#this post was so not meant to flex on fandoms or whatever you said i am just criticizing the lack of basic human decency lmao | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gimme-mor · 3 years ago

Text

BETWEEN THE LINES: NIGHT COURT ELAIN & SPRING COURT FEYRE

*DISCLAIMER*

This is a really long post and based on my interpretation of the text.

This is strictly an analysis of Elain as a character because, in my opinion, there isn’t a lot of talk about Elain outside of ships and conversations about her character arc typically revolve around to whom she is paired, especially if that person is Azriel. She is her own character and gets the short end of the stick in the fandom because everyone is more concerned about who she’s shipped with rather than her as a character.

Also, anyone who is rude/condescending will automatically be blocked.

In ACOSF, SJM went out of her way on two occasions to highlight Elain not looking good in black. While it may be minor or insignificant to some, I think those instances were meant to show something about Elain specifically and what she may be going through in the Night Court. Elain has been a passive character for the most part, contributing to things in her own way earlier in the series. But after she was taken by the Cauldron, her safety has become everyone’s main concern and the other characters have slowly excluded her from courtly matters. In ACOWAR, this was understandable because she was traumatized and not fully present. However, as of ACOSF, Elain was still excluded from courtly matters with the other characters heavily relying upon Nesta, who made her reservations known, because they were on a time constraint and couldn’t afford to wait for Elain to reacquaint herself with her powers.

The fact that the other characters use the kidnapping situation to excuse their current actions toward Elain is eerily similar to the way Tamlin and Lucien used the Under the Mountain events to excuse Tamlin’s actions toward Feyre in ACOMAF. And the characters use Elain and Feyre’s safety to justify why neither of them should be involved. In my opinion, Elain in the Night Court resembles Feyre in the Spring Court because not only do they experience similar things, but both of them are (or were in Feyre’s case) in places that stunt their growth. Even though Night Court Elain isn’t exposed to all of the things that Spring Court Feyre was exposed to, the similarities in their experiences (and how those similarities might potentially impact Elain similarly to the way they impacted Feyre) shouldn’t be overlooked.

Being monitored

Feyre

I was too watched－too monitored and judged. Why should the bride of the High Lord learn to fight if peace had returned? That had been Ianthe’s reasoning when I’d made the mistake of mentioning it at dinner. Tamlin, to his credit, had seen both sides: I’d learn to protect myself...but the rumors would spread. (ACOMAF)

“Tamlin－Tamlin, I can’t...I can’t live my life with guards around me day and night. I can’t live with that...suffocation. Just let me help you－let me work with you.” (. . .) “I’m drowning,” I managed to say. “I am drowning. And the more you do this, the more guards...You might as well be shoving my head under the water.” (ACOMAF)

Elain

Nesta said, “The Trove. And what happened the last time I scried.” Feyre said, “We won’t allow any harm to come to Elain. Rhys warded her this morning, and we have eyes on her at all times.” “Eyes can be blinded,” Nesta said. “Not the ones under my command,” Azriel said with soft menace. Nesta met his stare, knowing he was the only one aside from Feyre who could truly understand her hesitation. He’d gone with Feyre into the heart of Hybern’s camp to save Elain－he knew the risk. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.” She believed him. “All right.” (ACOSF)

Trying to fit in

Feyre

I hated the bright dresses that had become my daily uniform, but didn’t have the heart to tell Tamlin－not when he’d bought so many, not when he looked so happy to see me wear them. Not when his words weren’t far from the truth. The day I put on my pants and tunics, the day I strapped weapons to myself like fine jewelry, it would send a message far and clear across the lands. So I wore the gowns, and let Alis arrange my hair－if only so it would buy these people a measure of peace and comfort. (ACOMAF)

I sometimes debated asking her to pray for me as well. To pray that I’d one day learn to love the dresses, and the parties, and my role as a blushing, pretty bride. (ACOMAF)

Elain

And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court－and would do whatever she needed. (ACOSF)

So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court...It sucked the life from her. (ACOSF)

Pretending everything’s all right

Feyre

“Fine,” I breathed. I made myself look him in the eye, made myself smile. (ACOMAF)

Elain

“And you?” I made myself say. “Are you－all right?” Elain looked over a shoulder at me as we entered the foyer, then turned left－to the dining room. In the sitting room across the way, all conversation halted at the smell of food. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?” she asked, a smile lighting up her face. I’d seen those smiles before. On my own damn face. (ACOFAS)

Clothes not looking right on them

Feyre

I really, truly hated my wedding gown. It was a monstrosity of tulle and chiffon and gossamer, so unlike the loose gowns I usually wore: the bodice fitted, the neckline curved to plump my breasts, and the skirts...The skirts were a sparkling tent, practically floating in the balmy spring air (. . .) I might have dealt with it all if it weren’t for the puffy capped sleeves, so big I could almost see them glinting from the periphery of my vision. My hair had been curled, half up, half down, entwined with pearls and jewels and the Cauldron knew what, and it had taken all my self-control to keep from cringing at the mirror before descending the sweeping stairs into the main hall. (ACOMAF)

I again surveyed the room, my wedding gown hissing on the warm marble floors. I peered down at myself. You look ridiculous. (ACOMAF)

Elain

Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. (ACOSF)

Looking good in clothes that suit them and that fact being pointed out

Feyre

My high-waisted peach pants were loose and billowing, gathered at the ankles with velvet cuffs of bright gold. The long sleeves of the matching top were made of gossamer, also gathered at the wrists, and the top itself hung just to my navel, revealing a sliver of skin as I walked. Comfortable, easy to move in－to run. Feminine. Exotic. (ACOMAF)

But those claws now dug in－and my entire body, my heart, my lungs, my blood yielded to his grip, utterly at his command as he said, The fashion of the Night Court suits you. (ACOMAF)

Elain

Gone was the ill-suited black dress from the ball, replaced by a gown of amethyst velvet, her hair half-up and curling down to her waist. She glowed with good health. (ACOSF)

People not wanting them to be involved in things

Feyre

“I want to go.” “No.” I crossed my arms, tucking my tattooed hand under my right bicep, and spread my feet slightly further apart on the dirt floor of the stables. “It’s been three months. Nothing’s happened, and the village isn’t even five miles－” “No.” (ACOMAF)

“I could use my powers against Hybern.” “That’s out of the question,” Tamlin said, “especially as there will be no war against Hybern.” “Rhys says war is inevitable, and we’ll be hit hard.” Lucien said drily, “And Rhys knows everything?” “No－but...He was concerned. He thinks I can make a difference in any upcoming conflict.” Tamlin flexed his fingers－keeping those claws contained. “You have no training in battle or weaponry. And even if I started training you today, it’d be years before you could hold your own on an immortal battlefield.” He took a tight breath. “So despite what he thinks you might be able to do, Feyre, I’m not going to have you anywhere near a battlefield. Especially if it means revealing whatever powers you have to our enemies. You’d be fighting Hybern at your front, and have foes with friendly faces at your back.” “I don’t care－” “I care,” Tamlin snarled. Lucien whooshed out a breath. “I care if you die, if you’re hurt, if you will be in danger every moment for the rest of our lives. So there will be no training, and we’re going to keep this between us.” (ACOMAF)

Elain

“Nesta’s spine straightened. No one spoke, but their attention lingered on her like a film on her skin. ‘You will not go looking for it.’” (ACOSF)

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.” (. . .) “Keep out of this,” she hissed at her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into harm’s way－” (ACOSF)

Amren said, “We do not have the time to wait for Nesta to decide. I say we approach Elain tomorrow. Better to have both of them working on it.” Azriel stiffened, an outright sign of temper from him as he said quietly, “There is an innate darkness to the Dread Trove that Elain should not be exposed to.” “But Nesta should?” Cassian growled. Everyone stared at him. He swallowed, offering an apologetic glance to Az, who shrugged it off. Amren drained her wine and said to Cassian, “Nesta has a week. One more week to find the Trove with her own methods. Then we seek out other routes.” She threw a nod toward Azriel. “Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.” (ACOSF)

“I think Eris is our ally, and will expect to dance with a lady of this court at the ball no matter what. I won’t let Feyre within five feet of him, Mor might kill him, and Amren is more likely to scare him off than win him over, so you and Elain are the only options.” “Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. (ACOSF)

Their safety being brought up when they want to be involved

Feyre

“Please. The recovery efforts are so slow. I could hunt for the villagers, get them food－” “It’s not safe,” Tamlin said, again nudging his stallion into a walk. The horse’s coat shone like a dark mirror, even in the shade of the stables. “Especially not for you.” He’d said that every time we had this argument; every time I begged him to let me go to the nearby village of High Fae to help rebuild what Amarantha had burned years ago (. . .) “People want to come back, they want a place to live－” “Those same people see you as a blessing－a marker of stability. If something happened to you…” (. . .)Tamlin said softly, “I can’t do what I need to if I’m worrying about whether you’re safe.” (ACOMAF)

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he murmured. “It’s fine,” I breathed. “I understand.” Not a lie, but not quite the truth. His fingers grazed lower, circling my belly button. “You are－you’re everything to me,” he said thickly. “I need...I need you to be all right. To know they can’t get to you－can’t hurt you anymore.” (ACOMAF)

“Tamlin got what I didn’t,” Lucien said softly, his breathing ragged. “We all heard your neck break. But you got to come back. And I doubt that he will ever forget that sound, either. And he will do everything in his power to protect you from that danger again, even if it means keeping secrets, even if it means sticking to rules you don’t like. In this, he will not bend. So don’t ask him to－not yet.” (ACOMAF)

“Did he let you take me today,” I said hoarsely, “so that I’d stop asking to help rebuild?” “No. I decided to take you myself. For that exact reason. They don’t want or need your help. Your presence is a distraction and a reminder of what they went through.” (. . .) “I know you wanted to help,” Lucien offered. “I’m sorry.” So was I. (ACOMAF)

Elain

“The last time we involved ourselves with the Cauldron, it abducted you,” Nesta countered, fighting her shaking. (ACOSF)

“Like calls to like,” Amren countered. “You were Made by the Cauldron. You may track other objects Made by it as well, as Briallyn can. And because you are Made by it, you are immune to the influence and power of the Trove. You might use them, yes, but they cannot be used upon you.” A glance to Elain. “Either of you.” Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety－ (ACOSF)

Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern’s camp?” “I do,” Elain said coldly. (ACOSF)

If it was between her and Elain, there was no choice at all. She would always go first if it meant keeping Elain from harm. Even if she’d just hurt her sister more than she could stomach. (ACOSF)

Pushing back against what others want

Feyre

He hissed, “You have no idea how hard it is for him to even let you off the estate grounds. He’s under more pressure than you realize.” “I know exactly how much pressure he endures. And I didn’t realize I’d become a prisoner.” “You’re not－” He clenched his jaw. “That’s not how it is and you know it.” “He didn’t have any trouble letting me hunt and wander on my own when I was a mere human. When the borders were far less safe.” “He didn’t care for you the way he does now. And after what happened Under the Mountain…” The words clanged in my head, along my too-tense muscles. “He’s terrified. Terrified of seeing you in his enemies’ hands. And they know it, too－they know all they have to do to own him would be to get ahold of you.” “You think I don’t know that? But does he honestly expect me to spend the rest of my life in that manor, overseeing servants and wearing pretty clothes?” (ACOMAF)

Elain

Cassian shifted in his seat. “So we track down the Dread Trove－how?” Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.” Nesta’s head went silent as Elain’s words finished sounding in the room. Feyre had twisted in her seat, face white with alarm. Nesta shot to her feet. “No.” Elain remained in the doorway, her face pale but her expression harder than Nesta had ever seen it. “You do not decide what I can and cannot do, Nesta.” (ACOSF)

“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.” Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to...reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.” “Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. “Absolutely not.” “Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.” (ACOSF)

Being used as pawns against others

Feyre

“We need you to tell us everything,” Tamlin said. “The layout of the Night Court, who you saw, what weapons and powers they bore, what Rhys did, who he spoke to, any and every detail you can recall.” “I didn’t realize I was a spy.” Lucien shifted in his seat, but Tamlin said, “As much as I hate your bargain, you’ve been granted access into the Night Court. Outsiders rarely get to go in－and if they do, they rarely come out in one piece. And if they can function, their memories are usually...scrambled. Whatever Rhysand is hiding in there, he doesn’t want us knowing about it.” (ACOMAF)

Elain

Rhys angled his head at the not-quite question. “I trust in the fact that we currently have possession of the one thing he wants above all else. And as long as that remains, he’ll try to stay on our good side. But if that changes...His talent was wasted in the Spring Court. There was a reason he had that fox mask, you know.” His mouth tugged to the side. “If he got Elain away, back to Spring or wherever...do you believe, deep down, that he wouldn’t sell what he knows? Either for gain, or to ensure she stays safe?” “You let him hear everything tonight, though.” (. . .) I considered his question: Did I trust Lucien? “I don’t know, either,” I admitted, and sighed. “I don’t like that Elain is a pawn in this.” “I know. It’s never easy.” (ACOWAR)

Cassian glowered at Amren. “It’s not right to wield Elain as a threat to manipulate Nesta into scrying.” “There are harsher ways to convince Nesta, boy.” (ACOSF)

Although Elain and Feyre are surrounded by two different groups of people with varying levels of care for their wellbeing, they’re treated similarly which is hard to overlook. In Elain’s situation, Nesta, Azriel, and Feyre take on the “Tamlin role” (either undermining Elain’s attempts to contribute to things or preventing Elain from helping altogether) while everyone else takes on the “Lucien role” (validating the concerns of others while also enabling their behaviors, which doesn’t support Elain’s desire to be involved).

