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kjack89 · 3 years ago

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An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 13/14)

When this Author picked up the mantle left behind by the previous Lady Whistledown, it was with the intention of bringing a little levity to the otherwise long and sometimes dull proceedings that encompass the season, and to provide some color commentary that pokes fun at those otherwise generally unwilling to make light of themselves.

To that end, this Author has remarked upon and highlighted the general scandals that accompany this season as every season, the kind that serve to provide some drama to otherwise dull lives, but risk very little in terms of lasting damage.

This Author has never intended for this to cause actual harm, and as such, owes an apology to the Marquess of Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire. This Author does not dabble in morals, or legality; the sole concern of this column has been amusement, and the ruin of two gentlemen otherwise described by most who have met them as good men is something this Author cannot and will not be a part of any longer. While this Author cannot overstate that there was no prior knowledge of the truth behind the Marquess’s marriage, nonetheless the extra attention shone on it by and through this paper has brought harm, and for that, this Author is truly sorry.

While no promises can be made in regards to accidentally reporting similar in the future, this Author will certainly make every attempt to better vet sources before publishing rumor and innuendo. And the promise this Author does make is that the only additional mention of the Marquess of Enjolras or Mr. Grantaire in this paper will be for happy tidings, with best hopes for whatever they may face in the future. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 6 JUNE 1831

The summons did not arrive with the usual fanfare, so much so that Enjolras almost missed them entirely.

No gilded envelope hand stamped with the King’s own seal, no scarlet-clad guard from the palace delivering it. Just a small, plain parchment envelope instructing Enjolras to attend to His Majesty the King the following day.

In truth, he very nearly almost missed it entirely, since Porter, who normally would have brought him such things, was confined to bed for the immediate future as he recovered – and the surgeon had been quite strict in his instructions. But Grantaire, far less used to having the number of servants Enjolras did, had seen it sitting on the table in the foyer and brought it into the dining room with him when he came in for breakfast.

“This is good news,” he told Grantaire after scanning through the note, though Grantaire didn’t look convinced.

“To be summoned in front of those with the power to strip you of your titles and lands and throw you in the Tower for the rest of your days, unless they decide to chop off your head instead?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Better a meeting with the King and Queen than the constable,” he pointed out. “Besides, there’s a limit to what they can do, and if they’re intervening now, it will serve to prevent the worst from happening.” He stood to leave the breakfast table before pausing and bending to kiss the top of Grantaire’s head. “In any case, the usual death in this situation would be by hanging, not beheading.”

“Because that’s so comforting a thought,” Grantaire said sourly.

“It should be.”

Grantaire stared at him. “The thought of you being hanged instead of beheaded?”

Enjolras gave him a look. “No, that the King wants to meet with me. I’m not fool enough to think my death by anything other than old age would bring you any comfort.”

Grantaire pretended to consider it. “Going out in a blaze of glory as you attempt to bring the whole damned system to its knees might.”

“Only if you are by my side as proof that I have won you over in the end.”

Grantaire’s expression softened for a moment. “I would die by your side in an instant, but I don’t think that’s proof of anything.” He kissed Enjolras before returning to the subject at hand. “In any case, why should the King wanting to meet with you bring me any comfort whatsoever?”

“Because it means the Crown wants this handled quickly and quietly,” Enjolras said. “Meaning very likely no public trial, and almost certainly no public execution.”

“That would be more comforting without the qualifiers ‘very likely’ and ‘almost certainly’.”

Enjolras sighed. “There is very little in life that is absolutely certain besides death and taxes.”

Grantaire smirked. “And as I have heard you rail about numerous times, the certainty of taxes is not always applied evenly.”

“Do you know, that may be the most romantic thing you have ever said to me,” Enjolras said, grinning at him.

“Oh, hush,” Grantaire said, but he was laughing, and seemed, for the moment at least, to forget his concerns about Enjolras’s impending appointment with the Crown.

They resurfaced in full force the following day as Enjolras adjusted his cravat while waiting for the carriage to pull around. “How do I look?” he asked, and Grantaire cast a baleful eye at him.

“Dressed well enough for a meeting with the King and Queen, and not at all like you’re headed to imprisonment or worse.”

Enjolras managed not to roll his eyes, mostly because he did not think it would help the situation. “Luckily for both us, I highly doubt the latter options will come to pass.”

But Grantaire didn’t smile, just reaching out to take Enjolras’s hand. “Just come back to me,” he whispered.

“I have every intention of doing so,” Enjolras told him, his voice low.

Grantaire sighed. “You know I’m going to be a nervous wreck until you do,” he said. “Just like I am every time you’re in danger, even if normally you’re the idiot who’s put yourself there.”

Enjolras half-smiled. “Arguably I’ve put myself in this danger as well.”

Grantaire gave him a look. “We’ve had this argument before,” he said evenly.

“Yes, and I still refuse to cast any blame on you.”

Grantaire just shook his head. “An argument we’ll have to continue another time, it seems.”

Now Enjolras managed a real smile. “Yes, and all the more reason for me to return. You know I hate to leave a fight unfinished.”

“No, you hate to leave a fight unwon,” Grantaire said pointedly, but for the first time all morning, he looked a little less miserable, and Enjolras took that as a small win in and of itself.

“Are they not one and the same?” he asked innocently, leaning in to kiss Grantaire, who stopped him, his face falling again.

“Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras frowned.

“What?”

Grantaire searched his expression for a moment before blurting, “I have never once wished you to be less than who you are, and I do not wish it now. The man I love does not back down from a challenge, and his tongue is sharper than any sword.” He paused as if choosing his next words carefully. “But I beg of you, tread lightly. I will not love you less for holding back if it means you survive to fight another day.”

Enjolras did kiss him then, a slow, heated kiss that said hopefully everything he couldn’t bring himself. “I cannot promise my mouth will not get me in trouble. But I do promise I will not deliberately seek it out.” Grantaire made a face and Enjolras gave him a pointed look. “It’s as good a promise as you will get from me.”

“I know.”

“And yet you don’t seem satisfied.”

Grantaire sighed. “I will be satisfied when you are home with me again.”

“And with luck, that will be before you know it,” Enjolras told him bracingly, so convincingly that he almost believed it himself, enough to get him out the door and into the carriage before finally allowing himself to feel the nerves he’d been trying to swallow all morning.

What he had told Grantaire was the truth: this meeting almost certainly meant no real punishment was in store for him.

But he had very little idea of what was in store for him. And that worried him most of all.

----------

Enjolras slowly closed the door behind him, unsurprised when Grantaire immediately appeared from the drawing room, a glass of whiskey in hand, which, judging by the glassiness of his eyes, wasn’t the first he’d had. “Are you ruined?” he asked.

“Define ruined,” Enjolras said, a little grimly.

Grantaire scowled. “Perhaps now is not the time to be glib.”

Enjolras just shook his head as he crossed to him, dropping a kiss on his lips and grabbing the glass of whiskey from his hand, downing it in one gulp. “I wasn’t,” he rasped, handing the glass back to Grantaire and making his way into the drawing room. “The fact is that there is a limit to the punishment I can receive, barring criminal conviction and without an Act of Parliament.” He collapsed onto the couch, reaching up automatically to loosen his cravat. “The Crown has taken what actions it can, which is to say, I am no longer the Viscount of Digne.”

He delivered the words solemnly, but Grantaire just blinked in response. “I did not realize that you were.”

“It is a customary title bestowed upon the current Marquess of Enjolras, with some associated lands,” Enjolras said with a shrug. “Both will be given to more deserving peers, I’m sure.” He hesitated before adding, “Also, none of our issue will be eligible to inherit my title or any lands, save for that which I own outright.”

Grantaire stared blankly at him. “Any of our issue?” he repeated. “As in children?”

Enjolras made a face. “Well, technically my issue. I don’t think the Crown cares so much about yours.” He cleared his throat. “But if I were to remarry and sire children, none of those children would inherit.”

Grantaire raised both eyebrows. “And what are the chances of that?”

“Absolutely none,” Enjolras said, barking a dry laugh. “The King has also told me that my services to his Court will no longer be necessary, meaning my various ceremonial duties will doled out to others and my power at Court, so to speak, is diminished. Beyond that, I retain my title of Marquess and associated lands and riches, which means I will lead a very comfortable life.” He reached out for Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together before raising his hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “With you at my side, and without having to hide. So to answer your question, no, I don’t consider that ruin. I consider that a gift.”

Grantaire looked relieved, but he still hesitated. “Even though I will be almost certainly landless and penniless?” he asked, and when Enjolras just frowned at him, he sighed and elaborated, “I doubt highly my father will continue to grant me my allowance and use of the houses when he receives Le Cabuc’s letter.”

Enjolras squeezed his hand. “The Enjolras purse has sustained this family for generations. There’s more than enough left to take care of the man I love.”

Grantaire searched his expression for a moment. “Yet you don’t seem completely satisfied. What else did the King say?”

“Well—”

Before Enjolras could elaborate further, someone cleared her throat from the doorway, and they both turned to look at Enjolras’s mother, who looked unusually somber. “Am I interrupting?”

On instinct alone, Enjolras started to pull his hand away from Grantaire’s, but Grantaire held tight, squaring his shoulders as he met Enjolras’s mother’s expression coolly. “As a matter of fact, you are. Your son and I are having a private conversation.”

He turned back to Enjolras, who tried not to laugh at the look on his mother’s face. But to his surprise, his mother did not immediately snap some dismissive rebuttal, instead inclining her head slightly. “And you have my apologies for intruding, especially at this trying time. But I need to speak to my son, alone, especially in light of his recent visit to the palace.”

Enjolras wasn’t surprised that she had somehow heard about his summons. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of me,” Grantaire said firmly. “Your son and I are sharing our lives, and that includes dealing with whatever family affairs you’ve brought with you.” He again turned to look at her. “And need I remind you, your part in our deception has not yet been revealed, but I will be more than happy to tell anyone and everyone who will listen what drove your son to the desperation of a fake marriage in the first place. I doubt highly your friends among the nobility will be impressed by what they learn.”

Enjolras’s mother’s lips pursed, but again, Enjolras was completely thrown by her response. “Thank you,” she said simply, and Grantaire’s cold expression slipped as he glanced over at Enjolras, who just shrugged. “I can see that you are protective of my son, and while I may not appreciate your tone, I do appreciate knowing that my son has found someone who loves him as...vigorously as you clearly do.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed, but Enjolras cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” he told Grantaire, squeezing his hand once more. “I trust her enough to have a conversation with her, and I can fight my own battles as needed.”

“Are you certain?” Grantaire asked in an undertone, eyeing Enjolras’s mother warily. “I believe you can fight your own battles, but it’s her I don’t trust��”

Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately. “I have managed this long,” he assured him.

“Fine.” Grantaire stood, but before leaving, he bent and kissed Enjolras, a long, slow kiss that Enjolras was fairly certain was for his mother’s benefit more than his own.

Not that he minded, since getting to kiss Grantaire and enrage his mother in the same blow was as close to perfection as Enjolras was likely to see in his lifetime.

Then Grantaire straightened again and winked at Enjolras before finally leaving, sidling past his mother with little more than a second glance. For her part, his mother looked mostly impassive at the display she had just witnessed, and she finally fully entered the room, perching imperiously on the armchair. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for tea,” she said with a sniff.

Enjolras barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “You might have heard that my butler was attacked,” he said sourly. “I’m sorry if him being laid up recovering from being shot is inconvenient to you.”

“I did hear about Porter, yes, but that’s not to what I was referring,” she said. “Have the servants started fleeing en masse?”

“None have yet offered their resignations, if that’s what you mean,” Enjolras said.

“Of course it’s what I mean,” she snapped. “This is a tainted household now – I doubt most will want to stay. Especially as they’ve no way to ingratiate themselves with whomever the next Marquess will be.” Her lips pursed again. “Do you even know which distant relative is your heir, now that you will almost certainly never sire children of your own?”

Enjolras shrugged unconcernedly. “A third cousin, isn’t it? Lives somewhere out in the west, if memory serves.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I’m surprised you know that.”

“You once told me all about him when I threatened to abdicate after Father died,” Enjolras said mildly. “You seemed to think it would convince me to think otherwise.”

“Clearly it did.”

Enjolras laughed dryly. “I hate to tell you, Mother, but that actually played a very small part in my decision.”

She scowled. “Perhaps you should have abdicated back then. It may have made for an easier transition for all involved.”

“Perhaps so,” Enjolras said honestly, as it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind. “But we are well past that point now.”

“In more ways than one.” She paused, giving him a searching look. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to convince you to reconsider.”

Enjolras shook his head. “None.”

His mother nodded, her expression unreadable. “Then that’s the end of it.”

Enjolras hesitated, before saying, as casually as he could manage, “You seem…decidedly less surprised by this whole situation than I would expect.”

“What precisely is there to be surprised about?” she asked.

There were any number of things that Enjolras had expected her to be either shocked or scandalized by, let alone surprised, but the look on her face stopped him. “You mean…you knew?”

“That you were…otherwise inclined?” she provided delicately. “Of course I knew. A mother always knows.” Her expression twisted. “Though I rather hoped you would grow out of it, or at least do the sensible thing and marry a woman while seeking your amusement elsewhere.”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “I’m not certain I see that as the sensible thing.”

She considered it for a moment before shrugging. “Perhaps not,” she said. “But more sensible than being stripped of your lands and titles.”

“Not all my lands, or all my titles,” Enjolras told her. “The Viscount of Digne is the only major one.”

She made a face. “No real loss there, the bishop in that area rules it with an iron fist and will probably be glad to see the backside of our family.”

Enjolras trusted her to know more about it than he did or frankly cared to. “And there’s a few minor lands that will be redistributed but for the most part, Grantaire and I have made it out unscathed.”

Again his mother made a face. “I don’t know that I would go that far—”

“I imagine you wouldn’t,” Enjolras muttered.

“—But all things considered, it could have been much worse.”

On that, at least, she was correct. “And I’m certain you’ll be glad to know that your own holdings will not be affected, nor your allowance,” he told her. “And Grantaire is letting you keep the dowry.”

That seemed to surprise her. “That is...generous of him,” she allowed, before frowning at her son. “But you speak as if all you think I care about is money.”

Enjolras just arched an eyebrow. “You have given me little evidence to suggest otherwise.”

“Caring about the well-being of my only son isn’t evidence enough?”

He managed not to roll his eyes, but just barely. “Faux sincerity isn’t your strong suit, Mother,” he informed her. “If you wish to convince me, you’ll have to try a different tack.”

To his surprise, she laughed lightly. “Maybe I will, when all the dust has settled,” she said, standing and brushing invisible dust from her skirt before telling him, “I will be leaving the city for the near future, and possibly even the country for a bit. I need my friends and allies at court to think that I was not party to this.”

“You weren’t,” Enjolras said, his brow furrowed. “And you are certainly at liberty to tell anyone you need to as such.”

“I have, and I will,” she said. “But I will also not outwardly condemn you the way they would wish, and that to some is enough to make them think otherwise.”

For the first time in what Enjolras was certain was his entire life, he was speechless. He had frankly expected her to do exactly that in order to maintain her social standing. “You could,” he blurted, ignoring the raised eyebrow she gave him. “Condemn us, I mean. I would not hold it against you if you did.”

“You and I both know that you absolutely would,” she said dryly. “But more than that, you are my son. For all your faults and all our disagreements, public and otherwise, that has never changed. And it will not change now.”

Enjolras was again taken aback by what she said. “Thank you,” he managed, before adding, a little wryly, “I think.”

A small smile crossed her face. “You’re welcome, I think. And now I should leave you to the start of your new life.”

She turned to head to the door, clearly deeming her role in this complete for the time being, but Enjolras stopped her, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you think of Grantaire?” he asked. “Now that you know what he is to me.”

She looked back at him, surprised. “You have never sought my approval before.”

“And I’m not seeking it now,” Enjolras said. “Just curious what you think.”

She nodded slowly. “He is not who I would have chosen for you,” she said after a long moment. “But then again, this life is not what I would have chosen for you.”

It was no more than what Enjolras had expected, but before he could say anything, she continued, “I know what you think of me, that you think me cold, and vain, and cruel. And there is certainly more than a little truth to that.” He looked up at her sharply, surprised by this most of all. “I know I shall always play the role of villain in your story. But despite what you may think, I have only ever wanted you to be happy.” She hesitated. “And it makes me terribly sad to know you have chosen a path where the world very well may never let you be happy.”

Enjolras just shook his head slowly. “The difference between you and I, Mother, is that I have never needed the approval of the world to be happy.” He gave her a sharp smile. “Hang what anyone else thinks. So long as I have Grantaire, we will make our own happiness.”

She returned his smile. “I do not doubt that you will. As I said before, you two make quite the pair, and whatever else you may think, I am glad that you two found each other.”

With that, she left, and Enjolras sat where he was for a long moment, digesting everything that had transpired. This had been a day of surprises, from his meeting with the King and Queen to now his conversation with his mother, and he shook his head slowly before standing to go find Grantaire.

He found him in the library, sitting sideways in an oversized armchair, his legs draped over the arm of the chair as he skimmed through a book with seemingly little interest. He brightened when he saw Enjolras come in, tipping his head up automatically for a kiss. “Is she gone?” he asked as Enjolras settled onto the sofa across from him.

“For now, yes.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “But not forever?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not even this scandal was enough to be rid of her forever. But I am...strangely not as bothered by that thought as I once would have been.”

Grantaire blinked. “Did she hit you on the head while she was in there with you?”

“Something like that, anyway,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “But enough about my mother. Where were we?”

He eyed Grantaire appreciatively, mentally trying to determine the mechanics of what they could do with him in that position, and Grantaire scowled. “Certainly not doing that,” he informed him, sitting upright. “You were finishing telling me about your audience with the King and Queen.”

“Oh. Right.” Enjolras shrugged and looked away. “Well, the Archbishop is apparently pushing for us to be excommunicated.”

Grantaire snorted. “Does that mean I no longer have to go to church?” he asked idly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Well, among other things. But there’s an issue.”

“What’s that?”

“We could be imprisoned if we’re excommunicated, for a start.”

Grantaire just arched an eyebrow. “Just as we could be imprisoned for sodomy?”

Enjolras made a face. “The Crown has no intention of pursuing those charges,” he said. “But getting excommunicated could lend credence to future attempts at levying those charges, at likely the least opportune time.”

Grantaire considered it for a moment. “Well. We’ve faced worse prospects.”

Enjolras frowned. “You seem remarkably blasé about the prospect of excommunication, considering how concerned you’ve been about the possibility of imprisonment or worse for the other charges.”

“Mostly because you don’t seem particularly worried about it, and I imagine if this were an actual threat, you’d be somewhat less calm,” Grantaire said evenly. “Besides, I had several glasses of whiskey while you were out so it will take quite a bit for me to get riled at this point.”

“You didn’t seem to have any difficulty getting riled at my mother,” Enjolras pointed out.

Grantaire smiled grimly. “That was a more immediate danger.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Well, you’re not wrong about this not being an actual threat, I suppose. The Monarchy has little desire to create a public spectacle via excommunication and as the Head of the Church, I imagine that’s the end of the matter.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Does that mean you’re actually going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Excommunication isn’t enough?” Enjolras asked, mostly rhetorically, and when Grantaire just gave him a look, he sighed. “Fine… I need to get word to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. We have much to discuss ahead of our next meeting.”

“Are you purposefully avoiding the question, or…?”

“I promise I am not,” Enjolras said, his voice low. “But they need to know, because this concerns all of us.” He paused, trying to figure out how to word what he needed to tell both Grantaire and his closest lieutenants. “I was...as surprised as any that the King did not wish to pursue any additional punitive matters. As a whole, the punishment dealt to me is mild, to say the least. And what troubles me is the reason he gave for why.”

Grantaire frowned. “He gave you a reason?”

Enjolras barked a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, he gave me many. Most were mere platitudes, that out of respect for the service of my father, he would take no additional measures, etcetera, but he also alluded to his hope that our...situation would not inconvenience my political work.” He cleared his throat before adding sardonically, “That he hoped our allies would not abandon us with my public declaration of depravity.”

“And you suspect he actually hopes the opposite,” Grantaire said slowly.

Enjolras nodded. “I’m not going to pretend that my political sympathies are or have ever been well-received at court, and I think most were content to look the other way and pretend that the protests and political actions were the fun side project of an otherwise bored noble. Something I would grow out of in time. But now…”

He trailed off, and Grantaire’s expression turned grim. “Now they might not be so content to look the other way.”

“No,” Enjolras agreed. “And if I or any of our number were to get arrested—”

“Arrested again, you mean,” Grantaire said with the hint of a smile that Enjolras did not return.

“—My position is no longer enough to stave off any significant consequences.”

