Jack Rollins within Hydra as their enforcer. He’d been Brock’s right hand man for over a year and he was playing your husband like a fiddle.

“Director Fury thought it would be beneficial to the case to, um,” he released a heavy breath, as if the action in itself hurt him, “…to get close to you. He thought you might know more about Hydra’s dealings than you realized and he’d hoped you’d open up to someone who, um, you trusted. Seems he was right.”

You didn’t allow him see the way your heart caved in; jaw clenched, impossibly still, even breaths, and yet the floor had dropped from under you and you were free falling a hundred feet below. Lost to an abyss from which you were certain you’d never return; darkness barreling in and taking you home. It was where you belonged, wasn’t? It was where you had lived for years. Back to the fractured sense of safety, to the shadows lurking in the corner, to the eggshells under your bare feet made of broken glass. To lies and manipulation and deceit and ruin.

You wondered when it happened, when he’d been officially assigned to claw his way into your heart as if you were nothing but a pawn in the scheme of his mission. You wondered if it was before or after he’d gifted you A Farewell to Arms and if it was even his at all; if the scribbles in the margins belonged to his youth or if it was the carefully constructed design of an analyst with the sole purpose of hooking straight through your heart and sinking you to the ocean floor.

That moment was the beginning of it all; when you showed him your library, your most sacred place to a stranger, but it had felt so right at the time.

Was the first moment you’d felt safe with him a complete lie?

There was always a comfort in being with him. A place for you to let down your guard and the walls you held up like stone around your heart. Beyond everything else, the one thing you knew about James Karpov was that he was safe. His presence was the only thing that allowed you to let go of the fear of the shadows of you home and the monsters lurking in the corners. He was a shining light in the darkness that had consumed your life.

You were young and naïve when you met Brock. You were eager for love and fell easily into his carefully constructed trap, overlooking obvious warning signs and the flaws of a man obstructed by the character he played.

For only a moment, you wondered if it had happened again, if you had become so foolish to allow yet another man to manipulate you and spin himself into the version of a man you’d desire until he could rip the floor out from under you just to see you squirm.

A pang burned in your stomach, something stubborn and instinctive, one that urged you to just look at the man in front of you, to notice the way blue eyes nervously sought out your own, to see how his hands were trembling and his voice was strained, to notice that he was scared with every word he spoke. But your world had fallen apart and you could only do so much to stifle the scream bubbling its way through your chest.

So, you held your tongue as he told you about the orchestrated meetings in Brooklyn, how his friends -- his team -- had helped plan what you thought were coincidences but turned out to be carefully constructed operations. Moments when you’d light up upon seeing him, a wash of warmth to your chest on even the coldest winter mornings, and it was a lie.

You realized then why you recognized his friends; it was from the outskirts of coffeeshops, sitting under sunglasses and baseball caps, hiding behind newspapers in the distance. The quiet observers in your life pulling away at the last shreds of dignity you had.

“I was assigned a job,” James said tensely, clenching at his hands, wringing them painfully in his lap as he stared down at the cement under your shoes, “no different than jobs I’ve had before. Take on a new name. Be a new person. I’ve done… terrible things to preserve my cover, things I am not proud of. I’ve hurt people because Rumlow ordered me to. It was part of the job. I kept telling myself that, anyway. Didn’t seem to matter that I never killed anyone he put a hit on, that the Bureau stepped in to relocate my targets and hand me a look-alike that was mutilated just enough so Rumlow could have his proof and I could keep my cover. The blood on my hands is still real.”

There was a lump in your throat, one that burned and ached and was on the verge of choking you completely. You wanted to scream, or cry, or run until your legs gave out completely, but instead, you were paralyzed. Frozen in place. Stone of a statue. A single touch would crumble you.

“But you have to know it was never an act with you, Y/n,” he urged, desperation in his voice. You could hear the grief in his words, the slight tremor in the dissonance, the fear that you might reject him in favor of a man who does not exist.

You could hardly meet his eye.

He paused, watching you for a moment, waiting, longing, for you to tear your stare away from the wall beyond his left shoulder, hoping you’d find your way back to him as you always did, but you gave no inch. You held yourself still, unreadable, and he exhaled a breath that must have weighed immensely on his chest.

“After a while, I started meeting you in Brooklyn when the team wasn’t around, when there was no one to listen in and no agendas to fulfill,” he started, a little softer now as he slumped back into his chair. “I started staying at the mansion long past when I should have, just reading with you in your library because it was the only place I felt like myself anymore. I started forgetting that on Sundays in Brooklyn, I wasn’t who I said I was. You don’t know how easy it was for me to spend time with you and just let myself believe for a while that I really was James Karpov…”

Jaw wired shut, clenched, and you did not respond.

He sighed, a careful look back at his team and he continued.

He told you about the red-haired woman, Natasha, who turned out to be the sales associate from the boutique downtown where you’d bought the lavender dress. She smiled at you in acknowledgement when the heat of embarrassment stung in your cheeks.

You realized that the two men were the same Steve and Sam he’d tell you stories about on your Sundays together; old friends, brothers. A single grain of truth in a web of lies.

“I knew, even before the gala, that my feelings for you had started to cloud my judgement,” he said slowly, laced with guilt, and your gaze flickered up to him, surprised, though he didn’t notice. You watched the shame seep into his features, his hands clenching at his pant legs. Steve and Sam turned away awkwardly as he continued, “I nearly told you everything that night. When we danced on the balcony and we almost--”

Kissed.

You remembered it well. You had committed the night to memory; to the way his hands felt pressed so delicately to your hips, the gently sway of your bodies, the subtle scent of his shampoo and how warm his breath was as it touched your skin. It was a dream, a fairytale, and you wondered if it was just that; a moment meant for the stories in your library, far away from the cruel realities you’d come to know.

James sighed, a hand brushing over his forehead, pushing away the hair from his eyes and exposing the blush in his cheeks. He was staring down at the floor, chewing painfully on his lip. He didn’t notice the way your features had started to soften, your lips slightly parted as you watched him, heart racing.

“I didn’t know how to make it stop… the way I felt about you,” he confessed, a pained kind of humor in his voice. “I’d never compromised myself like that before. I’d always been able to separate myself completely from the case, where a mask and a new identity like a costume and manipulate my targets without remorse, draw on their strings and tug at their levers. It was my job.”

You flinched; subtle, but as you unclenched your jaw you noticed a pair of green eyes watching you from behind a sweep of auburn hair. She smiled encouragingly before you turned back to James.

“But I never did that with you, Y/n, I swear it on my life,” James pressed, raking his fingers through his hair though it fell back into his eyes. “You… you found a way to push yourself through the cracks in these walls I built up and brought out pieces of myself I hadn’t seen in years. You made me smile again, and gave me something worth fighting for outside of my own damn ambitions, made me believe in a world where things could be different – kinder, maybe. You made me want to be myself again instead of these characters I so often lose myself in. You made me want to relearn who I was and stop hiding in the identities of my enemies.”

He rubbed at his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a breath that provided no relief. “Steve almost threw me off the case entirely when he found out I’d started crossing lines between my cover and the man I wanted you to know me as.”

Your heart skipped at that, eyes flickering up to blue and you watched as he struggled to find his words. He was breathing heavy, hands constantly raking through his hair and there was a slight shakiness as he clenching them back into fists at his side. You’d never see him like this before. Scared.

“Please understand, I couldn’t tell you any of this,” he sighed, scratching his nails along the thighs of his jeans. You noticed rather quickly that he stopped trying to meet your eye. “You have no idea how much I wanted to, how much it was fucking killing me that I couldn’t, especially after--”

He clenched his teeth, stopping himself before he could say it, but you knew what he meant; the night he’d put himself on the line for Peter, how he’d kissed you through broken lips and everything changed. It was evident in the way his friends turned away, giving him space, red tips on the end of Steve’s ears.

“The director thinks I’m a damn fool for bringing you in on this,” he continued, “but, I trust you, Y/n, even if I just destroyed any trust you had in me. I know you and I know you want to see Rumlow brought to justice. I know you want to be free of him and for Peter to be out of Hydra’s control. I still know you and... despite all this, I promise, you still know me, too.”

He seemed to have finished as he allowed a deep, unsettling silence take over. You could vaguely hear the soft ticking of the clocks hanging high on the wall and the exhales of breath coming from across the room. He glanced back at his friends nervously, who offered him nothing but clenched jaws in return, before coming back to you.

“Say something... please,” he asked timidly, desperately.

There was something unpleasant churning in your stomach and you weren’t sure what it was; dread, humiliation, betrayal. Maybe it was something more like the edge of relief, so close you could just barely touch it but it wasn’t yours quite yet. Just beyond your fingertips but still there, still visible, waiting.

You swallowed, letting your hands unclench from the chair and you looked up to find his friends busying themselves with the paperwork on the table; various files on your husband and the company he kept.

You glanced over to the door, the weight of your keys heavy in your pocket. There was a pull urging you to the door, whispering in your ear like a siren’s call to leave, to run and never look back, and fall straight into the darkness you knew. It was familiar at least; a demon you knew by name.

But as you turned your attention back to the man in front of you, watched the way he hung his head in shame, accepting the worst of his fears that in your silence you’d rejected everything you now knew him to be, that call urging you to run seemed a little further away. Drowned out by the overwhelming urge to draw him into your arms, you could no longer hear the voice beckoning you away from the man you’d come to adore, perhaps even love, even if he was a man you weren’t sure you truly knew at all.

“I can’t, um, back off the case,” he started, clearing his throat as his words seemed to give out before he could continue, “but I can give you space. You won’t have to see me unless I’m around your husband. I’ll do what I can to keep my distance but—”

“Stop.”

He froze, head lifting abruptly at the sound of your voice. It was then you realized his eyes had glossed over, reflective with unshed tears, his lower lip nearly chewed raw.

You held his gaze for a moment, searching for the man you knew him to be within the shades of blue you’d come to know so well. The darkest part of yourself wondered if there were pieces that reminded you of your husband in there, if he held the same qualities that allowed Brock to manipulate you and lure you into a false sense of security and love and affection before he ripped it away.

But you’d seen the way James smiled at you from across the room. You’d seen the way the lines around his eyes wrinkled when he laughed. You’d seen the kindness nestled into every touch upon your skin, a warmth in his embrace you hadn’t known in years.

You’d seen grief consume him; pain and the guilt sweeping over his features as he told you the truth of who he was. Facets of a complicated man who was more than just one thing; subtle moments one could not easily fabricate.

James was not just the man who lied to you. He was not only a man with a name you did not know and a history wiped clean. He was also the man who reminded you what it was like to laugh again, who reminded you that you were stronger than what Brock led you to believe and that you carried more worth than what your husband assigned to you. He was a man who took a beating that could have killed him to spare your sixteen-year-old cousin and gave over every Sunday he had just to listen to you talk and run errands around Brooklyn.

He was messy and complicated, flawed but human. In the years you’d fallen under Brock’s spell, nothing your husband ever faked even compared to how James treated you. Brock had made himself to be perfectly designed, an impenetrable lie.

James had been the one to break through his cover of his own volition. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose in doing so; the case, his team, his career... You wouldn’t dare allow yourself to wonder if you were within that list.

You took a deep breath, steadying your gaze. “I have questions.”

His eyes widened, surprised, but he nodded quickly, brushing his palms on his thighs. “Anything. Anything you want to know. Just ask.”

“So… you’re not Hydra." It wasn’t a question, but you were still seeking confirmation.

“No,” he confirmed quickly. “I’m not.”

“You’re not a hitman. You don’t kill people because Brock tells you to.”

“I’ve killed,” James replied sincerely, “but never for him. I was an army ranger before I was recruited by the FBI. I don’t take a life unless I have to.”

You nodded, trying to find your ground again now. Those were the easy questions, ones with answers you already suspected to be true. It was the next ones you were about to ask that held answers you were truly afraid of. You pushed out a deep breath through your lips, though it trembled on its way out and you felt the shake of it deep in your lungs.

“The copy of A Farewell to Arms… was it yours?”

The question startled him, eyes narrowing for a moment before a soft smile curved at his lips. “Yes. Sam made fun of me relentlessly for digging through my ma’s house for it. I can’t say it had nothing to do with the assignment, because you did open up more after that but... I didn’t do it just because I thought it would help our case. I just thought you'd like it.”

You nodded, taking in his answer. It didn’t relieve the ache in your stomach, but it was something. A piece of the beginning was still intact.

“How much of it was real?” you asked, surprising yourself. The words stumbled out before you could stop them and it wiped the smile from his face almost instantly. It was like a punch straight to his gut, the wind knocked out from under him.

You swallowed, gripping painfully tight into your sweater and trying to avoid ocean blue eyes and the curious stares of his friends. You needed him to say it, needed to hear it out loud, or you might collapse within yourself entirely.

“The times you’d call late at night and we’d watch dateline over the phone or when we bought the lavender dress downtown or dancing on the balcony at the gala. All you did for Peter, every Sunday we spent together... Tell me it wasn’t just for the cover... to get closer to me so I’d tell you secrets about Hydra I didn’t know I had. Tell me it was real... that it was really you and not some character you played. Tell me you’re real. Please.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until James – not-James – threw himself down to his knees in front of you. His hands reached up to your thighs before he froze, hovering, because he didn’t know if it was okay to touch you anymore.

“Sweetheart, please, look at me,” he begged. He finally sat his hands against your thighs, just in an effort to ground you and when you didn’t flinch away, seeming to relax as your heart rate softened, he began to trace delicate patterns with his thumbs.

“Everything -- and I mean this -- everything was real between us,” he implored. There was a redness in the whites of his eyes, a subtle tremor of his lower lip as he tugged it between his teeth. “There were some circumstances that allowed me to run into you when maybe I otherwise wouldn’t have, that let me spend more time with you, but I swear on my life, nothing I ever said to you was scripted, nothing I ever felt for you was forced. Every second I spent with you was the happiest I’ve been in years. I won’t lie to you again. Not ever. Please believe me when I say that what I feel for you is real. It's always been real.”

Sniffling back tears, you let him brush a hand up over your cheek to wipe the wetness away. His lower lip tugged between his teeth in concentration, purposeful to keep the rough edges of calloused palms from touching your skin. He was so gentle, so tender with you, and it was entirely your James, even if he wasn’t.

“It was real, honey. The important parts, those were all real,” he whispered, his voice so achingly sweet it made your heart clench. There was a desperation in his voice, like the very foundation of his soul was etched into every word, his heart sitting within the dissonance. “I am still the man I was yesterday. I’m still him, sweetheart. You haven’t lost me.”

He smiled sweetly at you, though it didn’t quite make it up to his eyes. No, his eyes were filled with a remorse that consumed him whole. The guilt always sitting on the surface, the hesitation in his hands but the longing in his stare, the pain in the pleasure; it made sense now.

When you set your hands on his forearms, it startled him, his eyes darting down to where your touch met. Without a word, you let your hands wonder along his arms, sliding up his shoulders, his neck, to finally cup the sides of his face. Rigid muscles relaxed as you passed them by, his body caving into your touch with ease as his eyes fluttered closed, like he was sinking into the palms of your hands.

You just needed to feel him, remind yourself that he was real, that he was solid and tangible, and right under your fingers. The slight bristles of his beard scratched under your palms, the wrinkles of a shirt creased in his drawers, the divots in his skin from old wounds.

You let out a heavy breath, grazing your thumbs along his jawline, over the healing scar on his right cheek and the discoloration that had long faded to a soft, light pink. Marks of a man who was everything you always believed him to be.

“I don’t know what to call you,” you confessed, a whisper of a smile touching at the edges of your lips and you felt it in your palms as he choked back a sob of relief, jaw trembling under your touch.

He nodded, his hands coming up to rest on your own as he turned his head just slightly enough to press a kiss to the heal of your palm. His eyes were red and glossy, but there was a smile on his lips; it was aching and tired, but it was swollen in relief, like yours.

“For now, just call me James.”

You shook your head. “It’s not your name.”

“It is, actually,” he countered, with a nervous chuckle. He gently pulled your hands from his face and set them into your lap, though he didn’t let go. “It’s technically on my birth certificate and it’s just a coincidence this identity and I shared it in common, but it’s not what my friends call me. It’s not what I want you to know me as when this is finally over.” He paused, a deep breath in a beat later, “I would... I would give anything to hear you say my real name.”

You took in a deep breath, trying not to focus on the gravity of what he said, but it hit like an anvil to your chest. You wondered what his name was, how he might act around you without Brock hanging over your shoulder, how it would feel to be with him in the light of day; no restrictions, no hiding in the shadows, nothing holding you back from one another.

“You… you still want this— us— when the case is over?”

James paused, a sad kind of heartbreak in his eyes that you would even ask such a question. He nodded slowly before he lifted your intertwined hands to his lips and kissed sweetly at your knuckles. “I told you, honey, everything between us was real. I’d give you my whole life if you asked.”

A tear slipped past your eye as a breathy laugh escaped you, a strange mixture of awe and surprise and relief washing through you. You stayed there with him, reveling in the feel of his hands encasing yourself, the touch of his lips to your fingertips, watching as he started to come back into himself, as the guilt faded from his eyes and he was smiling at you with that flicker of light in in the blue of his eyes.

James pulled up a chair beside you, freeing his knees on the hard, cement floors, and you tugged yourself closer to him; thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. He was still yours.

“So, what happens now?” you asked, glancing to the papers on the table curiously.

“Now,” a voice called from behind him, deep and commanding, and Steve stepped forward, setting a file on the table ahead of you, “you help us bring down your husband.”

You narrowed your eyes, intrigued, and pulled the file into your lap. You thumbed through the pages, eyeing the transcripts, glanced over names of men and women, over the date in the top left corner and the address of the pier scribbled in James’ handwriting.

You set the file back on the table. “You’re planning a raid for the shipment at the end of the month.”

It wasn’t a question and Steve seemed surprised by how quickly you’d gathered that from the information he presented you with. There was no doubt in your mind, you’d do anything they asked if it meant putting Brock behind bars where he belonged.

“What do you need from me?” you asked, hand seeking out James’ and he squeezed it back lightly.

“That we’ll decide when the opportunity presents itself,” Steve responded. “In exchange for your help in this and frankly, all the evidence we’ve gathered based on your unknowing intel… uh, James,” Steve cleared his voice, clearly having to remind himself to use the cover’s name, “has arranged for your immunity.”

Wide eyes met his and he offered you a shy, reassuring smile. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You always assumed that the price it took to bring your husband down meant sinking the ship with you inside. You knew he held a number of charges over your head; it was why you stayed complicit for so long. But now...

“You just have to sign the papers,” James said, sliding a pile of folders across the table to you. There were two stacks and you looked at the second suspiciously before James answered your unspoken question. “I got the judge to sign off on immunity for Peter, too. It was part of my condition before I handed over the shipment log for the raid next month. Wasn’t that hard of a sell, honestly. Peter’s a good kid.”

Lost for words, heart pounding tight in your chest. “You-- what?”

James nodded casually, a slight purse of his lips like he hadn’t just doused you in a relief you hadn't known in years. “Yeah, well, no jury was ever going to convict him anyway, but I figured it was best to cover our bases. I told you I’d watch out for him, didn’t I? Wasn’t going to let you down on that promise. Plus, a kid as good as Peter didn’t deserve to be caught up in all of this. The judge could see that pretty easily.”

He was smiling softly at you but you could hardly breathe. You knew he cared for Peter. It was obvious the night he took a brutal beating for your cousin, but this was something else entirely. This was something far beyond his cover, the identity he wore like a mask, this was him at his core; a man who was true to his word, a man who was decent and kind and good.