#elain archeron #feyre archeron #gimme meta #gimme queues

123 notes · View notes

helbertinelli · 3 years ago

Note

Tbh I don’t follow your blog so I don’t know what your stance is about Reylo, but judging by a recent post, I’m going to assume you’re against it. I don’t really care- to each their own & all that. But I noticed you said only Reylo’s were fans after TLJ. I’m sorry, but that’s not true. I’ve been on tumblr since 2011 (formally in the Hunger Games fandom) and to be quite honest, I haven’t seen a lot of FinnRey content. Not saying it don’t exist, but I just don’t think they make up the majority of the fandom like you’re implying. I know this because Reylo won “most popular ship” or something on tumblr last January and the Twitter polls confirm. In no way is this meant to drag your thoughts and feelings- ship whatever you want. But please don’t drag Reylo to promote your ship. There’s enough room for all of us, even if your ship isn’t technically canon.

I didn't say FinnRey was the majority of the fandom. I said people liked FinnRey and Damerey too, but they weren't as vocal about it as Rey/los are. I don't care that Rey/lo won the most popular ship, it just proves my point that Reylos are more vocal about their ship. It doesn't mean it's a good pairing and it doesn't disprove anything I've said about it in my last answer.

I don't know why you felt the need to flex about you being on tumblr since 2011... I've been on tumblr since then too. A lot of people have. It doesn't make your word any better than that of people who only joined yesterday for example. It was a really weird flex.

I'm not dragging Rey/lo to promote my ship. I'm dragging Rey/lo because it's a bad ship and its fans are annoying as you're proving by harassing me over a post I made. If someone sends me an ask and tells me that Rey/lo sucks or asks my opinion on it, I will tell them how much Rey/lo sucks. Like maybe don't go looking into the anti tag just to find people to harass if you don't like seeing people dragging Rey/lo.

Also, my ship is canon. It's been canon since 77 when SW was first made. I don't care about the sequels or Rey, but I can still give my opinion when she gets paired with the guy who continuously mind-raped her and tortured her and her friends. A ship being canon or not doesn't mean anything. Weird how you were here since 2011 and forgot that back then fandoms didn't give a fuck about whether the ships were canon or not.

#anonymous #ask #anti reylo #Here we go again #dealing with reyl0s is so 2000 whenever the fuck tlj was released

45 notes · View notes

toomuchofabastard · 3 years ago

Text

O Unhappy Dagger

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: T for violence and language

Warnings: Major Character Death, tragedy, violence, mind control, implied suicide, bonus happy ending available in linked post

Word count: 3,711 (+ 760)

Fic Summary: Crowley should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

This is my fic for @darkomenszine Vol 1! Vol 2 will be available soon if Good Omens darkfic is your thing 😈

READ ON AO3

___

The sign on the door of the bookshop read ‘closed’, but that didn’t stop Crowley.

Of course, it wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but this time was different. Rather than sauntering up to the threshold with a subtle spring in his step and a ready grin for his angel, Crowley’s heart pounded with terror as he approached the entrance to A. Z. Fell & Co. He felt as though some phantom hand had a grip around his throat, applying a pressure so crushing that he couldn’t speak and could barely breathe. What breaths he could draw were rapid with panic. His footsteps rang out against the flagstones as he strode forward – except that they weren’t his footsteps. Oh, it was his body, drawing closer and closer to the familiar doorway. But Hell’s footsteps. Hell’s oppressive malice invading every corner of his mind, and Hell making him grip the object behind his back so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

He should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

Tucked behind him, the flames continued to burn. Gripped in his hand back there was a dagger, a dark, cruel-looking thing, not just viciously sharp on its own, but also wreathed in infernal flame. The billows were gnawing away at his back, leaving his rather expensive jacket charred and ragged – not that Hell would give a blessèd fuck about that. In this moment, he didn’t either. There was only a single, dreadful thought clawing at his brain.

Infernal flame could be meant for only one thing. Aziraphale. The only thing that could kill an angel.

Crowley shuddered inwardly with revulsion at the thought. He could actually feel Hell’s evil intent coursing through him, as he ascended the steps and watched his own hand reach for the door handle. Hell’s control had overtaken him so suddenly that he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. He kept trying to, struggling with every fibre of his being, but to no avail. He could hardly even feel his own corporation, let alone exert control, and seeing it moving against his will was intensely disturbing – violating, even. It was Hell’s way of proving that they could take whatever they wanted from him, just use him as their puppet and then discard him. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t even do that. He felt himself push the door handle down.

Crowley stepped through the threshold and into the quiet of the bookshop. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the cosy dimness, but then the mountains and spires of books and papers revealed themselves.

Aziraphale stood in the hollow underneath the eastern archway, facing away from Crowley. He looked completely in his element, humming distractedly to himself as he leafed through some old volume. He turned as he heard Crowley shutting the door behind himself.

“Crowley!”

The angel beamed at him, and suddenly the whole room seemed lit up from within, like the sun itself had appeared in their midst. For a brief second, the panic and revulsion in Crowley’s chest was forgotten as the luminosity of Aziraphale’s smile dazzled him. That smile – especially when meant for him – never failed to take his breath away.

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted downwards as he noticed Crowley’s hand tucked behind his back, and the angel’s eyes twinkled, creases forming at their corners as his smile grew even wider. Crowley’s heart lurched again, and the panic returned. He guessed Aziraphale was probably anticipating another box of chocolates, or a nice bottle of wine for them both to share – the sort of surprise Crowley might often reveal with a sly smile, to be met by a paroxysm of delighted wiggles. He was painfully aware of how unlikely it was that Aziraphale would ever even suspect that what was really hidden there was not a doting treat, but a weapon of evil, meant specifically for him.

At his back, the flames had scorched their way through both layers of his jacket and shirt, and were beginning to lick painlessly against the bare skin along his spine. They didn’t leave any marks. Infernal flame could glance off of his corporation just like beads of water off a duck’s back – the perks of being demonic in nature – but Crowley knew it would be devastating to angelic flesh. That knowledge terrified him.

He felt his body start to slink loosely across the room towards the angel, the disobedient muscles and sinews of his legs dragging him involuntarily closer and closer. Run, angel! He tried to scream at Aziraphale, but the words choked in his throat, only echoing emptily inside his mind. His heart was clenched so tight with dread as he approached that he could swear it was no longer beating. Not that Hell needed it to be. Apparently they could twist and use his unwilling body however they liked now, whether it was still functioning or not.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased into a puzzled frown as Crowley moved nearer, the smile freezing slightly on his face. The real Crowley would have said something by now, or revealed the gift, or at least returned a crooked grin, rather than the blank expression he could feel was fixed on his face. He was almost surprised the angel couldn’t smell the burning coming from his clothes, but it seemed Aziraphale had eyes only for him.

“What’s wrong, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley drew near to him, a light note of concern in his voice.

Angel, it’s not me, Crowley responded desperately inside his head. He felt himself step close. Please run. Please get away from me. Aziraphale stayed where he was. Why wouldn’t he? His trust in Crowley had always been complete, whether Crowley felt he deserved that or not.

Behind his back, Crowley’s fingers flexed on the grip of the dagger and began to draw it out from its hiding place. No no no, Crowley thought. Don’t make me do this. He fought again to regain control of his own arm, but could only watch as it rose menacingly of its own accord.

“Crowley–?” Aziraphale began, sounding shocked, and he was suddenly cut off as Crowley slashed the blade forwards towards his neck.

The chorus of screams in Crowley’s head crescendoed. No!

Aziraphale stumbled backwards out of range – thank Satan – but Crowley found himself quickly attacking again, this time trying for a low, plunging blow to the angel’s stomach. Aziraphale managed to squirm out of the way and the knife sliced instead through the back of his coat, only missing his skin by a hair’s breadth. The acrid stench of burning filled Crowley’s nose again.

“Crowley! What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s voice was aghast as he tried to retreat from Crowley’s oncoming assault. Panic and confusion contorted his face, and he held his hands up in front of him, as if in surrender. “S–Stop!”

Crowley wanted nothing more, but apparently the powers controlling him weren’t going to take that for an answer. The awful marionette of his body continued its relentless advance, numb to his attempts to reassert control, as he pursued the angel speechlessly around the bookshop. He could barely sense anything except for the throbbing echo of his heart as it hammered inside him, and the all-encompassing reek of fire and burning and smoke. That smell sent him almost blind with fear as his worst associations with it invaded his mind. Burning, burning; everything burning. The bookshop was burning, and Aziraphale was lost forever. The world was ending, the ground shaking itself apart, flames spilling up from the cracks. Plummeting downwards through wings of fire. Visions of what infernal flame could do to flesh, the screaming and the sizzling… His own screams reverberated inside his skull.

Aziraphale continued to back away from him, dodging or shrinking from each attack, but Crowley knew – and Aziraphale must also – that he couldn’t evade forever.

He’d never seen Aziraphale look so afraid of him. It was horrific. Just as much as with terror, the angel’s gleaming eyes were wide with disbelief, desperately searching Crowley’s for understanding as he was backed into a corner, clearly unable to conceive that Crowley could do this to him. Even if he could have got them out, Crowley didn’t have the words to reassure him.

The blade in his hand swung up again and speared downwards towards Aziraphale’s face. This time, Aziraphale was able to grab Crowley’s wrist and stop its path, though the point hovered fearfully close to his tearful eyes. Crowley felt the angel’s considerable strength pushing back against him, but the determination he was being filled with was enough to match him. They grappled for a moment.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale begged, his voice cracking with a sob. “Please, I–I don’t want to hurt you!”

Oh fuck, hurt me, angel, Crowley thought, do whatever, just don’t let me–!

His pleas were interrupted as his traitorous body shoved Aziraphale roughly away, freeing himself from the angel’s grip. Aziraphale staggered backwards, and then tripped on the corner of a stack of books and fell down heavily onto his backside. Crowley advanced. Aziraphale still held his hands up in front of him, the heels of his oxfords scraping vainly against the floorboards as he kept trying to shuffle away. Tears were running like dewdrops down his cheeks.

Crowley lunged down onto him and thrust the knife at his breast. Aziraphale caught it again and they struggled against each other, Crowley pressing his whole weight down as the tip hovered perilously above the angel’s chest. The flames from the blade flowed up Crowley’s straining arms until he could feel them licking monstrously at the edges of his cheekbones. His teeth were gritted together. Then, underneath the flicker of the flames, he began to feel a hum vibrating up through him from where Aziraphale’s hands gripped his wrists. His heart pounded harder as he recognised the feeling of divine power – the angel’s – flowing out from the place where they were connected and fusing into him. It stung, but it wasn’t enough yet to smite him – although if Aziraphale kept pressing, he knew it would be.

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered at him. He stared up, distraught, into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley could feel him holding back the full surge of what he was capable of.

Do it, angel!, he tried to yell. Goddammit, just do it!

I’d rather be dead than spill a drop of your blood anyway.

The knife-point inched dangerously closer to the angel’s chest. Aziraphale let out another sob, but his grip on Crowley’s wrists tightened, and then his watery blue irises slowly vanished as brilliant light began to pour out of his eyes.

Crowley felt the light build inside him; scorching hot and bitingly cold at the same time, blinding white. It hurt – fuck, it hurt – but the immense feeling of relief overwhelmed the pain. Hell’s power was ebbing away, banished back into the darkness and out of his body as the light invaded. It was going to be ok. Well, he was going to die now, or whatever the equivalent process was for demons, but that was ok. Dying at Aziraphale’s hands – and in order to protect him, even if from himself – wasn’t such a bad way to go.

Suddenly, an inhuman snarl cut through his thoughts. It took Crowley a moment to realise that it had come from somewhere inside of him. Aziraphale jolted with surprise at the sound and the light wavered for an instant. It was all Hell needed.