Grantaire went very still. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning I may not be ruined. We may not be ruined. But Les Amis may be.”

----------

In lieu of coming over to Enjolras’s to discuss the situation, Combeferre suggested via return message that they call a special meeting of Les Amis. “That seems unusual,” Grantaire murmured, his brow furrowed as he read over the brief message. “Why would they not just come here?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t want to be seen entering a den of sin,” he said, more blithely than he remotely felt.

“Jest all you wish, but you cannot pretend the thought hasn’t entered your mind,” Grantaire said. “Not that I believe any of our friends will turn on us entirely, but they are all trying to make marriages of their own, and to be tainted by association…”

He trailed off, and Enjolras just shook his head. “That is their prerogative, and I will not hold it against any man to abide by his conscience.”

“Or by the prospect of increasing his purse?” Grantaire asked sourly.

Enjolras shrugged again. “If that is truly their reasoning, I doubt highly we would be associates for much longer in any case.”

Still, it was with an unusual amount of trepidation that they approached the Musain, and Enjolras hesitated before instructing his driver to drop them off at the back of the building by the worker’s entrance. “I do not doubt they would still receive us at the front entrance,” he told Grantaire. “I am, after all, still a marquess and a certain amount of respect must be paid. But I would rather not put them in that position all the same.”

Grantaire managed a wan smile. “You need not explain yourself to me,” he said. “I understand as well as any that the situation is complicated.”

Enjolras glanced at him. “Speaking of,” he said carefully, “have you heard yet from your father?”

“No.” Grantaire’s tone was clipped as he avoided meeting Enjolras’s eyes, looking out the carriage window instead. “I have not heard from him one way or another, so I have no indication if he has yet received Le Cabuc’s letter.”

“Could Le Cabuc have been bluffing?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Anything’s possible, but I doubt it,” he said. “He always did prefer my father to me.” He hesitated before adding, “I thought I might make a preemptive trip back to the house and gather some belongings. Just some personal effects, and things from my mother and sister that I would rather not lose to my father’s whims.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “That is probably not a terrible idea.” He hesitated before asking, “Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

“I suspect that would cause more problems than it’s worth,” Grantaire said. “If I go by myself, I can hopefully slip in and out mostly unnoticed.”

Enjolras had expected that answer, but he couldn’t pretend that it didn’t sting, just a little. “Of course.”

Something of what he was feeling must’ve shown on his face, but Grantaire’s expression softened as he added, “Which doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t love for you to return with me, or that I won’t miss you dreadfully while I’m gone.”

“But this is the reality of the life we’ve chosen,” Enjolras said heavily. “Going in the servants’ entrance to avoid being seen. Travelling incognito to not cause a scene. Less visitors or invitations to visit because people won’t wish to be associated with us.”

Grantaire eyed him warily. “I feel as though you are trying to make a point.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Just that I do not care about any of those things. But I would understand if you did, and if the reality of our life together does not align with what you may otherwise have expected.”

To his surprise, Grantaire laughed. “How many times must you and I have this conversation?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish that you had chosen a better life for yourself than one stuck with me, who was always titleless and is about to be in short order landless and penniless to boot, just as you wish I had chosen a better life for myself,” Grantaire said, a little impatiently. “But you and I both know that the best choice, the only choice, is each other and whatever accompanies that.”

Enjolras laughed as well, feeling a little relieved that they were on the same page in terms of what mattered. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Grantaire said smugly before reaching for Enjolras’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Une vie et un amour, remember?”

“Fidelitas usque ad mortem,” Enjolras said, his voice low, and Grantaire smiled.

“And I still aim to be.”

Together, they stepped down from the carriage and made their way into the Musain through the backdoor. The workers they passed barely gave them second glances, though Enjolras assumed that was likely because they recognized them as frequent patrons, and knew better than to stop or question them.

But despite arriving almost a half hour before the meeting Combeferre had called was set to begin, when they reached the backroom, they could hear the buzz of voices through the closed door. Grantaire gave him a startled look. “Has the meeting already begun?”

“It certainly appears that way,” Enjolras said, feeling inexplicably nervous as he stared at the closed door, straining to hear what was being said beyond it.

“Did Combeferre not say that it would start at 9?”

Enjolras nodded. “He did, but…” He trailed off, not willing to vocalize his doubts. Instead, he squared his shoulders and opened the door, walking in with Grantaire at his side. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood at the front of the room, the rest of their number assembled, all looking unusually somber, and all conversation stalled as soon as they looked back at Enjolras. “Forgive the interruption,” Enjolras said coolly, closing the door behind him. “I did not realize the hour of our meeting had changed.”

“It didn’t,” Combeferre said, his expression impassive. “But there was certain business we felt we should attend to before your arrival.”

“What sort of business?” Grantaire asked with a frown.

Combeferre did not seem deterred by his tone. “The business of determining if your continued membership amongst our association is beneficial or a detriment, mostly.”

“I see,” Enjolras said, his heart sinking in his chest. “Well, don’t let us impede your discussion.”

“We have nothing left to discuss,” Courfeyrac interjected. “All that remains is to vote.”

Grantaire reached out and took Enjolras’s hand, lacing their fingers together firmly. Combeferre cleared his throat. “All those in favor of expelling Enjolras and Grantaire from our number due to their sexual deviance and the threat that it poses to Les Amis and our efforts?”

Not a single hand rose in the air, and Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s hand.

“And all those opposed?”

As one, all of their friends raised their hands before standing and applauding. Joly and Bossuet were positively beaming, Courfeyrac wolf-whistled, and Combeferre stepped forward to embrace Enjolras. “There was never any doubt which way the vote would go,” he told Enjolras, “but I knew you would not be satisfied if there was no vote at all.”

“Besides, if we start exiling people for buggery, there are more than a few of us who would be in trouble,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully as he embraced Enjolras as well.

“Hear, hear,” Bahorel chortled.

Joly took Bossuet’s hand and squeezed it. “Grantaire helped us avoid a scandal of our own, and we owe him our loyalty,” he said. “Besides which, I swore to go through fire for you, and I would not forsake that oath lightly.”

“Thank you, my friends,” Enjolras said quietly, his chest tight with emotion.

Grantaire squeezed his hand once more before leaning in and whispering in his ear, “It appears I am not the only one who understands the meaning of loyalty until death.” Enjolras wordlessly squeezed his hand in return and Grantaire smiled at him before asking Courfeyrac, “But one of our number is missing, is he not? Where is your erstwhile roommate this evening?”

“Oh, he has found the girl he was looking for,” Courfeyrac said airily. “It turns out your little announcement was good for more than one thing – she was the one who swooned in his arms!”

Much laughter greeted that announcement and Enjolras shook his head. “Leave it to Marius…” he started before trailing off, glancing around the room at the smiling faces of each of his friends, all those whom he loved most in this world. “Thank you all,” he said softly. “I know this will not be easy, but I appreciate your continued faith and love.”

“Our goal has always been to fight against oppressive powers in whatever form,” Combeferre told him. “And condemning men based on consensual acts in their bed chamber would be playing into that oppression.”

“Just promise us one thing,” Bossuet interjected.

Enjolras raised both eyebrows. “What’s what?”

“No funny business,” Bossuet said, mock-sternly. “No suddenly agreeing with everything the other says just because it’s your lover saying it.”

Again everyone laughed and Enjolras shook his head good-naturedly. “I don’t think we’re in much danger of that.”

“After all,” Grantaire added slyly, “what I love far more than him agreeing with me is that delightful shade of red he gets when he so vehemently disagrees with me. Who am I to give that up now?”

“In truth,” Enjolras said when the laughter again died down, “we aim to keep things as much the same as we can.”

“And we’ll be relying on you lot to keep it that way,” Grantaire said.

“There’s one other promise we would ask,” Feuilly said, glancing around. “Or at least, that I would ask.”

Enjolras’s smile faded, just slightly, at Feuilly’s far more serious tone. “If it is in our power to grant it, we will.”

“No more lies.” There were a few murmurs of agreement that Feuilly waited to die down before continuing, “There is not a man among us who does not understand the reason for your deception, but we in this room are brothers, and we deserve the truth no matter what consequence it may bring.”

Grantaire took Enjolras’s hand once more and squeezed it before affirming, “No more lies. We owe not just you the truth from here on out, but each other as well. And it’s the very least that we can give in return for your generosity and personal sacrifices.”

“In that case, let us open the wine and get the celebration started,” Jehan called, standing up on his chair to be seen. “To Enjolras and Grantaire!”

“To Enjolras and Grantaire!” everyone repeated, whatever glasses they had in hand, and Enjolras rolled his eyes with obvious affection before leaning in and kissing Grantaire as everyone cheered.

Grantaire was grinning as he pulled away, and that sight alone was enough to make everything they had endured and everything that they had left to endure absolutely worth it in Enjolras’s opinion. But before he could say anything to that effect to Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet grabbed Grantaire by both arms, tugging him away. “You owe us more than mere truth,” Joly said, with an almost evil grin. “You owe us details.”

“Exactly,” Bossuet said, wearing a matching smile. “And we want to hear all about your first time bedding Enjolras.”

“We promised the truth, not all the gory details,” Grantaire protested, making a pleading face at Enjolras, who just laughed.

Before he could rescue him, Combeferre pulled him aside. “I wanted a moment, if it is not too much of an imposition.”

Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder. “For you, my friend, never. Especially as I believe I owe you especially an apology for our deceit.”

Combeferre shook his head. “I understand it more now,” he said. “And honestly, I’m surprised I did not put the pieces together earlier.”

“Grantaire said he was always a little obvious, even if I never noticed either,” Enjolras said good-naturedly.

But Combeferre just shook his head. “Grantaire may have been, but it’s you I should have noticed.”

“Me?”

Combeferre shrugged. “Looking back on it, all the clues were there, least of all how you allowed Grantaire to stay, not just for meetings, but well into the night when you were ostensibly working, a privilege bestowed on no one else. And I cannot help but think that if I had noticed sooner, we would have had more time to plan, to minimize the fallout.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “My friend, you could have told me until you were blue in the face that I was completely and obviously in love with Grantaire, and I would never have believed you,” he said. “It was something I needed to figure out with him.” He made a face. “Though you are right that I should have told you sooner, before we made our announcement, so that plans could have been made in advance, and for that, I do owe you an apology.”

“One that I readily accept,” Combeferre told him. “And the only recompense I ask from you is the answer to this: are you happy?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, without even needing to consider it. “More so than I thought was possible, or at least probable.”

Combeferre gave him a wide, genuine smile. “Then the rest we will deal with when or if the time comes.”

Again, Enjolras’s chest felt tight with emotion, with the weight of how much his friends cared for him and Grantaire. “I truly do not know how to thank you, how to thank everyone, for what you have given Grantaire and myself.”

“There is no need to thank us,” Combeferre said. “Especially since you have given us something equally precious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are free,” Combeferre said simply. “And that gives the rest of us hope.”

----------

Enjolras let out a sigh of relief mingled with happiness as he sat down in the waiting carriage. Grantaire clambered in after him, and sat down on the bench next to him instead of sitting across from him. “That went well.”

“That went far better than well,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire glanced sideways at him. “Surely you did not expect Combeferre or Courfeyrac to abandon you, or honestly any of our friends.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “In truth, I did not know what to expect.” He nudged Grantaire gently. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Whatever for?”

“For making my life complete,” Enjolras said honestly. “And so completely happy.”

Grantaire smiled at him, his eyes shining even in the dim light of the carriage, but he promptly ruined the moment by asking, “How much wine did you drink?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I had half a glass at best,” he protested. “Not nearly enough to undermine my sincerity. Nor my conviction that somehow, against all odds and, frankly, against our own efforts to the contrary, everything for us is turning out better than I ever could have imagined, let alone hoped.”

Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “We have been extraordinarily lucky,” he murmured.

“We have been,” Enjolras agreed, squeezing Grantaire’s hand. “We have our friends, and we have each other. Whatever else comes our way, so long as we still have that, we will be fine.”

“More than fine,” Grantaire corrected, raising Enjolras’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Our future will be happy. Of that, I am as certain as anything.”

“Being in love really has changed you if you suddenly start espousing convictions,” Enjolras teased.

But Grantaire just smiled at him. “It’s changed us both.”

“For the better?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire kissed him, a gentle, sweet kiss that was a promise of more to come. “For the best.”

#enjolras #grantaire #exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #les amis #bridgerton au #canon era #regency au #chaptered #part 13 #fake marriage

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mcd-ms-rants · 4 years ago

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*opens tumblr*

*looks at activity*

8 notes??!!

hhhhh I don’t deserve u all thanks soo much <3

well u asked for it

be warned it’s super lengthy again

STUFF I DIDNT LIKE IN MCD SEASON 2:

• Right of the bat I’m just gonna say this season is a hot mess

• what is even going on here

• Why is Phoenix Drop so...untouched? Like yes it’s grown old with age but also everything looks ok not like burnt to the ground or anything

• I’m SURE Zane would have told someone in O’Khasis where he was going especially the Jury and you’re telling me that none of them care?? Not even Janus? His fave juror?

• If I were Janus I’d burn it down just sayin

• Why is Irene’s relic so glorified? I SHOULVE INCLUDED THIS IN THE LAST POST BUT WHY TF DOES ZANE NOT USE ESMUNDS RELIC LIKE WHYYY

• I don’t like how Irene has healing and everyone goes wow but we NEVER GET TO SEE ESMUNDS RELIC (I haven’t rewatched MCD in a while if he does use it lmk and ignore the above :) thx) I’m sure it’s pretty powerful considering in s3 Shad says “a spell by Esmund?” when he sees the protective barrier thing around the portal so it’s powerful and the Irene Dimension fight would have gone different with it

• Why does Aphmau act like a shit friend by venting to Laurance and then ditch him when he needs her most? Like you can’t just keep dumping your problems on him he’s got his own to deal with be supportive

• I LOVE VYLAD that’s it that’s all I have to say

• tho I wish we could have seen more of him and the relationship he shared with his brothers cuz angst time

• HOW is Aphmau able to disguise herself as Zane and WHY do people not question it? She has a different build and body structure, different colored eyes, two eyes not one, tan skin and some chest like cmon that disguise is fooling NO ONE also why is it normal for ‘Zane‘ to show up fifteen years after he was last seen? Why does this make no sense

• This may seem a bit much and honestly you’re welcome to your own opinions on it but I feel as though Zane should have had more of a role in s2. Hear me out. The way his character is written is that his untouchable status as a high priest is a big part of his character. It’s why he’s able to get away with so much shit. Removing that like in s3 ruined him (for me) and not using him at all in s2 seems like wasting a perfectly fine (albeit unoriginal) antagonist. Yes it would mean pretty much everything would change but yknow what maybe it needs to

• AARON. That’s it he’s the problem. In my opinion Aarmau should never have happened. Aph is a lord and doesn’t have time for a romantic relationship. Aaron is a broken shell of a man who definitely doesn’t have the time for a romantic relationship. They speak like 5 times properly and even then it’s nothing overly romantic (as far as I know?). I don’t think naming a child counts as romantic I always saw it as familial?? Aarmau ended being a one night stand that caused Aph so much grief and all through I was just thinking that it should never have happened anyway. They should’ve had a strong platonic bond instead. QUEERPLATONIC RELATIONSHIP. Imagine. it would’ve been so much better. It would’ve brought awareness to a community that is not always shown in the spotlight but is as deserving of it. Why does Aaron stick around after Zane is in the Irene Dimension anyway? Didn’t he say that he was there solely for revenge? Isn’t his part done? Why is he still trailing after Aphmau

• THAT DEATH SCENE THO. Zane and Aaron both die from some unknown magical thing. what is it? I have no clue all I remember is that Aph found it somewhere. someone remind me? I don’t understand why Zane was killed off in the very way they were trying to avoid in s1 I get it it’s been fifteen years real time but...it seemed so underwhelming for me. Anyone else?

• Ive seen a lot of people mention this one before but Laurence should’ve been Shad’s descendant not Aaron it didn’t make sense to me

• WHAT IS THE POLITICAL SYSTEM OF O’KHASIS. It’s such a crucial part of MCD yet we never hear of it at all. Since Aph is a lord it matters a lot. I can elaborate more on this if anyone wants me to!!

• WTF is the lore here. In ep 100 Hyria says that Irene had no children and in ms s6 flashbacks I see a child? Whose is it? What is going on??

too tired to add more rn but if you reached here thanks once again I never expected any of this <3

#zane ro'meave #garroth ro'meave #mcd vylad #mcd garroth #aphmau #minecraft diaries #irene #rant #what is this hot mess #aaron lycan

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captainjimothycarter · 3 years ago

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Red Alert

Thanks to @youneedsomeprompts for this prompt! Color Symbols: Angst: Red: Danger On a side note, Tumblr PLEASE stop ruining my formatting from google docs to tumblr.

Sam and Natasha both make a suggestion for Steve to talk to a new therapist that might be more on his level of understanding his situation.

LINK

There was a prickle in the back of his head that he couldn’t quite shake. An itch that he couldn’t quite scratch. Nothing he did would stop it, even for a second. It practically lived in the back of his head, active every second of the day. It didn’t care if he was on a mission, running drills, helping citizens, out with friends, or trying to relax at home.

Steve Rogers always felt like he was on guard. That there was constant danger around him. That he couldn’t quite relax fully. That prickle in the back of his head never allowed him to relax either. At the slightest noise, rather it was the ice settling in the freezer, a cough down the hall, or an odd-sounding car passing by his apartment, Steve felt like he had to investigate the noise. He had to check it out and make sure the ice wasn’t a bug listening in on him or the cough wasn’t an intruder trying to attack him.

It interrupted him at all hours of the day, never allowing him to truly sleep. He slept, a few handfuls of hours here and there when his body allowed it. When he was truly exhausted, when the serum was on its last legs and scraping the bottom of the barrel, Steve found he would pass out for hours. Days even, if he was exhausted enough.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a true, peaceful night's sleep. Actually, he could. He’d just rather not remember it and feel the hallow guilt and pain erupt in his chest. He’d rather focus on the here and now because that’s all he’s had left.

It’s Sam who approaches him about it when Steve shows up after a group therapy session to join him for lunch. He looks exhausted, he knows he does. There are bags under his eyes, he’s pale, and his focus is waning. He has to force himself to listen to what Sam is talking about, watching his mouth move and taking in the words without truly listening.

“Steve!”

Steve jumps as fingers snap in his face, blinking. “I-I was...I was listening.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s no frustration or anger on Sam’s face, just concern as he settles back against the metal seat. He watches a few people walk by, fingers drumming on the table. “You haven’t been sleeping again, have you? Feelin’ on edge?”

Steve shrugged, which was his way of saying yes without truly saying it. It was hard to ask for help, but he didn’t need help. He just needed to rest.

“Figures. You’ve been watching that office window for the past ten minutes.”

“I...wasn’t,” Steve tried to weakly defend, but it fell on deaf ears. “I was just… There was a blinking light up there. Thought it was…” He shrugged, letting the sentence hang off.

“Morse code or something? I get it. You’re stuck in danger mode. You’re on edge. You’re strugglin’ with so much, Steve. It’s okay.”

There was no arguing with him, he was right and Sam knew he was right too. Steve just couldn’t think of anything to counter it, to help his friend not worry so much about him. “No, you’re right. I just...I can’t sleep. I can’t relax. I find myself waiting for the danger, constantly on edge. Nat says I had a panic attack the other night when Bruce accidentally flashed a light in my eyes. I don’t remember it.”

“I can’t imagine what it’s like being you, Steve. You got this...superhuman abilities. Your strength is one thing, but your senses? They’re so advanced and even for back then, all the new sounds and smells and sight. But compared to today where it’s all flashy and you didn’t grow up with it. It’s overwhelming. You’re overwhelmed, you’re…” He paused and looked up at his friend, trying to find the right words before settling on being blunt. “You have PTSD, Steve. We’ve talked about this, remember? Can’t keep workin’ yourself stupor. You deserve a break.”

PTSD - yeah, Steve knew all about it. Once Sam had told him it, in the kindest manner possible, Steve looked up everything he could. Everything matched - the symptoms, the exhaustion. How he was constantly on edge. He’d talked to a few people about it, even a therapist that Pepper had recommended but how could he get to someone’s level who wasn’t him?

Who didn’t understand him? Someone who had lived through one of the worst wars in history, who’d lived and lost hundreds of people he considered friends, crashed a plane into the ocean, and woke up in a new century? He’d lost everything. His sense of a home, his friends, his family.

Nothing could compare to that. No one could get on his level to understand beyond the war. Yet his understanding of war differed from others and while they’d matched on a level about it, it wasn’t fully. It wasn’t to a full degree that Steve could latch onto.

“You know,” Sam was saying, drawing Steve out of his thoughts. “There’s someone in Shield that Nat was talking about that might be able to help you. You might want to ask her about it.”