He was your James, regardless of his name or the badge he wore.

Without the proper words to thank him, you surged forward, despite his friends standing at the table surrounding you, and kissed him. Hands pressed to his cheeks, lips communicating what words could not, and you only pulled away when you felt him searching for a breath.

His cheeks were burning pink, eyes a little wide as he nervously glanced up at Steve, who had conveniently turned his back. Natasha was smirking in the corner as she attended to the files in her hands, and Sam was sprawled out in the chair across the table, sparing no expense and grinning wildly as he winked at James.

“So, we bring down Hydra,” you said with a proud smirk upon your lips and James’ whole face seemed to light up. “We put Brock behind bars. We end this.”

Steve stepped out from behind the shadows, a hand extended in your direction. Stone cold expression melting into a soft smile, the blue of his eyes kinder than the façade he put forth.

“It’s good to have you on board, Y/n.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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inavagrant-a · 3 years ago

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@viivyre (jean!) / starter call

It isn’t often Scaramouche is ordered to station himself within the city of Mondstadt, but when he is he usually knows what to expect. Being the harbinger who’s often moving from one place to another, wandering without growing excessively exhausted from it, usually he’s told to pick something up and that’s about it, but this time around? Well, this time around turned out to be a bit different. That in itself isn’t a bad thing, in fact it was a well received pleasant surprise. Being the most perfect being to exist, being eternal, change in that song with no end is very much welcomed—bonus points if it’s unexpected. The Fatui needed a harbinger to remain in the city of wind for a few weeks to simply make sure that the diplomats already stationed in the city are doing their due diligence and aren’t slacking off. All he was told was that Signora was preoccupied with some other matters in Liyue. The order is to keep order, that’s all he’s here for. He wasn’t required to mingle with anybody or anything else. And, for the most part, everything was in order, a few weak links here and there that intimidation managed to get them back on track, but nothing too drastic. If he’s remembering correctly, most of the Fatui personnel within Mondstadt belong to Signora. Tch, typical, perhaps the next time he sees her he’ll give her a tip or two on how to run a tight ship.

Scaramouche has spent most of his time within the walls of the Goth hotel, not once stepping out unless it was absolutely required of him to do so. Even then he made sure he was out and about when there weren’t many eyes, his advantage is that he isn’t very well known as a harbinger upon sight because he’s hard to ever catch a glimpse of, always being in the move and all. If he needs to relay direct orders then he has his lot reach out or he calls said individuals he wishes to speak to into the hotel. Quite boring, mundane even, but the balladeer keeps himself entertained enough within the confinements of his personal luxurious quarters.

With one final stroke of his black inked brush, the harbinger steps away from the canvas that now houses the attempted image of the absolutely destructive and desolate view of Seirai island, one of the many islands of the nation he would have called his home in Inazuma. Most specifically, Scaramouche attempted to draw and outline the center of the island from memory and the mass of land that floats above it with black ink. It isn’t too shabby, the harbinger is more than satisfied. That view has to be one of his favorites, and he’s traveled to all seven nations before, numerous times in fact, yet they all pale in comparison to it. He’s contemplating whether or not he wishes to paint it with color or if he should settle with the black ink. However that will be left as an afterthought for now since there’s three firm knocks on his chamber’s grand doors and then the sound of someone stepping in, an Agent. “Lord Har-”

“Did I give you permission to step into my quarters?” Scaramouche interrupts, not once gracing the individual with his gaze. His tone making the Agent shrink and immediately take a knee where he stood. “F-Forgive me my lord it’s just-.”

“I don’t want your apology,” Scaramouche continues, cutting the Agent off again. The Agent tensing up as a response, keeping his head down. Signora’s subordinates are so damn sloppy it’s disgusting, but he’ll address that later. For an Agent to step in like that it must be a matter worth attending to... or at least that’s the hope or else there’ll be trouble. It isn’t often Scaramouche is caught out of his usual wears, don in a black yukata. “Speak, be quick about it and to the point.” The sixth sighs, placing his brush down and turning to regard the Agent. “Yes my lord,” the Agent nods, “the Acting Grand Master is requesting an audience with you.” She said the one who’s supervising them which at the moment, unfortunately for them, is the sixth harbinger. “Oh?” Scaramouche is intrigued. The Acting Grand Master huh? “Where is she right now?” Scaramouche hopes these pigs have the decency of welcoming her inside at least. “She’s down in the main hall my lord.” The Agent informs him, much to Scaramouche’s relief. “Good, go back and offer her a drink or something, it’ll be a few minutes. Get out of my sight.” He orders which the Agent obeys, getting to his feet, bowing his head and excusing himself, closing the door behind him to let her know that Scaramouche will be out shortly.

Once downstairs, the Agent regards Jean, bowing his head and resting his hand over his chest. “Your patience is appreciated Acting Grand Master, please take a seat, I’ll have someone bring you something to indulge upon. Lord Harbinger will be down shortly.” He informs and excuses himself.

After a moment, Scaramouche is out of his quarters, signaled by the sound of his grand door shutting closed, now in his usual more presentable wears. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He inquires, walking down the stairs to the grand hall to properly address this unexpected visit.

“You honor me with your presence Acting Grand Master, please take a seat,” he offers, “how can I be of service?”

#viivyre #[ᴠᴇʀsᴇs]── HARBINGER.#[ɴᴏ. sɪx]── IC.#*vibrate s* HELLO!#THANKS FOR LIKING MY STARTER CALL #hope this works!#my dms are open for anything!

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years ago

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and I’m building it with you

This is an addition to my toymaker Percy fic, done as a Christmas present for my wonderful friend @minky-for-short who is just fantastic and wonderful and deserves the best <3

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3!

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Percy finds himself on babysitting duty, something he should be far better prepared for than he is...

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Having a child in his toy store shouldn’t have made Percy as nervous as it did. He saw so many of them every single day.

On one level he knew that, of course he did. But it didn’t help that this was the child of the woman who he...well.

A woman he was growing rather fond of.

It had been a slow morning when Vex had burst through the doors of his store in the early hours of the morning. Percy had been sitting behind the counter without so much as some sanding to do, scribbling some new concepts in his notebook, when the door had opened so quickly he’d worried the bell would fly off its hook.

Seeing Vex standing there had made his chest feel a little tight but in that good way he was starting to get used to. She did come by most mornings now, midway through after her early shift at the bakery to bring him some pastries that hadn’t sold from the bakery and a coffee. At first it had been to talk about how Raven enjoyed his Winter’s Crest gift, giving feedback on how the little wooden bear moved and functioned. Now it was weeks past Winter’s Crest and Vex was still coming nearly every morning if she worked the right hours. And now they talked about everything and anything that came into their heads, minutes running past nearly completely unnoticed.

Percy wasn’t sure how Vex saw him now, as a friend or as the man behind the counter in a strange little store or anything else. He just knew she brightened his days.

He’d been about to smile and say how lovely it was to see her earlier than usual when he’d noticed just how harried she’d looked, how she’d clearly been going at a frantic pace, the panic and guilt in her eyes. Of course there was always guilt settled in the back of her eyes, like clouds stirring in a slate grey sky, but this morning it had been at the forefront as the story came pouring out.

Being called into work last minute on a day off, Vax and Shaun having left the city to spend a week in Marquet for Shaun’s birthday, no one else available to watch Raven, could Percy maybe, could he possibly, only if it wasn’t too much trouble but she didn’t know where else to go.

Percy had agreed immediately of course, accepting the warm weight of the little boy into his arms. He didn’t need her to say it in so many ways but he understood how important her job was to her, how much she needed the money it brought in. There had been a time in his life when every minute had been counted in coppers too.

And the look of relief on her face when he’d agreed, when he’d promised it was all okay and he’d take care of Raven until her shift ended in a few hours, was worth so much.

But now the door had closed and he was left alone, holding a seven month old boy and, if he was being absolutely honest, no clue at all how to look after one at all.

But how hard could looking after a kid in a toyshop be?

Percy had broken his third pencil in twenty minutes, cracked to splinters in his grip like the first two. He slumped until his forehead hit the counter with a painful thunk.

And still Raven kept wailing at the top of his lungs.

Percy made himself jerk up, pushing back his chair and sinking back down beside Raven’s stroller. The little toddler, this tiny little thing that could make so much gods damn noise, with Vex’s soft, sweet eyes and her dark hair and those enormous ears, thrashed in his puffy winter coat, face red with the effort of his crying.

He’d been like that ever since Vex had left, after one last kiss to his chubby cheeks. He’d watched her round the corner with his enormous dark eyes, and no sooner had the last edge of her scarf disappeared from view than his lower lip began to tremble, his eyes filled and his lungs burst.

An hour later and he still hadn’t stopped. Percy had dangled shiny things in front of him, he’d offered him the bottle Vex had left in his backpack, he’d turned the radio in to try and give him something to listen to but none of it had worked.

“Look,” Percy hissed through a very tense jaw, firmly reminding himself that he could not lose his patience with a baby, “I know this isn’t where you want to be. I know I am no one’s first choice for a babysitter. But I’m what you have, okay?”

Raven just wailed harder, clutching his little wooden bear that Vex had passed on was named Trinket. He held it tight in his pudgy little fists, pulling it close as if in comfort.

Percy exhaled, shoulders slumping, any frustration that had been building draining out of him. He could remember when a little boy with dark hair had clung onto a cloth bird just like that when he’d wanted someone to come and stroke his hair and keep him safe.

“You just miss her, don’t you?” he murmured.

Raven burbled miserably, eyes huge and streaming. Percy shook his head at himself, genly picking him up out of his stroller, settling him on one hip as he walked to the door, turning the sign to closed. They’d barely had a handful of people in the shop all day anyway and clearly this young man required his full attention. And deserved it.

“You seem a curious little chap,” Percy hummed, bouncing him gently to chase away the last of his sniffling, which had petered off as soon as he’d been picked up, “Maybe you’d like to see my workshop?”

Not many people would find the little room he kept at the back of his shop as a comfort. But with no room with his little apartment for the bigger tools he needed for his work, that space had become his little piece of calm. Everything was ordered there, everything in its proper place. He could put his hand on whatever he needed, make beautiful things and solve any problem. Things made sense as long as he had that heavy door closed behind him.

Which was why he’d never invited anyone else in here. But he could make an exception for Raven.

Almost immediately, the little boy seemed entranced. Percy didn’t know if it was the shine of the tools lined up on the wall pegs in their neat marker outlines or the warmth of the old furnace combined with it’s gentle crackling but his hitching shoulders stopped almost immediately. He made a kind of soft humming instead, not unlike the purring of a cat.

Percy smiled, “See? I thought you’d like it in here. You look like a young man who appreciates quiet.”

He took a seat at the workbench, making sure to sweep away any wood shavings with his free hand. He’d been painting the last time he’d sat there just before opening, his case of paint pots was by his elbow, a neat rainbow of colours in their little leather pockets. The carved animals he’d been bringing to life were half done; he’d always intended to come back to them at the end of the day. There was a dragon crouched before them, coiled as if ready to spring, top half in a pale pine and back half in glittering green scales.

Raven’s huge eyes fixed on it immediately, mouth dropping open in awe.

Percy chuckled, “Would you like to watch me finish him off? He looks rather odd like that.”

Raven made a burble that seemed very much in the affirmative so Percy set him in his lap, with Trinket in his little one, and let him lean against the edge of the bench as he selected a brush. He found the pearlescent green he’d been using, back in its proper pocket of course, making sure Raven could see it catch the light as it dripped from the brush.

It really did seem that as long as he had something to look at and someone holding him, the little half elf was perfectly content. He only made the slightest of happy, contented noises as he watched Percy fill in each tiny scale, slowly bringing the dragon from dull pine to colourful life. Before long, he found himself smiling fondly, an emotion he welcomed but couldn’t quite name roiling in his chest at the fact that Raven trusted him so much.

Percy had very clever eyes to go along with his clever hands. Just like he didn’t need to be told that Vex needed to take every shift she was given, he didn’t need to be told that their situation before she’d moved in with her brother and his husband had been less than ideal. It was in the way her eyes darted quickly around the room each time she entered, like she was dramatically mapping it to see how to respond. It was in how tightly she clung to everything that mattered to her, it had been a good handful of visits before she’d let Percy hold Raven. It was in those clouds of guilt and sadness moving behind her beautiful grey eyes, like everything she did, some buried part of her mind questioned. Someone who spoke with another’s voice.

He would recognise those signs a mile off. He saw them in the mirror everyday.

And it leaked onto Raven as well, the same ink stained the both of them. There was a bond between them that was in addition to the one between a mother and a child, something sadder and stranger.

So he was more than touched that Raven settled into his company so easily. He understood what it took.

And Vex’ahlia…

He would take his time. He would do nothing until he was completely and totally sure it was what she wanted. And if that never happened, well, he was happy just to be her friend.

Together, he and Raven painted all of the animals he had left, the dragon got his shining green scales, the lion got his rich honey gold coat, the giraffe got his blotches, the parrot got his rainbow brilliance. Hours must have slipped by in drops of shining colour, with Percy humming to himself and Raven eventually dozing in perfect contentment, neither of them paying the slightest bit of attention.

Because when Vex pushed back the door to the shop, face set in a confused frown as to why the store would be closed in the afternoon, knowing to go straight to the workshop when she didn’t see either of them behind the counter, she came in to find them both asleep. Percy, nodding in his work chair, chin tucked to his chest and Raven curled up tightly in his arms, settled happily and safely.

Vex felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight. Even Vax and Shaun struggled to get Raven to go over, he’d usually refuse for anyone but her. To see his face, soft and gentle in untroubled sleep, held so safe and protected in Percy’s arms brought tears to her eyes before she could stop them.

But maybe that was okay.

She didn’t wake them up right away, enjoying the little scene too much to ruin it. As she leaned in the doorway of the workshop and the gentle smile crossed her face, she felt the same want ache in her chest, the one she’d been feeling for some time now. And she told herself the same thing she had again and again.

Take your time.

#percahlia #toymaker percy au #modern au #fluff #baby fluff #please reblog and comment!#critical role

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draw-you-coward · 4 years ago

Note

“Till death do us part. And forever until the end of eternity.” pls? For sweet Trahearne and Roza?:3

ohh this turned out longer than i thot ;;3;; hope u like it tho! might post it as a second chapter in that fic since it could fit nicely

~*~

Roza’s step is silent, as it always is. Trahearne only knows he has come to visit when Harley leaps off his lap with an elegant swish of her tail and patters off, mewling plaintively.

“Hello, princess,” he hears from the kitchen. “I’ve brought treats for you, like I promised. Yes, I have.”

Trahearne shakes his head with a smile, putting his current crafting project aside and rising from his large armchair (Roza says it is a rocking chair, but he isn’t certain it is supposed to move like that). He has protested before, without much intent, about giving Harley food, since he still cannot find anything resembling a litterbox. But Roza has only pointed out that she is finding things to eat anyhow, and it serves little purpose to “starve her of deserved treasures,” as he puts it. Trahearne does not even know where he is buying cat treats from.

He reaches the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, watching Roza pamper his overpampered cat with a wide, foolish smile he cannot keep from tugging at his cheeks. “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon, dear lover.” Roza puts Harley down on the counter, and she rubs against his arm. “You are depriving her, I see. It is a good thing I am here.”

Trahearne doesn’t know whether he’s serious or not, even when he picks up the bag he has dropped on the floor and brushes past him with a wink. “I have something to show you,” he calls over his shoulder.

Trahearne joins him on the couch as he opens his bag and rifles through it, ducking his head to peer inside. “Did you get me food as well?”

“I am your treat. Do not get greedy,” Roza scolds, although it is with a flash of teeth. He pulls out a small scroll, and pauses. After a moment, he hands it to Trahearne.

“I do not know if I want this, but if you like it you can keep it.”

It is an odd statement, coupled with an equally odd discovery: the scroll is of sylvari craftsmanship, made from finely-woven pith turned light from a few years of aging. Trahearne unrolls it curiously, and reveals a coloured ink portrait of a sylvari, with a young smile and deep indigo bark. His branches bloom into brilliant violet foliage, and his blue eyes seem to sparkle from an unseen light.

“It’s beautiful.” Trahearne glances up to find Roza watching him intently. “Did you paint it?”

Roza barks out a sharp laugh, and Trahearne, although not one to laugh at someone else’s expense, lets himself smile. Roza is many wondrous things, but artistically gifted is not one of them. Trahearne had a small collection of hideous painted pots in his old office that proved it.

“No,” Roza replies. He nudges his chin towards the scroll. “Do you recognize him?”

Trahearne looks at it again. His first thought is that it reminds him of Dagonet, back when they were saplings, but the physiology is wrong. Large eyes, long ears, a thin, hooked nose, a segmented pattern outlining his cheeks…

Trahearne looks at Roza in growing surprise, and then, at his slight smile, back at the scroll. No, it can’t be. But… “This is you. The resemblance is uncanny.”

Roza nods. Trahearne holds the portrait up next to his head, still half disbelieving, and he rolls his eyes but holds still. Side by side like this, there is no denying it. That is his Roza smiling at him from the scroll, steeped in colour and joy he does not have.

“How?” Or perhaps why? Had he commissioned this?

Roza sighs, squeezing his largest branch and slumping against the couch. “Long story short, there is a seer, living in the Grove, who is very skilled with inks and paints. Their life’s work—ah, Wyld Hunt—is to document our kind. Due to their connection to the Dream, they sometimes paint the faces they see in there. I had… a thought, so I went and asked them a few questions. And lo and behold,” he gestures loosely to the scroll.

Trahearne runs his thumb over the material, staying shy of touching ink. “That is amazing—I have never heard of anything like it before. So this is… what you looked like before you awakened?”

Roza shrugs. “I do not know; my memory of the Dream is hazy at best, and there are no mirrors there. But presumably, yes.”

“Amazing,” Trahearne repeats, staring at the portrait once more. Roza only looks at him.

“Is that what you think?”

His tone is what makes Trahearne glances up at him. It is worryingly difficult to read, as is his expression, and for the first time he considers why Roza wanted to show him this.

“I think is a lovely painting,” he answers honestly, “But it is not the Roza I know.”

Roza’s lip pulls back in a wry smile. “It is the Na Rós you never got to. A perfect, unmarred sylvari.”

Trahearne frowns in concern, touching his wrist. Roza’s eyes flicker with movement, and although they are pitch black instead of brilliant blue, they are familiar, and Trahearne would know them in the most turbulent storm on the darkest night. This is his Roza. The painting is a stranger.

“He is everything I can never be,” Roza says simply. “Look at the light in his smile. Would you not prefer someone who could laugh with all their heart?”

“No,” says Trahearne.

Those eyes he loves fix on him, large and dark. He used to think they were vacant, unknown, even eerie. Now he can navigate through their depths with only his heart to guide him.

“He is a beautiful thing, so young and happy.” Roza leans closer. “Are you not drawn to beauty?”

“There is beauty in fragments,” Trahearne replies. He traces the pattern on Roza’s cheek, carved from colourless bark, with his forefinger. “In mended shards glued back together.”

Roza smiles without humour. “Are you calling me broken pottery?”

“Do not make me tear this painting to make a point.”

Roza makes a noise like a laugh, more of a hiss. He surges forward to kiss Trahearne, wanting for—love, confirmation, a promise—whatever he is searching for. Trahearne kisses him until he calms, until the shoulder beneath his hand slumps, until Roza’s emotion bleeds out with his breath.