With fiery fury, Hell’s control rushed back into Crowley, throwing him almost into a spasm as it gripped his body again. His blood seemed to ignite as it ripped through him. As his mouth opened in a silent scream, the blade in his hands dropped downwards and pierced through the angel’s breast.

No.

A gurgled cry slipped from Aziraphale’s throat, and his eyes widened in shock, his grip on Crowley’s arm clenching.

No.

As quickly as Hell’s power had overtaken Crowley, it vanished, leaving him empty. Crowley thought he could hear a triumphant laugh echo in his head as it fled.

No.

The blinding light faded away from Aziraphale’s eyes, revealing again his blue irises; full of pain, the only light in them now the glimmer of his tears and the reflection of the cursed flames burning in his chest.

For a few moments, Crowley, petrified with shock, could only return his stare. Then suddenly, his senses rushed back to him and he noticed his hands still gripping the fiery blade which was buried in his angel’s body. He hastily ripped it out – causing Aziraphale to let out another strangled cry – and flung it aside.

“Oh shit,” he gasped, scrambling over to cradle Aziraphale in his arms. The angel jerked away as Crowley lifted him into his lap, though whether from the pain of the movement or from fear of him, Crowley didn’t know. He pulled Aziraphale close and cradled his head to him, one hand in the back of his blonde curls. Aziraphale gazed up at him, his expression heartbroken and disbelieving, as he tried to gasp for breath.

“Angel!” Crowley began, finally able to use his voice again. “Angel, I–I didn’t mean to– it–it wasn��t me, I didn’t–… oh, fuck.” His free hand fumbled aimlessly around the wound in Aziraphale’s chest, as if trying to close it up. Golden blood quickly coated his palm and smeared messily across Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but worse was the infernal glow that smouldered at the edges of the wound, slowly infecting its way into the angel’s being. Deep down, Crowley knew that the damage was already done. God, how could he have done this?

“I’m sorry,” he gasped at Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry. It–it wasn’t me!” He didn’t know how else to explain it. “Hell, they– I– … I’m so sorry, angel.”

Slowly, a flush of understanding dawned in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the horror faded, but then they quickly scrunched closed, his face twisting as another spasm of pain convulsed through him. Crowley could only hold him close until it had passed.

Aziraphale coughed weakly and his eyes opened again. “It–it’s alright,” he stuttered, and then reached a trembling hand up to caress the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s heart flipped as the angel’s fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek. “Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was already growing distant, the light in his eyes beginning to dim.

“No, sshsssh, don’t… don’t try to talk,” Crowley gulped, absently stroking the angel’s forehead. He clasped Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it tight. “It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok, just– just hold on, yeah?”

Would it? His heart pounding in his chest knew otherwise, and Aziraphale didn’t look fooled either.

The angel was suddenly seized with another fit of agony, and this time a few tiny shining flecks of blood appeared on his lips as he coughed and spluttered. A poorly-stifled groan left his mouth between the wheezing breaths.

Crowley cast his eyes around the room desperately as Aziraphale writhed in his arms, distractedly pressing the angel’s knuckles to his lips and rubbing his fingers with his thumb, as if that would do anything to ease his pain. There was a hole ripped in his chest, burning him up from the inside. Shitshitshit. There had to be something he could do. He could fix this. Somehow. He had to. Come on! He couldn’t lose him like this.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice drifted weakly up to him again. Crowley looked down and met his watery gaze. Despite the pain, a look of peace seemed to settle on the angel’s face. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth and his eyes, fixed on Crowley, shone with affection, even as they dimmed further.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly up at him.

“No, angel, don’t say that,” Crowley hissed back. He didn’t like how final that sounded. “H–hold on, come on, you have to stay with me.” He shifted and clutched the angel closer.

Aziraphale blinked up at him like he hadn’t even heard. Then his face darkened as if in thought, his brow creasing briefly into a frown and his concerned gaze scanning Crowley’s face, before he spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

His voice, though shaky, was earnest and meaningful, full of empathy. A single tear overflowed from his eyes and slid down his still-smiling cheek.

Crowley could only shake his head, mouthing wordless no’s at the angel. He faintly felt matching tears streaming down his own face. Damn him. Dying in his arms, and he was still the one trying to offer comfort. Blessed, perceptive bastard. He knows I’ll always blame myself for this.

Even as Aziraphale’s eyes remained fixed on him, Crowley could see the focus in them wavering, dwindling away. The interval between each gasped breath the angel tried to draw in was growing longer. A precious few seconds seemed to pass like an entire lifetime, and then the gasps stopped altogether, and the light inside him finally faded away into nothing. Aziraphale went still.

“No, please,” Crowley begged. “Stay with me, angel.” Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Come on! Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, and shook him angrily, panting with the desperation for a response. Aziraphale’s body lolled limply. Crowley stared at the angel’s sightless eyes and something within him seemed to collapse, the anger fleeing as a wave of grief came crashing, tearing through him.

“Don’t go,” he whimpered, clasping at the side of Aziraphale’s face. His voice shook and he felt his lower lip begin to tremble uncontrollably. “Please don’t go.”

It’s too late. Crowley’s face screwed up with pain as the thought broke upon him, and he found himself crumpling, pressing his forehead close to the angel’s as choked sobs began to wrack his body. “Don’t leave me,” he snivelled quietly into him. No.

“Please!” He suddenly jolted upright and screamed up at the sky in anguish. “Don’t–…” He choked again, staring at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Aziraphale’s body, slumped loosely in his arms, and his voice became terribly small, almost child-like. “Please don’t take him from me.”

Whatever reply he had been hoping for, none came. The bookshop was almost eerily silent around him, no sound but his own breaths echoing throughout the now empty and cold-seeming space. No one was listening to his calls, as ever. He was abandoned, cast out. There was only one person who had ever truly cared for him, and now… They’d made him kill the only person he’d ever… ever…

His eyes ran compulsively up and down the angel’s body and face again. He felt himself trembling and starting to hyperventilate, and a grief like something inside him was shattering, as he finally collapsed into Aziraphale, burying his face in his chest, and howled. He clutched brokenly at him, rocking himself through the pain, and squeezing so tight it was like he was trying to merge the angel into his own being. Wrenching, wretched sobs forced their way out of him, muffled by the angel’s breast, his whole body convulsing with the strain, and along with the cries came whimpered fragments of words; pleases and no’s and angels that tumbled feebly out of him. He had no other words left to say. He just wept – pressing his body against Aziraphale’s, with his hands gripping him close and his face burrowed into the side of his neck – until he could cry no more. And then he stayed that way for a long time.

◥|⧗|◤

Some weeks later, a dove managed to find its way into the bookshop – probably through an open window left forgotten – and flitted about in the upstairs rafters.

The fluttering of wings was enough to stir Crowley from his stupor. His closed eyelids slid sluggishly open, revealing serpentine irises dull with pain. He lay, unmoving, for several minutes on top of Aziraphale’s body. In his mind, he was trying to muster up something to think, but the grief was so crushing that it was as though all conscious thought had just been bled out of him into the dirt. He was nothing but pain.

Eventually, he slowly lifted his head and looked once more at Aziraphale’s face. In the time they’d lain there, a fine layer of dust had settled across the room, coating the angel’s body as well as his own. Aziraphale’s glazed eyes were shrouded underneath its grey film, staring up at the ceiling. It hurt to see.

It was just the husk, Crowley told himself. Only his Earthly corporation. Everything that had been his angel was long gone.

It still hurt.

Achingly, Crowley peeled himself off of Aziraphale and lurched to his knees. Looking down, he noticed the smears of golden blood – now dried to peeling flakes – all across his necktie, jacket and sleeves, mirroring the angel’s chest. His hands itched with it too. There wouldn’t be enough water in the world to wipe the feeling away.

He still had some holy water somewhere.

The thought registered suddenly, without prompting, and without emotion. Oh. Yeah. His ‘exit solution’. A way out… and maybe a way back to him.

Crowley considered that. It could be that there was no life after death for their kind, only emptiness and nothingness, but he realised that he didn’t much care either way anymore. He had a penance to pay. And he was ready to join Aziraphale, in whatever lay beyond. He nodded to himself. Yes. He’d made him wait long enough already.

Still feeling empty inside, he bent down close over Aziraphale.

“I’m coming, angel,” he whispered to him, his voice hoarse. “Wherever you are… I’m coming to you.”

He placed one final, soft-lipped, lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. He paused against him for one final moment, eyes closed, taking shaky but even breaths. Then he straightened, and rose, and then turned and headed off, in search of a tartan thermos.

◥|⧗|◤

Need a happy ending? No prob, check out the bonus one here [tumblr link]. 💙

#my fanfiction #good omens #major character death #suicide tw #whump #aziraphale!whump #crowley!whump #angst #dark omens #long post

16 notes · View notes

raionmimi · 4 years ago

Note

i wanna thank you for your Medb posts. Before, i was so blind; disliking Medb a few years back after i saw her in ch. america. i was like 'nooo what she doing to cu?' But once i found your blog my eyes opened to just how powerful, liberating and wonderful a character this Medb is. The way you write and draw about her and the others is just so amazing, it shows so much more about her character (love it!!) Please may you share more about this wonderful queen?

I’m always so touched whenever I get messages like these, I really appreciate them down to my core! Thanks for giving Medb a second chance! I’ve talked a lot about her for the past two years that I’m not sure what I haven’t already said tbh... and maybe I’m repeating myself from last year... bU T I wanted to say

The second half of the Summer racing event is still one of my favorite events! For the very specific reason that no matter what happened, everyone consistently kept insulting Medb and looking down on her becuase for whatever reason, they all just assumed she was a flaky brat that half assed everything. And yet...... pretty much every attempt they made to escape was thwarted because she had 100% thought things through for her prison because wasn’t as lax as she lets on! Even Enkidu was shocked that she was actually the type that didn’t let her pride keep her from improving herself to eliminate her own weakness. I’m still not even sure why everyone kept harping on her becuase almost every major appearance, Medb pulls out the power moves to flex on everyone

Literally from the start of America she had the upper hand and everyone else was only barely surviving her onslaught. It was canonically the first time Guda was in a singularity for so long becuase of how difficult and grueling it was

She conquers pretty much the entirety of the map in the Prisma event and launches a direct infiltration attack on Chaldea by essentially hacking the system. This is rarely ever talked about that she managed to do this

Servants aren’t supposed to be able to injure their master (Romani even says this) but she made a loophole by tricking the player into a geas pact to fight them directly in her interlude. Of course, she only did this just because she wanted to be more useful and didn’t directly say so, but she could have very well killed Guda

And of course this event, where she managed to outsmart her prisoners literally just by having taken precautions from the start, and queen said “Fuck you” when they tried to assassinate her. Also, the inherent idea that she specifically sought out Quetz, Carmilla, and Nightingale to be her subordinates, made Gorgon be the cornerstone... like how could you underestimate someone this much...

So even though they often mentioned that this Medb was different from America (or if they meant Chaldea’s Medb), there was never ANY reason to doubt her abilities, but they did! Repeatedly! As frustrating as it was for me to go through this a second time, being underestimated is arguably the biggest part of Medb’s character. Everyone, heck even the fandom, just takes her at face value, but rarely do they ever address how capable she really is. Like honestly, she’s a genius tactician and a master at politics, and she SHOULD have been allowed to help reform some areas of Chaldea like she wanted to. And yet, she takes it in stride becuase she already expects everyone to underestimate her, and she is extremely valid for rubbing salt in the wound every time she smugs on them for doing so

Maybe the real reason Medb has usually been the an antagonist/ has cute silly cameos in events thus far is because it’d be too easy to win if she was a protag in an event 🤔 Anyways, can’t wait for her next appearance in the August summer event! You rock, Medb!

#Magical college girl medb #Medb analysis #long post #If Medb had made reforms then maybe they wouldnt have gotten ambushed as badly as they did before the first Lost Belt #You ever think about the fact that America is the first of the plot heavy singularities but Medb is the ONLY antagonist that wasnt a divine #In the myths shes a goddess but in FGO shes just a human queen for nasulore and YET shes still managed to fucking stunt on these hoes #But anyways summer medb gets to take a break from being such a bad bitch and get to make sandcastles so good for her #But fr Ishtar should stay in gay baby jail for putting her ugly track on Connacht land #apologies if my sentences dont make sense im tired #Anonymous

89 notes · View notes

overlyimmersed · 4 years ago

Text

So I've been posting a lot of Gravity Falls lately. I've had this thought flailing around in my head for a while, but I'm always nervous to talk about my opinions, especially when I get the impression that I'm on the less popular side of the issue. My emotions are squishy and I don't like conflict o-O but here goes anyway.

I don't really care for Lost Legends. I mean, it's fine. It's nice to get new GF content, "Face It" was really good and I liked that one a lot. And how can you not love getting to see more of Stan and Ford as kiddos? But I...really rather hate "Don't Dimension It".