“Sam, no offense, but I’m not sure there are many who can help a hundred and one-year-old soldier from World War Two.” Sam rolled his eyes at him and Steve shrugged again. “I just need a break. I need to try to relax. Get out of my head. Get this stupid prickling to stop.”

He’d scratched the back of his neck raw a few times because of it, just to have it heal over an hour later.

“The options are there, man, alright? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just...just call if you need anything, alright? You gonna be good?”

There was the concern, the near pity in Sam’s expression as he got up to leave, coat was thrown over his arm. Steve squeezed his hand and forced himself to nod. “Yeah, man, I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”

Three missions later, two training accidents resulting in him breaking a finger, three sleepless days, and five skipped meals later, Steve found himself staring at an office door with the placard reading Dr. P. Carter.

She came highly recommended by Natasha who refused to say more on the matter of who this P. Carter was. He’d tried to google this Peggy but got nowhere with results beyond obituaries.

This was ridiculous. There was no way she could help him. Or anyone could. He’d just needed to go, making take that horse tranquilizer Tony was teasing about and go to bed.

The second he went to turn away, the door opened. Steve almost kept walking until he heard her clear her throat.

“I was wondering if you were going to come in, Mr. Rogers. If that’s...okay I call you Rogers?”

The accent is what caught his attention. Enough to make him curious to turn around. Peggy Carter was...gorgeous. Sharp high cheekbones, honey-coated eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, brunette curls running down her shoulders. She looked amazing in her jeans and a white t-shirt - the last thing he expected a therapist to wear.

“You knew I was out there?” he mumbled.

That was a stupid question, of course, she did. She possibly had cameras and it’s not like he was a quiet person in this big body. Sometimes he felt so huge in this body, wishing he’d been smaller. Just without the ailments.

“I heard some muttering and you were my only appointment today. I figured it was you.” She replied gently enough, leaving him a little more curious about her. She didn’t treat him like others had like he was a sleeping bear about to be poked.

Something about her eyes told him she understood him. Or he was imagining it so much because he was desperate to have someone who could understand.

He had to give his friends credit. They tried. They fully tried to help and he was grateful but if something didn’t work out for him, Steve almost instantly lost hope.

It was always Cap or Captain. Rarely was he called Steve outside of his friends. Everyone saw him as this guy on the mantle and not himself. Not Steve Rogers, a man who's hurting and doing his best to pack it all in for another day.

“Didn’t realize I muttered. I…” He swallowed, tongue darting out as he looked her up and down. She was a few inches shorter than him and posed herself in a manner that was inviting. She wasn’t dangerous, but she could be, he figures. “How do you know Natasha? She...recommended you.”

“Natalia? Oh, she’s a personal friend of mine. We’ve worked on a few cases together.” Peggy’s hand held out to him, an invitation. “I’m Margaret, by the way. But my friends call me Peggy. Would you like to sit down? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

He could run, he could bolt out to his bike and run for the hills, but he didn’t want to. Strange enough Steve found himself taking Peggy’s hand and giving her a firm shake, just as she did him. “My friends call me Steve.”

“Well, Steve, it's a pleasure to meet you. Let’s get you to sit down at the very least. We don’t even have to talk. I just don’t want you riding that death trap like this.”

Steve snorted as he followed her and eased into a comfortable couch in her office. “It’s not a death trap. It’s my pride.”

“Oh, I can certainly see that. Personal custom work to resemble a bike you must’ve used before? Very rarely do you see that, but it’s still a death trap. Excuse me for liking the cushion of walls when I’m speeding down the highway.”

Peggy’s red lips twitched into a smile at his snorting laugh, handing over an unsealed bottle of water. Steve took it without question, taking a few sips.

“No wonder you like Natasha...she says the same despite loving a bike herself.” Steve sighed as he took a few sips, grateful to have something to do with his hands. “Look, Miss Carter...I’m unsure of what Natasha told you or what you want to do with these sessions but they never...end well for me. Sure, the other people are great, but they don’t understand. ”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Steven, but you do make a great point. They don’t understand because they’re not on your level. Your closest group of friends outside of those you serve with are the vets down at the center, right? Men you served with but perhaps were not close to?”

At Steve’s nod, Peggy smiled. “I’ve been there - I mean I see you there. I…”

She looked almost frustrated, eyes darting to the window and closed-door before pulling out an old file from her drawer. It was stained with coffee and yellow with age, a familiar symbol stamped on top. SSR.

Steve’s heart leaped to his throat as he looked down at it, but didn’t dare touch it when she held it out to him. “What is...this?”

“I figured to get you to trust me, we need to be on the same level, correct? I need to be open and honest and while I haven’t lied yet, Natasha and I haven’t been fully honest.” She sighed when he didn’t take the file and opened it up, handing him a page stamped with a date, shortly before he joined the military.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbled, looking over the information. “You were an SSR Agent, but... you’re…” He waved his hand over her. “You have to be ninety-eight!”

“Excuse me, ninety-seven, thank you,” Peggy snorted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to comment on a woman’s age?” Oh, she shouldn’t find that blush attractive, but she did.

“But to answer your question, Steve, yes, I am...old. I was an SSR Agent. You see, shortly before you joined Project Rebirth, I was the prime candidate. After rescuing Doctor Erskine from Schmidt’s clutches, I received the serum in private. Colonel Phillips, Erskine, and Howard Stark, and I all agreed this shouldn’t be public because we were unaware of the consequences, and well - you know how they saw women in those days.

The serum, we thought, did nothing. I was shipped off to war shortly after, so we had never met. It seems fate kept it that way, even as I joined Phillips and helped the 107th. I’ve met other Howling Commandos - Dugan, Jones, even Barnes. Yet, somehow never you.

Still, the serum, before I ramble off. We thought it did nothing until after the war. I wasn’t aging. I could...heal faster than normal, but it wasn’t to your level. I had been shot with one of Schmidt’s weapons, it should’ve vaporized me on the spot, but instead, it activated the serum.

Then...then you died. Or so we thought. Howard used me as a near experiment to see if you could survive and I agreed because you deserved to be found, dead or alive. You deserved some sort of burial at the very least, but we...as you can tell, it went nowhere.

So time went on, we went on to form Shield. I left shortly before you were found - as fate would have it seem so we did not meet. I left because...I wanted to do things outside of Shield. I wanted to help people. Of course, if they need me, they call me, but I would rather not play Director at this moment. I enjoy doing my own things - I rather ask for forgiveness than permission. When the Battle of New York happened, I was out of town. Once again, fate decided we shouldn’t meet. When Natasha found me, she wanted to introduce us right away. She thought...I could be of assistance. I could be friends with you but I didn’t want this forced. I wanted to meet you, Steve but I wasn’t sure how without fate deciding we aren’t worth it.”

Steve sat there, stunned, pillow in hand. He found himself kneading it, staring down at the files. Every single thing matched up with what she said. The serum, a more watered-down version. Going to war. He could remember Dugan pouting because some lass named Carter ‘stole’ his whiskey - aka won it in a bet. He could remember Barnes insisting he meets this Carter. He could remember a red dress in a bar, a kiss of fire whiskey on his lips. Her soft body…

“We had sex,” Steve spat out, blinking down at the paper. He heard choking and his head snapped up, watching Peggy cough into her arm.

“Excuse me? I think I’d remember if we had sex, Rogers!” Peggy half-shouted, her face turning a shade of red.

“Apparently not. It-it was...it was before I died. The only time I’d truly slept in years. The night before I died. We met at the bar, but both of us were so tipsy. I’d have...something Howard invented that...that got me feeling a bit tipsy. We shouldn’t have done it, I should’ve said no but your kisses were so addicting. It’s not that I didn’t want you. I just...didn’t want you under the influence of alcohol for us both. I wanted to remember it clearly.”

Peggy stared down at the cold coffee, red nails drumming on the table in thought. “I remember now. It was your first time. You were so...so awkward. In the most charming manner. I had to teach you everything, including how to undress me. It was...It was charming, Steve. One of the best nights I’ve ever had. If I had known it was you…”

She gave a weak laugh and shook her head. “You were so loving and careful, especially for your size. I wanted to protect you, strangely enough.”

Steve found himself standing, the papers falling to the floor. He found himself standing in front of her, mind racing. She understood him on a level he’d thought he’d never find. They were the same, they had the same serum. They’d lost and loved. They just weren’t destined to meet until now.

“I know this is supposed to be a therapy session,” he mumbled, still standing awkwardly in front of her. “But can we drop that and...and just go talk? Outside of here?”

“Because you want to nail me on my desk?” Peggy teased, making Steve’s cheeks heat up. That wasn’t a no. She stood and held his hand, being gentle with her touch. “Of course, darling. I think we have lots to catch up on. I’m glad for once fate has decided we deserve to meet and it wasn’t with one of us dying on the battlefield.”

#Steggy #StevePeggy #Angst #Hurt/Comfort #Hurt/Comfort heavy on the hurt #It makes no sense #PTSD

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maddie-grove · 4 years ago

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The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2020

My main takeaways:

I’m glad that I set certain reading goals this year (i.e., reading an even mix of different genres and writing about each book I read on this tumblr). I feel like it really expanded my horizons.

There are a lot of proper names on my Top 20 list this year, which possibly means something about identity? That, or I just tried to read more Victorian novels.

Be horny, and be kind.

Now...

20. The White Mountains by John Christopher (1967)

In a world ruled by unseen creatures who roam the countryside in tall metal tripods, all humans are “capped” (surgically fitted with metal plates on their heads) at age fourteen. Thirteen-year-old Will Parker looks forward to becoming a man, but a conversation with a mysterious visitor to his village raises a few doubts. This early YA dystopia has gorgeous world-building (notably a trip to the ruins of Paris) and expert pacing. The choices Will has to make are also more surprising and complicated than I ever anticipated.

19. What Happened at Midnight by Courtney Milan (2013)

John Mason wants revenge on his fiancée Mary after she skips town following her father’s death...apparently with the funds that her father, John’s business partner, embezzled from their company. When he tracks her down, though, she’s working as a lady’s companion to the wife of a controlling gentleman who refuses to pay her wages, and John’s fury turns to sympathy and curiosity. This is a smart, well-plotted Victorian-set novella about a couple who builds a better relationship after a rocky start.

18. Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes (1943)

It’s 1773, and fourteen-year-old Bostonian Johnny Tremain has it all: a promising apprenticeship to a silversmith, the run of his arguably senile master’s household, and...unresolved grief over his widowed mother’s death? When a workplace “accident” ruins his hand and career, though, he must “forge” a new identity. Despite its jingoism and surfeit of historical exposition, I fell in love with this weird early YA novel. It’s a fascinating, heartbreaking portrayal of disability and ableism, and, to be fair, Forbes was just jazzed about fighting the Nazis.

17. Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf by Hayley Krischer (2020)

After universally beloved jock Sean Nessel rapes starry-eyed junior Ali Greenleaf at a party, his queen-bee friend Blythe Jensen agrees to smooth things over by befriending his victim. Ali knows Blythe’s motives are weird and sketchy, but being friends with a popular, exciting girl is preferable to dealing with the fallout of the rape. This YA novel is a complex, astute exploration of trauma and moral responsibility.

16. The Color of Law by Richard Rothstein (2017)

Rothstein details how the federal U.S. government allowed, encouraged, and sometimes even forcibly brought about segregation of black and white Americans during the early and mid-twentieth century, with no regard for the unconstitutionality of its actions. He brings home the staggering harm to black Americans who were kept from living in decent housing, shut out of home ownership for generations, and denied the opportunity to accumulate wealth for generations. It’s an impactful read, and I was honestly shocked to learn Rothstein isn’t a lawyer, because the whole thing reads like an expansion of an excellent closing statement.

15. My Friend Dahmer by Derf Backderf (2012)

In this graphic memoir, Backderf looks back on his casual, fleeting friendship with future serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, a high school classmate who amused Backderf and his geeky friends with bizarre, chaotic antics. Backderf brings their huge, impersonal high school to life, illustrating how the callousness and cruelty of such an environment allowed an isolated, troubled teen to morph into something much more disturbing without anyone really noticing. It’s a work of baffled, tentative empathy and regret that stayed with me long after I finished it.

14. Daniel Deronda by George Eliot (1876)

Gwendolyn Harleth, beautiful and ambitious but with no real outlet, finds herself compelled to marry a heartless gentleman with a shady past. Daniel Deronda, adopted son of her husband’s uncle, finds himself drawn into her orbit due to his helpful nature, but he’s also dealing with a lot of other stuff, like helping a Jewish opera singer and figuring out his parentage. I love George Eliot and, although this bifurcated novel isn’t her most accessible work, it’s highly rewarding. The psychological twists and turns of Gwendolyn’s story are a wonder to experience, and Daniel’s discovery of his past and a new community is moving.

13. The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (2004)

The Roths, an ordinary working-class Jewish family in 1940 Newark, find their quiet lives descending into fear, uncertainty, and strife after Charles Lindbergh, celebrity pilot and Nazi sympathizer, becomes president of the United States. This alternate history/faux-memoir perfectly captures the slow creep of fascism and the high-handed cruelty of state-sanctioned discrimination, as well as the weirdness of living a semi-normal life while all of that is going on. Also: fuck Herman and Alvin for messing up Bess’s coffee table! She is a queen, and she deserves to read Pearl S. Buck in a pleasant setting!

12. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (1850)

Young David Copperfield has an idyllic life with his sweet widowed mom and devoted nursemaid Peggotty, until his cruel stepfather ruins everything. David eventually manages to find safe harbor with his eccentric aunt, but his troubles have only begun. Although the quality of the novel falls off a little once David becomes an adult, I don’t even care; the first half is one of the most beautiful, funny, brilliantly observed portrayals of the joys and sorrows of childhood that I’ve ever read.

11. The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve by Stephen Greenblatt (2017)

Greenblatt examines the evolution and cultural significance of the story of Adam and Eve from the Bible to the modern day (but mostly it’s about Milton). I can’t speak to the scholarship of this book--I’m not an expert on the Bible or Milton or bonobos--but I do know that it’s a gorgeously written meditation on love, mortality, and free will. Greenblatt brought me a lot of joy as an unhappy teenager, and he came through for me again during the summer of 2020.

10. The Music of What Happens by Bill Konigsberg (2019)

Self-conscious seventeen-year-old Jordan is mortified when his widowed mother hires Max, an outgoing jock from his school, to help out with their struggling food truck. As they get to know each other, though, they realize that they have more in common than they thought, and they end up helping each other through a particularly challenging summer. This is an endearing, exceedingly well-balanced YA romance that tackles serious issues with a light touch and a naturalness that’s rare in the genre.

9. Red as Blood by Tanith Lee (1983)

In nine wonderfully lurid stories, Tanith Lee retells fairy tales with a dark, historically grounded, and lady-centered twist. Highlights include a medieval vampiric Snow White, a vengeful early modern Venetian Cinderella, and a Scandinavian werewolf Little Red Riding Hood. Fairy tale retellings are right up my alley, and Lee’s collection is impressively varied and creative.

8. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster (1908)

Unnerved by an impulsive make-out session with egalitarian George Emerson on a trip to Florence, young Edwardian woman Lucy Honeychurch goes way too far the other way and gets engaged to snobbish Cecil Vyse. How can she get out of this emotional and social pickle? This is an absolutely delightful romance that gave a timeless template for romantic comedies and dramas for 100-plus years.

7. My Ántonia by Willa Cather (1918)

Jim Burden, a New York City lawyer, tells the story of his friendship with slightly older Bohemian immigrant girl Ántonia when they were kids together on the late-nineteenth-century Nebraska prairie. It was a pretty pleasant time, give or take a few murders, suicides, and attempted rapes. This is one of the sweetest stories about unrequited love I’ve ever read, and it has some really enjoyable queer subtext.

6. Mister Death’s Blue-Eyed Girls by Mary Downing Hahn (2012)

In 1956 Maryland, gawky teen Nora’s peaceful existence is shattered by the unsolved murder of her friends Cheryl and Bobbi Jo right before summer vacation. Essentially left to deal with her trauma alone, she begins to question everything, from her faith in God to the killer’s real identity. Hahn delivers a beautiful coming-of-age story along with a thoughtful portrait of how a small community responds to tragedy.

5. The Lais of Marie de France by Marie de France, with translation and introduction/notes by Robert Herring and Joan Ferrante (original late 12th century, edition 1995)

In twelve narrative poems, anonymous French-English noblewoman Marie de France spins fantastically weird tales of love, lust, and treachery. Highlights include self-driving ships, gay (?) werewolves, and more plot-significant birds than you can shake a stick at. Marie de France brings so much tenderness, delicacy, and startling humor to her stories, offering a wonderful window to the distant past.

4. Maus by Art Spiegelman (1980-1991)

In this hugely influential graphic novel/memoir, Art Spiegelman tells the story of how his Polish Jewish parents survived the Holocaust. He portrays all the characters as anthropomorphic animals; notably, the Jewish characters are mice and the Nazi Germans are cats. I read the first volume of Maus back in 2014 and, while I appreciated and enjoyed it, I didn’t get the full impact until I read both volumes together early in 2020. Spiegelman takes an intensely personal approach to his staggering subject matter, telling the story through the lens of his fraught relationship with his charismatic and affectionate, yet truly difficult father.

3. At the Dark End of the Street by Danielle L. McGuire (2010)

McGuire looks at a seldom-explored aspect of racism in the Jim Crow South (the widespread rape and sexual harassment of black women by white men) and the essential role of anti-rape activism led by black women during the Civil Rights movement. This is a harrowing yet tastefully executed history, and it’s also a truly inspirational story of collective activism.

2. In for a Penny by Rose Lerner (2010)

Callow Lord Nevinstoke has to mature fast when his father dies, leaving him an estate hampered by debts and extremely legitimate grievances from angry tenant farmers. To obtain the necessary funds, he marries (usually!) sensible brewing heiress Penelope Brown, but they face problems that not even a sizable cash infusion can fix. This is a refreshingly political romance with a deliciously tense atmosphere and fascinating themes, as well as an almost painfully engaging central relationship.

1. Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (1814)

Fanny Price, the shy and sickly poor relation of the wealthy Bertram family, is subtly mistreated by most of her insecure and/or self-absorbed relatives, with the exception of her kind cousin Edmund. When the scandalous Crawford siblings visit the neighborhood, though, it shakes up her life for good and ill. I put off reading Mansfield Park for years--it’s practically the last bit of Austen writing that I consumed, including most of her juvenilia--and yet I think it’s my favorite. Fanny is an eminently lovable and interesting heroine, self-doubting and flawed yet possessed of a strong moral core, and the rest of the characters are equally realistic and compelling. Austen really made me think about the point of being a good person, both on a personal and a global scale.

#books #reading #rape #racism #genocide #murder #(it was a more cheerful reading year than these tags indicate)#(or was it? i don't know)

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waxingmoonwrites · 4 years ago

Text

New Year’s Kiss (Blaise Zabini)

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,945 (it was not supposed to be this long lol)

Warnings: None

A/N: So yes… this is my first ever one-shot here on Tumblr! I have a bunch written in old notebooks from when I first read the books and would write a bunch after reading each book, but… yeah! Yes, this one-shot does take place on New Year’s Eve, and I am aware that it is not New Year’s Eve yet, I just had this idea and couldn’t help but write it! Just a little warning, again this is my first ever one-shot I’m putting on Tumblr, so it’s not great, but trust me when I say its a thousand times better than the one-shots I wrote back in the day.

***

It was obvious. Painfully obvious.

Y/N Y/L/N and Blaise Zabini had been friends since they were kids. Y/N was a Muggle born, it being a mere coincidence that Blaise and his mother moved into the house across the street from the Y/L/N family.

When Y/N was informed that she was a witch, the first person she told was Blaise. Even though she was aware that she shouldn’t have been telling him, she was extremely surprised to hear him tell her that he had also been accepted to Hogwarts, that he was a wizard and was going to be going to Hogwars with her.

Blaise was friends with Draco Malfoy who, of course, didn’t exactly support Muggle borns being allowed into Hogwarts, or even being considered wizards in general. Which is exactly why neither Bliase nor Y/N ever said anything about her not being from pureblooded decent to Draco.

It’s not like Y/N cared what anyone thought about her. It was that she really cared about Draco’s friendship. Even though most people assumed that he was a rude friend, and that he would be insufferable to be around. That was entirely untrue. He could be very stuck-up at times, but that was just because that was how he was raised, he didn’t know anything else.

Blaise and Y/N were close before they went to Hogwarts, but once Y/N was Sorted into Slytherin along with him, they got closer still.

Over the years they knew each other, Blaise and Y/N realized that they didn’t like each other as just friends anymore. By the time fourth year came along, both of them were desperately wanting to ask the other to the Yule Ball. But both being terrified of ruining their friendship, neither said anything.