“I am sorry,” is the first thing he utters when they part. He bows his head against Trahearne’s neck, as if too cowed to meet his eye.

Trahearne tilts his head upwards. “Do not be.”

“Do you ever wish that—”

“No.” Trahearne doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “And no, and,” he pretends to consider. “No.”

Roza grins weakly. “You must get tired of me sometimes.”

“I think I already answered that.” Trahearne leans down to kiss him once more, and meets lips that are soft and yielding. “Dearheart, know this. I will not be tired of you when you are at your best, nor at your worst, nor at any point in between. Did I not tell you that I weighed all my odds and chose you? I will continue to choose you, my dear Roza, for forever. Past your fleeting life. Until the end of eternity.”

Roza hides his face into his neck, the long bridge of his nose a hard line below his ear. His chest quavers lightly, and Trahearne strokes his back in slow, soothing motions.

The scroll lies to his right, forgotten. It is a lovely painting of a stranger. Perhaps one day, if he is willing, he will ask Roza to commission a portrait of himself. It would be nice to have one to hang up.

~*~

thank u so much!! <33

send me a soft starter?

#trahearne #roza #gw2 #writing #drabble #for one of me biggets fan... gosh bless melonechan #always love hearing from u #<33 #melonechan #ask

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sunflowers-heart · 5 years ago

Text

Home

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 3,622

Warnings: None

Author’s note: None

Synopsis: Persuaded by his closest ones, Thorin agrees to hire an artist to paint a portrait of him and soon finds out that it might be the best kind of coincindence that has ever happened to him—and for you, too.

The King under the Mountain was standing still, eyes focused on something behind your back, his posture straight and proud, and for a single moment you started to believe that it was a majestic statue you were looking at, not the very alive and equally intimidating Thorin Oakenshield himself. Slowly, your sight moved to the canvas, carefully, as if you were afraid that this movement could cause too much noise in the deadly silent room. Soft strokes of the brush left a trail of beige paint on the creamy fabric, following by the next one and another, until you needed to dip the brush in the pigment again. Holding your breath, you proceeded with your work, the trembling of your fingers now not as visible as an hour ago when you had just saw him for the first time.

To say that you were surprised while receiving a message considering your new job would be a misunderstanding. You were beyond shocked, a bizzare combination of anxiety and excitement building up in your stomach when your gaze ghosted over the inked letters, as if you were expecting them to lose the first meaning if you stared long enough. Nevertheless, they remained the same, unmoving and very, very clear about the sender's intentions.

You were invided to the Lonely Mountain, the kingdom of Erebor you have heard a lot about as a child in various stories and legends, and spent many sleepless nights wondering how did it look like in a more merciful times. Right now, however, the mere possibility of wandering through its halls seemed too unreal, like a dream you could not wake up from no matter how many times you blinked or put the letter down only to pick it up after barely few minutes. The letters were still there though, black ink sinked in the yellowed paper, so heavy in your hands.

Placing the wooden palette on the side, you walked to Thorin, your palms suddenly becoming treacherously sweaty, betraying your nervousness in the latest person you wanted to show any weakness to. Delicately, as if his frame was made of a fragile glass (oh, sweet irony, for you have never witnessed anyone as strong and powerful as him), you grabbed the edge of his fur coat and moved it slightly up over his shoulder, since it must have accidentally slipped down a little bit, now not suiting the sketch on your canvas and changing the way the shadows fell upon his armoured torso. You could feel the intensity of his gaze on you, although he remained silent, allowing you to touch and change the way he was standing to your liking—so the painting you were working on would be as breathtaking as Balin promised him to be.

„A painting?” Thorin asked back then and took a sip of an ale from his wooden beer mug. „I do not need a painting.”

„Of course you do not,” Balin nodded understandingly. „The palace is already full of the monuments of your ancestors and soon yours also. What I think is that, it would be an interesting difference.”

„Paintings are fragile, they won't endure the pass of time.”

„Prehaps they will, if you only give it a chance.”

„Plus...” Kíli, who was obviously eavesdropping the whole conversation, sat next to his uncle with an alarmingly wide smile on his face. „Currently there is a great opportunity to try this out!”

Thorin eyed him cautiously, never truly considering anything Kíli called 'great' as such. 'Dangerous' maybe, 'reckless' even, but never 'great'.

„Indeed, it is,” Fíli took a seat on his other side, so Thorin had nowhere to escape this pointless discussion.

Groaning deeply, he took another sip of an ale.

„Listen, uncle,” Kíli continued, despite his partner in coversation being less than interested in what did he have to say. „Yesterday we have met a wonderful painter in Dale. Amazingly skilled. At least few years of experience. But what is the most important, is that she is a globetrotter. A lone ranger.”

„Which only means that she must not be as clever as you take her for, Kíli, to travel those lands all alone.” Thorin's remark was almost enough to wipe the smile off this nephew's face.

„Prehaps. Prehaps she is also a fool to paint for barely few silver coins or a warm meal and a place to stay for the night but isn't it what makes it all special? The dream, whatever it is, she is following? Despite what anyone says? Ignoring the danger? Eating the fear for breakfast?” With every word passing, Kíli was getting closer to Thorin, his voice lowering almost to the conspirational whisper before he laughed and straightened his back. „Come on, it does sound familiar.”

„Why does it mean so much for you?” Thorin peeked at him and then to the other side, at his brother who was only listening for now, surely ready to intervene. „Why the bloody painting?”

„Because you have been working so much lately, you need some kind of entertainment.” Apparently, it was Fíli's turn to speak. „A relieve from all the stress and burden. Something different to think of, a breath of fresh air.”

„And how is standing in a single place for hours going to help?”

Fíli only shrugged. „It could be fun. If you won't like it then you can destroy the painting and we promise to never ask you that again. Ever. Am I right, Kíli?”

„Absolutely!”

Later on, Thorin could not point out what exactly made him agree for his nephews' wicked offer. Maybe it was an ale, maybe he was feeling particulary tired that evening and simply wanted them to leave him be or maybe he knew that he truly needed some rest for his mind. It has been a long time since his Company reclaimed the Lonely Mountain and ever since he rarely thought about anything else than his duties—the neverending pile of problems which seemed to grow as he reached deeper, like a wild weeds devouring the garden he was desperately trying to tame. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, under every stone there was more; more things to take care of, more decisions to make, more sleepless nights. Only the time seemed to shrink.

When he stood in the room, the sunlight spilling on the floor by his feet, Thorin thought that maybe it was not such a bad idea, after all. Your gaze was soft but attentive, remembering the details of his royal outfit and recreating them on the canvas. It was a talent he never considered particulary useful but it could have some advantages, indeed.

Like the fact that he could look at your lovely face for how long he wanted, never getting caught as you were too focused on the paths left by your brush.

„Where do you come from?” he asked the first day, right after you explained your vision to him, not without a stutter or two.

You looked at him puzzled, at first not really convinced that he actually asked it out loud, for his posture did not move a bit.

„Nowhere,” you told him and cleared the throat before continuing. „And everywhere. I like to consider this whole world as my home. That way you never feel like an unwelcomed guest, no matter where you go.”

„The place you were born,” he added, his voice low and demanding, used to giving orders and having them accomplished in a blink of an eye. „Do you ever miss it?”

You were afraid of the subject, aware that speaking further seemed more like wandering on a thin ice. The King almost sacrificed everything just so he could have a place to call home, and then, there was a human telling stories about how did it never matter. And so, you decided to tell him the truth.

„I was never happy in a place I was born. It made me feel trapped.”

He did not elaborate on the subject and you knew better than to continue. You have almost finished colouring his face that day, the handsome, royal features staying under your eyelids long after you have fallen asleep.

The next morning, you were invited for breakfast with Thorin's nephews, the ones you had a dubious pleasure of meeting during your stay in Dale. Although you were not convinced that it was a good idea to ask you to paint the king—the King under the Mountain, that is!—eventually you were quite grateful for their idea. You could not remember when was the last time you had such a delicious food in your mouth and a soft mattress under your spine to rest. Furthermore, you were promised to not only get a shelter while you were working, but also a payment you deserved, which only made you more nervous about what will Thorin think about the result. For the first four hours you have spent with him alone in your temporary study room, you could already tell that there were not many things which could make him at least content.

You wondered, how did he look like when he smiled, how did the tone of his voice change when he laughed.

„Could you...” you started, still desperately wanting to sound as polite as possible, which was quite hard, considering the situation you were in—telling the King where should he stand and look. „Could you, please, move a little bit to the right, My King...?”

You could swear there was a spark of amusement in his eyes before he took a step as you asked.

„'My King' is not necessary,” he informed you and in the very second he finished the sentence you wished for the ground to open and swallow you up.

„Oh.” You blinked few times. „My apologies, I have never... I was talking to your nephews and they told me it will be the best way to politely adress you.”

„Of course they did...” he sighed. „I am not your king and as far as I am concerned, nobody is.”

You barely managed to finish the outline or his armour that evening, way too lost in thoughts to focus on the job and Thorin did not seem to mind, not then, nor the day after when you met him in your study room, puctual as always.

You told him the stories from the lands you have travelled through before reaching Dale, some of them more or less interesting, but he was listening to you nevertheless, the sound of your voice echoing in the room bringing peace to his mind. Living for so many years, Thoring managed to visit most places you were still under the huge impression of, the images of different landscapes sharp and vivid in his memory as if it was yesterday. Looking at you, so eager to go further north, to experience and live, was truly a breath of fresh air in the dark halls of Erebor. The light burning in the shadows.

Thorin have never cared for the painting in the first place, after weeks of your presence in the kingdom, however, he found himself caring about it even less—despising the canvas, although you asked him to not look at it until it will be finished. Once you will be done with your work, he will have to pay you few golden coins, as promised, and let you go, only to be left alone once again, without your stories, without your voice, without your smile, without your mere presence shining brighter than the sun high on the sky. He admired you; the way your fingers moved the brush, the way your brows furrowed when you were particulary focused on a single detail of the painting, the way you laughed in the dining halls during breakfast, amused by something silly either Fíli or Kíli said, the way you walked down the corridors heading to your bedroom. Your presence was now so natural there, as if you were meant to be in the Lonely Mountain, like a long lost piece to finally make his kingdom whole.

He knew that the day when you will go on, will be the day when his heart will break in two also.

In no time, Thorin began to somehow admire the characteristic smell of terpentine filling the study room every evening, when you were cleaning your brushes and palette knives from the paint. It reminded him of you and your skills, and everytime he joined you there for a small chat, he observed the way your fingers gracefully moved with the tools. Your hands were not as rough as his, probably never wielding a sword nor holding a shield, but no less admirable. He would have laugh in the face of those, who would dare to tell him, barely few months ago, that one day he might grow fond of the delicate skin, the one he often mocked, considering it as a proof of a lesser work.

„I was wondering,” you started, placing a thin brush on the table covered with fabric next to you. „Could you tell me the story of your Company?”

Thorin looked up at you from his seat, the leather armchair in the corner of the room he tended to use whenever feeling particulary tired by the presence of the others. Never yours, though, for your presence was as natural as breathing.

„I believe everyone knows this story already, you and your kin included. There were legends, even.”

„Legends usually tell only half of the truth. The other half is made up by those who speak and I wish to hear it from the most reliable source. That would be an unforgettable experience.”

„I am curious how listening to an old Dwarf can be considered as a gained experience for ones like you.”

„And now I am curious how can you think it is not,” you admitted. „You are the King under the Mountain, you have seen and lived through more than I will ever do. It is a miracle that I can at least imagine your journey, but I do not want to hear about it from the mouths of people from Dale, nor Elves from Mirkwood. I wish to hear it from you, this is all I ask for.”

Thorin thought for a while, the innocent fascination in your eyes reminding him of the times he was nowhere near being the king you could admire. Lost, bruised and beaten but never broken—standing proudly like his own reflection on your canvas.

„Sit down,” he eventually told you. „I have to warn you that this is a very long story.”

„I do hope so.”

It surprised you, when you realized that you have been starting to slow down with your work—unlike all the past times. You liked the finish, putting some white paint there and there, giving the picture a new perspective, exposing the light and deepening the darkness, but when you looked at Thorin's eyes, now staring right at you from the canvas, you found yourself rather downhearted than satisfied. Your time in Erebor was growing short, it was just a matter of days until you will have to part with the Dwarves and move on, find another model to portray and a new place to stay.

But how could you do that, if you felt like you had all your inspiration there, in this very place? As irrationally it sounded, you believed that the King under the Mountain was the muse you were looking for for all those years. He was the one you could look at and paint for the rest of your days and never get bored, the one which caused you to smile everytime you opened your eyes in the morning, ready to face the day. He made your heart beat so fast, now not due to the anxiety, but the possibility of seeing him and feeling his eyes upon you.

The realization struck you like a lightning when you were painting strands of his silver hair on the dark locks falling on his broad shoulders.

You loved him.

You loved your muse, your inspiration, your king.

You had to bite your lip to prevent the involuntary smile to appear on your face. Prehaps you were not as wrong as you previously thought about using this term toward him, for Thorin truly and unconditionally ruled your heart, willingly or not.

Not that you minded.

The last day of your work together, you spent wondering whether to put your signature on the painting or not. Once it will be there, there won't be turning back, the painting will be done and so your time in this place, too. King Thorin was standing still, just like on the very first day, now seemingly the whole years ago. But it was barely summer, the warmer days were coming and you were aware that you have already overstayed your welcome in those halls. It did not change the fact that putting down your brush was the hardest thing you had to do.

„I am done,” you announced, the forced smile on your lips as you stood straight next to the easel.

„Already?” Was his reaction.

Nevertheless, Thorin let his arms fall loose by the sides and faced you, the harsh expression on his face now slowly melting, since you were no longer going to look at him that way nor another.

You nodded in response.

Now it was the time to say something. If he wanted to tell you what he felt, it was the best and last chance to do so, but he remained motionless, simply trying to remember the image of you standing there in a humble study room, the sunlight on your face, paint stains on your apron, hands held together in an awaiting manner. You were expecting him to say something, probably to ask to finally see your masterpiece... but he did not care for the damn painting.

He never cared for this bloody painting.

Instead, he muttered a simple order, while veguely gesturing to the armour and fur he was wearing:

„Help me to take this off.”

It was exactly as hard as you imagined, the steel pieces heavy and unpractical to carry as you placed them on the floor one by one, next to the axe and the sword, the weapons of his choice to eternalize. First, the noble furcoat, sliding down his arms with your trembling fingers as you could feel the scent of his hair, the subtle braids ended with beads jingling on the armour beneath the warm cover. The pauldrons, next the arm guards, then the breastplate and the gauntlets. Cold steel caging the burning heart. The King under the Mountain observed your ministrations and sporadically gave instructions if you were lost on how to continue, preparing for what was much more complicated—for baring his soul.

Contrary to what you hoped for, he was still as intimidating, even in the loose tunic, no weapon in hand and a sight which reminded you of a devoted sky above. The wise silver strands in his hair proved his knowledge and labour, something you were now familiar with after hearing the whole story of his Company. There were ages written down in a small wrinkles by his eyes, the history of loss, loyalty, courage and glory, and you found yourself mesmerized by it—by his gentle gaze hiding the pure ocean of secrets.

You were standing there, right in front of him and never in your whole life have you wanted to kiss him more. You did not move, when his hands stroked your arms, carefully moving up until they reached your neck and further, barely ghosting over your jaw.

„I have never been good with words of affection,” he whispered, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. „But I know for sure that I would never forgive myself letting you go without an explanation. This world is harsh and brute, drowning in chaos and devoured by wars, eating alive the latest rays of light, but you have my word that I would willingly go through all of it once again, if it only meant meeting you at the end. I have no control over the past and although I regret that our paths did not cross earlier, now all I can do is to ask for your future, since it is and always will be shining brightly in front of us, darkness left behind. I love you, my dearest, and I care about you more than I can comprehend, with the most sincere kind of love a heart of an old king can muster.”

You were speechless, partly by the declaration itself, partly because of the ardour in his eyes and tone of his voice. His touch on your skin was featherlike, making you wonder how someone who carried such a great strength and authority could treat you with an utter gentleness. You smiled at him, taking his hand in yours and holding it for a while, feeling how warm they were against you—and Thorin patiently waited for your answer.

„I do not know what to say,” you started. „All I am certain of is that I was already starting to think that you will never ask me so, My King.”

Wide, genuinely happy smile which appeared on his features was way more breathtaking and heartwarming than any wild landscape you have ever seen, any adventure you have ever been on and any fleeting dream you were so desperately trying to achieve. When he kissed you, sweetly and passionately, you thought that maybe your aim was never to find a place to call home but to find home in the person who loved you the most.

#thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin #thorin imagine #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield imagine #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction

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ginko-forever · 4 years ago

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All right! Since I’m bored and have nothing else to do today, I’m gonna binge mushishi and post my thoughts while I watch! (I’m watching the dubbed btw)

Episode 1: The Green Seat

Wow, I forgot how much I love the voice of the intro. Like, it feels like it’s almost creepy but it just ends up being calming to me.

I LOVE THIS THEME SONG

The sore feet song just awakens something in me

And I love all the vague plant aesthetic during the song

I LOVE TRAVIS WILLINGHAM’S VOICE

The background art is so gorgeous

Ok, so the little ink bird the kid makes, Ginko just sees it and grabs it therefore crushing it. But he’s so against killing mushi so shouldn’t he have tried to catch it first or something? I know the ink bird isn’t technically a mushi, but still. Maybe he thought it was a bug?

His eye is beautiful, such a gorgeous blue-green color

I love the way that the kids drawings come to life how they don’t manifest as a full creature but more like the ink peeling off the page and moving around keeping its shape

If he drew a human would it come out as an actual human or just stay as an ink outline?

I bet that would depend on how he draws it like how later in the episode the bowl comes into reality as an actual object instead of just an ink outline

This face cracks me up

I love how easy it is for Ginko to get people to talk to him about stuff and I know in this episode it’s partly because the kid is completely alone all the time and probably misses human interaction, but still

Why is the kid making wine???

I LOVE THE DESIGNS OF THE MUSHI

They’re so ethereal and flowy and pretty

The hand analogy to explain mushi is so great

I love that the mushi are described as being at “the place closest to your heart” and life at its purest form

They’re definitely at the place closest to MY heart

Ginko just said what people call ghosts are actually mushi of some sort... I love that concept of ghosts not being dead people but just this different kind of life form

Is it weird that I wish there were mushi in our world? They would make it so interesting

I want to be a mushishi wandering without a destination

Why is the mushi girl on the ceiling???

Love that Ginko just keeps a mushi that sticks to other mushi

Ginko’s favorite color is green

The moment of realization in his eyes, but he’s able to keep his expression under control and keep up the snarky voice

I love his snarky voice

Oh my gosh he’s so observant

Just from those few sentences he can completely analyze that she’s not a full mushi and used to be human and even has an idea of how it happened and how to help her

I love how you can practically feel all the points connecting rapid fire in his mind

The specific tone in his voice that makes him give off vibes that you shouldn’t trust this strange man but yet at the same time his confidence with everything makes you trust him 100%

I love his calm voice when he’s explaining things. If he did a podcast where he talked about mushi I would listen to it every night while falling asleep because his voice is just so calming

The mushi in human form for the mushi banquet are honestly actually pretty creepy

Also why do they choose someone to become a mushi?

When Ginko tells him that the mushi half of his grandma has stayed in the house watching him since the day he was born... honestly Ginko, that’s a little more freaky than comforting

Ginko says the kid can’t see he because she’s not a full mushi, but so then how come Ginko can see her? Is it because he’s a mushishi? Can all mushishi train themselves to see half-mushi? Or can he see her because he’s practically half mushi himself?