It didn't used to be so intense, I read it and it was whatever, a cool premise, good art. It was fine. But the more praise I see for that story, the more my blood boils! Everyone is so...out of character! The only character that didn't behave caricature-ish was Dipper and that's cuz we barely saw him.

It felt like a fanfic. A bad one, written by one of the people who's a little too enthusiastic when the don't like a character. Namely Mabel here, and Ford to a lesser degree.

I know some people in the fandom feel like Mabel was incredibly selfish during the series, and while you can't argue that she did act selfishly in many instances it's not actually as bad as these haters like to think. Not only do some people blow Mabel's actions out of proportion, they also make Dipper out like he's completely selfless and victimized by his sister the whole time. Dipper acts just as selfishly as Mabel just as often. People like the cite "The Time Traveler's Pig" as evidence of Mabel's selfishness and Dipper's selflessness. That's hardly accurate. Dipper spent the entire episode breaking time law to manipulate Wendy and hurt Robbie. The entire episode is Dipper literally manipulating the time stream for his own gain.

But I'm not trying to vilify Dipper either. The fact is that they're fricking 12! Of course they're selfish! Think back to yourself at that age, and be honest about it. You were awful. I was awful! Kids in the throws of puberty are awful! Your brain is at it's most selfish and least sensible point. That doesn't make them monsters though. It just means they make a lot of mistakes interacting with others.

There was one time when I was around 14, myself and another girl had been very best friends for years, and this day I hadn't seen her at all. I spent the day wondering if she'd stayed home from school. But after the final bell, I finally ran into her. I noticed her hair was styled different and the first thing I said when I walked up, the first thing that whole day to my very best friend, was "wow you look awful!" And laughed. I wasn't trying to be mean, it just...happened. A stupid, thoughtless moment from a dumb teenager.

The point is, Mabel isn't anymore selfish then her brother is. Then any other person her age. And certainly not as self-centered and ditzy as she's portrayed in "Don't Dimension It". She never acted that badly in the show and it's just annoying. And I was fully prepared to just ignore it, but then everyone started talking about how good they thought that story was and it just got me all riled...

And as for Ford, his characterization was also off, though to a lesser degree. It's that bit where he and Stan are floating in space and calling for Mabel, Ford may not be super familiar with Mabel, or kids in general, but he has some common sense. That was just a bad joke. But even if it was simply meant to be a bit and could be over looked, that entire interaction is used both in the comic and by the fandom as evidence that Stan and Ford both are poor caretakers.

They're not the very most responsible people in the world, that's just a fact, but Stan has done a damn fine job looking after the kid all summer. It might be easy to forget because they're always called kids, and the kids in this show are drawn weirdly short compared to the adults, but Dipper and Mabel are TWELVE. They're not toddlers. Stan giving them space to go run around town and be kids is not hugely irresponsible. I and my friends did the same stuff at that age. Going all around our small town totally unsupervised, cuz we were old enough to keep ourselves alive for a handful of hours. We had learned the basic life lessons of not talking to strange adults and looking before we crossed the street and were old enough to flex some of our limited independence.

With kids age 12 and up, a caretaker only really has to keep them alive and give help WHEN ASKED to be good at it. 12 year olds don't need constant supervision and round the clock care. Stan made sure the had food every day, a safe place to sleep at night, and help with something if they really needed it. And when it became apparent he could no longer provide these basics (See Gideon Rises) he sent them home. Stan is a perfectly fine caretaker, at least to kids old enough to be alone for any amount of time. Not sure I'd trust him with a baby, but he did perfectly fine with a pair of pre-teens.

So yeah, bottom line is that I don't like "Don't Dimension It". It mischaracterized Mabel's selfishness, Ford's common sense, and Stan's caretaker ability to the extent of making them caricatures and it annoys me.

#gravity falls #thoughts #opinions #I'm not saying anyone's bad for liking it #this is just how I feel #I'm also not looking for a debate...#these are just my feelings and opinions #vent post #mabel #stan #ford #lost legends

5 notes · View notes

izaswritings · 5 years ago

Text

Title: saving atlas

Fandom: RWBY

Synopsis: (Post-Volume 7 fic). In the aftermath of the Atlas disaster, Oscar and Oz figure out where they stand. But first: shelter.

Or: in which Oscar is Upset, Oz is the voice of reason, and Atlas winters prove to be the most immediate foe, incoming invasion non-withstanding. When the weight of the world is bearing on your shoulders, what are you supposed to do?

AO3 Link is here.

“Stop,” Oscar says.

The air is so cold it burns against his face, every inhale like a knife right to his lungs. The icy breeze saps what little warmth his coat might have given him, and right now even his aura is no help. He’s used it all up—aura and magic and whatever else besides—and now he’s left standing in the snow, with less than nothing. Oscar is cold and tired, and he wasn’t prepared for this, didn’t leave thinking he’d end up here—

He stops the thought in its tracks, mercilessly. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He just can’t. Already the memory coils in his gut, tight and angry, beating like a hollow ache. It rises up and he has to swallow it down before he does—something. Scream, maybe. Or worse— cry.

Ironwood is going to leave Mantle to die.

Even just the thought, Oscar thinks, chills him worse than the wind.

“All I want to know,” he says, at last, “is how we save Atlas next.”

He can feel Oz’s hesitation like a lump in his throat. Fear of a different sort, preemptive defeat. That may be—a harder task than we can handle.

“It’s not about handling it!” He means to sound calm; instead, his voice snaps. Oscar closes his eyes, and grits his teeth against a scream. “He’s going to—to—”

Pain flares up his side like a spark, right where the bullet had hit. Oscar presses a hand against the bruise and exhales hard. “Please. I—” The words are bitter, but the feeling behind them is complicated. He is so tired. And Oz has been gone for a long time, when they really could have used him back sooner. But at the same time, Oscar understands. And he is also just so, so grateful, that at least in this moment, he is not out here in the cold alone. “I don’t know what to do.”

…To start, perhaps shelter.

“Oz—”

We are no help to anyone like this. Oz sounds as reluctant as Oscar feels; this mollifies him little. Your aura is broken. You… we need to rest.

“But Salem—!” He can’t finish. Just the name makes his head spin, pounds through his skull with all the gravitas and fear of hundreds of lives. If he heard Ruby’s transmission right, then Salem is planning to come to Atlas. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe now. In the back of his mind, the memories that aren’t his own whisper: Bad things happen when Salem comes calling.

Oz, too, in his head, takes a long moment to answer. …I know. It’s funny, that for all the memories Jinn showed them, there is nothing in Oz’s voice that speaks of once loving this woman. All Oscar can feel from him is dread, and a dull hatred borne from years of endless loss. Every good thing Oz ever tried to do, Salem has always destroyed. But that doesn’t change the facts. You are already freezing. And, I imagine, in a great deal of pain. The bullet didn’t break through your aura, but that doesn’t mean it won’t leave a mark.

He wants to argue it, but fresh pain flares and Oscar can’t. Oz is more right than he probably realizes. He shakes his head. “But…”

Oscar, please. I hate this as much as you do, but if we do not recover, then we will be less than useless. And that will be so much worse.

Oscar breathes in. The air burns. It’s so cold it takes everything he is just to keep from shivering, and Oscar exhales slowly through his teeth. Damn it. Damn it. He’s not going to cry. “…Fine.”

There is a feeling from Oz like relief, wordless and grateful, and Oscar ignores him, rubbing at his arms for warmth and finally taking in his surroundings. Shelter. He needs shelter, and a place to hide, until he can face the cold with aura in place. But his surroundings are cold and gray, barren. A great downward spiral of a pit, with roughshod buildings and unpaved roads. The houses are sparse and decaying, little more than hollow shells. He can’t even see any heating grates.

This is what lies under Atlas? This is the pit beneath the city? It looks… it is… worse off than even Mantle. He’d call it abandoned, except it’s clearly not—just neglected to a degree that makes something in Oscar go small and furious.

The sting of disappointment rises up in his throat, stronger this time, strangling. He’d really thought… they’d been so close! So close to saving Mantle, to choosing trust. But maybe they were never as close to peace as Oscar had hoped. Maybe this was always going to fall apart. He gets the sudden and looming sense that Ironwood never really saw Mantle, or this place, as worth saving at all.

You couldn’t have known. Oz sounds tired. It’s not your fault.

Oscar starts walking. His feet sink in the snow. “You weren’t there.” There’s no accusation in his voice—just fact.

…No. But I—saw what happened. In a way. And it wasn’t your fault, Oscar. You did—everything right. Another pause, longer this time, and Oz concludes, very quiet: You did better than I ever could.

Oscar hesitates mid-step, staring at the ground. He wants to protest, but he can feel the sincerity. Oz means it. It makes something go funny in his chest, to hear that. Oscar blinks down at the ground, watching his shoes, and doesn’t answer. Just remembers, suddenly and clearly, the first thing Oz had said to him. Actually, you saved us. Now he wonders, quietly, if maybe Oz had meant something other than just surviving the fall.

Oscar doesn’t ask, though. He puts a bracing hand against his side, still sore, and looks up into the sky. Atlas is a looming shadow, and the storm clouds are dark and forbidding… but still. The pale light of the coming dawn is beautiful against the ice.

“I’m glad you’re back, Oz,” he says, finally.

You don’t need to lie to me, Oscar.

“I’m not.” He starts walking again. “I got used to hearing you, I guess. And you weren’t so bad, really. And then, when you just… weren’t there…” He’s not sure how to explain it—the emptiness, the hollow pit, the silence worst of all—so he doesn’t try. He takes another step, hand pressing harder at his side. The pain is blinding. Oscar takes a shaky breath. “I never hated you. Not really. I just—I wanted the truth. I think we all did.”

…I know.

“Mm.” He takes another step, and his knee almost buckles. “Ah—”

May I?

“What?” Oscar blinks, fast. His first instinct is to say no—he’s never liked losing control—but already he can already feel Oz pulling away, and Oscar swallows down the instinctual denial. Oz only means to help. And honestly, Oscar could use a break. But on the other hand… “It’s not gonna be fun, feeling this.”

I assure you, I have gone through far worse. Oz’s tone is almost dry. You’ve seen a few.

For a moment Oscar has no idea what he’s talking about, but then the memories click. Ohhh, right, the constant death via godly bickering, and not to mention that whole bit with dragging himself across the ground while suffering from a terrible stomach wound… Yeah, no, Oscar remembers. “Still—”

Please. If you won’t let me apologize… at least let me shoulder some of the burden.

Oscar considers this and sighs. He closes his eyes, drifting back—and then his limbs are not his own, and he is there and yet he is not, and the pain is suddenly and wonderfully far away, barely an echo.

Oz, in control now, takes a sharp breath and almost stumbles. “Oh.”

Told you.

“You did, but I confess, I didn’t expect…” He presses a hand to their side. “You’ve had a hard battle.”

Bullet didn’t help.

“No.” Oz’s voice goes briefly hard. “No, I suppose not.” He straightens, turning around to look, flexing their fingers. For a moment their mouth pulls in a grimace.

Are you okay?

“Just—unused to this. I’ve never… done—well, that, before. Locking myself away. Now… It feels like going out of practice.” He rolls their wrist, flicks out the cane. “I’ll adjust.”

You old man.

Oz exhales hard, almost a laugh. His surprise flickers bright and warm, the barest hint of a smile. “Well, I suppose that is true…”

The conversation tapers off, and Oz takes them higher up the pit, closer to Mantle’s edge. Beyond that momentary stumble, the pain doesn’t seem to touch him at all; with the cane as a crutch, he walks as if they are perfectly fine, rather than on the verge of collapse. Which is good, Oscar supposes. People tend to remember injured children, and tend to ignore weird ones walking with fancy canes. Good for staying undercover.

On one of the ledges of the pit, they find a small house with the door already swung open. Oz takes them inside, and shoves the door shut behind them. The heating is still off—if it even exists down here, a thought that makes Oscar flinch and Oz tight-lipped—but there’s some moth-eaten blankets in one corner and an empty bed elsewhere, and Oz curls them up in the corner of the abandoned home, with some food and a small water bottle he’d swiped from the cupboard.

Oscar takes in the place, the tiny kitchen and barren bedroom, and sighs. Who do you think lived here?

“Hopefully someone who managed to evacuate.” Oz sips at the water. “We’ll take an hour to recover here. Then, we need to discuss our next move.”

I don’t know where the others are. I told them to go ahead…

“With luck, they have. If they’ve been detained, that may pose a… difficulty.” Oz pats down their side. “Where did you put your scroll?”

Left pocket. Wait, wouldn’t you know?

“When I say I was watching, it was really only the barest minimum of awareness. That is, when you were stressed, or felt you were in danger. So no.” Oz tugs out the scroll, pulling it open. “Hmm.”