Now here they were, seventh year, Draco, Blaise, Y/N, Daphne, Pansy, and Theo all staying back at Hogwarts for the holidays to throw both a Christmas party and a New Years party as a celebration of their last year at school.

Daphne and Pansy knew about Y/N’s long standing crush on Blaise, and Draco and Theo knew about Blaise’s long standing crush on Y/N. Everyone knew that they liked each other, but, as Draco so politely put it, they were just both cowards.

“Just go for it,” Draco would tell Blaise. “You like her as more than a friend, and if what Daph and Pans have told me, she likes you back just as much as you like her. Maybe even more,”

“Impossible,” Blaise responded. “Y/N’s too good for me. She’s nice, caring, and accepting of everyone. I’m not like that,”

Theo just scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“What was that about?” Blaise asked, the anger rising in himself. He knew that he shouldn’t have been taking his anger out on his friends, but he was angry at himself and he didn’t know what to do with that.

“If she’s too good for you, the ornaments are too good for the Christmas trees,” Theo said, crossing his arms and returning to the book he had been reading. “Someone needs to screw your head on straigt, Blaise. You’re being an idiot,”

A very similar situation was going on in the girls’ dorms that night.

“Oh please,” Daphne said, throwing a pillow at Y/N. “Blaise is in love with you just as much as you are with him. Maybe even a bit more,”

Y/N let out a blissful sigh as she dodged said pillow. “I can hope, Daph. But Blaise doesn’t see me that way,”

Pansy threw another pillow at Y/N, except much harsher this time. It went so fast it hit Y/N straight in the face, her eyes wide as Pansy said, “You really are dumb,”

“Hey!” Y/N protested. “I’m not dumb, I’m just being realistic,”

Daphne gave her a sympathetic look as she said, “Normally I would agree with you, Y/N, but in this scenario, being realistic is being dumb,”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached over to her nightstand, taking out her tub of nail polish, choosing a burgundy color that Blaise had complimented once. Daphne and Pansy didn’t miss this, exchanging knowing glances. Ever since Blaise had told her one day during Potions that he liked the color of her nails that day (the burgundy color), every time the paint chipped she restored it.

“I’m surprised you haven’t replaced your entire nail polish stock with that color, Y/N,” Pansy said with a cheeky smirk.

Looking up from where she’d been applying the base coat to her nails, Y/N asked, “What d’you mean, Pans? I like the color, that’s that,”

Daphne had to suppress a laugh as Pansy continued. “I think Blaise likes the color, Y/N, and you like Blaise.”

“You guys know I like Blaise,” she responded.

“JUST TELL HIM!” the other two girls yelled in unison.

Y/N rolled her eyes and returned to painting her nails. It was true though, what they were saying. Ever since Blaise complimented the color on her nails, Y/N couldn’t help but use it every single time she felt the need to repaint her nails.

To every single person in the entire school, no the entire world, it was obvious that Blaise Zabini and Y/N Y/L/N were in love.

***

“So… anyone you’re planning to kiss this New Years?” Daphne asked, slowly walking closer to Blaise, who was sitting on the comfiest couch in the Slytherin common room closest to the fire.

He was sitting in pure silence, staring at the fire. The only thing that had been on his mind lately was Y/N. Y/N… Y/N… Y/N…. There was almost nothing that could break him from his thoughts.

When her question was followed with silence, Daphne sat directly next to Blaise and smacked the back of his head, causing him to let out a groan of protest, and give Daphne a look of pure anger.

“What the hell, Daph?” he yelled. “Why’d you hit me?”

“Because I asked you a question and you just continued to stare at the fire and silently pine after Y/N,” Daphne said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious answer ever.

Blaise’s cheeks immediately flushed pink as he said, very shakily might I add, “I-I… what… what’re you talking about?”

“I asked if there was anyone in particular you were planning on kissing this New Years,” Daphne repeated, an apathetic expression covering her face. “But I should’ve known not to say anything to you, considering both you and Y/N have been going crazy over each other for years and for some reason your pining has been dialed to ten thousand, I’m assuming since New Years is two days away and you both want a midnight kiss but don’t want to say anything,”

When she finally took a break to breathe, Blaise had a very shocked look on his face. He figured Y/N didn’t like him, but everything Daphne had said about him he agreed with. Blaise definitely wanted a New Years kiss from Y/N, but, as he’s said to everyone, she’s too good for him.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Blaise, don’t just look at me and not say anything, I’d have thought you’ve been doing enough of that to Y/N,”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, anxiety laced through his words. He had realized that he was looking at Y/N much more than a best friend normally would. But he was okay with it, which made him feel guilty.

Daphne let out a laugh and said, “To everyone in the entire world, yes. To Y/N, no.”

Blaise facepalmed and covered his face in his hands to hide his cheeks that were now glowing bright pink. “I really don’t mean to stare at her as much as I do, I just…”

“You love her,”

“Y-yeah,” Blaise replied, looking up at Daphne. “Daph, I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and she has the most amazing personality, and everything about her seems as perfect as a person can be. But I’m… so far from perfect,” he said with doubt in his voice. “I don’t deserve her,”

Daphne rolled her eyes for the millionth time and said, “Dear Lord Blaise Zabini!” she yelled. “Blaise, Y/N loves you too! Take it from one third of our nightly girl talks with Pansy, she’s is absolutely infatuated with you. Remember that burgundy color that she painted her nails that one time that you complimented?”

Of course Blaise remembered. Everytime he saw that color on her nails (which was quite often, he noticed, though it was probably just because she really liked the color) he felt butterflies take flight in his stomach.

“Yeah?” he replied hesitantly.

“She paints her nails that exact color every time because you complimented it! Because she wants you to say something about it again!”

Blaise wanted to believe it. Y/N making an effort to get him to compliment her? Man, he would compliment her every second of every day if he could. But he didn’t want to look like he wanted her. Which he did, of course. But they were best friends. Just friends. Best friends.

“That’s… not true,” Blaise said. “She’d never like someone like me,”

Daphne let out a hoarse laugh as she said, “You’re right, Blaise, she doesn’t like you,” but before he could overreact, she continued. “She loves you.”

Blaise sat in disbelief, staring at one of his closest friends. Once again, the only thing occupying his mind was Y/N Y/L/N.

Little did either of them know, Y/N was standing at the top of the stairs, listening in on the conversation. Due to the late hour, Blaise and Daphne were two of the six people left in the common room at that hour, and since Y/N was listening intently, she heard every single word they said.

Blaise loved her back? He felt the same way she felt about him?

A large smile came over Y/N’s face as she thought about it. Blaise loved her back, Blaise Zabini loved her back.

Knowing the boy that she had pined over for years felt the same way about her that she felt about him was a feeling that caused butterflies to take flight in her stomach. She immediately rushed away back to her dorm, laying down on her bed even though she knew there was no way she would be able to fall asleep after learning a piece of information as big as this.

A few minutes after she laid her head down on her bed, she heard Daphne come in from the common room, flopping down on her bed.

Y/N didn’t miss the exasperated, “If those two don’t get together by New Years I’m locking them in a closet,” that escaped Daphne’s lips before she fell asleep.

***

New Years Eve was a very exciting day for the Slytherins. Draco, Blaise, and Theo had been planning a New Years Eve party for weeks, and everyone in the House knew about it. Even the other Houses (that, to the Slytherins knowledge, hadn’t planned a super epic party), were buzzing with excitement as the new year approached.

Y/N and Blaise were on the edges of their seats, on the other hand.

Blaise had finally been convinced to just take a chance and tell Y/N how he felt at the party, and Y/N had learned that Blaise loved her back, so she was determined to get their kiss on New Years Eve.

Everyone had noticed that Y/N had changed a bit. Before, she was a bit nervous when six of them were together, seeing as Blaise was there. Whenever Blaise wasn’t present, she was a bit more outgoing.

But now, Y/N seemed to be acting outgoing and excited no matter what they were doing, and who was there. She even went as far as to throw an arm over Blaise’s shoulder during lunch one day, and rest her head on his shoulder.

Eventually Y/N admitted to Pansy and Daphne that she had overheard Blaise and Daph’s conversation in the common room that night, and was determined to kiss him at midnight. Needless to say both were so proud of her that they threw a mini party for the three of them in their dorm that night.

Blaise had spent the entire time since his conversation with Daphne thinking over how he was going to confess his love to Y/N. It was, of course, going to be difficult. Even though for the longest time he had stopped thinking of her as just his best friend, but as the woman he wanted to love, he still felt like confessing his love to his best friend was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

It was in that moment that Blaise wished he had listened every time his mother spoke to him about girls.

There were so many possibilities of things that could happen. Ever since the day he had admitted to Theo and Draco that he liked Y/N (he didn’t tell them at first that he was absolutely in love with her, though they could tell), they had been assuring him that she liked him back, that the feelings were mutual. And even though her recent behavior was causing Blaise to maybe kinda sorta believe them, he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Besides, what was he even supposed to say? “Hey Y/N… I know we’re best friends and everything, but I’ve liked you since about third year and been in love with you since fourth year, and everyone tells me that you feel the same way but I’m not sure,”? That may work, but Blaise was sure that if he actually spoke those words aloud in front of Y/N he would be stuttering uncontrollably and there was no way Y/N would be able to understand what he was saying.

But the New Years party was that night, meaning he didn’t have much more tme to figure it out.

Fortunately (yet unbeknownst to him), Y/N was planning something as well. Actually, she wasn’t necessarily planning something. More thinking of how she was going to wing it.

“So… you’re just gonna walk up to him and say you love him?” Daphne asked in disbelief as her, Pansy, and Y/N prepared for the party. “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

Y/N just shrugged. “You don’t have to like it, Daph. Besides, I know that if I like… script something out, it’s just going to turn out worse than if I stutter over my words because I didn’t think it over,”

“That sounds about right,” Pansy said with a shrug. “Y/N does tend to overthink things when she plans them out, so maybe we should just let her and Blaise live out their fairy tale,”

Y/N scrunched up her nose. “We’re not living out any fairy tale, the exact opposite. Fairy tale characters would dramatically realize two seconds to midnight that they love each other, and would run towards the other and even more dramatically kiss at exactly midnight. That’s way too specific, real life is a lot more messy,”

Pansy nodded in agreement as she continued to paint on her eyeliner, while Daphne just rolled her eyes.

“Why can’t you just agree to disagree and we can both live in our blissful happiness?” Daphne whined, then tapped her chin in thought. “Actually, my bad. Y/N, you and Blaise will live in blissful happiness after they get together at midnight tonight. Exactly midnight,” she added the end just to annoy Y/N.

***

“You look nice, Y/N/N,” Blaise said, staring up in awe as he watched Pansy, Daphne, and Y/N walking down the stairs coming from the girls dorm. But Blaise didn’t even see the other two girls. His eyes were trained on Y/N.

She was wearing a flowing jade green dress that sparkled in the low light. The neckline plunged ever so slightly to show off the perfect amount of cleavage. Her silver heels complimented the silver necklace on her neck that… that Blaise had gotten her for her most recent birthday.

Her hair was styled perfectly, cascading down her back and on her shoulders in perfect waves, bouncing ever so slightly as she approached Blaise with a smile on her face.

“Thanks, Blaise,” Y/N replied, her cheeks turning pink slightly. She turned her attention to the slightly crooked bowtie that Draco had convinced him to wear. It was a green tie, coincidentally, the same green that was on Y/N’s dress.

(This was not a coincidence at all. Daphne, Pansy, Theo, and Draco had come together the night before, and the girls informed the boys the exact color that Y/N was going to wear to the party, and they had gotten Blaise’s bowtie accordingly)

She adjusted the tie, her eyes stuck there, not catching the way Blaise’s eyes raked over her, feeling his cheeks heat at how close in proximity they were. He still couldn’t believe just how beautiful she was, how amazing she was. The woman that he had loved for years and years, and in that moment, he knew what he was going to do.

The party so far had been awesome. Everyone was excited, the younger years joining in towards the end when the older years were drunk off Firewhiskey and didn’t care that they were there. Thankfully, most of them were responsible enough to stick to the Butterbeer instead of taking advantage of the fact that the older years weren’t going to stop them drinking Firewhiskey.

Unfortunately, even though most younger years were responsible enough, there were a few that either didn’t care, or just were dumb enough to take a swig.

Y/N caught two third years trying to down an entire bottle before watching the first one splutter it out into the bowl of punch that had been laid out with the other continued to drink it. She quickly ran over and snatched it from him, immediately scolding him.

“If you even dare look at the Firewhiskey again I’ll be sure to report you to Snape, and trust me, he will not hear a word about anyone else drinking,” she said sternly.

Right as she was about continue her scolding, she noticed the way the boy’s face had turned slightly green, and saw the uneasy look on his face. Y/N quickly reached for the chip bowl that was (thankfully) empty, and shoved it in his arms, turning away to find Daphne or Pansy or anyone that she knew to get away from the retching boy.

There were too many people in the Slytherin common room, causing Y/N to not be able to find any of her friends. Feeling the disappointment bubble in her chest, she decided to just go back up to her dorm.

“So much for that New Years kiss,” she muttered under her breath.

Blaise noticed her walking up the stairs at that very moment, and realizing that the new year was just a few minutes away, immediately stood up off the couch that he had been sitting on and began rushing towards the girls’ dorms.

Rushing up the stairs, he heard the sound of everyone beginning the countdown.

Ten…

Y/N flopped down on her bed, pulling her earrings off and throwing them in the jewelry box that she had stashed under her bed, letting out a sigh.

Nine…

Blaise’s feet couldn’t have been moving faster in that moment, but he had to stop after realizing he had no idea where Y/N’s dorm was, considering he had never been up here.

Eight…

At this point Y/N had heard the countdown going on downstairs, and thoughts of Blaise chugging a Firewhiskey and counting down with everyone else filled her mind, her fists clenching at her sides as she began pulling off her heels that had become increasingly uncomfortable.

Seven…

Six…

Five…

Blaise had singled it out to two dorms, and peeked his head in one, realizing that it was empty. He peeked through the second one and saw Y/N combing through her hair with her fingers, a melancholy look on her face.

Four…

“Y/N!”

“Blaise?”

Three…

Blaise crossed the room quickly, stopping in front of Y/N after realizing what was happening, what he was about to do.

Two…

“Blaise, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

One…

Throwing all other thoughts out the window, Blaise grabbed Y/N by the hands, pulled her up, and crashed their lips together right as everyone downstairs in the common room yelled “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Y/N wrapped her arms around Blaise’s neck before pulling away, resting their foreheads together.

“Happy New Year, Blaise,” Y/N whispered, a smile plastering both of their lips.

“Happy New Year,” Blaise responded.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, both of them holding the other close, not wanting to let go.

Pretty soon, the four downstairs realized that Y/N and Blaise had disappeared.

“Let’s hope something actually happened,” Pansy grumbled as her and Daphne went to go search their dorm while Theo and Draco went to search theirs. “Because if they didn’t, I swear I’m going to just lock them in a closet,”

“I said that the other day!” Daphne exclaimed with a smile.

“Oh no way!”

They quieted down as they approached their dorm, hearing hushed whispers emerging from the room. They could decipher Blaise and Y/N’s voices, but couldn’t hear what they were saying.

When Pansy had finally had enough, she walked right up to the door and pushed it open a crack, pressing her ear against the crack to listen.

But the voices had ceased. Pansy was left listening to nothing but pure silence for a few seconds, before she got impatient and pushed the door open.

She was shocked by what she saw, to put it lightly.

There was Y/N and Blaise, clutching each other as though they’d never see the other again, their lips pressed together eagerly. They’d been so caught up in the moment that they hadn’t even heard the door open.

“DAPH IT HAPPENED!” Pansy yelled in excitement, causing Y/N and Blaise to pull away from each other.

Daphne rushed in, a large smile on her face noticing how close Blaise and Y/N were. “Finally, you two! Pansy and I thought we’d have to lock you in a closet until you opened your mouths,”

Both Blaise and Y/N’s cheeks were covered in a light pink dusting, but there was a hint of a proud smile on Blaise’s face. Truthfully he had gone in there wanting to kiss her like he did, which he had, but he doubted his courage to actually do it. The fact that he had worked up enough courage to kiss her made him want to do it again.

Pretty soon they were being taken back downstairs, the smug smiles on Pansy and Daphne’s faces telling Draco and Theo everything they needed to know.

“So I take it everything went well then?” Theo asked, a brow quirked in interest.

“Yup,” Daphne replied. “Happy New Year everyone!”

Y/N and Blaise exchanged looks, moving a tad bit closer together. Blaise leaned down near Y/N’s ear and whispered, “Happy New Year, Y/N/N,”

***

A/N: Okay, I know this sucked, and I’m sorry. The next one will be better (I hope) and I’m sorry it’s so long! I just got excited and I love Blaise and… yeah, I don’t know. Thanks for reading if you did!

#blaise zabini #blaise #slytherin gang #daphne greengrass #pansy parkinson #draco malfoy #theodore nott #reader insert #y/n #this sucked im so sorry #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction

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foxtophat · 4 years ago

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HEY HEY HEY!!!! hey guys. haha. um, idk what to say exactly and tumblr likes to eat my posts so lets see how long this lasts:

its’ only been a couple months but i have been frothing at the mouth trying to figure out what next part of mercy to put out. i have a lot of much bigger stories to tell than this one, but kim and john sharing insomnia felt sort of like the right segue into those bigger bits. so for now, let’s just enjoy a 20k fic about Kim and John, and also a little about John and Nick, but mostly just about John and Jacob.

there are 3 chapters. i’ll post the 2nd one later this week (wednesday or friday i think) and the third will probably go up next monday. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT i actually have most of this one finished right out the gate!!!

as usual, i’ll put the entire chapter under a readmore in case you don’t want to leave tumblr. i hope you enjoy what i’ve got for you this time -- if not don’t worry, there will be more dramatic bullshit later :) comments, kudos, reblogs and likes are all the things that make ficwriting more fun than it already is, so consider helping me out if you enjoy what i’m doing. otherwise, have a good day!!!

Kim's dreams are normally composed of fleeting images in dark, monochrome colors. They're howling-wind nightmares or ethereal moments of peace, but they're short-lived and she's always disconnected from them. She hasn't had a real dream in probably nine years. She used to miss them, before John Seed reappeared with all of his night terrors, just in time to remind her of how good she has it. Now, she's glad that the most she has to contest with is a looming sense of dread that fades almost as soon as she wakes up.

But tonight, Kim is a long way away from all of that. She's standing at the kitchen sink in her childhood home, which is in full summer swing. The rosemary plant her mom keeps on the sill is in full bloom, thick green spikes dotted with blue puffball flowers. Beyond it, the Canadian sky is seawater green, and Kim marvels at the fluffy clouds drifting through the unnatural color. They seem to be floating by much faster than the still air outside would imply. It should rattle her, confuse her, but before that realization sinks in, her mom's voice distracts her away.

"Do you really think he's the one?" she asks, as skeptically as she had all those years ago when Kim first decided to move to Montana. Her mother had liked Nick, of course, because he was a likable guy, but Kim had known from the start that her parents were worried about her. They'd worried about her moving to a red state, about her trusting a man she'd seen a handful of times since they'd met. They hadn't understood the idea of purple pockets or internet dating, and while they supported Kim's love of rifle showmanship, they'd never trusted Nick owning more than three guns.

"What's the point, is all I'm asking," Kim's mom laughs in response to Kim's unspoken comment. "It seems strange to collect weapons..."

"Mom, he hunts !" she chides. "And anyway, he isn't the worst one out there."

"That's exactly what I worry about," her mom says. "What if something bad were to happen? His family is gone, and we'll be so far away..."

Kim sighs, the words stinging more than they should. The aqua colored sky begins to churn outside, the light filtering through a strange red haze. Inside, the sunlight reflects off the white counters, nearly blinding Kim.

"I'll be okay," she says, reciting an amalgamation of all her old defenses as her eyes readjust. "There are a lot of good people out there. They rely on each other a whole lot more than we do here."

"I worry about you, Kimiko. That's all." Her mother sighs sadly. "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

"But mom..."

Kim tries to tell her that she already has a kid, but she can't muster up the words. After all, shouldn't she know? Wouldn't Kim have visited? Wouldn't she have brought Carmina into this very kitchen, all the surfaces glowing with light, and introduced them? Wouldn't her mom have been there when Carmina was born?