Ginko you sneaky little man

Promises he won’t watch him draw

Pokes a hole in the screen anyways

Specifically thinks “since he told me not to, I just have to look”

Bring this man to a museum and he’ll touch everything with a “do not touch” sign

So the kid just imbues the brush with green paint by thinking about it... has he done that before or is this the first time?

When the cup pops up from the page the kid looks surprised, I feel like it must be the first time he’s drawn something like that and had it fully come to life instead of just an ink outline

Grandmas just sitting up in the tree

Nice catch Ginko

Love the glowy liquid

Why did it turn the grandma into a full mushi but not do anything to the kid when he takes a sip? Do they have to specifically have been invited to the banquet for the liquid to have an affect on you?

Also how weird suddenly having your grandma be your age

I wanna drink the mushi liquid

I LOVE THE RIVER OF LIGHT

Dumb crow interrupting the banquet

So the mushi ask her to watch over her grandson all his life as a favor for them... why do they care about that??? Why do these specific mushi have enough sentience to care and want someone to watch over the kid with special powers? Would his powers affect them negatively if abused?

IM SCREAMING THE SOUND EFFECT OF THE CUP SPLITTING IN HALF AS SHES SPLIT FROM PART OF HERSELF!!!!! SO GOOD!

The real question is did the part of herself that kept growing old remember the banquet at all?

Probably not I’d guess. I bet the part of her that got left behind is the part that could see mushi

I love that the light wine makes everything grow

I love that Ginko just chooses to leave without a trace. I wonder if he’s considered a local cryptid in some areas

So is the kid just gonna live the rest of his life in the mountains with his unaging mushi grandmother and just never see anyone else ever?

Ginko you little theif just taking the wine glass

Ultimately: a very good episode, good introduction to the world of mushishi

I LOVE THE SOUNDTRACK

#mushishi #ginko #the green seat #mushishi rewatch live post

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ephemerlskies · 4 years ago

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the beauty of after | pjm

⇢ pairing: jimin x f reader

[other members - taehyung]

⇢ genre: drabble, fluff, widower!jimin, angst (barely), artist!taehyung, the FLUFFIEST piece i've written so far, jimin is an old man

⇢ word count: 3.5k

⇢ warnings: themes of grief/loss, major character death (oc), mentions of death

⇢ summary: on your seventieth wedding anniversary, jimin celebrates in solitude by describing your face to an artist. it surfaces more fondness than grief to reminisce in the memory of his late partner.

♪ playlist: serendipity - bts • i'll never love again - lady gaga • lover - taylor swift • love of my life - queen • my everything - ariana grande ♪

[important] a/n: i am so so sorry to everyone for constantly reposting this, but my tags haven't been working. hopefully this is the last time i have to repost this!! also HAPPY PRIDE!

“Thanks for doing this for me.” The young artist had already begun mixing paints on his palette, eyeing the canvas before him to scale the size of his portrait.

Jimin was gentle with the way his eyes traveled along Taehyung’s face which was free from the age wrinkles that Jimin had grown used to seeing. He nodded as to say your welcome, a jaded but genuine smile reaching his lips to the ends of his face.

It was difficult to gauge which one was more nervous from how Taehyung had nearly knocked over his easel various times within the stretch of setting up his supplies and the lack of stillness that fraught Jimin’s hands which were trying, and failing, to fold politely in his lap.

“This is for an art project? For school?” Jimin asked, deciding that half-empty questions fit better in the air than the awkward silence funded by the lack of proper acquaintance. Not to say he wasn’t indeed curious about this whole ordeal.

“Yeah. My professor wanted us to have someone describe their significant other to us and we have to draw them based on the description! I hope I do your partner justice.” Jimin’s heart grew warmer when the enthusiasm from Taehyung’s voice made his intentions clear. He was an aspiring artist simply using his craft to procure something emotional and raw.

Jimin was the fortunate soul Taehyung had stumbled upon during his walk home. A single, elderly man sitting on a park bench, an appropriate setting for someone Jimin’s age, had aroused some curiosity in the younger man to strike up a conversation.

The slightly hung head, the pair of kind eyes trailing the various passersby, and the astounding hint of melancholy had colored Jimin in an entirely different light than anyone Taehyung had ever met.

Whatever his story was, Taehyung made it a goal to depict it with every bit of honesty and emotion he could engender from his paintbrush.

“I think it would be hard to make anything of ___ look bad." Jimin assured, feeling his shoulders fall away from his ears and his hands finally rest atop his lap.

“___? Is that her name?” Taehyung repeated it internally a few more times in an attempt to imagine what you looked like before Jimin started on his description.

He looked over to the older man, picturing an older woman sitting beside him on that park bench. His mind meandered to what kinds of things you two would talk about, or if you two were the type to construct a haven in sweet silence. Maybe Jimin would say something that would make you laugh and you would join in on the repartee with ease.

What made you laugh? How many times have you been on a plane? Did you like the color yellow? What was your favorite genre of music? What made you cry?

The questions began to bundle like a colorful bouquet of diverse flowers, waiting to be delivered into the hands of a loved one.

“Yes. Beautiful right?” Jimin’s smile faded a bit, the only evidence of it expressed through a slight curve sitting at the ends of his mouth and the crow’s feet incising his skin much more prominently than the rest of his wrinkles.

“Very beautiful.” Taehyung decided to arm himself with one of his finer brushes. He could already feel the unwavering desire to capture the most intricate of details partly for a good grade in this class but partly for the sake of keeping true to his word.

He wanted to do you and Jimin justice. To make this nothing but ornately accurate.

“How would you describe her facial structure?” The artist positioned his arm with his brush in hand, ready to dispatch the ink amassing at the tip of the synthetic hairs to the white, empty canvas.

“Soft. Perfect to fit into my hands.” Jimin stared down to the mentioned body parts, reminiscing the countless times he would scoop your face between his palms for no reason at all other than to revere your beauty. “Round cheeks. Smooth and warm skin.”

Taehyung couldn’t resist how the pang in his heart reflexively surfaced a fond smile in reaction to Jimin’s endearing description. He peeked away from the canvas before making any initial marks and gathered the loving gaze Jimin had been directing towards his matured hands cupped around the empty space that should have been your face. Then, he knew exactly which set of emotions he should embed into this portrait.

“What about her eyes, what do they look like?” Taehyung asked to acquire another image of how he should paint you, while already outlining the basic curves of a head that would quote unquote fit perfectly in Jimin's hands.

“They were kind. They always had this sparkle in it. A real sparkle, like she trapped the moonlight in her eyes.” Suddenly, Jimin's lungs were not merely occupied with air, but with an oxygenated memorial of your eyes which made his inhalations feel weighted. “They were bright and always looked at me with trust and care. Even when they had tears in them, you could have mistaken those for diamonds.”

The image was stark in his own eyes, and if he closed them then he could have been transported back seventy years to when your wedding vows were announced to the world. How your eyes looked at him and glimmered an overwhelming beauty that nearly evaporated the over-rehearsed words from his memory. Before you could roll those moonlit pupils at his fall to silence, he hastily declared the oaths that bound his heart to yours forever as if he couldn’t stand a second longer keeping those promises in.

“Were?” Taehyung articulated thoughtfully as he could with clear indication to question the past tense manner of Jimin’s narrative.

“Yeah. She has passed.” It was still difficult to feel those words ordered as such verbalized by his tongue. They tasted bitter and stale, as if they had been waiting somewhere inside to be recognized.

He wasn't aware of how his hand was now placed against his chest until he felt the heavy throbs of his tired organ. Through this, it might be that he was searching for your heartbeat that he could once identify through the his own.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sir.” Taehyung’s hand almost fell away from the canvas, until reality restored his maneuvers and continued the lining of your face.

His focus was oscillating from the mostly white canvas, save for the thin strokes of black, to the man uncoated from his reserve through the smile that deepened the indentations of his face.

“Jimin. Call me Jimin.” He said, breaking whatever ice that froze the two of them in discomfort. That nervousness had melted away with the minutes until they both felt warm and comfortable.

“Okay, Jimin, could you describe anything else about her? It doesn’t have to be physical. This is more about emotion.” Taehyung’s brush had been hard at work, dutifully printing every hint of love that Jimin relayed and materializing it onto the portrait.

“Her smile was warm. The biggest one you would ever see. I swear, everyone she met noticed it. It was genuine. It was the smile of someone who never had mal intent and always ready to share her happiness to all those around her. Seeing it every day, it reminded me that, with her, I was always home.”

From the day he met you, eye contact was a difficult task to compass since your smile had always demanded his full attention. Each time you flashed your grin, he felt as if it was purposeful, the extension of your joy onto him. The way you made him feel every bit of bliss you felt because you were the type to believe everyone, especially Jimin, deserved to feel happy.

And each time he was endowed witness to your smile, it articulated his goal in life quite clearly: molding his actions into a kindle for your smile and doing everything in his humble power to cherish those angelic beams of joy.

“Whenever she would smile, your day would get a little bit better. And I was lucky enough to spend most of my life with her, so my days always got better. She always smiled. Like she knew how much it meant to me.”

“Sounds like ___ was very happy.” Taehyung said during the interval of giving shape to your lips. What remained on the canvas was the widest smile Taehyung could craft, knowing it was not nearly as big as the one Jimin described.

“She was. She was sad too, and angry. You did not want to see her angry, let me tell you.” A chuckle had fallen from his mouth as he postured the memory of your scowl to the forefront of his recollection. How you would equip this number when Jimin would do something particularly dumb, or when your kids were being scolded for reasons that didn’t seem as important now.

There was nothing that compared to how you could emote with your entire face in a poise that suggested your feelings willed your every movement. How you would scrunch your nose and your eyebrows would reach the middle of the space between them; the frown of your lips would pull your entire face lower. He would take your anger seriously at the time, but in retrospect, he would give anything to see that disgruntled expression again.

And he would simply smile, and perhaps snap a photo for a keepsake.

“I hope she was happy most of all. That’s all that matters, Taehyung. Make the ones you love happy. I hope I did that well enough.” Jimin began to question if he made you happy. One day, when he joined your parted soul, he would find that out for himself.

He knew beyond doubt that you had accomplished sparking joy into people's lives simply by being you.

“I will. That’s good advice, Jimin.” Taehyung made himself present in his wonders about you, despite how he was absent from your life.

From the way Jimin described you, he fully understood that Jimin wasn't speaking from the functions of a brain. The portion of his mind that conducted speech could have been rejected entirely. These words, the thoughtful description, the sentiment flowing from his voice were sourced straight from the heart.

One that felt incomplete without its other half.

“Do you miss her?” He had to inject a bit of courage in this question in the hopes it wouldn’t be overstepping any boundaries. Though, Jimin was ever so gentle with the way he moved through life and met Taehyung's requests with kindness so far.

“Very much.” A stout crack fissured through Jimin’s voice and prompted him to swallow down the sob ruminating in his throat. “I miss her more than anything in the world. More than the flowers miss the spring and wait for winter to pass so they may bloom again. These days, I’m just waiting for spring.”

Jimin had intertwined his hands together, pretending it could fill the hollow space of his palms just as well as your hands would. He knew though, this was an emptiness that would always remain unfulfilled the minute your heart stopped beating with his.

“It will come. Soon enough. She’s waiting for you too, I’m sure.” And your flower will bloom. Taehyung created the contours of your eyes and paid a sizable amount of attention to depicting that highly emphasized sparkle.

What would a painting of you be without those acclaimed glints of moonlight floating in your irises? It wouldn’t be a painting of you at all.

“Do you have a special someone in your life right now?” Jimin took over the role of the questioner and placed Taehyung in the position of the questionee. It was enough for now to repair his composure.

“Not at the moment, no.” The majority of his focus was fixed on the painting but spared just enough to answer Jimin’s inquiry.

“Well, whenever you find them, I hope you appreciate the small things. I never knew how much the small things mattered until ___ was gone. Like how she notoriously had every barista put extra cinnamon on her coffee drinks. When I would forget to add it, she would pretend to be mad at me. She'd roll her eyes and tell me I’m ‘losing it’ or she would say something dramatic like ‘what has this world come to, Park Jimin?’” His pause filtered the room with a peaceful property.

Jimin utilized the silence to ponder the moments he once hadn’t given as much as a second thought to. The same moments that would entrap him in a catatonic gaze on rainy days or during cold, lonely nights.

“She would still drink the whole thing, though. She was kind in that way. Never really letting those things go unappreciated.” His eyes fell to the floor, though he was not seeing the weathered carpet spread across the substructure. He saw none other than your eyes.

The moonlight he had the privilege of viewing up close and personal, and uncrowned the orbiting rock in the sky of its esteemed title.

“Now every time I see cinnamon, I think of her. Of her peculiar love of it and even though she loved cinnamon so much, she’d love the effort I put in even more. She always loved me generously.” There had been friction within Jimin’s throat that made it warm and swollen ever since he started talking about you. His words dislodged through labored projections, but his voice overtly strewn hints of sorrowful longing in each statement.

“She sounds very loving. I can’t imagine how lucky it was that you met her.” Though his eyes were trained on pressing the delicate illustrations of your face onto the canvas, his ears were employed in listening intently to Jimin.

He had no idea who you were, however, he was sure he too would have fallen in love. Of course, anyone would have done so through the perception of someone who had devoted his entire heart and life to loving you.

“How long were you two together?” He asked to obtain an addition to his bouquet of knowledge about you.

“We were married for seventy years but we dated for three years before that.” Jimin’s eyes were not alone anymore.

They loaded quite a collection of tears, barely keeping at the bay of his eyes, and the vision of your face when he proposed that the two of you should seal your love through something as trivial as a diamond ring.

It was irrational, not only the fact that pricey luxuries such as rings were well beyond his budget. Jimin knew that embellishing a silver band on your finger would not be enough to earn a lasting relationship or settle your commitment to him. A piece of jewelry could not entail the immense love harbored in his chest. The proposal wasn’t the end of a happy story, rather the beginning of a lifetime to learn and unlearn the elements of loving you.

Even the bumps in the road, knocking him or you away from each other, were never enough to conclusively sever the connection. Dedication and work knotted your heartstrings together. The biggest bump, your death, was the final blow that nearly disentangled them.

Nearly. But when Jimin said ‘until death do us part’ he never realized that vow held some false hope. Of course, he wouldn’t let you go, or rather he couldn’t let you go, even after you passed away. It wasn’t that easy when his heart synchronized with yours the moment he fell in love with you and he already decided to become someone who was worthy of loving you.

Now he was that man. Someone who matched the degree of kindness you always provided him. The man who would disregard any prior engagements if you called and needed him, rest assured you would do the same for him. The man who proudly held your hand, knowing the world envied him. The same man that was cultivated through growing beside someone that cared for every part of him, down to her last breath.

In that way, death was never a contender to part him from you.

“Wow.” Taehyung was not sure of how else to elaborate how genuinely impressed he was. “What's the secret? How did you manage to stay together for seventy years? I mean, people these days get divorces like it’s a quit button you can press when you get tired of playing the game.”

Jimin, despite the teary glaze over his eyes, pulled a laugh from his throat. Without warning, he fell into the trench of all the long-forgotten fights bred from pettiness or misunderstanding. Many of them were over financial or familial issues. And with the lens of a seventy-year perspective, Jimin traded shallow grudges for an important realization that certain things remain standing after the dust settles.

“We would fight. A lot, actually. Even in those perfect relationships, people always fight. But I remember now, if it were a fight over money or anything else that was expendable, there wasn’t a question in my mind of which to choose. Between the world and ___, I always choose her. I always choose love. It’s more important than anything because when you truly love someone, you want to understand them. You want to work through problems instead of leaving them to pile up and collect dust.”

Jimin’s eyes now settled on Taehyung, who had already been staring at Jimin, then continued with all the sincerity he could deploy.

“Taehyung, always choose them. Choose love. I know I did and I have no regrets. I know if I chose to stay angry at her, I would be wrestling to forgive myself.”

Taehyung’s face muscles felt tired, his smile’s permanence hadn’t allowed for them to rest.

“Anger, annoyance, frustration, jealousy? Those all fade away. In a week or a month, you’ll stop being angry at some point, but you will never stop being in love. So choose love. It’s a permanent fixture in your heart.”

Taehyung set his brush down, and the picture resting on the easel was completed and then some. He didn’t mind. Taehyung truly enjoyed the sentiments Jimin kindly shared with him, as it would have been far duller to paint in silence.

Not to mention, he discovered a love story that went untold by movies and fairytales. It was a true love story. Something so real, Taehyung fell in love just by capturing Jimin’s tale and translating it into visual art.

Because this image of you was what Jimin saw when he pictured you. The picture of you shrouded in abundance by the highest grade of love.

“I’m finished, would you like to see?” Taehyung lifted the canvas from its resting spot, turning it slowly since Jimin’s nod was geared with apprehension.

Jimin’s heart nearly bore a hole through his chest, and it would fall out to where you were resting. He was afraid of facing you, or any rendition of your face, since it would be the first time in two months that his eyes beheld anything resembling his late wife.

When the canvas turned, so did the final page of the story. The story Jimin had been purposefully writing with long-winded prose and repetitive words to stall the commencement of it. He wasn’t ready to let go, that is until his eyes beheld the painting which etched fruition of something that felt further from him than you.

Closure.

“It’s beautiful.” Jimin’s tears were disobediently running down his cheeks. “It looks exactly like her. My love. My ___.”

It was not simply a painting garnished under the guise of an academic assignment, but an ode to the grand love Jimin had carried in his heart for seventy years and counting.

“I’ll be sure to send it to you after it’s graded.” Taehyung declared in a decided manner, now fighting back tears of his own, though it was a losing battle since he already felt the empathetic stains wetting his face.

“Thank you.” Jimin whispered soft enough that Taehyung barely caught it, but loud enough that his gratitude glazed the painting with its finishing touch: acceptance.

Now it was time to let go.

“___.” He said once more.

Jimin realized what could emerge even after your physical existence had run dry. That, even though you were no longer alive, there was a ceaseless supply of lessons Jimin still learned from loving you. He learned he could guiltlessly reflect over the years and memories. Resonating the most with him were the ones he spent choosing something more powerful and decisive and resilient above all else. Choosing love.

It colored his world into something vibrant and enchanting. There was still an unquantifiable amount of love pouring from his chest without a hint of diminishing. It was a force that stretched its reign beyond graves and long, lonely years of mourning. This love was alive, and breathing joy into Jimin’s life. It would continue breathing joy into Taehyung’s life as well as the painting, marred with your semblance.

He also realized you can never fully fall out of love. Just as pain never departs, and one simply learns to live with it, to become stronger and versed in the realm of sorrow, one never falls out of love, you simply learn to live without them; you learn to trudge on without the deity that derived something as powerful as love through the biggest smiles, the glistening eyes, the heaps of cinnamon, the unremitting kindness, and the perpetual act of choosing love.

And that the beauty of loving you was no more breathtaking than the beauty of after you.

#bangtanarmynet #btswriterscorner #btsgoldnet #bts fanfic #bts writing #bts fluff #bts drabble #jimin x reader #jimin drabble #jimin fanfic #jimin fluff #jimin angst #the beauty of after #rubycoast

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vickers-n-lickers · 4 years ago

Text

Moonlit pt. 1

Warning: Contains explicit content and mentions of violence. ((BradxOC, Jill and Chris))

"We're going to see the flowers bloom, right?"