Surprised it isn’t broken.

“They are remarkably sturdy things.” He taps their finger against the screen, frowning faintly. “Oh, joy.”

There is a bright blue alert flashing across the screen—updated orders for the whole of Atlas Military. Oz taps at it, and the banner expands, taking up the screen. A row of faces stares up at them. The main group—RWBY and JNPR—are listed under a banner labeled Arrest on Sight. Qrow is now under Detained. And Oscar—

There’s an X through his photo, and a small note beneath his name. Deceased.

For a moment neither of them says anything. The silence weighs down like a physical thing. Oz shifts on the bed and exhales hard, and then lifts a hand, tentative, to their cheek. Their fingers come away damp with tears. “Oscar.”

Are you—?

“…No.”

Oh. Which means… the tears are Oscar’s.

With that understanding, all at once, everything crashes down on him. Neapolitan. Losing the relic. Facing Ironwood, hoping against hope something could still be salvaged, and then—

Oscar is suddenly glad to not be in control anymore. If he was, he thinks he might crumple, or worse, hyperventilate. Everything goes shaky. Their vision blurs. I…

Oz carefully wipes the tears away with one edge of the blanket, their sleeves too dirtied and torn for use. “It’s okay.”

I don’t even know why…

“I do.” Oz lifts a hand to their chest. “I feel it too. We trusted him. We thought he would make the ri—” He stumbles, briefly. “…a good choice. We thought things would be okay. That Atlas and Mantle could stand together, that Remnant could be reunited. And even then.” Oz sounds bitter. “In that final moment. My presence would have only angered him, I think, but—I’d truly hoped that you would be able to change Ja… General Ironwood’s mind. I never thought…”

He shot me. The words are dull, empty, devoid. The shock hasn’t hit him yet. Not really. He tried to kill me. He thinks he did kill me. And I don’t think he even cares.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Why are you apologizing?

“I—”

Oh.

“Never mind.”

No. No, you’re right. I think—I always thought so too. The bitterness settles down on both them, a shroud. Always trying to wake you up… and even then, he asked which one of us it was, when I walked down there. I wonder if he ever saw me for me.

“The others did. Do. Miss Rose, Mister Arc, Miss Valkyrie… I have seen that, too. They care deeply for you.”

And now they’re going to think I’m dead, too.

“…Ah. A fair point.” Oz frowns down at the scroll. “This is, perhaps, a problem.”

Can we get in contact with them?

“Hmm.” He brings a hand to their ear, to the comm piece, and waits. Nothing. “We are still too far out of range, I think. Too far below. If we got back to the sky…”

Oscar considers something else. It says… Qrow got detained.

“…so it does.”

What prison do you think they’d throw him in?

“I have a few ideas.” But Oz sounds hesitant. He swallows. “Oscar—”

Hm?

“I—that is, I am not sure…” He trails off, as if unable to finish. Their lips pull in a grimace.

He’ll be mad. Oscar is frank, certain. I mean, probably. The others too. But it’s not the same as before. We’ve all had time. Atlas has… we’ve grown a lot. All of us. You said you were watching some of it—you saw that too, right?

“I did.” There is a quiet warmth there. A muted pride.

Then, you know. They’ll be angry, I think. But Qrow—and the others, they’ll listen. We’ll listen. You came back. And whatever you say about me saving us, well, you kept me from blacking out, which is its own help, so.

“Oscar—”

You’re not—it’s not like with Ironwood. You’re not an enemy. I’m pretty sure no one ever saw you as one. They just wanted the truth, and now we have it… and if I’ve learned anything from today, then its only too late if you make it that way. You can always still choose trust. You can still choose to build trust.

Oz goes quiet, distant. He stares off at nothing, and then slowly shakes his head. His smile is a faint, disbelieving thing—but genuine, too. “I said before that I had reasons for the things I do. For the lies, especially.” He closes his eyes. “But I admit, Oscar. These past few weeks have… swayed me to your side, so to speak.”

The truth didn’t break them, Oz.

“No. It didn’t.” He straightens. “All right. We’ll do it your way. Trust others, as you like to say. Starting with…” He taps the scroll. “You’re quite right. Qrow would despise prison.”

So…

“We need to find a way to Atlas.” Oz downs the last of the water and food, and stands, stretching out their arms. Their aura flickers up, weak but slowly strengthening. “Evacuations have stopped in Mantle, but if I can find us a ship…”

You can fly an airship? Wait, what am I saying…

“Beyond crash-landing expertise, I was also there when they were first being built, you know.”

Wow, you really are ancient. But Oscar almost feels like laughing, the earlier grief beaten back. He hasn’t realized until now how much he’d missed Oz. And he thinks... he did miss Oz. He hasn’t missed all of it—the fighting, the lies, the body-snatching—but he’d missed this. The echo of a voice in his head. The warmth of not being alone. Of having someone there to turn to, whether Oscar needed it or not.

And strangely, for all the time he’s been gone, Oz being back is… easier, somehow, than it was before. Less like being haunted, and more like living in tandem. Maybe it’s the merge, or the shared memories… or maybe it's something else. Relief, perhaps. There are no more lies or fears to stand between them. All of Oz’s secrets are now brought to light, no more pretending necessary—and Oscar, at ease with his fate, has grown stronger and surer of his place here, all on his own.

It feels… equal, now. As if, for the first time, Oscar and Oz are finally on the same page.

Thank you for coming back.

Oz hesitates. “I should have—”

It doesn’t matter. He can’t smile, but he hopes the feeling comes across. Just… thanks.

“…Of course.” Oz ducks their head. Then he takes a breath. “Well, then! To Atlas.”

Oscar almost laughs at him, but that would be rude. Instead, he settles back with a sigh. So, what now… find a ship, save Qrow, connect with the others, help Mantle, stop Salem’s probable invasion…

“One thing at a time,” Oz says, smiling faintly, and pries open the front door, stepping back into the sun. The air burns with winter fury; the wind howls a storm. But the cold is lessened, beaten by their aura, and the oncoming darkness of the storm still pales, for now, to the sun-lit horizon. In this moment, the worst has not yet come. In this moment, there is still a chance. The determination rises in them twofold, a feeling like setting your feet and lifting your head, and the grief of the long night fades away, if only for now.

Let’s go save Atlas.

Oz’s smile grows, a little wider, a little stronger. He lifts their head, tilting their face back to the sun. In the glint of sunlight, their eyes burn bright and gold.

“Agreed,” Oz says, and heads toward the city proper, cane in hand and gait steady, taking the first step of many on the long trek back.

#rwby #oscar pine #ozpin #rwby ozpin #ozma #rwby7 spoilers #rwby 7 #rwby7 finale #rwby fic #iza fanfic #please reblog if u liked!!!!

164 notes · View notes

galadrieljones · 4 years ago

Text

As You Were (Chapter 11)

Fandom: The Last of Us | Pairing: Joel x OC | Content: Fix-it, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Found Family, Joel Lives | Rating: Mature

Masterpost

Summary:

When Joel and Ellie take a wrong turn on their journey from Pittsburgh to Wyoming, they find themselves lost in what feels like a time warp: a beautiful place with a dark and dangerous secret, filled with painful memories and reminders of the past. But they aren’t alone. When they meet Cici and Noah, a mother and son fighting tirelessly for survival on their family farm, things finally start to take a new shape, altering the course of their lives in irrevocable ways. In the end, for those with little hope to spare, family is what you make it.

This is an AU, starting after the events of the Summer chapter in the first game, and extending into the timeline of the second.

*chapter specific cw: mention of suicide, depression

Chapter 11: Interlude II (The Ark)

That night, they sat up in the crow's nest, on separate bean bags, looking at their hands. Noah had wanted to take inventory of his books to decide which he was going to bring with him on the road, and which he was going to leave behind. But it felt weird now that he was up there, and pointless, and sad. Everything he knew, he would have to leave behind, and he would never see it again. Everything. They would have to board up the house, post signs on the electric fence. CONTAMINATED WATER. DO NOT DRINK. They should probably burn it all down, but his mother would not allow that. It was her childhood home, too. They would seal it up instead as a tomb and maybe in 100 years when the spores died or the mushrooms got burnt out the river by somebody with the means to do so, an enterprising explorer would come to this lonely region, discover their farm and read it like hieroglyphics on the wall, stories from another time. He would look at Noah's stack of books and think, What a discovery. What a thing to behold.

Danielle sat very still, as was her default setting. But she was also picking at her thumbnail, compulsively. She was not wearing her prayer kapp anymore. She still had her hair braided tightly to her head, but she had taken off her kapp. Noah knew some things about Amish by then, and he knew the different types of kapps and bonnets and their meanings. Usually, when she was away from home she would wear a black bonnet over her white kapp, because she was unmarried. But she didn't have the black bonnet today, only the white kapp, and she had only ever removed her head covering in front of him one other time that Noah could remember, and it was when they were thirteen years old and it had been so hot, they ran through the sprinkler and she took off the kapp for just one moment while she fixed her braids.

"What's wrong?" said Noah. He was deciding between The Road and Blood Meridian. He chose The Road, stuffed it in his backpack.

"Nothing," said Danielle. She had followed him up there without him knowing. She was quiet as a mouse. When she appeared, he was surprised, but it was okay. He didn't feel like being alone.

"Why are you biting your nails."

"I was just having a bad thought," she said. "You know. How it's over. Our lives, as we knew them once, they are over. My mom, and your dad. The land we knew and that raised us. All of it, gone, and now we too must be gone."

The way she talked sometimes, with her formal words and slight accent, it was foreign to Noah in a mythical way. "Yeah," said Noah.

She got up then, from the bean bag chair. She looked around. She picked up some of the books to read the summary on the back, then she set them back down again.

"Anything you want, you can have," he said. "Take whatever."

"Like what would I take?"

"Any of my books. I have a lot of comics inside, too."

She found this to be funny for some reason, smiled with her cheeks getting red. "Ha ha."

"What's funny?"

"Where are your guitars?" she said then, out of nowhere, like she was suddenly taken off guard. "I haven't been up here in a while. Where'd they go?"

"I burned them," said Noah, staring at her.

She gave him a long, disappointed look and shook her head. "All of them?"

"Yes."

"You shouldn't have did that, Noah."

Sometimes, he felt legitimately like a crazy person, like an imposter. Perhaps he would have been better off on his own. "I know," he said.

She came and sat down beside him then. He had to move over to give her room. The bean bag chair crinkled beneath them and molded around their bodies. She turned to him. She looked right at him. She framed his face with her palms, touching them to his cheeks. Her hands were cold. "I'm eighteen now," she said.

"I know," said Noah. "I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

"Don't worry," she said. "I just, I have hope that my family and my life will find a new hope, do you?"

"I guess," said Noah.

"I'm going to miss you though," said Danielle. "So much. You can't know. You and your guitars. You gave me a good escape place, all my life, and you and your family were always so important to us."

"I'll miss you, too," he said, shrugging. He felt he had little left to give her. "I'm sorry about everything, Danielle. Everything sucks."

"It does," she continued. "But also, there is one thing that doesn't suck, which is I can make a choice, right now."

"Which choice?" said Noah.

She kissed him. It was simple and warm. She was like a shepherd, guiding him in. When they parted, she looked sad. This was not the first time they had kissed, but it had been a long time. A flood had come between them. It drowned much more than the hills.

"Why did you do that?" he said.

"Because I wanted to," she said. "I'm sorry. I should have asked first."

"It's okay," he said. He tucked one small, loose strand of yellow hair behind her ear. In truth, it had made him happy. For just one moment, it lifted him out of the dirt.

She looked out the window. She folded her hands in her lap demurely. She had freckles on her knuckles and her wrists. She smelled like clean laundry. Being close to her, it made him want more, but it would never happen, nor should it happen, and this he knew, so he put his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes.

"What was that song you played again, that one time?" said Danielle. "Like two years ago, when we were out here, and it was like, almost fall, just like this? I remember it was getting colder, but the frost still had not come. Take me over?”

"Take On Me," said Noah. "It was just some live version off one of my dad's records. MTV Unplugged or something."

"What's MTV Unplugged?"

"I don't know," said Noah. "Something from a million years ago. Joel probably knows. We could go inside and listen to it, if you want. You could ask him."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "Let's do that."

Inside, Cici had gone upstairs, to bed. Joel was sitting on the couch alone, drinking whiskey, and listening to more Ryan Adams on the record player. When Noah and Danielle first came inside, Noah was sort of embarrassed. He didn't know why. But Joel didn't make any sort of fuss about them. He didn't call attention, nor did he ask questions. He said hello to Danielle and told Noah he would get out of his hair.

"It's okay," said Noah. "We were just gonna listen to music anyway."