"It's unseasonably warm, isn't it," her dad remarks at the table. He's sitting there with a magazine as if he'd been there the whole time. He, like the rest of the room, glows from the inside, as though a flashlight were shining through his skin. It shines through the wood of the table, through her mom's curious smile, until Kim has to turn her face away. The room grows hotter and hotter, and in the far-off whistling wind she hears the first lonesome wail of an air-raid siren beginning to pick up. There's a blinding burst of light and howling wind, and Kim lifts her hands to her face, desperate not to look directly at the blast —

The bedroom is dark, warm and humid. At first, Kim doesn't know where she is, struggling to sit up, desperate to run, until all at once reality comes crashing back into focus. It doesn't help that she's pinned beneath Nick's arm and Carmina's full dead-sleeping weight.

Normally, moving would be out of the question. But Kim doesn't want this dream clinging to her memory, and she desperately wants to put some space between her and the nuclear glow of her mother's smile. Hell, maybe it isn't the dream at all — maybe it's the heat that's making lying here unbearable. Maybe it's the extra weight pinning her down, or a panic attack waiting in the wings — whatever it is, she needs to get up and run from it. As she worms her way out from underneath her family, Kim can feel the pressure building behind her eyes, fueled by the need to jog out the tension that will soon become unbearable. She needs to exercise the nightmare away before it sticks around and ruins the rest of her night.

It's probably already too late for that. The back of Kim's eyes are itchy with tears as she struggles to get free. She's already memorized her mom's smile, trapped forever in radioactive amber, and that alone is enough trauma to fuel ten more terrible dreams.

Nick and Carmina remain peacefully asleep, even as Kim extracts herself from the bed. That's good — the last thing she needs to do is worry Nick, whose own sleeping habits have just started to even out. He'll try to keep her company, and they'll just wind up keeping each other up, which wasn't ideal back in the day and definitely isn't ideal now .

Even though Carmina sleeps like the dead and Nick isn't likely to hear her, Kim is careful to watch out for the creakiest steps as she heads downstairs. Sunrise isn't for a few hours yet, but Kim isn't going to let that stop her from insomnia-pacing around her own home. It used to be that Kim would jog laps on the runway to clear her head, but that isn't going to work nowadays. She still wants to, of course; she's desperate to step out into the relatively cool night air and run herself ragged enough to pass out again, but that's out of the question. She's not about to break her own rule.

It's only once Kim is downstairs that she starts to relax, lighting one of the candles left out on the table. The light is just barely enough to see by, and Kim struggles to find something to clean up or organize in the half-dark. All of the coping mechanisms that got her through eight years of bunker living have fallen flat in the face of the apocalypse, but that doesn't keep her from trying them over and over again. Some techniques are more adaptable, but it isn't like she can dig into reorganizing the hangar for Nick at... whatever time it is now. Not without somebody catching her breaking her own rules about going outside alone.

If she had any books worth reading, she could throw herself into that, but she can't bear the manuals and children's books right now. Maybe if there was a radio station she could listen to... but no, she wouldn't want to risk burning out the radio after everything Nick and John went through to fix it. There's not going to be another Hail Mary when it comes to that kind of repair.

Her mom would probably use this time to make a series of endless lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, lists of pros and cons for buying new appliances or inviting Kim's awful step-grandmother to her wedding... there was nothing that her mom couldn't organize into a column of bullet points or check-boxes. Kim could probably do with a few lists herself, but where is she supposed to get the paper? And even if a supply list wouldn't be a waste of resources, where would she go to fill it? It's going to be a while before they can pick up flour from the farmer's market again, that's for sure.

Well, at least wasting some paper will keep her mind busy. There's too much stuff they need, and she's going to drive herself crazy trying to remember all of it. Anyway, they've been using decades-old junk mail to prop up the radio desk — it can't be wasted if it was already trash, right?

She's careful in her search for a decent piece of mail, not wanting to tip the radio over as she jimmies a yellowed envelope from under the desk. It's only once she's back at the table with a worn-down nub of a pencil that she finds herself hesitating. After all, what is she supposed to write? What could they reasonably expect to get out here, with no supply chain to rely on? Everything that comes to mind is laughably improbable at best.

It doesn't really matter, though, does it? They're probably not going to be able to find anything besides what they can hunt and grow for themselves, so any food she writes down will be wishful thinking. John had offered to help their scavenging efforts, but it isn't likely they'll find working walkie-talkies or a new car. People who have been above ground longer than the Ryes have already taken over key resource points, and they'll be hard-pressed to give up things without a fair trade. And until they can reliably communicate with one another, trading is going to be nearly impossible. One day, maybe, they'll have trading posts and reliable supply chains, but like other pieces of their fractured society, that's not coming for a long time yet.

Staring at a blank piece of paper is worse than writing something stupid down, and so Kim quickly scribbles the word flour across the top of the envelope. She can't imagine that's going to be a reasonable expectation for a while, but at least it's on paper — and it's outlandish enough that it encourages her to continue, her thoughts darting between impossible dreams and honest reality. Salt , she thinks might not be quite as hard to find. Sugar, probably impossible. For now, they can hope for honey instead.

It goes on like that, growing more abstract as Kim lets herself dream. Milk, eggs, bread, twinkies , meat grinder, hamburgers, tomatoes, grains (seeds), grill (charcoal), gas, gas canisters (storage), duct tape, insulation foam (spray, sheet), toilet cleaner, toilet, hot water, plumbing, bathtub! , tarp, doors, ammunition, floodlights, security system, cans + string (security) —

Her flow is interrupted by a soft, distant thud somewhere upstairs. Kim listens for a few tense seconds, waiting to hear boots on the roof, the hiss of a walkie-talkie, or the slide-click of a gun being cocked. Without the cult, those fears go unrealized, and Kim slumps tiredly into her seat. She's just as paranoid about armed cultists tonight as she is about wild animals, although she's sure that's just her nightmare talking. Eden's Gate is nowhere near the threat it used to be.

The relief is short-lived, as is her solitude, when she hears an upstairs door click shut, followed by the sound of quick footsteps on the landing. The house is too old for any real attempt at stealth, but John tries to avoid the worst offending stairs on his way down. He only realizes Kim is there when he notices the candlelight, coming to an abrupt stop on the last step, one hand clutching the banister tight.

He's sweaty and out of sorts as he wipes his limp hair out of his face. "Oh," he rasps. "Kim."

He's surprised to see her. Kim should be surprised, too — it's one thing to know that John wanders the house at night, but it's another to see it happen in real-time. Honestly, she's barely phased by his appearance. John's sleep schedule has been bunker-erratic ever since Nick brought him home, and no amount of diurnal activity has managed to change it. If anything, Kim suspects he gets less sleep now than he did underground. It isn't for lack of trying, she's sure, but this isn't the first time she's heard him stumbling around in the dark. It's just the first time she's been in the same boat.

"Late night?" she asks.

John struggles once more with the hair in his eyes before giving up. "Just needed some air," he rasps, minding his volume. "Some water."

"Don't mind me," she replies, surprising herself with her own ambivalence. Knowing he moves around while they're sleeping is one thing, but seeing it should be upsetting. It should bother her when he avoids creaky floorboards on his way to help himself to their fresh water. It should make her angry to see him using their resources; at the very least, it should have upset her back when it began normalizing. But, honestly, it hadn't. Kim had just been relieved to see John acting like a person, and not just a haunted shell.

John wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, regarding Kim with deep uncertainty that Kim mostly makes out from his hunched shoulders and tense posture. He tries to hide just how lost he is, but Kim never misses it when he slips. It's not that she's sympathetic towards him, exactly, but she knows just enough about his history to want to pity him.

He doesn't speak, not even after the silence stretches out. Maybe he's waiting for her to make the first move?

The thought almost makes her laugh, but she still cuts him some slack. "Can't sleep either, huh?" she asks.

"Hardly ever," John replies, although he clearly isn't looking for reassurance. He takes a step away from the kitchen, hovering in the nebulous space between the table and the stairs. He's usually quick to leave Kim alone — quicker than he is with Nick, anyway — and so she appreciates the fact that he doesn't run now.

His voice cracks on its low pitch as he haltingly asks, "What are you doing?"

For just a second, Kim imagines giving John the cold shoulder and telling him it's none of his business. But the thought fades as quickly as it comes; it's replaced by the knowledge that John is just as dependent on the family's supplies as she is. Anything she needs, he'll also need. And besides, she's almost positive he'd been in control of the cult's supplies, which means he might have an idea of what they should realistically be looking for. He would know what the cult had planned to do, and she could probably translate that into useful advice.

"Just making a list," she sighs. It sounds stupid enough to make her wince, and she concedes with a joke, "You know, for the next time we're at Wal-Mart."

John huffs in amusement and approaches the table. Now that she's got an audience, Kim wants nothing more to do with the list, and so she pushes towards him before slumping back into her chair. Instead of the quick, distracted glance she had been expecting, John leans over to read it in full. The longer he reads, the more embarrassed Kim is of her late-night daydreaming, but he finishes with the list before she can grab it back.

"Some of these are... more manageable than others," he says, using the same kind of diplomacy he utilizes whenever Nick makes a particularly dumb comment.

"Uh, yeah ," she says, embarrassed even if she isn't surprised. "I know. It was just... taking up space in my head. I needed to write it down, otherwise, I'm going to be up all night."

Kim runs her hand through her hair, waiting for John to retreat as quickly as he'd arrived. Instead, John rereads the list once more. Kim can see his amusement much more plainly as he leans into the candlelight. It highlights the deep bags under his eyes as well, but who isn't carrying that particular mark of exhaustion these days?

"Ammunition isn't as high on the list as I'd imagined," he comments.

"We're okay on bullets for now," she replies. "And it's not like there's much to spare."

Whether or not that satisfies John, Kim isn't sure. He only hums in response, eyes roaming down the paper.

"I see you didn't bother to add more guns."

"We don't need more guns," Kim insists, although it's not strictly true. She's just hesitant to overwhelm the house with firearms. They've been getting on just fine with what they have — any more, and they might turn into a target themselves. One day, sure, they'll need to find something for Carmina to carry on her own, but that day is a long, long way away.

She doesn't need to explain herself to anyone, let alone John Seed, but as he watches her and waits for more, she feels compelled to justify herself. "I don't think we're going to find spare guns or ammunition just lying around, and I'm not about to take them by force. We've managed just fine with what we have."

"For now," John points out. "Things could change. It won't stay this calm forever."

"Why not?" Kim retorts, feeling childish and petulant as soon as the words leave her mouth. "Why do you even care? You're certainly not getting armed."

John clicks his tongue against his teeth. "It's not that," he says, only to abruptly roll over with a muttered, "Never mind."

If John thinks he can avoid the conversation that easily, he has another thing coming. "No, what is it?" she asks.

"It's nothing," he sighs, as if arrogantly dismissing her will keep Kim from pushing. When Kim only frowns unhappily back at him, he reluctantly relents. "Joseph had said taking your weapons was the only way we could ensure you wouldn't use them after the Collapse. And if we didn't lock them away, it would be all you would look for." He stares at the list, although Kim imagines his thoughts are about fifty miles away. "It's stunning how wrong he was about everything. But there are reminders everywhere."

John rarely speaks about Joseph; Kim hasn't heard him broach the subject of his own volition before. The only person who ever talks to him about his brother is Jerome, and those conversations are private and short. Having John bring him up with almost no needling feels like a step forward, even if it's only a small one. Even though John is anxious saying Joseph's name.

It's so easy to forget how much control Joseph had over John. Kim has to make a concentrated effort now and again to remind herself that Joseph hadn't only brainwashed normal, desperate people, but his own family. She can't imagine doing anything to Carmina or Nick that would turn them into the angry, anxious mess John had been even before the Collapse. Not even if it meant they would always do what they were told and would trust her implicitly. She couldn't bear it if Nick ever talked about her the way John talks about Joseph. It's late enough that Kim finds herself wondering how Joseph can even sleep at night.

"It's stupid," John says, taking Kim's contemplative silence as disapproval. "I should have known better."

He inhales, letting out a shaky breath, and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they're suspiciously shiny in the candlelight. It sparks a genuine pang of sympathy in Kim, but there's nothing she can say or do to help him. Nothing she's done so far has made an impact.

"Some of this is reasonable enough," John says, desperately trying to redirect the conversation back to the list. It's an obvious, flat-footed attempt to avoid a tender spot in his psyche, but Kim is willing to let it slide.

"Sure, eventually . But we're a long way off from hot baths and backyard barbecues, much less flour and sugar."

"Those are... less reasonable," he admits, dragging his finger across one of the harder to come by items. Still, he isn't nearly as deterred as she is. "But not everything is impossible to come by. Insulation, for one. Tarp, duct tape. Components like that should be easy enough to find." He taps his finger against the envelope. "And there still places to investigate. Root cellars nobody bothered to touch. Caches you never found. Things hidden in places you wouldn't know to look, especially if you weren't in the Project."

Frowning, Kim rereads a few of the items upside-down from her side of the table. "It's been almost nine years," Kim points out, reluctant to get her hopes up so easily. "Isn't it more likely that everything good has already been discovered?"

Still... John's mentioned secret Eden's Gate supplies before. Given the size of the project and how long they were operating in the county, it's not impossible that some of their hidden stashes haven't been found yet. And they were planning for the apocalypse, right? They'd likely have saved things that could last for a long time. John isn't wrong — more ammunition and more weapons would be helpful. At the very least, they could help arm other survivors.

"It wouldn't hurt to have a look, I guess," Kim relents after thinking it over. "How good is your memory?"

That earns her a rare, quiet chuckle from John. "Middling to poor," he admits, "Although if I had a map, it would help. It would make it easier to mark what I remember."

"To think, it only took nine years and an apocalypse for you to finally hand over the intel."

John huffs, but his response is only mildly offended. "Do you want what I have to offer, or not?"

"Don't be like that," Kim says, placating him with a smile. "It would be a big help. It'll help me sleep better, anyway."

It seems there's more on John's mind than Kim teasing him, since he takes the non-apology and moves on without a fight. "Jacob had caches buried for after the Reaping," he says. "They'll most likely be weapons, but he was... hard to read. It could be that he stored survival equipment in one. There were a few in the valley, but most of them would be in the mountains."

Kim shakes her head at that. "As far as I've heard, nobody's made it very far north. And the stories I have heard aren't good. The dam broke, so a lot of the area is flooded, and supposedly the radiation is still pretty bad."

John hums briefly as he considers the facts. He leans contemplatively over the list, and for a moment Kim wonders if this was a common occurrence for him before the Collapse. How many late nights did he spend bent over a map while his brothers watched and waited for his decisions? She has to suspect it was a lot, because this is the first time she's seen John look even remotely confident.

That confidence is clear in his voice as he remarks defiantly, "I suppose the valley will do until we get airborne again. Let flooding stop us then ."

"Oh, okay," Kim laughs, checking her volume before she lets her amusement wake up the rest of her family. "You are just like Nick. Neither of you are going to give up until you get back in the sky, huh?"

"Exactly," John replies. "I won't trust anybody else to do it. Realistically, a helicopter would be the best option..."

"Oh, right," Kim chuckles. " Realistically ."

John taps accusingly at the list and raises an eyebrow at her. "Less realistic than hot water and iodized table salt?"

If Kim didn't know better, she might think that John is actually teasing her. He normally saves that kind of attitude for Nick, who prefers arguing through and around problems. Kim, on the other hand, rarely has the energy to deal with avoidance tactics, and so she tends to demand his sincerity. Thankfully, the liminal time of just-about-three has softened her stance on the matter.

"Okay," she relents with a smile. "Sure. Might as well add helicopters to the list." It would be a pretty big get for them, all things considered. And anyway, John's right — Kim wouldn't trust flying in a plane jury-rigged together by anyone other than Nick.

But that's a resource that will come in the nebulous future, and Kim's too realistic to worry years in advance right now. There are more pressing concerns to deal with, first — like food, water and security. Any caches John can find will at least fulfill one of those priorities, although Kim can't imagine the cult storing anything other than ammunition and weapons. But even if the caches don't pan out, they might find valuable scrap, like logs for firewood, furniture they can re-purpose, or even old survivalist caches that nobody thought to dig up after the world ended. And now that there are four of them, Kim won't feel so uncomfortable when Nick wants to drive to the middle of nowhere looking for supplies.

Kim sighs with relief, feeling a weight roll off her back that she hadn't been trying to remove. "Things will be a lot easier if you can help us with supplies. And I'll feel better about Nick going out if he has somebody to watch his back."

John pulls the same face he usually makes when someone implies they trust him. Kim could ignore it — after all, John doesn't need to believe they trust them for it to be true. Too bad for him, it's too late at night for her to turn a blind eye. "Oh, get over it," she tells him, unable to help a lopsided smile at his offended scowl. "I seriously doubt you're planning on murdering us at this point. And I know Nick is smart enough to knock the crap out of you if he thinks you've changed your mind."

"I won't," John immediately replies.

Kim believes him, if only because there's nobody left for John to rely on other than them. "Good. Because if I can trust you, that means I won't worry about Nick when he decides to go farther than town. It means we can spend more meaningful time with Carmina, too. Anyway, Nick likes bossing you around, and you like being bossed around, so everybody wins."

John ducks his head, embarrassed, but Kim laughs to let him know she's only teasing. "Seriously," she says, relenting for his benefit, "It does help. It's good to have somebody else to rely on."

"I... want to be helpful," John replies, although Kim suspects that he might be confusing his wants and needs again. It's not quite a compulsion anymore, but even John's most heated attempts to argue about a job end with him rolling over quick. He hasn't outright refused to do something, and Kim doesn't think he ever will, if only to prove to himself one more time that he might actually be capable of change.

It might get annoying one day, but for now, Kim can respect his intense desire to make amends. She just wishes he would accept some form of gratitude or praise in return, to make it less awkward on her end.

Kim rests her hands momentarily on the tabletop, tapping her fingers briefly against the wood. "Okay," she softly declares, "I think I'm going to try to get back to sleep." Whatever she winds up dreaming about now, she's pretty sure it won't be the same awful nightmare again — and that's at least partially because of John's intervention. She figures it's worth telling him as much. "You made a pretty good distraction, so thanks."

He nods immediately in response. "Of course," he replies, momentarily bewildered as he checks Kim's expression for signs of sarcasm or annoyance. His posture relaxes as Kim stands, although Kim imagines his relief is temporary. He's pretty good at working himself up into anxious frenzies — staying out of them is another matter entirely.

"Try to get some sleep yourself, okay?" Kim suggests.

There's no way John means it when he says, "I will," but at least he's willing to placate her instead of getting mad at her being concerned in the first place.

"And try not to wake up Carmina."

John nods affirmatively. Kim's positive that he'll sneak outside once she's gone upstairs, but at least he's waiting patiently for her to leave. If it weren't for her returning exhaustion, Kim might've used him as an excuse to do her own late-night workout, but it'll have to do to merely turn a blind eye to him edging around her rule about going out after dark alone. Kim and Nick have both been woken up by the exterior doors, but John never goes beyond the planters out back, and he always closes up when he comes back in. Kim could call him out on it, but... well, it seems like he needs the freedom.

Kim says goodnight and is mildly surprised when John returns it without any lingering sarcasm. He must be pretty tired, but that's not really a surprise. Hopefully, he'll try to take some of her concern to heart, or at least pretend for her sake.

Although Carmina is definitely still asleep when Kim returns to the bedroom, Nick is watching her with bleary-eyed curiosity. He waits until she's closed the door to speak up, and even then it's a dull, quiet whisper.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

He doesn't mind waiting for Kim to creep back to bed before she answers. "It is," she tells him, gratefully crawling into bed as he opens his arms for her. He folds his arms over her shoulders, letting her wiggle into a comfortable spot before she explains in a whisper. "I needed to move around, and John came downstairs. That's all."

"Hope he wasn't a creep," Nick mumbles into her hair. Kim sighs laughingly into his collarbone, which is already sticking to her cheek with sweat. There's no way she's going to be wrapped up in Nick's arms all night, not when it's this hot, but she'll appreciate it while she's got it.

"Not yet," Kim says. "Just talking about supplies." She presses a kiss to Nick's shoulder and whispers, "We'll talk about it in the morning."

Nick hums happily into Kim's hair. "Sounds good to me," he mumbles. The less they talk about John Seed, the better, after all. Especially right now, when they're tangled up in bed with their daughter snoring next to them; there's no room for serious conversation, and there's absolutely no room for John. There's no space for the nightmares that woke her, either; as Kim falls asleep, Nick's hand tangled up in her hair, she thankfully forgets everything save for a warm, melancholy amber glow.

#fc5 #fcnd #john seed #kim rye #far cry new dawn #its only the first 5 right i can't remember #i feel like i was channeling james a janice here for a minute #HEY GUYS welcome to the kill count where we'll be tallying up all the skeletons in john seed's closet #mercyverse #my fic

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forgadgetsandgizmos · 5 years ago

Text

There Were No Words To Speak

Malex AU inspired by the novel The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.