"Yeah, babe… We're gonna go. Delucia is real pretty this time of year," Brad bit back a sob as he held the compress fast against the side of the woman's neck. He didn't dare another look beneath.

The corpse of her attacker was laid out in front of the barricaded doors in a pool of its own filth. Blood and skin glistened between rotting teeth. The S.T.A.R.S. emblem of Brad's knife shined in gold and blood from where he had jabbed it into the zombie's skull.

"I don't think I'm going to make it though..."

"It's going to be okay, Joan. Just stay still. Help is coming."

She was too tired to laugh, fingers slippery in red reached to graze the side of his face. Blood came away as finger paint. "Nobody is coming. Jenna is gone and I'm…" She whimpered, tears glittering in her eyes.

His shaking hand slipped and gripped hers. Soft lips along her beautiful wrist, it took everything in him not to lose it right then and there.

Joan smiled. She smiled the way she always did in the dim light and tangled sheets; face aglow with it reaching clear to those green eyes.

Brad frowned. He frowned the way he had every night since July. Nothing Joan could say to him would ever spare him the guilt or shame. Not even the way she looked at him that moment could spare him.

The city was lost.

Soon she would be gone too.

"Hey Piper, if you're heading out to lunch can you drop this off at the airfield? New guy forgot his flight bag. S.T.A.R.S. is taking off a couple hours."

Swiveling around in her seat, Joan's brows rose high. "I can. Do I really want to?"

Marvin just made a face at the brilliant smile delivered toward him. "Alright then. You fly, I buy. Pick up something from Emma's on the way back, please?"

"Why, Sergeant Branagh that is awfully kind of you. I'll be sure to get the lobster." Badge tucked in a back pocket, the brunette woman slung her coat over a shoulder.

Shoving the bag and money into the woman's hands, he chuckled. "Burgers, Piper. Just burgers and fries. Bring something back for everyone else too. We're gonna be here late tonight."

Outside of the hangar, Joan slung the pack over a shoulder. The sun was in her eyes until she was in the shade of the massive building. Past a door to what stunk like a bathroom, she pushed one of the double doors open to the main hangar floor. The place was empty aside from yellow lines stenciling out a walkway, some grounding points, and one UH-1 loaded onto rollers and hooked up to a tug. Looking around, Joan was confused just where to drop this off.

Her answer came as a door from across the hangar suddenly opened. "Hey! Do you know where the pilot is?"

He was about her height, sporting a yellow jacket and trying to hurry across the clean white floor. "That would be me! Did Marvin send you?" Brad waved, letting out a sigh when the bag was in his hands. "Thank you so much. I'm having the longest week ever."

"I bet. Not like a pilot to forget his helmet and gear." His cologne was pleasant to her on the air so near one another.

Another sigh and Vickers fished out his helmet. "Yeah…"

"It'll get better. I'm Joan by the way." She offered a hand in greeting.

He took it and smiled. "Brad Vickers."

A beer bottle smashed to the floor. "Aw! Look what you did!" Chris said with a sigh, leaving the stage. Forest followed after, their usual boyish behavior resuming.

"Clean it up!" Joan huffed, presented them with a broom and dust pan. She just shook her head as they continued taunting and teasing one another. Spotting a familiar face in the crowd, she left them and the mess behind.

"How did those two graduate?" Joseph asked, wiping tears from his face as he laughed.

"Teacher passed them just to get them out of her hair, probably." Brad replied, sitting up as she approached. "Hi, Joan."

"Hey Brad, I'm surprised you came out tonight. I thought you were flying."

"Yeah, I did." He replied, nodding. Nervous as always.

Joseph looked between the two, shaking his head at Brad. "…C'mon man. She's trying so hard."

Flustered, Brad glared over at him. "What?"

"That sounds like fun." She offered to silence a potential argument, gathering up empty bottles. "Well, I'll see you around." Lips pressing to a thin line the beer bottles went into the trash can as she headed toward the back.

Forest's laughter filled the air as the two returned to the table. "'Oh Brad, I want you. Why can't you say anything that would let me know that you wanted me too?'" Speyer's impression of the woman only made the group laugh more.

"Brad, you just need to get a deeper voice around her. Nothing gets a lady going like a deep voice. Could tell her that you spent half the day in the john and her panties would still fly off." Ken said with a chuckle.

"Brad's balls haven't dropped. Stop taunting him, Ken." Joseph scoffed, finishing his beer. "You'll get there one day, Vickers."

The teasing was too much. Brad stormed off toward the bathroom before anyone could get another jab in.

Vickers doused his face in the sink, letting out a huff as water trickled off him. Drying off, he didn't want to go back out there for another roasting. Not now. Taking a left, he headed out the door poorly illuminated by an exit sign, doused in moonlight as he stepped outside. A familiar stink in the back alley filled his nostrils, the moon swollen full above. It looked pretty, too bad he was pissed off. "Assholes."

"Are they still harassing you?" A voice asked, Joan appearing as the door swung shut. Leather from her jacket clear to her boots, she was a black ink splotch against a brick wall.

Brad tried to play it off with a shrug. "Same as always…" When she took another drag, he cleared his throat. "You know that stuff is illegal, right?"

"Mhm…." Green eyes looked at him sidelong. "So?" She raised a brow when he dared to point at the joint between her fingers.

"You could be arrested for that." His eyes were enormous when she was in his space.

Joan blew smoke and air out, sad ivy eyes meeting his stare. "Is that what you think about when you go home, Brad? Cuffing me?" One last drag taken and she held the air, flicking the roach over the fence.

Alarm streaked across a normally glum face. Not even five minutes after being taunted by the guys here she was… "I- NO! No! I would never-…" His entire form stilled when her lips brushed against his. An eager tongue asking for entry had his jaw slacked, smoke and tongue rolling over the inside of his mouth.

He inhaled all of her, still lost in the moment when she released him from her clutches.

"Because if that's what you're into," Long fingers traced up and down the front of his shirt. "I'm interested." Lips a hair away from his, she spoke softly. "My apartment is just across the street, I have a few hours to kill before closing up…"

Brad blinked, coughing out the smoke from what she had shared, unable to form words let alone anything seductive enough to match. Through the glass where he hid so much of himself, she saw him. He knew that. It made him less tense. So did the pot.

"Wanna come up with me?" Joan never followed any rules but her own now.

He wouldn't have wanted her any other way.

Keys dumped on the table by the door, Joan shed the jacket from her shoulders. It dropped on a stack of old newspapers. She followed him, an arm slunk over his shoulder as they both looked at an article carefully tucked under fruit magnets on the fridge. Joan stared back at them in ink on paper, smiling brightly in her uniform.

"I remember that. You caught the guy who evaded S.T.A.R.S. for months," Brad commented, thumb tracing over the tight script of the headline. The heat of her so close was devouring his attention. Her touch; electric.

"Did I ever tell you what happened when I caught up to him? He tried to grab me from behind in his apartment when I was questioning him. Slung him like a sack of potatoes right through his glass coffee table." She smiled fondly when he chuckled.

"I never heard that part of the story before..."

"Probably had to get stitches in his butt. I don't remember anymore. Want a beer?"

A few more drinks and she was pulling him away from the island in her kitchen.

Holy shit... he's in my bedroom.

His hands went for her hips. She gave him a push onto the bedspread. In the dim light, the brunette's eyes drank him all in.

Leaning forward, Brad hooked a finger along the waist of her pants. It only took seconds for her to be left in nothing but a pair of filigree black panties. An interesting selection, it felt like window shopping. His palm wandered up the sheer fabric as she crawled into his lap and out of the pants puddled on the floor. The pilot was growing anxious under his surface to entice her with his touch. His experience was limited, but he was eager. So eager to play out what ran through his mind a million times when she'd bumped into him.

Teeth nipping at her bottom lip briefly, she couldn't help but imprint it all to memory.

His fingers pushing the fabric of her tank top up until she was tugging it overhead.

The outline of his girth under the material of his slacks.

He looked so untamed in her bed, under her, her fingers tracing his bottom lip.

Her eyes widened as his lips parted and a tongue drug against the pads of her fingers. Those fingers dipped and he sucked. His smile was an easy thing when her fingers retracted, tugging back a little more on one side than the other.

So beautiful.

Him.

Just like that.

She was as high as she'd ever been from the image alone.

His grin faded fast under Joan's gauging stare.

Fingers frisked through his hair, the rock hard girth pressed against her as their mouths fused. She didn't acknowledge it openly; he'd have to show want of his own. Tearing free for air, his mouth and tongue on her collarbone was such a pleasant feeling; it sent a tremble down her spine. She wondered how he would feel rigid against the roof of her mouth as she drug her nails to his belt.

He traced the interior of that annoying fabric she still wore. He barely brushed against the heat of her when his brows jolted. Zipper down, her hand snaked in.

He was thick and hard, and his nostrils flared as she rotated her thumb over the head of his member. There was some pride to be had in watching his eyes dial and desire scribble its name all over his features. His fingers pressured spots white and then staining red as his hands moved again. He couldn't look away. The pace of the stroke, the look on her face… The gentle bounce of her chest from breath and motion. She made him ache in the worst way possible and left him dripping. He hated how she made his member weep all over the skin stretched between her thumb and index finger. He loved it too.

Joan gasped as his wrist flipped, a crooked finger sliding in easily. She visibly shuddered, internally collapsed all around his digit as it slid to the joint before retracting over and over. Even the pad of his thumb rotated over her pearl. Everything in her quaked. She felt his stare even when her eyes where shut. She hated how a second finger sank inside and thrust. She loved it too.

His teeth sank into her side. A tongue bathed over the bruise and perfect mark of his teeth under her ribs. Cool breath made her mewl. He pushed in. Her walls pushed back. He knew she was building fast and fierce. Tongue drug between the mounds of her breasts, he panted hard against her skin.

Her grip on his girth finally released, both of her hands were behind her on his knees. Those fingers of his were about to be the end of her. She shamelessly begged him not to stop, dripping all over his palm. Such a brutal and starved animal she was under sad eyes and a smoky voice.

He could feel her legs trying to close on either side of his own. He spread wider, much stronger than she was.

The brunette was forced to tremble all around him, her hands on his chest. Eyes locked, her face was a flurry of emotions. His name leaving her lips, she cried out from a less than affectionate thrust of fingers. She pushed back against his digits, quivering.

"Cum for me." His voice was a low whisper.

It was too much for her to hold in. She never thought she'd live to see the day those words would escape his throat. It made her clench, entire form seized. Drenching his hand was an understatement, shaking uncontrollably.

Brad's free hand cradled the back of her neck, keeping her steady. "Are you alright?"

Her nod was not very convincing. Fingers drawn out, her panties slid back. Sopping wet, as wobbly as a fawn fresh to the world, she stumbled to her feet. His hand caught her forearm, she never hit the carpet. Eyes lifted to him as she slid the soaked undergarments off.

The crease of his lips parting, the glistening tips of his two fingers responsible for making such a mess, slid past teeth. His tongue lapped along them, heavy lids hovering over his eyes. He watched her watching him.

So carnal, somehow she could believe that this was him. His own veil was lifted, finally crawling out from under his rock. "That good, huh?"

His pearly teeth bit down on those digits until they ached, lips enclosing to suck the remnants off. Her taste was as close to being completely intoxicated as he cared to be. Dumping off his shirt, he wagged a finger for her to join him once more.

In his lap, she was done with hesitations. Hips rolling against him, she left his length slick in her honey. It took a dark and husky voiced confession in her ear before she slid back and then on him. All of him, safe inside, filled her right to the brim. Stretched wide, the brunette had plenty of experience.

Her tongue licking up a bead of sweat near his pectoral made him seize.

His hips met hers, buried so deep, fingers digging trenches, bruising and abusing her skin.

She whimpered, a pained tone echoing out while previously skittering fingers clenched.

He ceased, pulling back. Sat up, his arms encompassed her lithe form, fingers snaking down to her ample bottom. Gentle affections wrote silent apologies along her neck and then her mouth.

She set the pace with a gentle rock of her hips against him. He sunk back onto the bed. Under her wandering mouth he let out his air in a sigh. The slope of his shoulder, her lips drug and half-moon eyes watched his close. He pulsed as she ground down and swirled around, muscles bordering the tension of piano wire. His mouth hung open, something he was unaware of entirely.

Neither of them intended to get lost like this together. Forehead to forehead, sweat slicked them both. His eyes refuse to tear away, hypnotized by her using him for her own needs. He was so close, and yet so far from his own end.

She could have ridden him like he was her own stallion to whip and spur right across the finish line.

Their roles reversed. Behind her, a hand in her hair, he tugged her head back. Hips bucking, he met her halfway. She was a vice around him, squeezing and pressing. Nose against her neck, he buried as much sound as possible when his end came. She could feel every throb of his release, thighs shaking. Her heartbeat was in her head and he was dripping out of her when he pulled away.

She gazed at him, blinking under sweaty strands of brunette.

Something seared in his chest, heavy and hot. He felt it more for her now than ever. It was an emotion that didn't deserve a name. He closed it away. He couldn't form words, panting heavily. He wanted to. More than badly he wanted to tell her everything that was going through his mind.

What she looked like.

How he saw what it all could be.

Brad looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, a hand gently rising to rest against the side of her face. His mouth found hers without warning.

He kissed her how he should have kissed her so long ago.

She expected him gone before dawn, another notch on a belt.

Dawn came and went. She found herself alone, sighing.

Figures...

The sudden sound of water running in the bathroom made her heart thump hard.

Flipping the light off, Brad was all bedhead when he crawled back in with her, his nose burying against the hollow of her beautiful neck. He held her like all children hold their favorite toy.

The one that kept monsters away.

She allowed herself to relax after that. Assured of sincerity, she drifted back to sleep.

Metal door swung open, Chris led the way into the back alley. Salt scuffed with his tread, snow everywhere on the ground. "Freeze, pot head!" He pointed a finger at the woman sitting on the trash can next to the door.

Joan's eyes rolled, a middle finger presented. "Blow me, pig." The air around her was permeated with the stench of marijuana. "What's up?" Her voice was strained as she held in her air.

Arms folded, Chris glanced to the woman closing the door to the alley. "Jill hasn't heard the story about why you're the saint everyone at the RPD prays to when Irons is looking to wreck their day."

Jill gave the pony tailed brunette a small wave.

Snickering, Joan waved back. A plume of white smoke escaping her lips, she smiled. "Oh, the story of Joan of Raccoon against the tyranny of Brian the Fat is a tragic tale." She jumped to her feet, the trash can banging against the ground as it spilled open. Somewhere in the dark a dog began barking. "Ah, shit. Oh well, I'll make the bus boy clean that up. So, anyway… It goes like this: I joined the RPD in 1992 as a beat cop. It wasn't a bad gig, I was rising fast. I transferred to the K-9 unit and did pretty well with them. Then it came time again to consider me for promotion."

Chris took a seat on the stoop.

Another long drag taken from her joint, the woman paused. "Irons didn't want women to rise above sergeant, let alone ever becoming a figure with some pull in his police department. Sexist shit thinks women should be barefoot, pregnant, and unable to seek justice for violence. He used to beat on his old lady. There was some talk about him hurting two girls in college but Daddy's money made that all go away." She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. "Enough about that though. About three years ago was when I was being looked at for promotion. He canned it immediately. He did the same to four of my female peers too."

"That's blatantly sexist." Jill stated, pulling at the label lining the neck of her drink.

"Yeah, it is." The Piper girl retorted, hands reaching up to smooth away some unruly locks of brown. "Anyway, we started digging around. It turns out that Chief Irons had his hands in several cookie jars. You know the Cedar district? That crazy fuck was part of the land grab that put a lot of people on the streets. Categorized it as commercial land, Umbrella bought every inch and started throwing up building after building. They brought their own people in from elsewhere, so no new jobs. Crime jumped in Raccoon City, and it was all people just trying to feed their kids with no money to be made. He had the boys in blue loading them up, dumping them off in Stone Ville so the mayor would shut up. All their kids were taken to the orphanage, so who knows what happened to them. Two female prisoners claimed he did something to them… He's a heartless bastard and it's my fault that he's not behind bars."

Breath fogged, Jill finally dared to ask, "What happened?"

"She pissed hot," Chris answered from behind his folded hands. "DA didn't think they could prosecute him when the officer making accusations also happens to be one that was recently fired by Irons for drug abuse."

Piper flicked the remnants of her joint over the fence. Her voice cracked as she spoke, "Umbrella started hiring people as soon as the riots became violent. Everything started going back to normal. The other female officers managed to get promoted eventually. I think the threat of serious consequences for him and Raccoon City was enough to make the man submit." Her hands dug into the pockets of her jeans. "So, if Irons ever tries to talk to you about 'duty' or 'justice'… He's a fucking liar who only wants to control his little 'Pleasantville'." She looked to Jill with a hard expression. "Him, the mayor, all of these big shots…"

"They're all liars. Every last one of the top tier for city officials and in the PD…All of them are cheats and liars." Chris noted softly.

Jill sighed a bit, lifting her beer to her lips.

Joan popped her lips twice before replying. "One isn't." She could almost feel Chris rolling his eyes, and it caused her to snicker. "I know you two haven't ever kissed and made up, Chrissy, but why won't you even try? Sending flowers goes a long way."

"Ain't happening." He climbed up, already retreating inside. "I need to piss. Have fun this weekend in Delucia meeting Brad's parents, Joan."

The sun was bright on the morning of July 25th. Joan's feet were kicked up along the open door of her old red Sunliner. Alanis Morissette was on the radio, telling her what she ought to know while she filed at an uneven edge of a nail. The drone of a helicopter high overhead had the woman poking her head out from under the canvas top. "About damn time, Brad." File dumped in her purse, she killed the engine and headed up toward the RPD.

It was another forty minutes before a familiar yellow vest caught her eye through the windows. "Good morning! Did you guys…?" Her brows quirked as Chris and Barry stormed past her. Jill and Rebecca could have used some buckets for all of the tears they were shedding as they ducked past the woman as well.

Was Becca covered in blood?

Frowning, she looked back to Brad. "Did something happen?" A million thoughts ran through her mind. Only one helicopter came back.

Another crash? Oh no…

"Where's everyone else?"

The pilot worried at the stitching along his flight bag.

#moonlit #brad vickers #joan piper #brad and joan #chris redfield #jill valentine #there is smut in here

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victimofthemusic · 4 years ago

Note

Oh, TGTattoo (Tattoo Artist Ice), please!

Okay, so, this was actually one of the first of many story ideas I had and never finished when I started in the TG fandom. The idea came to me after I binge watched Ink Master for like, a week straight and the image of a tattoo artist Iceman Kazansky and Maverick going to get his first tattoo.

I honestly forgot this even existed until I did my little WIP challenge and I’m unsure if I’ll ever finish it. So, a very rough snippet of an unedited draft:

The working title I had for this was: i want to be the tattoo ink (that swims down through the needle in your skin). It’s a lyric from Dive In by Pierce the Veil :)

“Mav, this is Tom Kazansky, Tom, this is Maverick Mitchell,” Goose introduces, gesturing to Maverick behind him.

Maverick steps out from behind Goose and the first thought that enters his brain when he lays his eyes on the male before him, is that the beauty of the painting had nothing on the beauty of Tom Kazansky.

He’s tall and broad shouldered and Maverick swears he can see the outline of his abs through his tight white t-shirt. His blonde hair is bleached from the sun and his face looks like it was sculpted by Michelangelo himself and his jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. His blue eyes are so pale they’re almost silver and the only thing that draws Maverick away from getting lost in those depths, is the intricate art work covering both of his arms; his very toned, muscled and tanned arms.