"What is this?" said Danielle. She had reassembled her kapp, on her head. She was only comfortable removing it around Noah. "This is a sad song."

"It's a song called Sylvia Plath," said Joel. "This album was released the day before my 17th birthday."

"Wow," said Danielle. "It must mean a lot to you."

"Well, I haven't heard it in a while," said Joel. "But hearing it again, now, yes it does bring me back."

"Do you know what MTV Unplugged is?" said Danielle.

Joel looked at Noah, who was looking down at his boots. He had his backpack over one shoulder, looking a little lost, a wanderer. Joel set down his whiskey, listening to the song. He said, "MTV Unplugged was on TV, a lot of years ago. Why you asking?"

"Noah knows a song. He played it once, on his guitar, from MTV Unplugged."

"His guitar?"

"Yes," said Danielle. She became embarrassed then, like she had done something wrong. She looked at Noah and then she looked down at her hands, folded into the front of her dress. Noah was looking off somewhere else, flexing his jaw. Something seemed to be going on, something that Joel wasn't privy to. Didn't matter.

"Well, okay," said Joel, ignoring the tension in the room. "You, uh, familiar with TV, Danielle?"

"Yes," said Danielle. "Noah has told me about it."

"Well, MTV Unplugged was just like, live studio recordings of musicians that were popular at the time. A live studio recording meant like, it was unproduced. Or, I don't know. They just played their instruments in a room, in front of people. No multiple takes, no effects or anything like that. Real stripped down. There were some pretty important recordings, back in those days. Some artists, it was a huge deal for them to get on MTV Unplugged."

"Thanks," said Danielle. "I suppose that makes sense?"

"Maybe," said Joel. “I don’t know what makes sense anymore.”

"You guys are up?" said Ellie. She was yawning, coming down the stairs in her PJs. "What the hell?"

"Don't worry," said Joel. "You didn't miss anything. And I was just about to head up myself."

"What are we listening to?" she said, totally ignoring him. She came into the living room and picked up the vinyl sleeve off the coffee table. "Ryan Adams. Gold. You sure like this guy, don't you, Joel?"

Joel sighed.

"Who's Sylvia Plath?"

"What am I, an encyclopedia?”

"Yes, actually," she said, plopping down on the couch next to him. She picked up his glass, sniffed it, and made a face. "Yuck."

"Sylvia Plath was a poet, right?" said Noah. "Didn't she kill herself?"

"She was a poet, yes," said Joel. "And yes, she did...commit suicide."

"Jesus," said Ellie, sinking into the cushions. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. "That's sad."

"Why did she take her own life?" said Danielle.

"I don't know," said Joel, resigned to his cause now, and outnumbered. "I guess she was unhappy. Or something. She had a rough marriage? Major depression. Ryan Adams, he had a lot of depression, too. Maybe he wrote this song to cope with all that."

"Music is a gift," said Danielle. "To think that his means of coping could become a song as beautiful as this. Perhaps it is a curse."

They all sat, staring at the record player. Joel got up and took the needle off the record. "Time for bed," he said.

"Come on," said Ellie. "I just got down here."

"Well, that was a mistake," said Joel. "Everybody, to bed. It's late."

With his sleeping bag unrolled in the living room that night, and the lamps turned down low, Noah listened to the song Sylvia Plath on repeat and thought about his life and all that had taken place, from the moment he realized he was alive, up to now, sitting alone on the floor in his living room in front of the fire, imagining himself in another scenario, far away in time and space, in which things were normal, or better, or safe. He envied Joel, in a way. Noah didn't know a better life, and he never would. That is how he felt, and what was meant by his sadness in the crow's nest. That is how he had been feeling for over a year, since his dad died, and the people he knew were all gone, and there were no more delusions, no more pastoral dreams where he could ignore the dying world in which he was born. He was now grown and he would have to go straight to it, make it his own. And Danielle would be okay, because she was not the same as him. She was bright and free and she trusted in god to carry her home, and whether that was bullshit or not, it didn't matter. People believe in the thing that they think will save them. Noah just didn't know what to believe. He was doing his best to follow his heart.

And she and I would sleep on a boat And swim in the sea without clothes With rain falling fast on the sea While she was swimming away, she'd be winking at me Telling me it would all be okay Out on the horizon and fading away And I'd swim to the boat and I'd laugh

Ellie came back downstairs a couple minutes later, wired and unable to sleep. When he looked out the window, the moon had finally revealed itself from behind the clouds. It was big and white and full. At first Ellie just said hello and then she was walking around the room, looking at all the different things on the shelves and hanging on the walls, like she was in a museum. She was looking at the paintings, most of them unframed. She said, "Did your dad make these? They're all signed with a W. His name was William, right?"

"Yeah," said Noah. "His name was William, and yeah, he painted all those."

"Wow," said Ellie. "He was really good. These are amazing."

The paintings were mostly landscapes and livestock. There were some of Cici, some of Noah, but they were like, impressions. They were blurred into the background, just blinks of color against the green. "What's your last name?" said Noah. "I was just wondering."

"My last name?" said Ellie. She smiled. She said, "Uh, Williams, I guess. Weirdly enough. That's the second time someone's asked me that in the past like, day." She came and sat down on the floor next to him, resting her elbows on her knees. "What's yours?"

"Santos," said Noah.

"Noah Santos," said Ellie. She looked down at her thumbs. She was sticking them both up for some reason, pressing her knuckles together. "So, uh. What's up with you and Danielle, Noah Santos? You guys a thing or something?"

"Not really," said Noah. He looked directly at her. His eyes were kind of dark and big, but they weren't as dark up close as they looked from far away. "Not anymore. We're just friends.” He took a huge, deep breath then, and Ellie could tell there was a lot more but that he just didn't feel like talking about it.

"Well," she said. "Friends are pretty great, too."

"Yeah, they're okay," said Noah.

They both smiled.

"I had a friend once," she said. "A long time ago. Her name was Riley."

”How’d you guys meet?”

”School. Or, jail. Whatever you wanna call it.”

"Where's Riley now?" said Noah.

Ellie looked at the fire, big and bright, like a carousel. "It's a long story. But she's gone."

Noah hung his head and looked down at the woodgrain in the floor. He said, "I'm sorry. I'm a dick."

"It's okay," said Ellie, nodding to herself, trying to be peppy. She didn't want to be sad that night. She wanted to be positive, and alert. Joel and Noah were back. They were heading out soon, on the road again. There was hope. “You're not a dick. And it’s all gonna be okay, don’t you think?”

"I hope so," he said.

Ellie’s optimism was contagious, and perhaps that’s why she felt like home to so many who lie awake in the night, thinking more about the past than the future. She lived close to the edge of her worth, it's true. She wanted to believe that there was a reason, for all of this. That there was a purpose, a meaning, behind why she kept on living while all the other people she cared about died. Riley, Tess, Henry, Sam. But she hid volumes. She did it all to help her friends stay afloat. But it wouldn't last forever. She was only one girl.

When they drove away from the farm, they did not want. The wind shook the trees, which were turning colors in the late September light. Danielle waved at Noah, standing between her father and her brother on the lawn.

It was two trucks to Moline, Joel and Ellie out front, headed for the I-80. "Here goes nothing," said Cici. She was driving, stone-faced. It was done. They had lost this place long before. It belonged to the dead now. She took Noah's hand as they escaped.

***

On the record player:

“Sylvia Plath” by Ryan Adams

#the last of us #tlou #the last of us 2 #tlou2 #joel miller #ellie williams #joel tlou #ellie tlou #as you were #joel x cici #update!!!!

10 notes · View notes

isocrime · 5 years ago

Note

sorry for sending another question but i also wanted to ask when you first felt the urge to write fanfics? has your 'drive' changed or has it stayed the same? what do you think has changed the most in your writing, and is it for the better? also, lots of love to you for "not gruesome just human" bc that fic is one of v few pieces of uhh media (??) i can consume during my depressive episodes and no matter how many times i reread it, it still makes me feel better. so truly thank u 💗💗

If any of my work can be a balm in bad times, that makes all the writing feel worth it. I always hope I can bring people comfort or escape or whatever they’re coming to fic looking for. <3

Reasons I’ve kept writing, in chronological order:

Fat ca$h*/artistic ambitions I guess

Trading f/f fic for f/f fic

THIS IS MY OPINION, BYE

Make my wife happy

It brings joy

Part of my Writing Journey that’s maybe a little different from the fandom usual is that I got my start writing pro fiction, not fan fiction. Sci-fi/fantasy short fiction is where I cut my teeth, and I still mess around with it from time to time. So my drive to write was really different about ten years ago — I was telling stories with the intent to sell them, which means strict word counts and markets with acceptance rates of between 0.5 and 3%. Writing was like a competitive sport; I was always always always pushing to get better. I like that kind of challenge, and the sff pro fiction world is immensely important to me.

Somewhere on the internet is my secret livejournal with a url I don’t remember, which is where my very first fic is posted. It was a 5 + 1 times SPN wingfic. It is never seeing the light of day. I had visions of being miraculously discovered by fandom without doing anything but writing and placing it on the internet without telling anyone. That did not happen, which was very predictable in retrospect, and I friends-locked the lj in embarrassment.

Couple years after that I started participating in Homestuck fandom a lot as a fan artist and meta-writer. I wasn’t going to write any fic, but then I started collabing on illustrated fic, and then said fuck it and started writing my own stuff, mostly as part of femmeslash exchanges because it was fun, meant I had a deadline, and was a way to get the f/f i wanted written for me.

After Homestuck I settled into a comfortable pattern of consuming media, coming up with exactly one idea about it that I had to turn into fic or I might explode, writing the fic, and peaceing out of the fandom. For anyone who really liked my wtnv fic, my pacific rim fic, my Voltron fic, my good omens fic, etc etc, I’m sorry, I am exactly the nightmare scenario of finding a fic you like, going to the author’s page, and discovering that every other thing they’ve written is in some bullshit fandoms you don’t care about.

Then hopelesse was like “you gotta read this fic, there’s telepathic soul-bonded wolves” (hat tip @sineala) and I was like “THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER” and then I was in steve/tony comics fandom all of a sudden, and, fatefully, I asked hopelesse what fic, THEORETICALLY, she would want in the fandom, and suddenly I had written 27k and that was the girl with the modern face. And now I write steve/tony because it makes me happy, and I relate to both of them in different ways and also I’ve made a bunch of friends who enable me!

I think I’ve gotten a lot better at writing over the 500k or so words I’ve written. The foundations of my writing craft come from the original fiction, but occasionally I flex on the fanfic and get intense about craft there too (not gruesome, just human is actually one of those fics — I paid a lot of attention to the sentences in that and leaned hard on specific, observed details of the surroundings, especially trying to make New York city feel real). Writing a lot of fic has made me faster and loosened up my line writing. Also I learned how to write smut, which was a journey into shamelessness that I honestly think is really worthwhile.

The biggest thing that’s changed I think is how much I can keep track of at once. I remember how impossible it used to feel to keep tabs on sentence structure and plot tie-backs and characterization notes and pacing and blocking and and and — but now it’s automatic. I know approximately where all the pieces are on the board, and whose turn is next, so now the challenge is where to place each move. So that’s pretty cool.

*there is no fat cash, sff short fiction is not a lucrative side hustle by any measure

#i have written...a lot #some of it garbage!#some of it pretty good #most of it in the middle #Anonymous

6 notes · View notes

madlori · 5 years ago

Text

Unveiled - Chapter 8

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12 || Chapter 13 || Epilogue

by MadLori Word Count: 2300 Fandom: Men’s Hockey RPF Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Rating: NC-17 (like, heed this, please) Tags: Arranged Marriage, Modern Royalty AU, Mpreg, Not Omegaverse, No Consent Issues, Veiled Sex, Weird Traditions, Don’t Think Too Hard, Handwavey Biology

NOTE: I posted chapter 7 earlier today - be sure you’ve caught up before moving on to this one.

Definitely yes sex in this one.

Read it on AO3

“How is your better half today?” Sasha asked, bringing Zhenya’s morning tea to his office. “Everyone’s been fretting about it.”

“He seemed much perkier this morning, actually. The doctor says it’s unpredictable, and that it comes and goes, but for a week now since the Judge’s dinner, it’s been more come and less go. I’m hopeful he will improve.”

Sasha nodded. “You sure have been talking a lot of walks,” he said, setting the tea and toast on Zhenya’s desk.

“So?”

“Walks down by the athletic fields.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing. If you weren’t looking for a certain guard out sparring with his comrades, there’d be even less wrong with that.”

“I’m not...looking for him.”

“No, you’re just frequently placing yourself in areas where you think he might be found.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“So if I were to tell you that just now I saw him and the other guards heading down there with their sparring gear, you’d say thank you, Sasha, that’s so interesting, and go back to reading the paper, right?”