I wrote this a while back but never posted it on tumblr. I recently deleted the stand alone version of it and added it to by my ficlet collection on AO3 (which I didn’t have at the original time of posting) so I figured this was as good a time as any.

How ironic that the first time Alexander felt he understood what it meant to be a defender of man was also the first time he killed one.

—

Alexander preferred to spend his days with Mother. She was a simple woman with few thoughts of her own, but she held a happiness in her that made him happy as well.

Father sneered but allowed it – a sickly spare was of no consequence when he had three stronger sons and more to come.

“A waste,” Father declared.

Alexander said nothing to that. What was there to say? He did not choose how he was born, and there was nothing to be done that could change it now.

So, while his brothers trained to fight every dawn and tutored in strategy every afternoon, he wondered empty stone halls with Mother.

At night, they would lay under the old moria in the courtyard garden and gaze up at the stars. He hung on her every word as she spun tales of the gods. She spoke until her words blurred together and his breathing grew steady in her arms.

That night, he woke again in his bed as her harp-song filled the room and flooded out into the hall. In his mind, she played for hours before meeting his eyes with a gentle smile.

“I have a gift for you, dear heart,” she whispered. She unfolded her hand and presented a small carving of a harp, perfectly painted to match the one she held in her arms. “A harp of your own to remember me by.”

He knew his eyes had never been so wide as he picked up the carving as if it was made of glass. Our little secret, her eyes twinkled.

Mother merely smiled again and tucked it under his pillow. Sleep, and he did as her lullaby filled his room once more.

—

He was young, too young to remember the exact age, the first time he called to Mother and she refused him. He thought it strange. It was night but the hall was silent.

An aging woman with a firm hand and a strange look in her eye put him in bed.

He fell into a fitful sleep still waiting on Mother to arrive.

—

He hadn’t understood then. He learned, slowly, that he would be sleeping in silence now. Learned that the firm hand of servants and midwifes would be the only hand he felt. He learned there would be no more sons.

Mother was dead. And the name Alexander, defender of men, became his curse.

—

“She ruined you,” Father seethed, “and now I have to fix it.” Fix you, he meant.

A king couldn’t have a son preferring the harp to the sword. Princes lead armies in battle, they don’t hum lullabies and cling to childhood toys. Alexander understood that now, though it was lesson he had not relished learning.

His brothers held no refuge. If he served any purpose in their eyes, it was to draw Father’s attention away from them.

—

He traced the lines of the wooden harp until every trace of color had faded.

—

Alexander joined his brothers in training. He could barely hold the wooden training swords.

His brothers’ betrothed laughed at his efforts during their walks through the courtyard.

He didn’t listen. His arms trembled, but a hint of approval shone in Father’s eyes.

He picked up the sword again.

—

He was twelve when he first left their kingdom. He was to travel to King Tyndareous to compete for the hand of his daughter.

He knew it would prove pointless. Father knew as well as he she would have far better suitors to pick from – legends of her beautiful had reached them long ago.

He did not dare question his Father’s decision and risk him changing his mind, merely accepted the direction and promised not to prove an embarrassment.

Not even Father’s worsening glare at every bump of the carriage could taint the pure, utter joy of leaving.

—

The court of Tyndareous was a busy place, drenched in finery and powerful people who traveled far and wide to court the beauty that was Helen of Troy. Alexander was in awe. Not of the fine tapestries, not the chests overflowing in rare gifts, or the indulgent feast far larger than needed, for he has seen such finery before. His father was a proud king who often boasted of his wealth.

No, Alexander’s eyes were drawn to a boy who seemed to glow, a beacon calling out to him.

The boy was a god on earth. Or more accurately, a demigod, if Alexander believed the rumors claiming the boy was Michelakos, son of King Peleus and the sea-nymph goddess Thetis.

It was not a claim he found difficult to believe.

Michelakos was everything Alexander was not. He won every race, every fight, every argument. He was proud and boisterous. He left his golden curls free to tangle in the wind.

He was himself. Call me Michael, Alexander had heard him offer to kings and bastards alike. No one dared to tell him that was improper, not with his lineage and the prophecy that followed. Michael was radiant. Michael glowed.

A heavy hand tightened around Alexander’s neck.“That’s what a prince should be,” followed, hissed in his ear. What a son should be, that sour tone implied, singing with the familiar promise of pain.

Michael’s laugh filled the room and Alexander couldn’t bring himself to care.

—

It wouldn’t be until after (after he gave his oath to protect Helen and her future husband, after he was turned away as expected, after his father grumbled again at his failure) that he wandered away from the bustle of court.

Valenti followed, said they play. Alexander didn’t want him to.

They made it to the creek and found a towering moria. Alexander watched Valenti climb the old wood, yelling and laughing. Alexander went to run his fingers over his harp, tucked safely in his pocket.

“Look for something?” Flecks of leftover paint caught the sun from where Valenti held his harp in the tree.

“That’s mine,” he cried. He darted up the tree to get it back, faster than he ever had in his life. “Give it back!”

Alexander didn’t know how it happened. One second he was yelling and fighting over his harp (with Valenti, who was strong and fast and could have anything else he wanted but took the one thing that his) and the next, Alexander had his harp.

But it was silent. He was alone in the tree, and a broken body staring back up at him.

—

“You should have lied.”

Alexander jerked his head up from where it lay in his hands to see Michael leaning casually against a pillar before him.

“Now, you are no one. Not a prince or a son, just another orphan of Peleus.” Careful, brown-gold eyes (a reflection of Zeus’ favor, perhaps) watched for a reaction.

Alexander had none. An orphan of Peleus… his father had chosen exile after all. He was not surprised. A prince’s funeral would be a costly expense. Now, it would be as if he had never existed to stain his father’s name in the first place.

Neither boy spoke for a long time. There was nothing to say.

Alexander had told everyone what happened, that it was an accident. It had not occurred to him until well after that the scowl on Father’s face was not because Alexander had killed Valenti, but because he told the truth.

And yet, staring at Michael, still dressed in finery, wild hair still glowing, Alexander remembered how he felt that day in the hall. He’d been inspired.

He would not – could not – think about the body on rocky shore, but if he had lied…

If he had lied, he would still be the weak, cowardly Prince Alexander of Jacobus, with all the wealth and responsibility that come with that name.

Alexander did not want to be a lying Prince Alexander, who grew up frozen in the clash between his dreams and a father’s expectations.

And now he wasn’t. It must be a gift from the gods, then. They used his ignorance to answer his prayer and lift his curse.

He stood, grinning madly at Michael’s thinly-masked shock. “I’m Alex.”

#roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex #fic #alex manes #michael guerin #malex fic #my writing #alicewrites #ao3

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the-peachpit · 4 years ago

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NO SHIPPING

Wanring: Blood, Very loose interpretation of the dream smp lore lol

Summary:Technoblade Get's To Dream Before Quakity, Before Time Is Altered By Dream. Before Tommy Has A Chance To Return.

Notes:Hi! I'm really nervous to be writing for this group. I tried hard to respect boundaries using a master post on tumblr to double check. if I over stepped anywhere or was wrong in my interpretation let me know.

It wasn’t his fault. The blood on his hands meant nothing cooling and seeping into his fur. Fur. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d transformed back. Was it that easy for him now to lose control?

Stumbling his way into his home inviting the snow on his heels Technoblade let the door shut enveloping the room in darkness, not even the moon was out tonight. Limping like the beast he was Techno lit a torch on the wall with shaky hands. He caught a glimpse of himself in the small hall mirror the deep cut in his snout darkening his pink fur grungy and matting. It’d been so long since he’d returned to his true piglin form. He wasn’t a beast; he was a man. He lived like a man; he grew up among great men. His father was the best man he knew, and his brothers- men of action and determination. Skirting a fine line into madness over their pride, maybe his brothers were beasts, and maybe he played a part as the eldest. Hearing voices, unable to control his shapeshifting, giving into the voices and pushing Wilbur a little too hard outside. Maybe he had been the plague, but he changed. God he had changed. Refining himself in the image of those around him wanting nothing more than peace among the outskirts and land of his own to farm.

Now he stood covered in blood that wasn’t just his huffing his snout fogging the glass. Where did he go wrong? Was it demeaning his brothers dreams? To be leaders, Wilbur was always meant for something great, and even Philza could see it fostering his natural leader instinct. Sometimes it felt like Wilbur was the eldest. The way he would stir up Tommy for a laugh, but always taught the boy to be patient and gentle. How he took care of Technoblade when the voices demanded blood and his hand twitched over his sword. The way Wilbur had found techno doubled over in the closet scratching at the wooden floor with claws piercing long marks. At that point Techno had been in his human form for a while but was losing control that night with Philza out of town. Techno was supposed to protect his brothers. Instead, he chucked his sword to the corner so he wouldn’t be the one to end their lives as his piglin form emerged. Wilbur was slow, but fearless as he spoke softly placing a hand over Techno’s. it was the warmest he’d ever felt. Wilbur told Techno he trusted him, that his brother could never hurt him piglin or not. Wilbur promised to always be louder than the voices. How fast L’manburg had risen and fallen. Techno almost couldn’t believe it when he heard the news. Wilbur had been exiled from all he loved. Instead of coming home Techno found Wilbur and Tommy looking battered and defeated in a cave. Techno’s heart broke seeing them look so dull he offered to help. When he handed Wilbur his first sword techno ignored the flame he saw, the glint in his brother’s eye. He should have said something, instead he led his brothers charge into battle sealing their fates unknowingly.

When Wilbur died Techno felt like his own life had been taken from him. He watched his brother die at the hands of his father and there was no good in the world anymore, nothing mattered. He wanted to scream, but instead scowled hiding himself away. Until his youngest brother betrayed him. Voices seared his brain and Techno knew releasing those withers was a bad idea, but he was so angry. Betrayed by the boy with wheat colored hair who shot for the stars letting nothing stand in his way. The boy who followed his older brother anywhere even into madness. Techno felt like he had no family after that. When he got home from that battle as L’manburg burned he felt the sting of it all. The blood on his hands was almost Tommy’s.

Techno smashed the mirror forcing himself to transform, to see the human hand covered in blood. He was a person. With little strength left he popped back to a pink furry beast. He continued to light his small home trudging to the bathroom. His clothes were torn in spots partially from the transformation. Forcing himself to turn again he saw the damage to his human complexion, the dark bags under his eyes, the scar on his snout ran from the right underside of his cheek to under his left eye. A trophy of sorts.

Techno cleaned his wounds slowly, deliberately, letting himself feel the sting of antiseptic. He deserved it- to hurt like they hurt. Changing his clothes and moving to the living room techno lit his fireplace when the vase in the corner of the room caught his eye. It was filled with various flowers from Ranboo who would generously give them away when Techno would visit Tubbo mostly to see Tommy. Techno never understood why Tommy had forgiven Tubbo for anything, and so easily at that. Techno had gotten revenge on Tubbo watching blood seep from his face by his own hands and still wasn’t satisfied by the punishment. In fact, Tommy was ruining it, because when Techno saw Tommy make Tubbo smile moving the burn scars on his face Techno felt weird. Remorse? Tommy was a spitfire who never thought anything through including befriending the enemy. Techno wondered if in the end he was an enemy? The thought squeezed his heart like a vice.

Techno looked at the chair in the middle of the room, he’d wanted to read a book and call it a night, his bones ached, and his head throbbed. Was he getting too old for this? Fighting everyone, why was he stilled pulled into this? He asked to be left alone, it’s all he wanted.

Huffing he knew he couldn’t just sit there. Opening the front door, he grabbed his coat before walking towards the stables stomping through the snow to his polar bear. It would make the trip faster, and Tubbo enjoyed seeing his pet. It would make things, easier.

Ridding through the dark with just the gentle glow of the stars to guide him Techno let the blistering cold nip at his face. To perk him up or make him feel alive he wasn’t sure. He rode through the frozen tundra watching the snow melt to warmer climates. It was spring where Tubbo lived a new life. He never locked himself away. Knocking on the door Techno waited unsure what he could even say when he saw the charred face of the small ram boy.

“Do you have any god damn idea what time it,” Tubbo’s curses slowed as he rubbed his eyes taking in the sight of his former foe.

“I’m not sure time’s been a blur tonight,” Techno shrugged.

“Why are you here?”

Techno could practically hear Tubbo’s teeth grinding.

“I just want to talk about,” Techno sighed, “Tommy.”

“Leave,” Tubbo’s normally cheerful voice sent shivers through Techno’s spine.

“I will just,” Techno stood straighter saving face his 7-foot frame usually kept him brave.

“Leave!” Tubbo shouted, “Tommy’s dead! I had his funeral and, where were you? Couldn’t be bothered to show up! Did you even know?”

Techno felt it the crack in his heart, he knew Tommy was dead. He was probably one of the last to hear in passing from Ranboo before being left on his own in his self-made snowy dungeon. His hell he personally crafted. He didn’t sulk at first, it sunk in over a glass of whisky, his youngest brother had been beaten to death in a prison he was never meant to be in. The brother he had cleaned scrapes for and applied bandages. The brother he taught how to fight and had dinner with hearing his plans for his future. Tommy, the boy with wheat colored hair who shone like the sun. It wasn’t fair. His light was snuffed out in a cold dark place at the hand of his tormentor from day one. Beaten to death. Techno couldn’t get over it. He smashed his glass and knocked his bookcases to the ground. Beaten to death! Brutal, soulless, painful. God Tommy was probably in so much pain. Pain Techno couldn’t protect him from or make better. He died alone.

“I killed him,” Techno’s voice was a whisper that stung.

“What?” Tubbi stuttered.

“I killed Dream,” Techno looked at his hands he could still see the blood.

“I don’t,” Tubbo stepped forward driven by curiosity.

“I went to the prison,” Techno shouted, “I kicked the crap out of Sam, and I killed Dream!” He ran his hand frantically through his messy pink hair, “I was just going to talk to him, but I saw Tommy’s body, and I had my axe.”

Tommy’s eyes were milky a far cry from his curious blue gaze. His face was bruised and bloodied. He looked so cold not even the lava could warm him. Dream just sat there welcoming Techno assuming he was a break out party. The voices screamed demanding blood, and Techno obliged happily. With a fierce swing Techno planted his axe between Dreams ribs.

“He laughed,” Techno smiled, “The damn bastard cackled as I slaughtered him. All he did was scratch me once as I lost control and mauled him.”

“Kinda looks like he scratched you pretty good,” Tubbo observed the large scar.

“Heh,” Techno laughed, “I guess.”

“Did you come all the way here just to tell me this?” Tubbo leaned against the door frame.

“I want to know if you’ve seen Philza,” Techno asked, “I brought back Tommy’s body, it’s in the snow at my place. I want to bury him properly. Him and Wilbur. I’m not sure if Philza knows about Tommy yet, and I should be the one to tell him.”

Philza hadn’t talked about Wilbur either since the tragedy. Techno wanted to walk about that too.

Tubbo nodded, “Let me talk to Ranboo, I’ll be back out.”

The plan was set in motion. Tubbo accompanied Techno back to his house refusing to look at Tommy’s corpse and Techno couldn’t blame Tubbo. They rode for a day and a half returning to the small cabin Techno remembered growing up in. He could hear the laughter of Tommy and Wilbur echo on the breeze that rustled the trees. He saw Philza standing on the deck looking down at them. When did he get so old? He looked so tired. He knew.

No words were exchanged as Techno dismounted his polar bear and Philza descended the stairs. Techno tried his best to make the words come to him. He was told he always had a way with words. Before he could open his mouth, strong arms embraced him. They were warm and comforting. They felt like support. Slowly Techno raised his arms grabbing onto Philza’s shirt hands balled into firsts. When was the last time they were this close?

Tommy and Wilbur were buried in the back of the house under the tree Tommy had fallen out of breaking his arm. Under the tree Wilbur wrote songs on lazy afternoons. Under the tree Techno taught his brothers how to wield a sword and be strong. The tree they grew under.

“Welcome home Theseus.”

#dream smp fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #fan creation #dream smp

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skiller0dani · 5 years ago

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Demon and the Dame | Part Eight

Summary: After a startling secret about Dean is revealed to Eleanor, she has to deal with it. One of Dean’s many enemies he made as a demon comes back to hurt him, by hurting Eleanor.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Eleanor Walker (OC)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Spoiler Alert Season 10, Angst, Sadness, Fighting, Crying, oh and more ANGST,

A/N: I don’t even have a good excuse as to why I’ve abandoned this series for so long. Sorry. Also thanks Tumblr for getting rid of the line breaks. BTW (THIS IS IMPORTANT) Italicized Font is a Flashback

Part 7 Masterlist

Eleanor wasn’t actively avoiding the Winchesters, she just wasn’t making any effort to see them, or talk to them. Also she wasn’t going to any stores they go to, or the bars they frequent, okay so maybe she’s avoiding them. She knows sooner or later she’ll have to tell Dean the truth, but at this point she’s not even sure she accepts it. Was the Werewolf lying? Maybe he was trying to get under her skin, or maybe he knew saying the truth would bother her? Eleanor lays back on her bed, her eyes looking up into the dark ceiling. She’s not even sure she still loves him, maybe she’s just in denial. Maybe none of this matters and Eleanor just needs to move on. Was everything Dean said a game? Everything that happened in Beulah, was he just playing with her? Like how a lion will play with their prey before they kill it? If he does remember her, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending he doesn’t. She doubts he remembers her, he would have said something surely.

________________________________________________________________

“Dean?” Eleanor’s voice is soft, and slurred with sleep as she reaches across the bed for him. Feeling the cold sheets she sits up, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes as she adjusts to the dark room. “M’here baby.” He says from the table, and it’s now that Eleanor can make out his silhouette, with a glass of what she presumes to be Whiskey in his hand. The motel room is cold, goosebumps arise on her skin as Eleanor rises to approach Dean. Sliding her hands over his shoulders she carefully slides onto his lap, soaking in the heat radiating from his skin. “You’re warm.” Eleanor hums, and Dean chuckles inwardly. Demons aren’t usually described as ‘warm’, the opposite actually. She cards her fingers through his hair as her eyes find his, “what’re you thinking about?” Eleanor asks, seeing that familiar faraway look in his eyes when he can’t stop thinking about something. Annoyingly, Dean can feel the humanity flare up every now and again, and he can only guess it’s because he didn’t get possessed by a demon. He became the demon, his humanity didn’t disappear, it was just buried. He can feel the ‘old’ him try to re-emerge every once in a while. Always around Eleanor.

“Nothin’. Bad dream.” Dean lies, looking into her eyes with that perfectly crafted ‘wounded puppy’ look he’s learned to do so well. Eleanor’s hands rub his shoulders, and he feels the tension loosen from the muscles. “Come back to bed.” Eleanor whispers but Dean wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her flush against him as his head finds it’s place in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. “What’s gotten into you?” Eleanor asks with a smile, he never shows this much affection. Dean is more of a physical guy, he never does tender moments. He looks back into her eyes, his own empty. He pushes Eleanor off him before tugging a shirt over his head. “Where are you going?” Eleanor asks as she sits on the edge of the bed. Dean takes a long swig of Whiskey straight from the bottle before he turns to the door. “Anne-Marie has a shift tonight, want to get a taste of that pussy again.” He says before closing the door behind him, and breaking what’s left of Eleanor’s heart.

________________________________________________________________

Nighttime Rush is bustling as Eleanor pushes in through the doors. Sleep was obviously not going to happen for her tonight, so why not pick up an extra shift? Hopefully get drunk and forget what’s his name. If she’s really lucky, she’ll have bad sex with some guy after her shift and hope he doesn’t get Whiskey dick. Pulling down the top of the skimpy uniform, her breasts are nearly on full display as Eleanor serves drinks to the perverted male customers. A harsh slap to her ass forces a gasp out of her mouth as she turns to see at tall man with dark hair smirking at her. “Look, don’t touch. Asshole.” Eleanor mutters, and his grin grows wider as a chuckle escapes his lips. She swears he looks familiar, she’s seen him somewhere before. “When you’re walking around lookin’ like that, it’s hard to control myself baby doll.” He smiles, and Eleanor honestly just feels like vomiting. Eleanor holds back a shudder as she continues back to the kitchen to put dirty glasses in the sink.

She turns, with a big forced smile on her face to return to the customers but a hand grabs her arm and pulls her down the hallway. When Eleanor looks up, she sees the man from earlier grinning down at her. It’s only now that she notices his limp, he doesn’t put any weight on one of his legs. “Do you not remember me sweet cheeks?” The man whispers in her ear and Eleanor tries to slide away from him. He shoves her back against the wall, his eyes boring down into hers. Eleanor’s eyes widen when she remembers where she first met this man, in Beulah. He and his friends tried to assault her... twice. “What do you want? I’m not as defenseless anymore.” She snaps, her eyes glaring up into his. The man chuckles as he presses a rag to her nose and mouth, and her eyes roll back before everything goes black.