Before Maverick can really look more into exactly what was covering those delicious arms, Goose nudges him and Maverick blinks, darting his eyes back up to amused silver ones.

Maverick clears his throat, feeling his face flush, and he holds his hand out. “Uh, sorry, it’s um, nice to meet you, I’m Maverick.”

Tom raises a pierced eyebrow, his lips twitching, taking Maverick’s offered hand. “So I’ve been told.”

Maverick chuckles nervously. “Right, sorry.”

He takes his hand out of Tom’s warm and firm grip and brushes his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Sorry Tom, Mav here is just a little nervous,” Goose says, giving Maverick’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Tom raises an interested eyebrow, his sharp eyes on Maverick. “Is this your first time?”

Maverick’s face is positively in flames at the double meaning behind his words, but he finds himself nodding. “Uh, yeah, this will be my first. Tattoo. My first tattoo. Yeah.”

He cringes and barely refrains from smacking himself on the forehead at how stupid he sounds.

Tom’s face remains impassive but Maverick can see the way his eyes dance with amusement. “Right. Of course, what else would we be talking about?”

Maverick swallows and is thankfully saved from further embarrassment by Tom flicking his gaze back over to Goose. “Make yourself at home, Mother Goose, I’ll take care of your friend here.”

Goose squeezed Maverick’s shoulder. “Go get ‘em tiger.”

He shoves Maverick in Tom’s direction and Maverick, unprepared for the blow, stumbles and only rights himself when strong hands grip his forearms, steadying him and saving his face from hitting the white tile floors.

“Easy,” Tom murmurs and Maverick shivers, pulling his arms free, shooting Goose a glare over his shoulder as Tom leads him behind a black curtain.

“Where do you want it?” Tom asks, pulling black gloves out of a box resting on the counter and snapping them over his hands. The movement only draws Maverick attention to the length of those fingers, the largeness of his hands and he swallows heavily, wondering what they would feel like on him, in him.

Shaking his head and trying not to flush, he points to his right pec through the material of his white t-shirt. “Right here.”

Tom gestures for him to stand up and Maverick complies easily, standing to attention at the foot of the chair, hands behind his back and waits for further instruction.

Tom’s lips twitch in amusement. “If you want this stencil to go on you, I’m going to need you take your shirt off.”

Maverick gives an embarrassed laugh. “Right, sorry.”

He feels a sudden shyness creep over him as he grips the hem of his t-shirt, Tom watching him, pulling it over his head and leaving him exposed from the waist up. His dog tags clink against his chest when they finally release from the confines of his shirt and the coolness of them is startling. He can feel Tom’s gaze on him as he folds his shirt and places it on the counter, off to the side to make sure it’s not in the way.

Maverick feels oddly vulnerable, something he’s not accustomed to when it comes to exposing his body to other peoples eyes. He’s paler than usual from being on deployment and not having time to be out on the beach, but he knows his body is fit and muscled from hours of drills and time in the gym in order to stay in Navy standards and Tom, it seems, to appreciate this if the sweeping gaze he gives Maverick’s body is anything to go by. Maverick can feel the warmth pool low in his gut when those ice blue eyes meet his and there’s no mistaking the heat and interest, but it’s gone the next time Maverick blinks, replaced by a cool professionalism that makes Maverick feel chastised.

Tom stands, grabbing the stencil and a disposable razor from his tray, eyeing the area Maverick had specified. He runs a gloved finger over Maverick’s skin, gaze considering as he traces his finger over the area and Maverick has to suppress a shiver, both at the touch and their proximity. Tom is a good three or four inches taller than Maverick and while it should be intimidating, Maverick only feels safety and heat. Tom’s body is warm and he can feel it radiate from him when he presses closer, stroking the razor over his skin. The contrast of warmth of his body and the coolness of the room make Maverick’s nipples harden and he flushes.

Tom’s gaze, however, remains impassive, as he tosses the razor into the trash and wipes an antiseptic wipe over the freshly shaved skin. It’s cold and it makes Maverick flinch.

“Sorry,” Tom says, flicking his gaze up to Maverick’s before they flit down to his work. The wipe follows the razor into the trash and Tom grabs the stencil, peeling back a thin film before he carefully places it over Maverick’s pec, smoothing edges and gently, he peels the paper away, eyeing the placement.

Tom nods, looking pleased, but he gestures for Maverick to turn and face the floor length mirror he just now noticed in the corner of the space.

“What do you think?” He asks Maverick, eyeing the purple letters in the mirror over Maverick’s shoulder.

Maverick cocks his head, considering, even though he really feels like he has no real opinion on it. It looks good to him—even across his pec, dead center, not too far up, not too far down and everything is spelled correctly. And Tom said it looked good and considering he’s the expert on this subject, Maverick takes his word for it and nods his approval.

“Looks good to me,” Maverick says with a shrug and Tom snorts behind him, making Maverick meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Don’t be so blasé about this,” Tom says and his tone sounds scolding, “this is going to be on your body forever and you need to make sure before I start that this is where you want it. I can re-print another stencil if you don’t like this one.”

Maverick eyes the stencil again, shifting this way and that in the mirror and something like rightness settles into his chest at seeing the words he heard so often as child scrawled neatly across his skin. Like they were always meant to be there, etched into his skin like a birth mark.

So yeah, not sure if this will ever get finished, but who knows with me, honestly. Thoughts?

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the-yellowturtle · 4 years ago

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The Curious Case of Master Katara (Pt.3)

Summary: In the sixth year of Fire Lord Zuko’s reign, Katara of the Southern Water Tribe is assassinated. (OR: Katara Becomes the Painted Lady! AU)

Chapter Summary: Sokka reacts to Katara’s passing.

Part 1 (Toph), Part 2 (Toph & Gran Gran), AO3 Story Link, & special thanks to @levitatingbiscuits for enabling this :)

The Surprising Origins of the Squiggle Meme

Xin Jizhe

Omashu Times News Reporter

You’ve seen it. Your mom has seen it. Spirits, even your pet fire-ferret has probably seen it! The latest comparison meme that’s often paired with the caption, “Ink Brush Painting is My Passion” is everywhere! However, the origins of the painting are much more heartfelt than you could have ever imagined.

The physical copy of the painting is currently hosted in the Caldera City Art Museum as part of the “Heroes of the Hundred Year War” collection. According to the museum’s website, it was painted by Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe as an outline for the paintings that would appear in his picture book about his younger sister, Master Katara, who had been assassinated by extremists in 106 AG. The paintings used in the published copy of the story are also available for viewing in the Caldera City Art Museum.

(Fun Fact: The official versions were painted by his wife, Suki of Kyoshi Island. Yes! That Suki! The one and only President Suki that fought for Kyoshi Island’s right to self-determination, and became the third president!).

Anyway, back to the matter at hand! Sokka reportedly decided to publish the picture book about his sister as a reaction to the growing popularity of a woodblock print that depicted Master Katara in her last moments. Sokka wanted the world to remember his sister as she was living, not a romanticized image of her death.

Try to see this touching meme in real life before the collection ends this spring.

___

When Sokka hears from one of the shaken villagers that after being shot Katara vanished into thin air, he gets an inkling about where she really is. When another local presents the pendant of Katara’s necklace to him, the sinking feeling in his gut tells him that his suspicions may be correct. And when he gazes up at the full moon later that night, he knows for certain.

Katara is gone.

He doesn’t need to travel to the Spirit World to know this. It has happened before. Before his very own eyes and between his very own arms. Some people are not destined to rejoin the earth; some are destined to be among the Spirits. He can only hope that she didn’t suffer too much in her last moments; that it was quick.

When he looks up at the moon, up at Yue, he pleads, “Please take care of her for me.”

Yue is probably far too busy being a beautiful celestial goddess to listen every time he talks to her, but he thinks she’s listening this time. She has to be.

___

Sokka was in the Southern Water Tribe on break from his studies in Ba Sing Se when word came that something had happened to Katara in the Fire Nation. Something that had warranted a personal letter from the Fire Lord, and had turned Zuko’s normally pristine penmanship into a barely decipherable mess. Katara was missing.

Truthfully, at the beginning of the letter Sokka was not worried at all. Zuko had a knack for worrying and exaggerating, and Sokka was certain that Katara would be back from wherever she had wandered off to before he could even set sail for the Fire Nation. Katara had probably found some wayward child or koala-sheep that needed assistance along the way, and she was so caught up in being benevolent that she forgot to hawk Zuko.

But then his dad and him had gotten to the part of the letter that informed them eyewitnesses were claiming that Katara had been attacked. That someone had shot her with an arrow. That they had watched her be struck, fall back into the river, and never rise again. That Katara was missing. That Katara might be dead.

It took more than one person to restrain him from immediately running off to the Fire Nation. Not that dad was any help, frozen, rereading the words over and over and over again. Katara might be dead .

When preparing to depart from the Southern Water Tribe, Sokka had promised his family that he would bring Katara home safely. That he would find out what happened.

He only manages to keep one of his promises. And it’s the one he cared for the least. When his dad and Gran Gran meet him at port, red-eyed and bags heavy, they know with one glance at Sokka’s face.

“She’s gone,” Gran Gran states, gripping his arm.

Sokka presses the carved pendant into his father’s hand. “She is.”

___

At first, it’s easy to pretend. With all the international guests and foreign dignitaries flocking to the Southern Water Tribe to personally pay their respects, it’s easy to slip into the role of being just Sokka. There are people to accommodate and details to smooth over. The South needs a planner, so Sokka becomes the mastermind.

It becomes a mask he slips on and off. One moment he is only Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe, the next he is Katara’s brother. When it becomes too much, one of their friends is there to comfort him or one of the guests is there to exasperate him. It’s easy at first; ignoring that nothing is ever going to be the same.

All things must come to an end, however, and the funeral is the same. The world must continue onwards, and gradually all of their friends return to where they are needed. When it’s only Gran Gran, dad, and him left, that's when the cracks begin to show.

It’s in the way that Gran Gran accidentally burns the sea prunes because she thought someone would be watching them when she was turned away. It’s in the way that dad leaves official correspondence from the Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom off to the side of his desk because he thought someone else would be looking over them. It’s in the way that Sokka reaches into his pocket and is surprised to find a necklace pendant because sometimes he still thinks that she’s somewhere out there wearing it.

Their family already had cracks, but now they no longer had the glue as well. After their mom passed away, Katara had taken it upon herself to be what everyone had needed. An eight-year old had done everything she possibly could have to fill the gaping hole their mom had left. At twenty-two years old, Sokka still has no idea how she found the strength to do that. But Katara is gone now, and the cracks in their family have transformed into an unmeasurable crevasse.

___

Sokka quickly learns the crevasse encompasses the entire Southern Water Tribe. This becomes abundantly clear one afternoon when three of Katara’s students confront him at the docks.

Akia, the shortest of the three and a refugee from the Northern Water Tribe, speaks first, “Sokka, we have a request.”

“Sure, what’s up?” he responds, setting down his catch.

The three young women exchange glances before Aqpik, from one of the interior clans, says, “We were wondering if you would allow us to enter Master Katara’s private study.”

Sokka freezes. No one in their family has been in there since her passing. “Why would you need to do that?”

“Spring is coming, and that means so are the seasonal waterbending students. We need to be prepared for when they arrive, and Master Katara always kept the lesson plans and personal scrolls in her study,” Akia pleads.

He begins to respond before he’s abruptly cut off by Mirae, a mixed waterbender of Water and Earth descent. “Master Katara fought long and hard to revitalize Southern bending, we can’t let it die with her. We were all so close to being declared masters, and we can continue the tradition in her stead. We need to do this.”

Meeting her determined gaze, Sokka knows immediately that this conversation was only for propriety’s sake; Mirae would most definitely break in if his answer was anything but the one she wanted. It’s a look he had seen so many times on Katara’s very own face. He had been so caught up in remembering Katara as his sister that he had forgotten that she was so much more than that to the South. She was the one who had painstakingly travelled the world to bring back the South’s stolen heritage, and Sokka would never be able to live with himself if he was part of the reason her efforts became in vain.

“Of course, you can,” he replies, “But first there’s something I need to do.”

___

In the Southern Water Tribe, when someone passes away you offer them to the sea along with an assortment of their earthly possessions. The objects that would feel wrong for any other to use are submerged with them, and the objects that would be a shame to waste are passed on to those who need it most. There is no fear surrounding the usage of things the deceased have touched; to use one of their belongings is to honor their memory.

This ceremony is an essential step in the mourning process of the South, but the most important by far is the telling of stories. For it is through stories that a person’s life is truly seen and celebrated. It is through stories that they are remembered and may continue to be remembered generations after they are gone.

Sokka has a feeling that the stories about Katara will be told for so long it will become impossible to discern myth from truth. A part of him is satisfied knowing that others will appreciate the person she was long after he is gone, however, they will never have the privilege of actually knowing Katara. Future generations will hear about the Hundred Year War, the Avatar, and the restoration of Southern Bending, but they will never learn about the time she broke her wrist penguin sledding as an adult . They will remember Master Katara of the Southern Water Tribe, but they won’t remember Katara.

No, remembering Katara is up to them. It’s up to Sokka and Gran Gran and dad and the rest of the gang to remember who she was. This is why the night after his conversation with the waterbenders, Sokka brings Gran Gran and dad with him to go through Katara’s study. Katara may have been the glue of the family, but this does not mean that Sokka can’t be the rope.

At first, it’s quiet as they work together to sort through the rest of her belongings. Unsurprisingly, she had meticulously organized everything. The waterbending scrolls are divided by style and skill level, the letters by country of origin and sender, even the hanging art is suspended according to the changing of the seasons. Sokka feels antsy just looking at how neat it is.

Dad is the one to break the silence. “She’s always been like this,” he comments, looking around the room, “Even as a toddler, she was extremely insistent on things being returned to their proper place.”

Gran Gran chuckles. “I wouldn’t say always , Hakoda. She could get pretty messy at times.”

“I’m gonna have to disagree, Gran Gran. Even as kids, Katara would only get messy if she had a statement to make. Didn’t like the way I folded my clothes? Then she would throw them about. Didn’t want to go to bed? Then she would refuse to get washed.”

“Ahhh bath time, that was always such an adventure with you two,” Dad smiles.

Sokka scoffs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was the best bather! Katara was the one who would get water all over the place”

“Sokka,” Gran Gran grins, patting his shoulder, “You would run around naked and we would have to catch you. In Winter . Thank the Spirits, you never attempted to go outside.”

The conversation goes on like this for hours; the waterbending scrolls forgotten. They laugh and cry and tease and debate. They remember.

When the embers are low and the sun is on the horizon again, Sokka reaches into his pocket and freezes. The pendant.

He hesitates before slowly pulling it out and tracing the carved waves with his finger. “Gran Gran? Dad? Do you think we should have submerged this, too?”

It was often a thin line between deciding what objects were inseparable from the deceased, and what objects the living could not bear to part from. When the time had come to select the belongings for Katara’s funeral, Sokka had found himself unwilling to hand over the necklace. There was no object more symbolic of who Katara was as a person, Sokka was well aware of that. However, for as long as he could remember, Katara had always been there. Even when they were far apart with her scouring the world for Southern waterbending scrolls and him in Ba Sing Se furthering his engineering studies, they had written constantly and made frequent trips to visit each other.

Katara was his sister; she would always be his sister. He knows she is gone, probably gallivanting about the Spirit World with Yue and telling Spirits how to do their jobs, but he needs to hold onto this piece of her. Just for a little bit.

“No,” Gran Gran finally answers, “We shouldn’t have.” Sokka meets her unwavering gaze. “That necklace has always been worn by women with the conviction to do what was right. Surely, Katara will not be the last.”

___

Gran Gran , Sokka thinks to himself as he watches his daughter from afar flip one of the Northern boys over her shoulder, really was always right. Some parents would probably be concerned that their child is getting into fights during the Winter Solstice celebration, but if Sokka may say so himself, he and Suki are excellent parents and that boy most definitely deserved it.

Sokka’s instincts are proven to be correct when Senna comes to join him and Suki where they are waiting to watch the waterbending performance.

“That was a good throw, sweety. Great form,” Suki compliments, hugging their daughter to her side.

Senna huffs at the reminder of the event and promptly launches into what happened. “Those little tiger-seal shit eaters were saying Yuki shouldn’t have been given the main role because apparently it’s only for girls ,” she rolls her eyes, “So I informed them that eating snow is only for narrow-minded, sexist boys, those fucking iceholes.”

Being interested in architecture and mathematics, people often assume that Senna mostly takes after him in looks and personality. But the focus, fighting and cussing? That was all Suki. And the ferociousness for justice? That was most definitely from Katara.

He likes to think that she would be immensely proud of his daughter, the new owner of her necklace, for never backing down. Sokka certainly was. He’s sure that she would also be overjoyed to know that the storybending performances she had revived were flourishing and that her nephew had worked his butt off to earn one of the main roles. Funnily enough, the role of Katara.

Yuki had been nervous, going over his routine again and again these past few days to make sure it was perfect. He had only managed to calm down when Suki had given him her protective amulet for good luck, and Sokka had reassured him that Aunt Katara would be honored by his performance no matter what.

When the storybending officially begins, Sokka can only beam with pride as he watches his son flawlessly reenact the freeing of the earthbenders. Yuki has certainly come a long way from accidentally splashing his sister to manipulating a stream of water to look like coal soaring through the air. He wishes Katara was alive to see it, but a part of him gets the feeling that she knows.

Sokka is aware that the Painted Lady is out there somewhere running around trying to help those in need, but on nights like this when the moon is bright and the sky is full of lights, he gets this feeling . Even if he can no longer meet her, sometimes it feels like she’s still there.

So when the performance is over, and the kids are finally off to bed, he takes a moment to gaze up at the full moon. “I’m happy, I hope you are, too.”

#katara #sokka #water tribe siblings #atla fanfiction #katara & sokka #mine

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caelesjjk · 5 years ago

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something else | m.c.

Greetings my loves! Enjoy this very lovey dovey Michael fic! It was so fun to write!

“I have a desire for every inch of you. The smell of your breath on my needing lips, the taste of you under the covers and your voice rummaging through every vein in my body.”

The smell of fresh ink and cleaning supplies was almost comforting to Cat Cooper. She found herself hanging out in her best friends tattoo shop more than anywhere else. The buzzing sound of needles could have soothed her to sleep if she tried. She loved watching Michael create beautiful art on strangers’ skin. And now and then, on her own. Cat was not by any means covered in tattoos, most of her ink easily hidden, but those few hours where Michael was heavily concentrating on making her tattoos just perfect were more intimate than she could explain.

The building Michael had bought had once looked like nothing more than a headache. But with the determination and help from his friends and family he was able to turn it into the absolute perfect tattoo shop. He made sure it was warm and welcoming on the inside with the brick walls painted browns and creams. Of course there was a huge mural painted on the back wall, Michael had put hours into it. The other walls were covered in vintage posters and records that Michael had collected over the years. And when Calum and Luke had come to work with him, he let them out their own touches into their booths and around the rest of the shop. It was home for all of them.

Right now, Cat was lying on the tattoo table with her arms stretched above her head. Michael was on the stool next to her, his newly dyed neon green hair poking out from beneath his black snapback. The tip of his tongue was just barely peeking out the corner of his dark pink lips while he concentrated. Cat couldn’t help but smile at his face, no matter how many times she had seen him do that exact same thing.

Michael was currently tattooing a fairly large owl piece just below Cat’s breasts. It hurt more than she wanted to admit, it was the biggest one she had gotten so far. Michael tried his best to be gentle, but the placement was just in a sensitive spot all together.