Zhenya sat up straight, unable to keep himself from reacting. “Uh...yes. Of course.” He sat back, picking up the paper again.

Sasha laughed. “You asshole. Go. Better hurry.”

Zhenya hurried to his quarters and threw on exercise clothes, telling himself he was just going for a run, and made a beeline for the athletic fields. The Consort’s guards were there, but he was almost too late -- they were gathering up their gear. Sidney was among them, sweaty from his exertion and looking like a god. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” Fleury said, bowing.

“Good morning, Fleury. I’d hoped to get in some sparring practice myself, but I see I’m too late.”

Every one of the guards’ heads swiveled to look at Sidney. Nobody was fooled. Sidney’s eyebrow arched. “I could stay behind; I’m not on duty until this afternoon.”

“Well, there you go,” Fleury said, a bemused look on his face. “Come on, boys, Sid’s teaching private lessons.” They all trooped back up the hill, leaving them alone on the pitch.

Zhenya just stood there, feeling tongue-tied. Now that it was just him and Sidney, he didn’t know what to say, especially after their last conversation had ended so awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you around recently,” he said.

“It’s a big palace. His Highness has been sick, we’ve all been running errands for him. I spent a whole day scouring the city for this one brand of ginger ale he wanted.”

“He seemed much improved this morning.”

“Yeah, I think so, too. He said he was feeling pretty...spry.”

“I’m glad. Thank you for your efforts.”

Sidney shrugged. “I do what I can to help.” He tossed Zhenya a quarterstaff. “Let’s go, then. You wanted to spar.”

Zhenya took the staff, his least proficient skill. Sidney came at him, and he countered; for a few moments the only sound was their staffs striking each other. “I thought you might have been avoiding me,” Zhenya finally said, stepping back to catch his breath.

“Why would I do that?” Sidney said.

“After...what I said in the stable, the last time.”

“What kind of man would I be if I punished my friend for acting honorably?”

“So we are friends, then.”

Sidney stepped toward him, lifting his staff. “You were the one who said we might not be.”

Zhenya sighed. “I just -- I need to keep it straight in my head.”

“What’s to keep straight? You’re allowed to have friends.”

“I know. But you…” Zhenya stepped back and out of the spar. “Surely you know that I value you as a friend.”

“But you want more.”

“I can’t have more.”

Sidney planted his staff and leaned on it, sweat glistening at his temples and a flush of exertion staining his cheeks and making his full lips even redder than usual. “Zhenya, you’re the crown Prince. I’m a guard, and a temporary one at that. Whatever association you and I have is entirely up to you. You have your husband, who you are bound to by honor and the law. And then there’s me.” He grabbed his staff and came at him again.

“You know what it is that brings me to you,” Zhenya growled, low, striking faster and faster. Sidney’s breath sped up as he countered, their feet dancing on the grass.

Sidney shook his head. “Same thing that’s brought people sniffing around my door since I was sixteen years old,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

Zhenya stepped back. “You think that’s it? Your pretty face and your body?”

Sidney crowded up close, swung his staff, feinted and struck Zhenya behind his knees, knocking him onto his back. He crouched over him, staff planted next to his ear. “Tell me you don’t want me,” he said, his voice low and electric. Zhenya felt the jolt all the way up his spine.

“If I wanted an easy encounter, I could go out and have one. You don’t have the only good ass in this city,” Zhenya bit out.

Sidney cocked his head and smirked. “I beg your pardon. It’s a great ass.”

Zhenya burst to his feet, pushing Sidney back so he landed on the ass in question. “What are you trying to do here?” he said, looming over him. “I came out here to apologize.”

“And you have. I accept.”

“So what is this?”

For the first time, Sidney looked unsure of himself. “I...I don’t know. I'm as confused as you are, Zhenya. I never meant...things got out of hand. This was not the plan,” he said, this last bit said under his breath.

“Look,” Zhenya said, taking a step back. “Yes, I’m attracted to you, all right? But I also like you, I’ve liked you from the first. And I know I’m not...it wouldn’t be…” He broke off and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “I met my husband the day I married him. I’ve still never heard his voice or seen his face. I wouldn’t be the first embargoed prince to have…”

“A bit on the side?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Might as well have.”

“I didn’t expect any of this, either. My husband, he’s...not what I thought he’d be. Even through the embargo, I feel like I see him.”

The eyebrow again. “Oh you do, do you?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. I always hoped that maybe someday, I’d grow to be fond of him.”

“But ‘someday’ came faster than you expected, right? You’re already fond of him.”

“I feel obligated to him in a way I didn’t think I would.” He took a deep breath, then held out a hand to help Sidney to his feet, then pull him near. “You’re right,” he said, low. “I do want you. I want you so badly I can’t think straight from it sometimes.” Sidney was looking up at him with those wide, pretty eyes, his hard pulse visible in his throat. Zhenya ached for him, the ache made sharper with the knowledge that he couldn’t have him. “But he doesn’t deserve that.”

Sidney made a half-choked noise deep in his throat, then nodded, cutting his eyes down to the ground. “No, he doesn’t.” He shook his head, a wry smile curling his lips. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“You saying no is making me want you more.” He squeezed Zhenya’s hand and let it go, took the staff from him and walked quickly away.

Zhenya stood there for a few moments and debated going after him, but in the end he just trudged back to the palace, an untidy mix of relief and disappointment coursing through his veins.

---------

It was later than his usual bedtime when Zhenya retired after dinner with his parents and his brother, who was visiting from the mountainside holy retreat where he lived. He’d taken a new name, Victor, as his monastic name and Zhenya was still getting used to it. Victor hadn’t been present at the wedding but was thrilled to learn he was to be an uncle, throwing his arms around Zhenya and crying with joy. It was a warm and happy evening, and he was in a good mood as he entered the room he shared with his consort.

A mood that only improved when he discovered what awaited him there. The lights were dim, candles had been lit, and his consort had attractively arranged himself on their large bed, deliciously nude save for his veils. Zhenya stopped short just inside the door, soaking in this welcome. He shut the door and approached, smiling widely. He gestured to everything, including the consort himself, pressing his hands to his heart to indicate his deep approval of all of it.

The consort knelt up on the bed, touched his stomach and gave a thumbs-up, then flexed playfully, which Zhenya took to mean that he was feeling better and healthy. Zhenya reached out and touched his veiled cheek, then pointed to the bathroom. The consort nodded and resumed his reclining pose on the bed, a hand slung over his hip, making Zhenya want to be quick about it.

He stripped and took a fast shower, his cock fattening with the thought that he might be getting sex tonight for the first time in well over a week. That wasn’t a long time, but after the frequent couplings of their first few weeks together, it felt like an eternity.

When he returned to the bed, his consort’s hands were eager on his body, laying him out and stroking him. He shimmied down Zhenya’s chest and got his mouth on him fact, with a practiced shifting of his veils. Zhenya groaned -- they’d both grown a little lax with nonverbal sex noises, despite the embargo -- and rested his hand on the back of the consort’s head. No sooner was he fully hard than the consort pulled away. He straddled Zhenya’s hips on his knees and shuffled closer, his own hard cock jutting towards him; Zhenya put a hand on it, wondering what this man had in store for him tonight.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The consort picked up one of his hands and guided it around to his ass, pushing Zhenya’s fingers between his cheeks...Zhenya’s eyes widened as he realized that his husband had obviously prepared himself ahead of time. His asshole was slick with lube; Zhenya’s fingers slid in with little to no resistance. The consort reached under the pillow and pulled out the lube; he handed it to Zhenya, then turned and faced away from him. He got on all fours and spread his thighs, presenting his ass; Zhenya’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The consort turned his head to look over his shoulder at him, as if to ask what Zhenya was waiting for.

He scrambled to his knees, uncapping the lube…but first, this ass deserved to be worshiped. He bent low and kissed the flesh, leaving quick bites all over the smooth skin, his hands kneading it. He bent and swiped his tongue up his husband’s center, drawing shudders and growls from him. Lubing his fingers, he slid three into him, twisting and crooking them to find just the right spot. The consort’s back arched and he writhed in pleasure, his hands fisting in the bedsheets and his chest heaving. He reached back and grabbed Zhenya’s hip, yanking him close. Zhenya grinned; evidently someone was impatient tonight.

Zhenya lubed his cock -- he wasn’t sure he’d ever been this hard in his life -- and seated it against his consort’s asshole. He gripped his hips and pushed forward; the consort’s head sagged down and he pressed back against him, taking more of Zhenya’s cock into his body. Zhenya’s cock was not small, and he knew to take this slowly, but his consort had other ideas. Before Zhenya could inch forward, he pushed back hard, and Zhenya slid all the way inside him. He gasped and clutched the consort’s hips, his groin pressed against the man’s ass. The consort was making a barely-there whine in the back of his throat, his pelvis shifting as he seated Zhenya’s cock deep inside him...and then he pulled off and thrust back, obviously ready. Zhenya made a few experimental thrusts; God, he felt amazing, hot and tight and so responsive, always wanting more. He grasped the consort’s veiled shoulder with one hand and his hip in the other and fucked him, as hard and fast as the consort was demanding with every movement of his body against Zhenya’s.

He shifted his angle a little until he found the right one to drive his consort mad. He knew it when he hit the spot; the consort’s whole body jerked and shuddered. Zhenya slid one hand beneath him to stroke his mate’s cock; he found it hard and leaking already. His hand was batted away and a quick thumbs-down popped up; evidently, his mate didn’t like to be jerked off while getting fucked. Zhenya wanted him to come, though, and wondered if they could manage that without either of them touching the consort’s cock.

He needn’t have worried about it. After a few minutes his husband’s body went taut, and he came without his cock being touched at all. Zhenya didn’t know whether to be amazed at his consort, or at himself, but he didn’t have much time to debate because after a few more strokes he was coming, too. He allowed himself a cry of ecstasy as he spilled into his consort’s body. Zhenya sagged against the consort’s back, breathing hard, his cock softening inside him. The consort reached back to cup the back of Zhenya’s neck; Zhenya dared to shift the veils just enough to bare a little bit of his shoulder and kiss it reverently, his mind clear of anything -- of anyone -- but this.

Next Chapter

#unveiled #sidgeno #sidgeno fic #hockey rpf #unveiled chapters #my writing #you asked for it so here it is

41 notes · View notes

afewmarvelousthoughts · 6 years ago

Text

Truth Pt. 7

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Request:

What’s up sug! sorry you’re struggling right now but I’ve come to help you If you could bring this to light for me I’d absolutely love for YOU TO DO JT So basically Bucky X Enhanced reader who are fuckin enemies. Hate each other to every last fiber of their beings bc Bucky is rude and she calls him out on it. AnywHs, they get drunk, truth or dare (go crZy baby) and LOTS LF dirty talk if u wanna do smut but if u don’t then buck taking care of her while she’s drunk cause she admitted her feelings

Pairing: Bucky X Reader (Enhanced)

Summary: Since The Avengers gave you a home the only blight has been Bucky Barnes, a ghost from your past that you can’t seem to shake. It makes you hate him. The feeling, it seems, is mutual. But… a simple game reveals that maybe things aren’t quite so simple. (Post Winter Soldier AU)

Warnings: Honestly, this is, and I’m not lying, kind of FLUFFY WHAT?!

A/N: These two. I just... wow. I really like them ok? Also, I like thinking about fun quirks or hobbies Bucky may find himself being drawn to after everything. Little frivolous things that bring some happiness into his life and space.

I just hope y’all enjoy these tender moments. ♥️

(Sorry for the long post with no “Read More” it’s glitching and some folks can’t see the whole thing for some reason.)

Tags are open!

@midnightdream83 @mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @handplucked @buckysstar @sam-jae @marauder--harder @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @meg-asaur @jewelofwinter

Even though the elevator ride to his apartment is short you’re already dozing a bit in his arms. Your face half buried in his chest, softly breathing, though your expression is far from relaxed.

Once inside he gently sets you on the couch, laying your head on a throw pillow and tucking the thick blanket around you. In just a week you’d lost mass, he could feel bones where he had been unable to feel or see them when you’d last been here.

Your power, he knew, meant you needed to stay well fed because it could drain your body, pulling from your own metabolism to keep running. From what he could tell it had been running for the past week.

You groan a little and reach for him. A sad smile rises on his lips, “I’m not going anywhere, doll,” he strokes your forehead pressing a kiss to the crease there, “just rest a second. Nothing is gonna get through me, you’re safe.” This seems to work as your forehead smooths a bit and your hand relaxes.

“Sargent Barnes,” Jarvis pipes up quietly once Bucky is in the kitchen. “I do not want to impose but I have noticed Ms. Y/L/N’s distress for days. She has not granted me permission to request any additional aid on her behalf.”

“Not shocking,” Bucky says looking over at you.