When Eleanor’s eyes widen she looks around and sees she’s in a rundown motel room, “morning.” The man smiles as he sits on a chair at the end of the bed she’s tied to. Eleanor groans, she’s getting really tired of being a ‘damsel in distress.’ “You never answered my question prick.” Eleanor snaps, looking over at him. He chuckles as he begins rolling up the pant leg of his jeans, revealing a horrific looking scar on his shin. “See that douchebag of a boyfriend of yours, destroyed my fuckin’ leg. Shattered the bone, ripped apart the tendons. It’s a miracle I can even walk.” He seethes but Eleanor rolls her eyes, sinking back into the mattress. He then shows her the back of his calf, where an even bigger more disgusting looking scar sits. “Well if you wouldn’t have attacked me then he wouldn’t have shot you.” Eleanor snaps and the mans eyes widen before he laughs.

He stands and stalks over to Eleanor, “you don’t know do you? Of course you don’t. Why would he tell you?” He laughs harder, and Eleanor’s blood runs cold. She feels anxiety pulsing in her chest as she looks up at him, “what are you talking about sleazebag?” Eleanor snaps weakly, feeling nausea turning in her gut. The man leans down close to her, looking her in the eyes. “Dean Winchester ruined my career as a fitness instructor, so I’m going to ruin something perfect in his life. You.” Eleanor laughs bitterly before she spits in his face, “jokes on you. Dean Winchester doesn’t give a shit about me.” She snaps and the man wipes his face off before elbowing her in the nose. Hearing a sickening crunch followed by a few seconds of blinding pain, Eleanor feels blood gushing down her face. “Maybe he didn’t in Beulah, but he does now. The secret to hurting someone, isn’t to kill someone they love. I’m sure that’s where you thought this was going. No the secret to hurting someone, is to hurt them in a way they can’t recover from. Mourning somebody’s death is easy to avoid, but when someone you love leaves you. When they walk out, and you sit there everyday knowing that person is out there, but that they don’t give a shit about you anymore. That is pain.” He says and Eleanor stays quiet as she gazes up at him.

“I would never abandon him.” Eleanor says quietly but the man shakes his head as he slowly sits down again. “You’re mind will change when you hear what I have to say.” He smiles and Eleanor can’t fight the curiosity as she looks at him, silently waiting for him to continue. “Why on Earth would we try to attack you again after your psychotic boyfriend broke my brothers arm with one hand?” He asks and Eleanor shrugs, staying quiet as she keeps her eyes trained on him. “He hired us to do it sweet cheeks. Gave us a big wad of cash and gave us free rein as long as we didn’t kill you. Said we could do whatever, even told us what motel room you were staying in. But never did he say that he was going to shoot me in the leg!” The man explains, his voice raising at the end but all the color drains out of Eleanor’s face. She looks down, her face void of any emotion. She just feels numb. Dean hired those men to attack her, they nearly raped her and he told them to do it. He fucking paid them to do it, why? So he could swoop in and save her like some noble hero?

“Heard him fuckin’ you a few nights later so I guess whatever plan he had worked.” The man sighed and Eleanor felt her heart break into even smaller pieces. That’s why Dean did it, to get in her pants. To fuck her like he fucked Anne-Marie, but she wasn’t as easy as Ann. So Dean had to be clever to get in Eleanor’s pants. He stands and takes out a knife, cutting her hands free. “You can go, and here. For your nose.” Eleanor’s eyes burn as she takes the towel and presses it to her nose, and when she opens the motel room door she finds herself still in Lebanon. She doesn’t bother to turn to the man who kidnapped her, he just tore her entire world apart and flipped it upsidown. Dean Winchester is a monster, he doesn’t care about her. This is all just a game to him, he’s not different. He remembers her, he’s just playing with her. Trying to trick her again. The sun was beginning to rise, and it was a long brisk walk back to her apartment. She trudged up the stairs, missing the Impala parked behind her building.

Eleanor climbs the stairs but pauses when she sees her apartment door ajar, and carefully approaches when she hearts a voice. It makes her heart stop. “Well then where the hell is she Sam? She’s not here, she’s not at work! Someone fucking took her, how the hell do you explain these?” Dean yells, slapping down two photos of Eleanor tied up, unconscious and laying in the backseat of someone’s car. Before Sam can respond, Eleanor pushes the door open. Her eyes are still focused ahead of her, a blank look on her face and Dean’s eyebrows raise in surprise. His expression turns to anger when he sees the bruises on her wrists and the bloody towel, plus her swollen and busted nose. “What happened?” Sam asked as he approached her but Eleanor stepped back, tears gently falling down her cheeks. Sam is probably a demon too, Dean probably turned Sam into a demon so they could wreak havoc together. “Get out, both of you.” Eleanor says softly, her voice lacking conviction as she pushes past them. Dean pinches his eyebrows together, something happened to her and he wants to know what.

“Not until you tell me what happened.” Dean said sternly, but Sam lingered by the door. Eleanor didn’t scream at him, or cry, or do anything but slump down at her kitchen table with a bottle of Whiskey. “You don’t need to pretend anymore Dean. Just please leave me alone, you’ve hurt me enough.” Eleanor says softly and now Dean is just plain confused. Has he done something he isn’t aware of? Is this a girl thing? Did he fuck up somehow? “El, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Dean says in disbelief but Eleanor laughs bitterly, her voice weak. She looks up at Dean, her eyes red and dull. Lacking that sparkle they always have. “Is Sam one too?” Eleanor asks and Sam pinches his eyebrows together as Dean slowly sits across from her at the table. “Is he what?” He asks, wanting more than anything for her to tell him what is going on. Eleanor takes a gulp of Whiskey before looking into his eyes, “a demon.” She says and the entire room falls quiet.

“No, neither of us are demons.” Sam says as he takes a step forward, exchanging a nervous glance with Dean. Even if Dean doesn’t remember, it makes no difference to Eleanor. He still did those things when he didn’t have to, he played with her heart and her body for fun. He nearly got her killed because he paid thugs to assault her. Dean can’t be trusted. Maybe this is what that man wanted, when he said he was going to hurt Dean. “Not anymore at least.” Eleanor says, her voice broken and weak as tears fall down her cheeks. She looks up into Dean’s eyes, who is wide eyed and freaked out as hell. “When you saw me for the first time, you had this look on your face like you’d seen me before.” Dean says and Eleanor’s eyes doesn’t leave him. Her eyes are red and watery as she takes another drink. “You know why.” She snaps and Dean lets out a sigh of frustration. Eleanor looks down at the bottle, swirling the liquid around.

“Beulah. The Black Spur.” She says finally and Dean’s face falls in revelation, he knows what she’s gonna say next. “We met there after one of my shifts. Some guys attacked me, you ruffed them up and they ran off.” She says softly, seeing no look of recognition on his face. Eleanor feels her heart break when she remembers the night they broke into her motel room, the night she cried in Dean’s arms. The night she felt so safe. “You finding me wasn’t an accident was it?” Dean asked her, while Sam stood stunned. Eleanor looked up at Dean with the most heart broken expression. “I looked for you, for a while. Then I gave up, so yeah finding you actually was an accident.” She explains, her body slumped as she takes another gulp of Whiskey. Dean leaned forward on his elbows, she met him before... when he was a demon. This entire time, she already knew who he was. Had memories of him he’d forgotten. “The second time those men attacked me, they had a key to my motel room. I always figured they’d lifted it from my bag. They broke my hand, pulled my pants off, touched me. It was horrible. But you saved me, you came bursting through the door and shot one of them right through his shin.” Eleanor smiled, but tears still dripped down her cheeks.

“You, for that night, were my hero. My knight in shining armor. The person that took me today, was the man you shot. He told me you hired them to attack me again, you even gave them a key to my motel room. Said they could do anything to me as long as they didn’t kill me. You did it to get in my pants Dean, all of it was a game to you. All of it.” Eleanor finishes, her face fallen and eyes empty as she gazes across the table at Dean. His hands are folded on the table, his chest heavy with guilt, he can’t even bring himself to look at her. “You can see yourself out Dean, and if you really do give a crap about people now then you’ll never come back.” Eleanor says calmly, her cheeks still wet with falling tears as Dean pushes back from the table. Dean shoves past Sam, out into the hallway and with one last sad look, Sam joins him.

Eleanor woke with a jolt, her body covered in sweat as she glanced around the dark motel room for 4 men that weren’t really there. Her chest is heaving as she pants, her eyes wide and she feels like the walls are creeping in on her. “Just a dream, c’mere.” Dean mumbles sleepily, his hands reaching out to pull her back down to lay next to him. She reluctantly lays next to him, immediately turning and curling into his chest as his arms wrap protectively around her. “I protected you from them twice, don’t worry.” Dean says as he already begins to fall back asleep. Slowly Eleanor feels her heart rate slow as security and the feeling of being safe in Dean’s arms lulls her back to sleep.

Eleanor laughs bitterly at the painful memory, feeling safe in the arms of the man who put her in danger? How absolutely pathetic is that? She knows that man was trying to hurt Dean, but he hurt her more. Dean doesn’t remember any of the searing kisses, or the sound of panting and the feel of sweaty skin sliding together. Dean doesn’t remember teaching her how to hunt, he doesn’t remember any of it but she does. Eleanor remembers all of it, and now she knows that it really meant nothing to him. She always kind of knew, but to know he went as far as hiring thugs to beat her up so he could have sex with her... it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

“Eleanor I’m serious, just stay away from him.” Anne said, shooting Eleanor a serious look as they continue to wipe down the tables so they could close the bar. “He stopped those men Anne-” Eleanor starts but Anne turns to look at her, hands on her hips and a deadly serious look on her face. “I once watched him beat a man half to death for harassing me, men like Dean are worse than the men who attacked you.” She says and Eleanor doesn’t say anything else as Anne turns to lift chairs and place them on the tables.

Looks like Anne-Marie was right after all.

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x OC #dean winchester imagine #supernatural #SPN #short story #demon!dean #demon dean imagine #demon and the dame #dean winchester smut #demon #scary

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anhed-nia · 5 years ago

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NOTTING HILL

I bet there's five or six of you still out there who are wondering why I haven't written almost all year, and whether I'm still gonna do Blogtober this year. Well, I YAM! In fact, you'll get a double dose of autumn bullshit from me, since I'll be traveling to Fantastic Fest this September to find out what the fuss is all about. (Actually I already know and I'm STOKED!) Meanwhile, to prove I am still alive and able to string a run-on sentence together, please "enjoy" my review of a TRUE horror film: Roger Mitchell's 1999 romantic-comic mega hit, NOTTING HILL.

Even if you know me pretty well, you might not know that I have a ritual of becoming very stoned and watching popular romantic comedies to try to figure out what regular jagoffs want, like how the other half lives. Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm observing evidence of an alien civilization, and sometimes I feel like I'm just watching the end of the world. I always try to stay open to the possibility that they might be better than I think they are, though, sort of the way I am strangely invested in whether there are truly good Christians out there and not just nominal celebrants who have a convenient justification for their bigotry...

Um where was I, anyway, with all that said: I am here to declare that NOTTING HILL is the stupidest fucking movie ever made by a human being. It is infinitely dumber than INVASION OF THE BLOOD FARMERS or BLOOD FREAK or COLOR ME BLOOD RED, or whatever other garbage I excuse as secret art (but it is!), and that's just in terms of internal logic--I'm not even getting into matters of taste. What happens in this movie is, Hugh Grant spills orange juice all over perfect stranger and famous actress Julia Roberts, she agrees to go inside his house to change her clothes, and then they just start frenching. There's so little reason for it that Julia Roberts has to say out loud that it doesn't make any sense, just to try to make it "make sense" for the audience. Straight away she invites herself to dinner with his family, which is mostly represented by a montage of people laughing for no reason so you can tell how charming they all are. (N.B. This exact scene happens in SANTA CLAUS CONQUERS THE MARTIANS) Then they just seem to be on this endless date, punctuated by nauseating adult contemporary ballads about epic romance, that finally ends when it is revealed that Julia Roberts already has a boyfriend. I had been waiting and waiting to figure out what the actual plot of this was, and it finally arrives A FULL HOUR INTO THE MOVIE.

Hugh Grant is let down, but for some reason not at all put off that his perfect female is a cheat and a liar. I guess this is because her boyfriend is a lout, as illustrated by Alec Baldwin in exactly one startlingly brief appearance, suggesting that the fact that he's rude and dumb means he deserves just whatever. Anyway, in not too long, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts get back together because what else could happen--btw she will finally mention that she didn't know if she was still *In a Relationship* with Alec Baldwin at almost the end of the movie when it doesn't matter anymore. That plot point just goes away as soon as it arrives, and then the new plot is that potentially career-ruining old racy photos of Julia Roberts have emerged, the head-parts of which suggest to me that they are just stills from MYSTIC PIZZA. Then that plot point goes away. Then the new plot is that the paparazzi get pictures of Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant slouching around his apartment in lounge wear, and even though Hugh Grant's mystifyingly dirty, crazy, rape-y roommate is in the mix, the whole world decides that this means Julia Roberts is cheating on Alec Baldwin and she is ruined once again. But, some time elapses, and then Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts just get married and have a baby. THE END!

The excuses for humor in this movie are bizarrely infantile, and eerily similar to especially bad, needy Avengers fan posts on tumblr, with saucy little quips and jabs and flirts that turn into inconvenient boners for our chronically aroused and embarrassed hero. One example involves a long exchange about whether Julia Roberts would eat out Mel Gibson's asshole--sorry, his "bottom". Another involves Hugh Grant saying "whoopsie-daisies", which Julia Roberts charges is an antiquated term that makes him sound like an old man, totally ignoring the fact that a) it's a timeless term used only with babies, and b) IT'S FUCKING "WHOOPSIE DAISY", I GODDAMN GOOGLED IT.

The weirdest thing about this movie is that the director also made something called THE MOTHER, a sometimes unbearably intense drama about an elderly woman who gets horrifically exploited by her mentally ill adult daughter and the daughter's manipulative boyfriend. I guess NOTTING HILL is worth it if it means you can afford to make something actually good after.

Anyway, sorry about this long post about NOTTING HILL, which is probably not the kind of thing you're here for. But don't you dare suggest that I just "spoiled it" for you, I am PROTECTING YOU FROM IT.

PS The second weirdest thing about NOTTING HILL is the presence of Gina McKee, who looks so much like Hugh Grant that she might as well be a drag king of him--and even though a major character in this movie is supposed to be Hugh Grant's sister, they cast Gina McKee as his best friend. Go figure!!

#blogtober #hugh grant #julia roberts #roger mitchell #notting hill #romantic comedy

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buckybarndoors · 6 years ago

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Delicate

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Summary: The reader, like a lot of girls that the famous James Buchanan Barnes has run into, can’t seem to take her mind off of the enigma that is the frosty-eyed, beefy, softie of a soldier. He, as he is known for, strictly keeps to himself. So a kitten must do what he has to in order to get things going.

Requested?: Nope! But my requests are always always open!

Words: 2,982

Warnings: None? Really? Unless you melt at the person that is James Buchanan Barnes. It’s just pure.

A/N: First tumblr post! It’s pretty small, but I still hope you all enjoy. And, if you do, please don’t forget to leave feedback! <3

James Buchanan Barnes was an enigma that I just couldn't figure out.

First off, I suppose, I must admit that I am, undoubtedly, not the first person to attempt to figure out what composes the inside compound of the large supersoldier and what causes the inside of his brain to work the way that it does. But, with that being said, it must also be made clear that the information that had just been given must also prove that the job was a lot harder than anyone would assume it to be, if many people had tried, yet failed, to get a peak of the workings of James Barnes. Not because of his past, or the troubling rumors that I've heard over the many, many years of being one of the very few people that had the privilege of being able to claim that a small handful of the Avengers, aka 'earth's mightiest heroes', could trust, but because of the things that my eyes have actually witnessed him do starting from the day that he had moved into the compound, even when I hadn’t even known that I was doing it.

It wasn't like I had taken much notice of him when he had first appeared in the newspapers and headlines as 'The Mysterious, Dangerous, Winter Soldier', nor did I attempt to make our brief introduction any longer considering that I had quite actually run into him at about three in the morning in the compound's kitchen with absolutely no warning, wearing just a thin nightshirt and my Star Wars pajama pants. To put it simply, he had scared the absolute shit out of me due to his impulsive silent nature and the fact that I had not been prepared to see a shadow behind me while humming the tune to ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ and making myself my fourth cup of coffee that late night/early morning. It was almost as if my intrigue for him had popped out of the blue, startling me so suddenly on a random day of the year without any kind of warning or notice beforehand, and whether that was a good thing or bad thing was still yet to be determined.

Perhaps one could say that he grew on me, but I simply refused to believe that it was anything more than my weird so-called fascination for him.

It all seemed to be going well of course, with me just being creepy and staring at him from afar whenever he entered a room or when he just happened to show up at one of Stark's parties that I often got ignored at, and him completely oblivious to my simple existence. I didn’t have any intention of talking to him or crushing the little bubble of admiration that I held for the kind of person that I found him to be from my many witnessings of his character throughout my observations and deductions, I simply just enjoyed gazing at him from afar. Like a piece of artwork, or a dream that you just didn’t want to ruin by actually chasing for it. And I was perfectly content with the way that things were in that very moment in time.

That is, of course, until the night when a kitten came bounding into my room as if it were the mightiest lion to ever exist.

The creature itself was barely the size of my computer mouse that sat on the desk opposite of my bed, with paws that were way too large for its body and limbs that kept stumbling over each other as it furiously made its way towards me with such a passion that I could almost assume it was on a mission given by the late Nick Fury himself. The color of its fur was almost as dark as the shade of black that was reserved for the night sky outside, apart from a small patch of white that was placed on the tip of its tail, contrasting harshly against the bright blues of its young eyes which looked up at me in curiosity as it continued to run straight for the bed that I was currently seated atop of. A beautiful, delicate little thing that almost seemed to be created just for the sole purpose of saying ‘awe’ at it with big googly eyes like I was currently doing now.

I, of course, not expecting the sudden kitten sneak attack that night, was innocently wearing the classic outfit that I had worn the night of meeting the Winter Soldier himself, a classic night look of mine, while sitting on top of the cream duvet placed on my bed; piles upon piles of files and paperwork fanned around my body as I leaned against the headboard. It was, yet again, one of my many sleepless nights filled with stressing over the work day that had happened before, an unsurprisingly empty cup that had once been filled with coffee just minutes before placed innocently on my nightstand as if it was the most normal thing in the world for a human such as myself to stay up so late and long.

It had always helped me to work with a window open and my bedroom door propped with one of my many classic records playing, somewhat alleviating the claustrophobia that was going on in my head from the endless rush of words that I crammed inside of it; some of the perks of living on the lower levels of the compound. But even then, it almost seemed like I was close to bursting at the seams that night, for the pressure behind my eyes was beginning to grow more and more forceful and I could feel my fingers twitching harshly against my thigh as I shifted my legs every few seconds. Ah, the beginning signs of exhaustion along with my bad habit of overworking myself until my breaking point.

But, there came barreling in my knight in shining armor: a kitten I could practically poke with my pinky finger and most likely damage its rib because of the action. And, surprisingly following it with his hands extended in front of his hunched over form? None other than James Barnes himself.

“Come on little guy, don’t make me run for you,” The man pleaded, his voice hushed as he rushed forward and scooped the tiny creature in a delicate cradle, completely oblivious to my presence in general as he looked down at the animal in his hands. He seemed to be dressed for bed as well, apart from the large jacket that was slung over his shoulders and arms and the fresh scent of the New York night air that still lingered on his frame that hinted towards his nightly outings that I already had a slight suspicion of him going on. Apart from the night that we had met, where he had also been wearing that very same jacket on his way back inside, it wasn’t rare to see his familiar form in the dead of night walking past my open doorway without a second glance in my direction, undoubtedly on his way outside with a head full of thoughts. “What’d I say about running off? We can’t do that, especially while everyone’s trying to sleep. I’ve already invaded my welcome way too many times, bud-”

Oh so suddenly, James seemed to have suddenly noticed just where exactly he was, his eyes widening a fraction of an inch as he tears them away from the kitten in his hands at the sound of my Doris Day record that currently played, eyebrows furrowing. It was actually visible to watch as the wheels turned in his head, slowly analyzing my topaz colored walls, my bare computer desk, and record machine, before slowly inching over towards my bed. Where it was then when his gaze met my own sheepish one, the embarrassing heat of a scarlet blush tinging my cheeks and the tips of my ears as I raised my hand and twirled my fingers in greeting. “Hello there, Sarge.”