“Did you find someone to fill your empty booth yet?” Cat asked between wincing in pain.

“Not yet. But we will. I’m just wanting to make sure the next person fits in with what we’ve got going here, ya know?” Michael wiped some excess ink from Cat’s skin, taking a moment to look up and meet her eyes.

“Definitely. Wouldn’t want another Alonzo.” Cat smiled widely, listening to Michael’s perfect laugh as he remembered Alonzo.

“No. We certainly don’t.” Michael shook his head and licked his lips before twisting a bit to dip his tattoo gun in the black ink cups on his side table. “Almost done with the outline, okay?”

“You enjoy torturing me.” Cat sighed, maneuvering back into position.

“My only pleasure in life.” Michael said with a smirk as he pressed the needles back to her skin. Cat continued to watch his face until his eyebrows furrowed together, which was slightly out of character for him.

“What’s the matter?” Cat asked, her own eyebrows furrowing together in concern.

“I need to talk to you about something.” Michael bit into his bottom lip has he continued the solid lines of Cat’s tattoo.

“Spill Mikey. You’re freaking me out.” Cat knew he was about drop something on her. She knew that face better than anyone else did.

“So you know how Liv and I went on that trip to the beach last weekend?” Michael asked, continuing to finish a line of ink. Cat wasn’t a huge fan of Michael’s girlfriend Liv, but she tolerated her for his sake. The girlfriends never lasted, and Cat liked it that way.

“Did you guys break up?” Cat hated the way she almost sounded excited. She tried not to make it extremely obvious that she was in love with her best friend.

“No…” Michael didn’t finish his sentence right away. He took a moment to think it over again but made sure he didn’t look Cat in the eye as he continued speaking. “I um…I actually asked her to marry me.” He cleared his throat lightly and Cat almost rolled off the table in surprise. “Jesus, Cat! I could have fucked up the whole tattoo!”

“You asked her to marry you?! Michael are you insane?” Cat didn’t care about the tattoo anymore, she sat up and then stood before crossing the room, trying to put distance between the two of them so that she didn’t put him in a choke hold.

“I know what you’re thinking, okay? We haven’t been together all that long but Liv is different. She’s the one for me, Cat.” Michael sat his tattoo gun down and slipped off his rubber gloves.

“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, Michael Clifford.” Cat scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and immediately regretting it when she bumps her fresh tattoo.

“Please just be happy for me? Please? I need you to be my best man.” He smiles gently and takes a few steps towards her with his hands up in surrender.

“Your best man? You did just hear what you said, right?” Cat shakes her head and looks away from him. Staring off in the corner, anywhere but at Michael. Her heart was ready to break and she knew if she looked at him now she would give in.

“You know what I mean, Kitty. I need you while I go through this.” Michael moved around the tattoo table to stand just a few feet from her. He was the only one who was allowed to call her Kitty.

“Liv doesn’t even like me, Mike.” Cat sighed, knowing she would rather live the rest of her life being in love with someone she could never have than upset him in any way.

“Of course she does babe, she loves you!” Michael reaches out and takes Cat’s hands in his pulling them up and holding them against his chest.

“Michael…I don’t know.” Cat tried to look away, but one of Michael’s hands was coming down and capturing her chin between his fingers and bringing her eyes back up to his.

“You’re…you’re the most important person in the world to me. And I need you.” Michael spoke softly and gave her hands a gentle squeeze. Cat knew she was done for. She loved him too much to be angry with him. It’s not like he knew she was in love with him, that would require Cat to grow a pair and tell him how she felt.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cat asked, carefully reaching up and taking his hand off of her chin and sighing beneath her breath. Michael leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Cat’s forehead.

“Of course I am, Kitty. This is what I want.” Michael had the cutest puppy dog eyes as he begged for Cat to agree to his request.

Cat was truly wishing she had a moment to think this over. Would it be more painful to tell him how she felt right now and get turned down, or watch him marry someone else? She honestly didn’t know. Both scenarios were something she didn’t think she would ever have to deal with. It had always been just the two of them, and that’s how life should have gone on, at least in Cat’s mind. But she was too late and too naïve if she honestly thought someone else out there wasn’t going to realize how sweet, kind, and loving her best friend was. She just wasn’t ready to share him.

“Michael…” Cat started to say, looking up to meet his bright green orbs that were looking down at her expectantly with just the slightest bit of worry behind them. “Okay. If this is what you really want.”

Long arms scooped her up and held her against his body. Cat wrapped her arms around Michael’s neck and closed her eyes and let his scent engulf her. Michael’s face was buried in Cat’s neck and he could not possibly have held her any tighter than he already was. She knew there were tears welling up in the corners of her eyes when she felt one roll down her cheek and stain Michael’s white tshirt. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t mind. It wasn’t like she hadn’t cried in front of him hundreds of times over the years. But never once had he been the cause of them.

“I knew I could count on you.” Michael lips were practically brushing over her neck as he spoke. Cat did her best to pull herself together when he slowly released her.

“So when’s the big day?” Cat discreetly dabbed beneath her eyes and sniffled her nose. Michael pretended not to notice, but he noticed everything about her.

“Well Liv is like…really excited ya know? So 3 months?” Michael rubbed the back of his neck.

“3 months?” Cat choked on air as she started coughing and clearing her throat.

“Yeah. I mean why wait right?” Michael nibbled at his lip nervously. And that slightest bit of nervousness was all Cat needed to know. Now she knew he wasn’t as sure as he was pretending to be.

“Okay. Um, yeah. Whatever you want Mikey.” Cat stepped around him and headed back over to the tattoo table, sitting down and releasing a long breath.

“Hey. We’re okay right? Nothing is going to change?” Michael followed, not going to his seat on the stool just yet.

“Yeah, bub. We’re good.” Cat said the words, but she didn’t mean them. Because everything was going to change. Michael nodded and went back to his station to finish Cat’s tattoo.

It had been a few weeks since Michael had dumped his engagement news on Cat. She wasn’t having an easy time adjusting to the idea of her best friend belonging to someone else. And to make things even worse, tonight was Michael and Liv’s engagement party. Everyone was getting together in Michael’s backyard to celebrate the happy couple. Cat had changed outfits at least 12 times and was on the verge of being late for the party. She had no idea how she was going to hold it together but she knew she had to. She had been somewhat avoiding Michael the past few weeks, only talking to him enough to keep him from worrying. But when she hadn’t been by the shop for a few days he got suspicious and insisted that the two of them talk tonight at the party.

Finally deciding a red tshirt dress that she dressed up with nude pumps and some dangly earrings, Cat finally left her apartment to drive over to Michael’s place. The neighborhood he lived in wasn’t far from hers, but Michael’s tattoo shop had been doing so well the past year that he was able to buy his own house. It was a cute little red brick house with a pointy roof and huge bay windows in the front. There were huge hydrangea bushes on either side of the sidewalk leading up to the front door and their smell was heavenly. But Cat’s favorite part of the house was Michael’s back patio. There was a huge sitting area and a fire pit right in the center of it. He had also set up a couple of pergola’s with soft couches and strings of white lights hanging from them. It always looked so perfect.

Tonight was no different. The whole yard was full of friends and family of Michael and Liv. Talking, laughing, and eating snacks from the huge spread that Cat assumed only Michael’s mom could have pulled off. Cat took a few deep breaths as she approached the back gate and slowly pushed it open. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for Michael to know she was here just yet, so she made sure to not make her presence well known. She grabbed a glass and mixed herself a very strong rum and coke. Something to help her nerves subside until she could get the hell out of here.

“When did you get here, best man?” The familiar voice of Ashton Irwin asked as he approached the drink table next where Cat was standing.

“Just now. How are things going here?” Cat took a long drink from her glass, cringing slightly from the strong taste of rum in the drink.

“So far so good. This is a bit crazy, don’t you think?” Ashton asked, sipping from his glass. Thank god for Ashton, always being the voice of reason in their friend group.

“You think so too?” Cat sighed, another drink sending shivers down her spine.

“Slow down there, boozie. What’s with you?” Ashton giggled before turning to face Cat.

“I just think this is a really bad idea. That’s all.” Cat turned back towards the table to mix another drink and to keep from looking Ashton in the eye.

“I’ll be around when you’re ready to tell me what’s actually bothering you.” Ashton said the words quietly and then walked over to a group of friends. Cat was left at the drink table alone with her drink again. At least for a moment.

“You’re being awfully unsociable.” Karen Clifford was approaching Cat with her arms open for a hug. Cat smiled widely and closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around her best friends mom.

“I’m so happy to see you, Mrs. C.” Cat squeezed her once more before stepping back so she could look at her. Karen had always been a second mom whom Cat adored.

“Tell me sweetheart, what are you doing over here alone?” Karen asked, a look of concern on her features.

“I just needed a minute.” Cat took another drink from her glass, trying to look less uncomfortable.

“Are you sure it’s not because my son is completely oblivious to the fact that you’re in love with him and now he’s marrying someone else because the two of you are too stubborn to admit it to eachother?” Karen raised an eyebrow and Cat almost choked on her drink.

“What? Absolutely not, Mrs. C. That’s…that just crazy talk.” Cat forced a fake laugh as a look of complete horror took over her face.

“You might be able to fool everyone else, including Michael, but not me my dear. I watched the two of you grow up together, including that extremely awkward year the two of you went through puberty at the same time.” Karen shivered at the memory. “But one thing that has never changed, is how much you love him. And he loves you too, he just doesn’t understand it.” Karen Clifford had just completely overwhelmed Cat with all this information.

“You’ve known for that long?” Cat finally squeaked out, swallowing hard.

“Oh your mother knew too. The two of you and your oblivious love for each other was the topic of our conversations for years. Still is from time to time.” Karen poured herself a glass of tea, coming to stand next to Cat shoulder to shoulder. Cat bit her bottom lip before she spoke again, taking a second to let it sink in.

“What do I do, Mrs. C.?” Cat didn’t think there was much point in denying it anymore.

“You’ll figure out, darling.” Karen used her hand to pull Cat’s face down to hers and kissed her cheek quickly before returning to Daryl and some other friends under one of the pergola’s. Cat had no idea what she was supposed to do, she had been denying her feelings for so long that things had finally caught up and now it was practically too late to change anything.

“Kitty!” Michael called out, a huge smile spread across his face as he weaved through the crowd of people to get to her.

“Hi, Mikey.” Cat said as he engulfed her in yet another tight hug that lifted her feet from the ground.

“Why are you standing over here alone? Come over here with us.” Michael sat Cat’s feet back on the ground and tangled his fingers with hers, practically dragging her across the yard. As soon as Liv came into sight, Cat was downing the rest of her drink with her other hand still in Michael’s.

“So happy you could finally join us, Kitty Cat.” Liv’s annoyance was evident in her voice, and she knew Cat despised when she called her Kitty Cat. Her lips were painted a dark purple color that made her skin look even more pale.

“Nice to see you too, Liv.” Cat forced a smile and then watched as Michael quickly released her hand and wrapped it around Liv’s waist instead.

“I really hope you’ll join me and some of the girls for my bachelorette part in a few weeks.” Liv was really piling on the bullshit now.

“That’s a great idea babe! That’ll be fun, right Kitty?” Michael’s excitement was making it extremely hard for Cat to turn this down.

“I mean yeah…I just thought I’d be going with you guys on the Bachelor party. I mean I’m planning the damn thing.” Cat said, desperate to get out of hanging out with Liv and the bitch squad.

“Nonsense, Kitty Cat. Angela is planning the most amazing spa day for us. You really must come.” Liv sipped at her glass of wine, her blue eyes such a contrast to her dyed black hair.

“Just do both, that’d be okay right?” Michael looked at Cat expectantly as Liv laid her head against his shoulder.

“Yeah, of course.” Cat replied, a hiccup leaving her mouth after she spoke. “I’ll be right back.” She quickly made her exit back towards the drink table, but before she got there a hand wrapped around her wrist to stop her.

“What’s with you?” Michael asked, pulling Cat to a stop.

“Nothing. I just needed another drink.” Cat tried to turn away but Michael stopped her again.

“Please stop acting like I don’t know that something is wrong, Cat. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks and now you’re acting really strange. Talk to me, please.” Michael pulled on her hand until they were off to the side of the yard away from everyone else.

“This is just a lot for me to take in, Michael. It’s happening so fast.” Cat ran her hand through her hair to push it away from her face.

“I know. But I just need you to trust me.” Michael’s hands went to the front pockets of his black jeans but his eyes never left Cat.

“I trust you, Michael. That’s not it.” She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Then what?” He looked like he was expecting her to say something that was going to hurt. But she could never.

“I’ll…I’ll just try harder, okay? I promise everything will be fine.” Cat tried her best to be as convincing as possible.

“We don’t make promises we can’t keep, remember?” Michael said. It was impossible to fake anything with the person that knew you better than you knew yourself.

“Then I’ll keep it.” Cat brought one hand up and stuck out her pinky, waiting for Michael to do the same. It was a child’s way of making promises, but effective nonetheless. It only took Michael a second to pull a hand out of his pocket and link his pinky with hers, a small smile lifting at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re the best, Kitty.” He kept his pinky linked with hers and used the other hand to pull her close so he could kiss the top of her head.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Cat teased, listening to Michael’s heart while her head was pressed against his chest for another second.

“Come on then, let’s go back to the party.” He released her body and motioned with his head for her to follow, and she did, she always would.

“You really didn’t have to come with me today.” Cat said as Michael opened the door to the dress shop they had just arrived to.

“Who else were you going to bring?” Michael raised a questioning eyebrow, smiling as she walked through the door.

“I’m sure Cal would have come with me.” Cat teased. She knew Michael wasn’t a fan of the “Cal & Cat” train that had once tried to a thing a few years ago.

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen.” Michael ushered her inside, trying to change the subject.

“We only kissed that one time, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.” Cat bit into her bottom lip as she walked up to a rack with hanging dresses.

“You know the answer to that.” Michael cleared his throat and fell silent. He stood behind her with his arms crossed, pretending to look out the front window.

“Hey. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t tease. But I really don’t think you should be so worried about Cal breaking my heart. It’s not even a thing anymore” Cat sighed, walking around to the other side of him so he would look at her.

“I just think you can do better, that’s all.” His eyes were the prettiest green Cat had ever seen. Maybe she was biased because she loved him, but there was no one more beautiful than Michael Clifford.

“Let’s just find a dumb dress for me to wear in your wedding, okay?” Cat said quietly, Michael nodding in agreement.

They walked around the store for what seemed like hours, Cat filling hers and Michael’s arms with dress after dress. When she finally had enough, she made her way to the dressing rooms to begin the trying on process.

The whole wedding party was going to be wearing black and white, and Cat was somewhat thankful to hear that. The colors were simple and she had a feeling Michael had a big part in deciding that part at least. Everything was going to be outside with a bit of a gothic theme. That was likely Liv’s idea. Cat knew that Michael would have wanted to get married in his back yard with only the closest people there. They never talked about their wedding ideas much over the years, but when they had, Michael always wanted simple things. And when Cat pictured herself marrying Michael, it was always on New Years eve.

Cat had already tried on three or four dresses when she finally put one on that looked surprisingly amazing. The neck line dipped down so far is was practically nonexistent. It made her chest look much more endowed than she actually was. It clung to her hips slightly but cascaded down loosely and flowed lightly. The material was silky and soft to the touch. Practically perfect.

“Are you going to let me see any of these?” Michael said from outside the dressing room.

“Yeah. I’m coming out, okay?” Cat said, her voice a little shaky. Michael had been with her to try on clothes hundreds of times, she didn’t know why showing him this dress was any different. But she wanted him to like it. More than he’s liked anything else.

Cat took a deep breath and turned the knob on the door, gently pushing it open and listening to the creaking sound the door made as it opened. Michael looked up from his phone when he heard the door, almost dropping it to the ground. He quickly sat the phone down on the chair as he stood up, eyes never leaving Cat while he stared in awe. She was beautiful. Always had been. He hoped that she knew how beautiful he thought she was and made mental notes to start telling her more often. Cat spun around, the skirt of the dress puffing out and making her giggle. Michael smiled, taking her hand and spinngin her around once more so he could look at her.

“Perfection.” Michael said quietly, keeping her hand in his.

“Think so?” Cat smiled nervously.

“Absolutely.” Michael knew the words came out a little dreamily, so he quickly coughed and cleared his throat again, using it as an excuse to look away. “You should get this one. For sure.”

“Okay.” Cat laughed for a second before she went back into the dressing room to get the dress off.

Unfortunately, that process was not going to happen as easily as she had hoped. When Cat started to pull the dress over her head, the material got stuck. Her arms were above her head in a very uncomfortable position and the dress wouldn’t budge. Cat could feel herself start to panic. This was literally every girls nightmare. She continued to spin around and pull at the material but it wasn’t going anywhere without ripping.

“Michael?” Cat said with tears in her eyes.

“Yeah, babe. Whats wrong?” Cat heard his voice come closer to the door of the dressing room.

“I um…I’m stuck.” Cat said with a half crazy laugh at the end of the sentence.

“Stuck?” Michael asked innocently.

“In the dress, Michael!” Cat shouted, leaning back against the cold glass of the mirror and hitting her head against it a few times in frustration.

“Oh, shit. Do you need help?” Michael was genuinely concerned at this point.

“I…yes. But I’m naked…under the dress.” Cat could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment already.

“You didn’t wear underwear?” Michael released a long breath, taking off his snapback and ruffling his hair a few times before putting it back on.

“I didn’t think I was going to get stuck in a dress, okay?!” Cat was about to lose her shit.

“Do you not wear underwear often?” Michael asked.

“Michael!!” Cat practically screamed.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming in.” Michael slowly opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it quickly behind him. When his eyes focused on Cat again, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud, covering his mouth to try and muffle the sound.

“Stop laughing at me!” Cat sobbed, her face unable to be seen with the dress stuck over her head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let’s get you out.” Michael laughed again, moving to stand behind her and look for a zipper.

“This is a sign that I shouldn’t get this dress.” Cat sighed, her skin getting goosebumps when Michael started touching her. She hoped he couldn’t tell.

“You’re getting the dress. Even if it does seem to have it out for you.” Michael hands pushed the dress out of the way, exposing the naked bottom half of Cat’s body. The reaction his own body had to seeing it wasn’t what he expected. “Shit.” He whispered under his breath.

“What? Whats wrong? I’m stuck in it forever aren’t I?” Cat whined, shaking Michael out of his thoughts.

“No. Its okay, Kitty. I’m gonna pull it up, and you need to pull your arms down at the same time. Okay?” Michael said, bunching his hands into the material of the dress.

“Okay.” Cat tried to stop blubbering long enough to get herself out the damn dress.

“On three then. One, two, three.” Michael pulled up and Cat went down and the dress came flying off her arms and over her head causing both of them to stumble. Michael’s back went to the mirrored wall and Cat tripped until she was pressed up against him.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Cat said, her heart suddenly realizing that Michael’s hands were on her bare hips attempting to steady her.

“You’re okay?” Michael asked, his mouth dangerously close to his best friends. Cat nodded. “Good…the uh, tattoo healed up nicely.” Michael took his hands off of her hips and Cat quickly scrambled away, grabbing her shirt from the floor and covering herself with it.

“I should…get dressed.” Cat said, her cheeks turning bright red again.

“Yeah. Do that.” Michael looked at her another moment, then rushed out of the dressing room so he could breathe.

Cat was left feeling completely confused. Something strange had just happened.