“I will continue to heed her wishes as long as her life is not in immediate risk. However, she is massively undernourished, if she goes another day without eating in her condition I will be forced to notify medical per my programming.”

“I understand, Jarvis. Thanks.”

“May I suggest a light soup and an electrolyte fortified beverage? I worry her system cannot handle much else.”

“Good call.” He opens the pantry to find a can of chicken noodle.

“That would be most excellent I believe. I will have one of the bots bring the beverage for her.”

“Thanks, Jarvis.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bucky isn’t much of a cook but thankfully he can manage a can of soup. Just before it’s done Dum-E slips in quietly with a basket from the main kitchen with bottles of Pedialyte. He pats the weird bot on the head, always viewing it like a friendly dog more than a machine, and it lets itself out.

He brings the soup to the coffee table and gently tries to wake you.

“Y/N,” he shakes your shoulder gently, “I know you’re tired but I need you to wake up for just a few minutes.” Nothing. “Doll? Come on, wake up for me.” Another shake.

With a gasp, you shoot up, frantically looking around the room, tendrils of light snaking every which way under your skin. Bucky grabs your shoulders.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” his voice is kind but stern, he needs you to hear him. “Look at me, Y/N.” You do finally and the light comes on, he can feel you relax in his grip.

Moving a strand of hair from your face he says, “Sorry, I know you need sleep, but you’ve got to try and eat something.” Your head sort of falls to the side rather than turn to see the soup on the table behind Bucky, brows knit.

“You don’t have to eat much, just something. Ok?” You nod, eyes fluttering a bit. For a second he’s worried he’s going to have to feed you, worried you’re that far gone, but you pull your self together and reach for the bowl. He hands it to you and surprisingly you make it through half.

“I can’t,” you say handing it back.

“That's ok,” he takes it. “Here,” he hands you the Pedialyte standing to take your bowl to the kitchen. “Sip this.”

You smile a bit, “So bossy,” you say looking up at him. A genuine smile fills his face, you had said that the night you were together. He strokes the side of your face and heads into the kitchen.

Back in the living room, he sits at the end of the couch as you drink what you can. You set it down, shaking your head.

“Ok, let’s get you to bed.” You look up at him, terror on your face. “I’ll be with you. If you want me to be.”

“Please,” you say, your voice less hoarse than before. He nods and holds out a hand. You stand a little more steadily and make your way to his room.

He gives you a shirt and a pair of boxers to change into assuming you don’t want to sleep in your gym clothes. While you’re in the bathroom he changes too, into pajama bottoms and turns the bed down. When you come out he has to force himself to not gawk. For some reason, you look incredible in his shirt and boxers. He swallows hard.

“I guess this will make three pieces of clothing I need to get back to you,” you say, voice sounding steady. Good.

“I’ll send you an invoice,” he says taking a few steps toward you. Tenderly he caresses your arm, “Come on.”

In the bed, you immediately curl against him and he holds your right hand in his left pressing it to his chest.

He thinks you’re just about asleep when you say, “Bucky?”

“Yes, doll?”

“You meant it earlier right?” He doesn’t respond, “Your promise…”

His heart aches, “I did.”

“You’ll kill me, then.”

He won’t lie, “No.” You shoot up and stare at him, betrayal on your face. He’s unfazed and just cups your face in his right hand. “I’ll kill you if you’re about to lose control, I told you that the other night. But Hydra… anyone else… they won’t ever get close enough to you for it to matter.” His tone shifts cold and certain, “Ever.”

You stare at him for a minute before that sinks in, just how much he means it, what exactly it means. That he would take on anything to protect you from becoming someone else weapon again, anything.

You nod and in a flash your lips are on his. His hand is still hovering in the air where your face had been before it slowly rests on the back of your head. He lets this go on longer than he should he knows, you need rest, but he can’t help how good it feels to feel your lips on his, to have you in his arms.

Eventually, you sit up, leaning against his chest, looking down into his face, “Thank you.”

[Reader]

Your head is throbbing and your mouth feels like a damn desert. Logically you knew you weren’t fully out of the woods. This bout of trauma wrecked you, body and soul. Even so, you feel more human than you had for days. It was a start.

Bucky’s warm presence behind you feels something like comfort. You can’t tell if he’s awake but you press even closer to him, the weight of his right arm across your torso grounding. Reacting to your movement his hand flexes, laying flat on your stomach, holding you tight against him.

“Hey there,” the warmth of his breath on the back of your ear sends tingles all over your body. He begins to lift his arm and move but you grab it, holding him in place, not ready for him to let go. Immediately he settles back down and presses a kiss to the back of your head. Ugh, your hair was filthy, not that he seems to mind.

“Hey,” you rasp, voice almost as cracked as your lips.

“Excuse me,” Jarvis intones. “I’m very sorry to intrude but I have an urgent message from Mr. Stark informing you both that you need to be in the conference room in two hours. I didn’t want to wake you.” Bless Jarvis.

“You can tell Mr. Stark to go fuck himself,” Bucky snaps, his body tensing.

“Don’t tell him that Jarvis,” you sounded like a pack a day smoker.

“I had no intention to.”

You turn in Bucky’s arms to face him, “What the hell?”

His face is a mask of concern, “Whatever they need can wait. You’re not in any condition-“

“I can handle a conversation Bucky,” probably… “I mean… they gave us almost a week. That’s more than fair…”

“No.” His tone says there’s no argument here and your brows raise, “You need rest.”

Gently you move a few stray strands of hair from his face, “So do you,” the circles under his eyes were still dark.

He takes your hand in his and kisses your palm, “I’m ok, doll.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes, “we’re both far from ok. They deserve to know why.” He knows you’re right and sighs heavily before kissing your forehead.

“Ok.” He squeezes you tight before sitting up cross-legged on the bed.

As he leans forward you can’t help but ogle the way the muscles in his back move. If you weren’t so cotton-mouthed right now you’re not certain you wouldn’t be drooling. Sex drive had to be a good thing right?

Slowly, you sit up, not wanting to set the room spinning and kiss his back before laying your cheek on the warm flesh there. He hums a little, contented sound, reaching back to grab your hand.

“What if we have them come here?” His low voice vibrates through his torso.

“Here?”

“Yeah. Or your place. I just… if they wanna talk we can talk but they’re gonna come to you where you can be comfortable and…”

“I’m not in danger from them, Bucky.” The look on his face tells you he doesn’t trust that. It’s understandable, his concern.

Before, in Hydra, your display with him would have been grounds to be wiped and iced. You sigh heavily, “My place is… not currently fit for other people…” That was putting it lightly. Five days of depression, no sleep, and fighting the storm in your head meant it was just as wrecked as you were.

“They can come here, it’s fine,” he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Ok,” you pull away from him and run your fingers through your greasy hair. “I’ll head up and shower then-”

“No,” he says shaking his head, “you’re going to have some breakfast before you do anything.” You glance at the clock, it’s 12:30pm. “Brunch, whatever,” he says with a smile.

The thought of food makes your stomach growl, “Actually not going to fight you there.”

Bucky makes you simple eggs, dry toast, and water per Jarvis’ suggestion before getting in the shower himself. Surprising yourself, you manage to eat it all and don’t want to throw up. Progress. When he comes out, you’re loading the dishes into the washer.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, drying his hair, looking better than he had any right in his navy henley and grey sweats.

“Wanted to feel useful,” you say with a shrug. He comes into the kitchen and pulls you to him, smelling like that tea tree shampoo and toothpaste. This whole thing is so weird. Maybe weird is ok though…

“Just shower here, I’m sure I’ve got something you can wear,” his lips press against the crown of your head. You nod against his chest, “You not fighting me is a strange change of pace,” his voice is tinged with humor.

You shrug, the side of your face still pressed to him. “Don’t want to face my apartment yet is all...”

His left-hand takes your chin and tilts your face up, “That’s ok.” The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit when he smiles, “You’re welcome here as long as you like. When you’re ready I can help you get your place up to code… if you want.”

A laugh bursts from you and his brows knit in concern. “A little over a week ago I was thinking of ways to kill you. Now…” Your laugh swallows the rest of that statement.

“Now maybe you’re glad you didn’t?” He asks with a smirk. You cup his face and rise up a bit on your toes to press a quick kiss on his lips.

“Maybe. Don’t push your luck though,” you say with a wink.

He shakes his head, smiling, “Go shower.”

Stepping back from him your hand rises to your chest, “Are you saying I’m dirty?!”

He laughs, “No. I’m saying, you’re greasy. But we could work on dirty later if you want.” A devious smile lights his face and his tongue flits across his bottom lip.

You can’t help the huge smile that stretches it’s way across your own face and you playfully smack his chest as you walk past him, “Dick.”

Another laugh tumbles from him. You’re a few steps away when you feel his arms wrap around you and pull your back tight against his torso. His face is pressed against yours, his short beard tickling the skin on your cheek. You hold on to his forearms and lean into the embrace, letting the comforting feeling of him wash over you.

“I’ll put some clothes on the bed,” he says next to your ear, “and deal with Stark. Take your time.” With that, he kisses your cheek and releases you.

You sit on the bench in the shower and let the steam engulf you. The heat may relax some but for you it’s a boost, sending a low hum of energy thrumming through you, clearing your head. It’s a good thing too. There’s a feeling in your gut that this is going to be a fairly unpleasant conversation.

Sighing you stand, you’ve been in here long enough to be a touch pruney. Your muscles still ache from being tense with constant adrenaline for days and your legs shake just a bit but you’re miles ahead of where you were last night. It sinks in a bit just how close to the edge you were. If Bucky hadn’t come in… would you have lost it? And if you had…

Pushing the thought from your mind you shut the water off and reach for the plush towel. Your reflection in the mirror is, disheartening, to say the least. Hopefully, the hollowness in your cheeks and the purple under your eyes would tell enough of the story for you when everyone came in with their questions. You roughly dry your hair and find a hair tie in a drawer to toss it into a messy bun.

On the bed, Bucky has left you a pair of drawstring sweats and a hoodie, both in his favorite midnight blue color. They’re just big enough to be oversized but it’s so comfortable to be surrounded by warmth and his smell. Your eyes ache to close.

Bucky’s in the kitchen, setting out mugs and the smell of coffee fills the air. You were certain coffee wouldn’t be on Jarvis’ recommended list of nutrients for you at the moment but you’re feeling sleepier by the minute. If they want you to make it through this you’re going to need that boost.

“That smells like everything I need right now,” you hop onto one of the metal barstools by his island. He doesn’t question you and pours a large cup.

“How do you take it?”

“Black.” Your fingers curl around the mug he hands you, it has the Brooklyn bridge on the side, one of those things you find at gift shops all over the city. It’s now that you realize all the mugs are different.

Some like this one are souvenirs, a Broadway mug with comedy and tragedy masks, one from the Met with a Monet on the side. There are a few that look vintage, from the 70’s maybe. Others are novelty mugs. There’s one that looks like a camera lens, one says “Get Shit Done” on the side, another is shaped like a donut. You can’t help but smile.

He notices you looking, “I… uh, like mugs I guess.” Awkwardly he runs a hand through his hair. “Figured coffee would be good. My… my ma always made coffee when people came over…”

Your heart may actually burst. “You’re cute,” you say sipping what is actually an exceptional cup of coffee. He snorts and pours his own cup, this one with “Rocket Fuel” on the side and the NASA logo.

“Come on,” he heads into the living room. You hadn’t noticed he’d pulled his dining room chairs in here to accommodate the others. “There’s still a bit before they get here.”

Plopping onto the couch he hits play on the remote sitting on the side table, old jazz fills the space. Unsure where to sit you stand awkwardly between the kitchen and living room weighing your options.

“Psst,” he quips from the couch, you meet his gaze. A smile fills his face and beckons with his left hand. You take a tentative step in his direction, “The big chairs are comfortable too if-”

“No,” you say as you set your mug on the coffee table and sit next to him. His left arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you close. You lay your head against his chest and immediately feel your body relax. “This is perfect.”

#bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x enhanced reader

151 notes · View notes

afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin · 6 years ago

Text

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Request:

Pairing: Bucky X Reader (Enhanced)

Warnings: Honestly, this is, and I’m not lying, kind of FLUFFY WHAT?!

A/N: These two. I just… wow. I really like them ok? Also, I like thinking about fun quirks or hobbies Bucky may find himself being drawn to after everything. Little frivolous things that bring some happiness into his life and space.

I just hope y’all enjoy these tender moments. ♥️

(This is a repost because tumblr is stupid and somehow the link or something in the original is corrupted. I apologize for the double ((or triple idek what’s happening at this point)) notification tag list folks.)

Tags are open!

@midnightdream83 @mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @handplucked @buckysstar @sam-jae @marauder–harder @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @meg-asaur @jewelofwinter