In a blur, a few more weeks had passed and the gloom of the wedding was getting that much closer. Cat tried busying herself with work and going to the gym as often as possible just to keep her mind off of things, because in all honesty, she hated going to the damn gym. She still made time to see Michael at the tattoo shop, but things were different now, and they both knew it. Conversations revolved around the wedding, and that made things awkward. And talking to Michael had never been awkward.

The impending doom of Liv’s bachelorette party had finally arrived. Cat was told that a limo would be picking her up at her place and that she should be ready at promptly 12:00pm and no later. God forbid the princess be kept waiting for even a moment. Cat rolled her eyes as she shoved the rest of her things into a duffle bag, not bothering to fold them or care that her outfits would likely be wrinkled. And just as she finished zipping up the bag, an obnoxious honking noise came from outside her apartment building. With another roll of her eyes, she threw the bag over her shoulder and took the few flights of stairs down until she reached the door and walked outside.

The white stretch limo was just coming to a stop in the parking lot as Cat slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. Liv and a few of her friends were hanging out the moon roof screeching and attempting to drink champagne from bright pink penis shaped straws.

“Oh god.” Cat said to herself, forcing a smile on her face as the limo driver came to open the door and take her bag.

“Get your ass in here bitch!” Liv’s friend Angela said, making everyone giggle.

“You got it…bitch.” Cat knew she sounded awkward but she climbed inside the limo and settled into a seat as the other girls came down from the moon roof to take their seats.

“Alright ladies, here’s the plan.” Angela paused a moment to grab a glass of champagne, penis straw included, and hand it to Cat. “First stop is the spa, we are getting the total packages today. Then after dinner and drinks, we head out to Club 101 for even more drinks and lots and lots dancing!” Everyone squealed at Angela’s announcement. It was completely unoriginal and unthoughtful. Cat couldn’t help the scoff that left her mouth on accident.

“Is there a problem with the plans, Kitty Cat?” Liv asked, her head cocking to the side.

“Oh, no. Not at all. Sounds super fun.” Cat attached her lips to the pink penis straw, anything to keep from answering another question from the bitch squad.

The first part of the day went off without many incidents. Cat had to admit that all the pampering she was getting at the spa was possibly exactly what she needed to relax in this situation. The only thing she wanted to change was the company she had while getting it. But she was able to get an hour long massage, a mani/pedi, and her hair washed and styled. She felt more refreshed than she had in quite awhile as she finished getting ready for the dreaded night of clubbing ahead.

Cat really had no idea when she got dressed what kind of fresh hell she would be walking into. She had decided to wear her favorite pair of black leather shorts with a simple white tank top tucked in. And always feeling like she need some pop of color, after Michael had told her years ago that she wore black too much. She couldn’t help but laugh when he said that, considering he practically wore all black every day. But nonetheless, she had bought a pair of green velvet, calf height, strappy heels. She had no idea it would be such a mission to get them on, but once they were, she had to admit she really loved them.

The wobbly walk down the hall to the other girls hotel room made Cat reconsider a few times, but she pushed through. And when Liv opened the door, Cat suddenly felt very underdressed. They had all practically painted on their black dresses. There was no way they would get out of those things without injuries later in the night.

“Wow. You guys look great.” Cat cleared her throat as she crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to keep attention off of her outfit.

“You too, Kitty Cat.” Liv’s sarcasm was thick, but Cat should honestly be used to it by now.

Cat was quickly handed yet another glass of champagne with a penis straw. This time she simply pulled the straw from the drink and chugged the glass without hesitating.

“Someone’s ready to party!” One of the girls shouted.

“I can’t believe Michael is letting you put this all on his credit card!” Another of the girls said, immediately regretting it when Liv and Angela gave her the death stare.

“I’m sorry…did you just say Michael’s paying for all of this?” Cat felt her stomach twist into the tightest knot possible.

“He offered.” Angela had a look of guilt on her face but continued to force a smile. Liv however, did not look guilty at all.

“He just wanted to do something sweet for his bride, Kitty Cat.” Liv said, her smirk making Cat want to slap it right off her face.

“Are you paying for his Bachelor party? Because I haven’t seen any of that money while I’ve been planning his party.” Cat scowled and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Like I said, it’s a gift from my future husband.” Liv brushed Cat off, suggesting that they all get to the limo before the club got too busy.

It was impossible once they had arrived at Club 101 for Cat to have any fun whatsoever. She felt sick every time one of the other girls ordered another drink and added it to Liv’s tab that was obviously being paid for by Michael’s credit card. Cat had refused any and all drink offers, using her own card to pay for anything she decided to drink. And she had decided to drink a lot. She was on whiskey shot number 7 when things started to get fuzzy. She decided that she needed to get outside and get some air, and when she got there, all she wanted to do was call her best friend. Cat leaned her body against the cold brick wall outside the club and fumbled through her bag until she found her phone. With one eye open so she could stop seeing double, she pressed her finger to Michael’s name and brought the phone to her ear.

“Cat? Whats wrong babe?” Michael’s tired voice said into the speaker.

“I um…” Cat hiccupped loudly before continuing. “I wanna come home. Will you come get me?” She whined into the phone and let her body slip down the wall until her ass had hit the ground.

“Is everything okay? Where’s Liv?” Michael asked. Cat could hear him scrambling around to get out of bed.

“Her and the bitch squad are inside. I don’t fit in with them Mikey. I hate this.” Cat started to blubber, and Michael immediately knew she must have been drinking whiskey. He laughed quietly.

“Alright, Mrs. Jack Daniels. Stay right where you are and don’t move. I’ll be there in a few.” Michael hung up the phone and Cat suddenly had a huge smile on her face. She wanted to see him more than anything right now.

Cat had started to drift off when she felt familiar hands cup her cheeks and rough thumbs swipe below her eyes.

“Hey there, sweet girl. Let’s get you home, okay?” Michael talked softly, the sound of his voice bringing that smile back to Cat’s face.

“Mm. I missed you.” Cat wrapped her arms around his neck, holding onto him as Michael stood up and brought her with him.

“Missed you too.” Michael let her lean against him as he walked her to the car, opening the door and gently lowering her into the seat.

“Michael?” A voice said from over by the club door. A voice that Cat knew was about ruin everything.

“Stay right here, okay? I’ll be right back.” Michael said as he quickly shut the car door, not giving Cat a chance to protest. She watched out the window as Michael jogged over to where Liv was standing with her arms crossed.

From what Cat could tell, it looked like Liv was pissed off and yelling who knows what at Michael. He seemed to just take it for a few minutes and then she must have said something that he didn’t want to hear because he started yelling back. His hands pushed his neon green hair back in frustration. Cat wished she could hear what they were saying, so she attempted to open her door and step out. In the process, her ridiculous strappy heel decided to obey the laws of gravity causing Cat to stumble. She grabbed onto the car door to hold herself up, but not before a screech left her lips and Liv and Michael both turned to look at her. Cat froze, her whiskey filled veins making it extremely difficult to hang onto the door.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” Cat heard Michael say.

“Go ahead, Michael. Run back to your little bitch.” Liv snapped as he started to turn away.

“Don’t you ever fucking call her that.” Michael snapped back, anger in his voice that Cat hadn’t heard in a very long time. He turned away, leaving Liv by the door.

“Michael…I’m…” Cat tried saying as he approached the car.

“Come here, Kitty.” Michael wrapped his arms around her waist and helped pull her to her feet and back into her seat in the car. He closed the door again, this time jogging around the other side of the car and getting into the drivers seat.

“I’m sorry.” Cat said, her head laying back against the headrest and her eyes on him.

“Don’t be. I just want to get you home safe.” Michael pulled out of the parking lot, not saying anything else for the rest of the drive back to Cat’s apartment building. He only sung quietly along with the radio, but didn’t seem angry with her like she thought he would be.

By the time they had parked in the parking lot of Cat’s building she felt like she was practically sober again. Michael continued to stay quiet as he opened his door and climbed out of the car. Cat watched him shove his hands into his pockets as he walked around the front of the car and over to her door, opening it and offering his hand to help her out. Cat bit her lower lip, taking his hand and letting him lead her inside the front doors of her apartment building, still not saying a word.

Michael approached the elevators with Cat’s hand still in his, pressing the Up button and quickly stepping onto it when the doors opened. He released her hand when the doors closed and he pushed her the button for her floor with a long sigh leaving his lips.

“Michael…” Cat started.

“Not now, Cat.” Michael didn’t even bother to look up and Cat decided it was best not to push it any further.

The elevator was dinging as they passed each floor, when it car suddenly started shaking before it came to a complete stop. All the buttons and arrows inside started blinking and the lights above their heads started flashing on and off.

“What the fuck?” Michael said, leaning forward and pushing all the buttons on the elevator pad, none of them doing anything but blink. “No fucking way.” He tried to use his fingers to pry open the door but it was no use.

“We have to push the Call button.” Cat said from behind him, her back pressed to the mirrored wall.

“Really, Caterina? You think I haven’t tried that?” Michael snapped, huffing and turning back to the buttons, pounding at them with his fist.

“That’s not going to help.” Cat could feel herself start to get angry now.

“I can’t be in here with you right now.” Michael pressed his forehead to the doors.

“Wh..why?” Cat’s voice was laced with confusion at that statement.

“Nothing. It’s nothing alright?” He started to pace back and forth across the small space, making Cat want to strangle him.

“Stop pacing Michael!” Cat yelled. They had only been trapped for two minutes and they were both already losing it.

“Hey folks. We are working on getting you out of there as quick as we can. Hang tight.” A voice said over the speaker on the wall of the elevator.

The two of them relaxed slightly, retreating to either side of the elevator and sitting down against the wall. Time was passing extremely slow, and Cat wasn’t sure how much more she could take with Michael refusing to talk to her.

“What did Liv say to you earlier?” She finally asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

“Since when do you keep things from me?” Cat’s voice was laced with disappointment.

“Maybe I should be asking you the same thing.” Michael moved away from the wall and snapped his eyes open so quickly it made Cat jump slightly.

“What are you talking about?” Cat looked down at her hands and fiddled her fingers nervously.

“Liv thinks you’re in love with me, Cat. And so does everyone else apparently. I…I don’t know what I’m supposed to think. How exactly am I supposed to react to something like that?” Michael scooted closer to Cat across the floor of the elevator.

Cat had no idea what she was supposed to say. Her mouth had dropped open in surprise and her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it in her ears. How did she get out of this? Or did she just go ahead and tell him how’s she felt since she was 8 years old?

“Do you remember that time when we were about 8 years old, and we were playing hide and seek in the woods behind your house?” Cat asked, her voice shaking with nerves.

“We did that hundreds of times Cat…” Michael started to say.

“This was the time I got lost, remember that? I wondered too far and I couldn’t see the path anymore. I was out there for an hour or more just crying and saying your name over and over. And finally, when I wanted to give up, you found me. You hugged me so tight and you said you’d always find me no matter where I went. That’s when I knew.” Cat smiled while the tears started welling up in her eyes.

“That’s when you knew what?” Michael closed the space between them, scooting across the floor until their legs were touching and he could reach up and hold her face in hands. This girl was his whole world and he hated seeing her cry more than anything.

“That I loved you. I wasn’t in love with you then…but it opened the door for that to happen later on. I didn’t mean to…it just happened. I’m sorry for blubbering….” Cat had started talking fast and wishing she could stop and then she did, when Michael’s lips covered hers in the kiss she had been dying for.

Her eyes fell shut as she parted her own lips and kissed him back like it was the most natural thing that could be happening. Michael’s fingers were in her hair pulling her closer and deepening the kiss until Cat’s tongue swiped over his lips. His nose bumped hers when his tongue swiped into her mouth. She tasted like whiskey and mint gum, and Michael thought that it was practically perfect and so very Cat. And then it was like something suddenly reminded him that he was kissing his best friend and Michael pulled away and scrambled up to his feet, pressing his back to the wall.

“I um…fuck. I can’t believe I just did that.” Michael had a look of pure panic on his face.

“Did it feel wrong?” Cat asked, standing up and looking to him for an answer.

“No. And that’s why I should not have done it.” Michael was confused and so was Cat.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Cat ran her hands through her hair and watched Michael’s face as he thought things over.

“None of this does, Cat.” Michael laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

“Mikey…” Cat approached him slowly, hands coming up to cup his neck and when he didn’t pull away she slid her fingers to the nape of his neck and touched the soft hairs that hung there. Michael’s hands instinctively went to her hips, digging his fingers into her soft skin to try and keep himself from kissing her again the way he wanted to. So very desperately.

Cat couldn’t think of the right way to say the things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that it was supposed to be her. She was the one that should be kissing him goodnight and waking up next to him every morning. She knew him inside and out. And something about the way he was looking at her now told her that he was realizing that maybe he felt something too.

“My hearts going to explode.” Michael said, releasing a long breath.

“Mine too.” Cat laughed, her skin burning when Michael’s hands slipped under her shirt to rest on her lower back.

“Softer than I imagined.” He whispered the words and pressed his forehead against hers.

“You imagined me?” Cat swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.

“More than I’d like to admit.” Michael smiled, hands still roaming her back, “I just thought it was weird hormone shit when we were younger. But even after we weren’t teenagers anymore…still thought about how you’d feel…” Michael was spilling his guts and Cat knew she needed to give him more of herself so that he wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve always just wanted you.” She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, his lips parting and hot breath fanning her lips. “I don’t think there could ever be anyone else.”

Michael couldn’t, nor did he want to deprive himself from the way Cat’s lips tasted any longer. He looked her in the eyes and searched for any type of regret, and when he didn’t find any he quickly connected his lips to hers again. It was harder and more rushed than the first one. Sloppy lips and searching tongues. Their breaths mixed together and their bodies pressed tightly. Michael walked Cat backwards until her back hit the mirrored wall of the elevator, thoughts of escaping the confined space were long gone from his mind. Cat’s hands locked into the strands of his bright green hair and made sure he knew he was not to stop kissing her. Michael’s hips pressed harshly into hers, making soft moans leave her lips. Michael swallowed the sounds and committed them to memory.

They were too lost in each other to hear the doors of the elevator push open. It wasn’t until the sound of someone clearing their throat was heard that they pulled apart. Michael turned around to see Liv and a firefighter standing at the doors. The firefighter looked sympathetic and Liv looked devastated. She didn’t say a word, tears welling up in her eyes as she turned away and took off for the front doors.

“Liv!” Michael called after her, unwrapping himself from Cat and pushing past the firefighter.

“Michael stop!” Cat called after him, he stopped and turned back to look at her long enough to say the most hurtful thing he could possibly say,

“I can’t.” Was all he needed to say, and he was running out the door.

Cat could feel her heart drop to her stomach and her breath leave her lungs completely. She had never wanted to be invisible more in her entire life. She shamefully walked out of the elevator and made a beeline for her apartment. She wanted to lock herself inside and never see the light of day again.

When the time came a few weeks later for Michael’s bachelor party, Cat made sure to send all the information to Ashton. She knew that she couldn’t go anymore. The only time Michael had spoken to her was a text that said “Wedding is still on.” It was enough to send Cat into a spiral of self destruction.

She stopped talking to anyone who might possibly know what happened between her and Michael. She had called in sick to work almost every day to avoid the judgmental eyes of her coworkers when they saw how destroyed she was. Cat became one with her couch and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

Staring at the clock on her wall, knowing that the plane was about to take off to take Michael and the guys to Las Vegas for the weekend made her feel pathetic. If she had just kept her feelings tucked away inside like she had been for years instead of telling Michael how she felt, things would still be good. She would still have her best friend.

After finally showering for the first time in what seemed like too long, Cat walked into her kitchen to hopefully finish off the pint of chunky monkey in her freezer. As she opened the freezer door, a quiet knock came from her door. She stared at it a moment before the knocking started getting louder and more frantic.

“Okay, okay.” Cat shouted as she undid the lock and cracked open the door to see who it was. “Michael?” She said, watching as his shoulders rose and fell quickly like he had been running and was completely out of breath.

“Why the fuck did you decide living on the 4th floor was a great idea?” He managed to breathe out while bracing himself against the doorframe.

“What are you doing here? Your planes leaving soon.” Cat opened the door the rest of the way so Michael could step inside. He took one more deep breath before speaking again.

“For now…no more talking.” Michael rushed forward and grabbed Cat’s face in his hands, kissing her roughly.

“Woah! What are you doing?!” Cat pulled her mouth from his unwillingly and took a step back.

“Kissing you?” Michael said. “Do…you not want me to?”

“Michael, you can’t just walk in here and start kissing me after I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” Cat’s voice was loud and confused.

“Things are over with Liv. Things never should have gone that far with her, I’m just an idiot who ended up hurting a lot of people in the process. I’ve been thinking about me and you and all that kissing every second of every day since it happened. And I want that more than anything. I want you.” Michael explained, his voice raising as well.

“What about what I want? Don’t I get a say in this? You don’t always get to dictate how things go.” Cat huffed, standing with her arms crossed and her chest out.

“What do you want then, Kitty?” Michael licked his lips, his patience growing thin, needing to know if she still wanted him.

“You fucked up.” Cat said. “You just left me standing there like a fucking fool.”

“I’m sorry. That was so fucking stupid. But I panicked. I had just gotten caught by my fiancé kissing my best friend. Don’t you think that warrants a moment of panic?” Michael sighed.

“Really fucking stupid. The absolute stupidest.” Cat continued to pile it on, a small smile creeping onto her lips.

“How can I make it better?” Michael took a few steps towards her, eyes glued to hers.

“A little begging wouldn’t hurt.” Cat bit her bottom lip to try and stop her smile from spreading across her face. Michael smirked and shook his head, licking his bright pink lips.

The next thing Cat knew, Michael was dropping to his knees in front of her. Her eyes flew wide open, not expecting him to do such a thing. He leaned forward slightly and pressed his forehead against her lower stomach, hands coming up to hold onto the backs of her thighs. His sweet nose that Cat adored brushed back and forth as he breathed her in. And it didn’t take her long to lace her hands into his hair.

“What are you doing, Mikey?” Cat said quietly, listening to him hum as she continued running her hands through his hair.

“I’m begging you to forgive me.” Michael’s fingers rubbed gentle circles on the backs of Cat’s thighs and his lips pressed sweet little kisses to her clothed stomach. “For being the worlds biggest fucking idiot.”

“I’m probably the bigger idiot to be honest.” Cat sighed, slipping down onto her knees so she could be face to face with him. “But we can’t take it back. So what do we do now?”

“Now…now we make up for lost time. Because we owe it to each other.” Michael’s soft fingers ghosted up and down Cat’s arms.

“And how do you propose we do that?” Cat smiled wickedly, because she knew exactly what she wanted.

“First, I’m going to kiss you again…” Michael leaned forward and Cat did the same, connecting their lips in the sweetest kiss. Soft and full of love. Just lips and soft tongues. It was everything it should have been. “And then, I’m going to lock the door to your apartment. And we are not going to leave it the entire weekend. Or until I’ve had you on every surface, whichever comes first.” Michael laughed against Cat’s lips, making her do the same.

“You’re something else, Michael Clifford.” Cat kissed him again, never wanting to stop the gesture at all.

"Yeah, but I'm your something else." He whispered against her mouth.

"You've always been my something else."

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#5 seconds of summer #5sos #5sos fanfiction #5sos blurb #5sos fic #calum hood #Michael clifford #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #Michael fic #I loved writing for mikey #mikey fic #hes such a sweet angel omg #a sweet fluffy #cth #lrh #afi #mgc #something else

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