For the first time that I have ever witnessed it, the man in front of me almost seemed to be speechless for a second, the kitten in his soft hold squirming ever so slightly as he held it closer to his clothed chest and cleared his throat awkwardly. It was one of the few times that I had ever actually seen him have a human response towards a situation that he seemed to not have a certain grip on, considering that in every other social interaction he always seemed to want to be the ‘silent and stoic’ type while his old friend did most of the talking for him. Whether he did that out of fear of opening his mouth or just genuinely not enjoying the company that he was forced to keep, I have yet to find out. For I could only work my magic from so far away before even then I come rendered clueless without actually needing to know the person first.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that this was someone’s room. The door was wide open and I-” He shook his head, cutting himself off mid-sentence and almost seeming to chuckle at himself as he held the kitten up in the slightest as if the action worked better than any excuse he could possibly think of. “I didn’t realize just how much of a troublemaker he was going to be until my parental instincts kicked in. Who knew that taking a kitten off the street would be such a bad idea?”

I waved a hand in the air, shrugging it off and allowing my other hand to drop the piece of paper that it had been holding in order to place it back into the pile that it had been in off to the right of my body. In a curious manner, I found myself hanging to his words, for it wasn’t often, even in my many days of what I liked to call ‘Barnes Observation’, that I had heard him speak more than a few words at a time. The fact that he was even speaking to me at all was a large step, and whether it was the fact that he was purely off-put by the entire situation or perhaps just the lateness of the night, I couldn’t help but be thankful for it. “Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us I suppose. But I do have to say that he looks a lot like you. Must be a proud Dad.”

Strangely enough, I found an odd sense of satisfaction flowing through my veins at the sound of the man’s laugh as he stroked behind the kitten’s ears, the corners of his lips twitching upwards slightly at my words. By then, he had neared closer to my still open doorway, lingering stiffly even though traces of humor still remained on his face, as if he felt out of place even in his own body. It was a hard sight to see, but still, the smile remained on my face nonetheless as I watched with a knowing gaze. “Again, I’m sincerely sorry for interrupting your night. I guess I should try and go and convince this little guy to go to sleep at some point-”

Of course, as I had expected, the man was trying his hardest to leave as fast as possible, and I sure couldn’t blame him. Even I was embarrassed for him, but I couldn’t help but admit that his reaction towards the entire problem that he had quite literally stumbled into was nothing less than adorable; like a kid caught stealing, except much more innocent. It only added on to the many personalities that I had found belonged to the man in front of me, and I couldn’t help but be the slightest bit disappointed as I watched him step away. For I was almost positive that there would be no other time apart from tonight that we would ever have a conversation like the one we had just had, even if it was just a few sentences back and forth. It was just the way it seemed to be, and who was I to change that?

But, almost as soon as his foot took a single step out of the doorway, the creature in his arms seemed to let out the most pitiful, purely distraught cry that even made me rise from my spot on the bed out of pure fear for the little thing’s well being, nose curled and spine arched as it attempted to shrink out of the man’s grip. James, startled as ever, took a step back into the room at the sound of it, and in that second it was as if nothing had even happened at all, the creature as happy as ever as he looked up at the man with eyes glowing like two round moons.

“If that wasn’t a mighty roar, then I don’t know what is,” I stated, still startled and on edge as James and I met eyes before simultaneously looking back down at the kitten who now seemed to be staring at me almost expectantly. Somehow, I couldn’t help but give in to my brain, and the creature who almost seemed to be as devious as the God of Mischief himself, as I continued. “You’re free to stay here until this little guy calms down if you want to. I’ve got snacks.”

James smiled slightly. “Well since you asked so nicely. Why didn’t you mention the snacks earlier?”

After clearing out my seemingly endless piles of reports and papers, it was almost an instinct to comfortably settle myself on my bed, elbow propped and hand smushing my cheek as I gazed between James Barnes, who took up a similar position opposite of me, and the small creature that laid out between us along with the small bowl of cheesy puffs that the man had insisted on munching on. His jacket had been shed more than a little while ago, along with the record machine that he had gawked over for a time long enough that it would definitely be a memory imprinted into my brain for a long while. That is, of course, after he had furiously changed the record from Doris Day to Frank Sinatra with an almost smug grin. And from then on we had talked the night away, the sky outside growing a significant shade brighter than when we had first started. We just couldn’t seem to find it in ourselves to stop, and I sure as hell hoped that he didn’t plan on it anytime soon.

“So Steve told me that you’re some of the...Avengers’...therapist?” He questioned curiously, eyebrows furrowed as he pets the kitten’s spine softly, lip caught between his teeth for a fraction of a second. “He kept trying to convince me to come to you because he thought it would help....”

“And why didn’t you?” I responded quietly, fidgeting with the drawstring of my pajamas. At the beginning of our conversation, James had asked me what in the world my pants even meant, and it had lead me into a wild discussion talking about the entire plot of the marvelous franchise that was Star Wars. And, surprisingly enough, he didn’t seem to be bothered by my large tangent. He even seemed to have been smiling through most of it all.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone” He paused then, before adding. “Everything that went on, and that still sometimes does, in my brain would be an immense burden to everyone I tell,”

“Was it true that you think you invaded your welcome? Do you think that you don’t deserve your place here?”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me right now?”

“Are you trying to avoid the question?”

A heavy silence lingered between us for a few seconds, settling in between our two bodies as he avoided my gaze and I tried everything in my power to not observe him while he did so. From what I could tell, I hadn’t exactly touched a sore spot for him, but more so seemed to have trapped him in a corner that he didn’t exactly feel like divulging to me at that moment. Of course, I wasn’t the kind of person to make him tell me. So, instead, I went for the gentle assassination path.

“From what I can tell, James, is that you belong more here more than most of us do, and that’s not just me pulling shit out of my ass to make you feel better.”

“Is this how you are during therapy sessions? Because I’d love to see how Stark responds to something like that-”

“Hush, Barnes, I’m trying to work my magic.” Sighing dramatically, I continue as if burdened by his interruption. “What I’m trying to get at is that maybe the more you dwell on the things that you’re scared of, the more you let your demons control you, the less that you’ll realize just how much people want you around and the harder it is to live above them. It’s going to take a long while, but eventually, you’ll figure out how to enter a room without feeling like the world is about to collapse if you open your mouth and say what’s on your mind, James. And I’ll be waiting here to tell you “I told you so.””

For a second, a heart-wrenching second, James’ small grin disappeared, as if I had just flicked a switch and turned off the guy I had been talking to all night. But, as all seconds seemed to do, this one passed as quickly as it had come, replaced with an even softer, could-make-the-coldest-of-hearts-melt kind of grin as he finally looked down at my frame in a way that took me by surprise. He didn’t say anything at first, his fingers stopping in between the strands of fur that belonged to the sleeping animal between us. Until, that is, finally:

“Please, Y/n. Call me Bucky.”

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jcmorrigan · 5 years ago

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Little Coincidences

The F/O? Giovanni Potage from Epithet Erased. The S/I? Rachel Scribere - mundie, writer of much fanfiction, independent contractor supervillainous minion who has also given up on adulting. (Most of those things apply to me IRL!) This is the one where I’m REALLY banking on no one who went to high school with me following me on Tumblr right now, because I get into some personal-ish stuff here that was very specific to my graduating class. I just...wanted my current f/o to show up a ghost from my past. And what are f/o’s for, if not that?

***

It started when Giovanni ran past me, pressed a marker into my hand, and yelled, “MARKER FIGHT!”

Yes, there is context. I wanted to simulate the exact sense of confusion for you that I felt when he did that.

To be clear, it was during down time in the “evil lair” that our sector of Blasters had taken over – a public library that had been defunded by the city but never torn down, so really, it was a bunch of empty bookshelves (where you could occasionally find an old and really weird book they’d missed on the clear-out) where no one would think to look for us because this entire building was basically a health hazard. We were only about ninety-five percent sure there wasn’t asbestos in the walls.

Also, if I’ve talked before about the mall incident, or the kiss before the skyline – this was before that. A lot before that. Back when I knew I liked Giovanni in the romantic sense, but he wasn’t exactly aware of that, nor did he really like me in that way. No, this was when I was a pining idiot and we were just friends.

At which point he shoved a marker into my hand.

“What the fuck?” I asked.

“MARKER FIGHT,” he repeated, as though that explained everything.

The worst part was that it actually did.

See, I hadn’t wanted to say it at that time, but it frightened me. I’d seen this done before, in one very specific place. How had he known? “Just to be clear,” I said deliberately, “this is that game where each of us wields a marker of a different color, we LARP it out, drawing on someone is a ‘wound,’ and we tally the winner by who has the most of their color on everyone else?”

“Good. I was worried I’d have to explain the whole thing to you. Now we can skip the tutorial phase and go right to the EVERY-BOY-FOR-HIMSELF RIVALRY!” He let out a raucous and malicious-sounding cackle for about thirty solid seconds before telling me, “You get a ten-second head start.”

I wasted no time bolting away from him, darting at random zigzags through the shelves to avoid any other Blasters who were playing. Then I heard the triumphant scream of “TIME IS UP, COMPOSER!”

At which point I almost ran into Ben.

“Oh, SWEET!” he cried, raising a red marker high. “Maybe this is how I finally get the nickname ‘Stabby’!”

I screamed as he put a red mark across my forehead. I then retaliated, drawing a line of cobalt-blue down his ear as though lopping it off.

“MY EAR!” Ben screeched. “SHE VAN-GOGHED ME!”

I used his cries to dart away around the shelves…right into the same area as Crusher.

“So,” he growled, raising his lime-green marker. “It’s come to this…ROMANTIC RIVAL.”

“Don’t try me right now,” I warned, showing him my deep-blue pseudo-dagger. “I’m armed and dangerous.”

“I think the only way to settle our mutual affections for the Boss is to duel to the death.”

“So you have chosen death, then.”

It was rather obvious why Crusher and I didn’t really get along most days. However, for a few minutes, we kind of forgot that we were supposed to hate each other. I managed to leave several long blue lines up Crusher’s arms, screaming “SUBMIT! SUBMIT!”, until suddenly I was pinned down, getting green scribbled down my entire face as Crusher roared, “SURRENDERRRRRR!”

From a row away, Ben groaning, “Come onnnnn, you know I have dibs on ‘Stabby’! Don’t ruin this for me!”

Suddenly, Crusher’s eyes widened; “I’VE BEEN HIT!” He rolled over onto his back, making exaggerated, dramatic death noises.

“COMPOSER!” Spike, the one who’d perpetrated the fatal silver blow, extended a hand to me. “TEMPORARY ALLIANCE!”

I let her help me up just in time for Flamethrower to skid into the area, striking several cheerleader-precision poses with flair as he brandished his fire-orange marker.

“AVENGE MEEEEEE!” Crusher yelled.

Flamethrower’s cheerleading practice was put to good use. Spike and I combined couldn’t stymie him; he danced circles around us, and our skin displayed orange marks of his prowess. Meanwhile, Crusher changed “death” positions five times, making louder groans each time to try and get attention.

“CRUSHERRRRR!” this from Darkstar, who’d just skidded onto the scene. “NOOOOOO! WHO DID THIS TO YOU?”

“THEY DID IT!” Flamethrower jabbed his marker at Spike and myself.

“HE DID IT!” we yelled, pointing back at him.

“FLAMETHROWER!” Darkstar accused. “HOW COULD YOU?”

“ME? BUT – “

“THIS MEANS WAAAAAAR!”

As Team Composer finally got the upper hand on Flamethrower, Darkstar paused to whisper to me, “I know one of you two got him, but I’ve been waiting for WEEKS to get Flamethrower back for eating my pudding out of the staff lounge.”

We didn’t argue.

Behind the shelf, Ben yelled, “Oh, where was this when you found ME stabbed?”

We all froze when the sound of a running motor alerted us to the impending horror.

“…Please tell me Boss decided to bring his Vespa into this to spice it up,” I said, voicing what we were all thinking. “Please, please, please tell me it was NOT hijacked by – “

Our worst fears were confirmed when Car Crash came driving Giovanni’s scooter around the corner at top speed, his marker taped to the handlebars; “BEEP BEEP, FUCKERS!”

All of our rivalries were gone. We screamed and ran as one herd of panicked cattle, trying to get as far away as possible from Car Crash on a stolen motorized vehicle. At some point, Ben ended up in our crowd. I didn’t bother asking.

As it turned out, we were all playing right into the hands of the enemy. We hurried to the circular area around the children’s info desk only to find the area quickly filling up with a thick mist. Mist that smelled…suspiciously delicious.

“NO!” I screeched. “MISSION ABORT! MISSION – “

It was too late. We were trapped in the Fog of Lost Souls.

“BOSS, NO!” Crusher dropped to his knees. “SPARE ME! PLEASE! I LOVE YOU!”

“I LOVE YOU MORE!” Spike screeched. “SPARE ME INSTEAD!”

I couldn’t even see either of them. Somehow, we’d all gotten horribly separated. The distinct sound of Car Crash running the Vespa into the info desk and groaning, “Aw, man!” resounded.

The maniacal laughter I’d heard earlier when gifted my weapon sounded again, but louder, and from on high – he was standing on top of one of the bookshelves. “YOU POOR, SIMPLE FOOLS! …WhoIloveverymuchandhateinsultingbutthisisaroleplay. YOU WALKED RIGHT INTO YOUR OWN DOOM! Alliances and loyalty mean nothing in this bloodthirsty war! NONE OF YOU SHALL BE SPARED! TELEPORTS RAPIDLY BEHIND EVERYONE!”

I’m half convinced he actually did teleport this time, because the screams sounded from everyone right in order of one another; somehow, Giovanni was able to locate each of us within his fog and strike out, drawing glitter-gold wounds on each of us in strategic locations. I could feel the cool ink swipe hard across the back of my neck.

I did the only thing one could do, which was to drop to my knees and scream in faux anguish. Then slump to the floor as if well and truly decapitated.

When the fog cleared, it turned out all of us had had the same idea, lying strewn about like a murder scene. Even the Vespa had been drawn on in metallic gold ink in the confusion and was lying toppled.

Atop the info desk, Giovanni laughed triumphantly, hoisting his marker to the ceiling. “YOU ARE DEALING WITH NO MERE MORTAL! THIS WAR WAS LOST THE MOMENT IT WAS BEGUN!”

“Would it be foul play to act like we were all just playing dead and then rush him at once?” I muttered.

To my surprise, it was Crusher of all people who answered back, “No, it wouldn’t.”

We all knew what we had to do.

“Hey – “ Giovanni nearly fell back off the desk. “Boys – no – YOU’RE ALL DEAD – “

I yelled “FAKEOUT!” at the same time that Spike yelled “MUTINY!” and Ben yelled “ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!”

We charged, climbing up onto the desk. It was your standard library info desk – at least standard to all the ones I’d seen – meaning it was semicircular in design. Giovanni fell back onto the floor right in the middle of the circlular area. After a brief pause in which he assured us, “I’m fine; please continue,” we vaulted over the desk en masse and drew on every bit of exposed skin to the sounds of his tortured screams.

It was the most fun I’d had on the Blasters since becoming a Blaster-adjacent independent contractor villain. However, I still couldn’t shake how haunting it was that I had already known the rules of marker war. There was no way – I hadn’t gone to school with any of the Blasters, and my family hadn’t even started out in Sweet Jazz City. And I wasn’t sure at all how to address this.

***

The second incident was also in the library, a few days later. I was heading into the employee lounge (which had originally, when it was a functioning library, been…an employee lounge) with my phone so I could make a highly sensitive business call about appraising a hijacked load of game consoles, followed up by a dentist appointment I’d been putting off.

One minute, I was strolling into the lounge, strutting like any villain would, phone in hand. And the next, I was sitting on the floor, heart racing with adrenaline, someone’s scream ringing in the air.

It took me a moment to realize that scream was mine.

It was followed up by laughter – a slowly building wheeze into an outright chortle. “Composerrrrrr! I knew you’d freak, but not like THAT!”

I replayed the events in my mind. What had happened in that missing flash was that someone who’d been hiding behind the door frame had leapt at me and jumpscared me while I had been on my way into the lounge.

Not just any someone. No, one very specific fanged, pink-haired ball of energy.

“GIOVANNI…POTAGE,” I growled, slowly turning my head to regard him.

He had tears in his eyes now from laughing so hard. “You should’ve seen your face,” he squeaked. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”

Well, I’d always wanted to hear that from him, but not in that context.

“I…am going…to kill you,” I growled.

With an “Eek!”, Giovanni realized he needed to run, and he did so.

I needed a weapon. The fridge was the first thing I saw. Throwing open the door, I saw a pack of pudding cups labeled “DARKSTAR’S (don’t touch, Flamethrower!!!”). And nothing else.

I did not feel sorry for Darkstar one bit.

Armed with chocolate pudding, I barreled through the rows of shelves, looking for my wayward boss. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t entirely angry. I wasn’t that angry at all. But when your crush jumpscares you, that is just not something you let go without having some fun.

I happened upon him behind the first-floor stairway, where I backed him up against the underside of the stairs. “NOT THE FACE!” he screeched as he put up both arms.

And I lost resolve.

When a few seconds had passed and Giovanni found himself not pelted with pudding, he asked, “Hey, what gives?” as though legitimately frustrated with me. “You caught me! Now you gotta dish out what I gave to you! Geez, did you forget everything I told you about villainy and revenge?”

“This isn’t right,” I muttered. “Sorry for wasting your time. I’ll go now.”

I hadn’t meant it to sound that melodramatic. Anyway, I turned on a heel to return the pudding to its home.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Giovanni seized my wrist as I turned away, and I felt my heart flutter. “Composer, this isn’t like you! Where’s the vicious femme fatale I mentored into villainous perfection?”

I froze. “Actually doing anything about the jumpscare is more effective at scaring people off than the scare itself, believe it or not.”

“What the hell? What even is that crap? Just get me back already! Stop being weird!”

Maybe, just maybe, I’d gotten this all wrong.

So I started slowly and deliberately unwrapping the lid of the first pudding cup right there in front of him.

“Now RIGHT IN THE FACE!” Giovanni encouraged.

I gave him a quizzical look.

“Come onnn, Composer! I don’t have all day!”

So I slopped the pudding onto his face halfheartedly.

“Seriously?” he sighed. “You can do way better than that.”

“You’re right,” I realized. “I can.”

So I smacked the second one onto his nose, full stop.

“Now THAT’S what I call some DELICIOUS VENGEANCE!” Giovanni laughed. “But seriously. I have things to do. Important, evil things.”

“Okay. I still have to make those calls.”

“In the lounge?”

“Yeah.”

“…Could you do me a favor and get me a soda from the gas station across the street first? I’m thirsty and decaffeinated.”

I shrugged, rather confused but not about to be rude about it. “Sure. Be right back.”

“I’ll come pick it up from you in the lounge.”

It wasn’t until I was repeating my steps that I realized the ruse. “Oh, no fuckin’ way,” I muttered as I approached the lounge.

I shook the plastic soda up good and hard. Then chucked it into the lounge.

“HYEEEAH!” Giovanni yelled as he revealed himself to scare an inanimate bottle of soda. “…Wait.”

“REALLY?” I groaned, rolling my eyes.

“It was hilarious!” Giovanni argued. “You’re the best person to scare!”

“I do need to actually get some work done today, you know.”

“Fiiiiine,” Giovanni sighed. “I’ll leave you alone. Just – “ His eyes widened as he thought of something. “Hey, you don’t mind me hanging out in here while you make your calls, do you?”

Just me and the object of my affections hanging out alone in a room? What was he playing at?

“See,” he went on mischievously, “if you’re in here making a call like nothing’s wrong, and another Blaster sees you from the outside of the door…”

“They’re going to assume there is absolutely no one waiting to scare them behind it,” I realized. “You’re a fucking genius, Boss.”

“I know.”

“Deal.”

As I took my seat, bringing out my phone, Giovanni had retrieved the soda bottle. “I am pretty thirsty, though – “

“BOSS, DON’T – “

The minute he opened the cap, it exploded into a geyser that soaked him.

I couldn’t make my call for a solid fifteen minutes due to laughing too goddamn hard.

***

The camel’s back broke when we were alone together at the strategy table, going over some reconnaissance notes I’d brought back from a surveillance mission.

“So anyway, I think we have the best chance from one of these three windows,” I explained, cycling through flash cards I’d taped photos to. “We could test for alarms by chucking a good old-fashioned brick through the glass.”

“Or a bottle of soda that was shaken up,” Giovanni teased.

I laughed. And also flushed. I hated that he was so goddamn oblivious, sometimes.

“I mean, it’s practically your specialty!” he argued, leaning back in his chair and setting his ankles on the table, crossing them, one over the other.

The problem was that it was Casual Friday. Which was not an official Blaster protocol, but rather something that Giovanni himself had developed for this specific faction. He’d thought it would improve morale, and he was right. I myself had resorted to a pair of sweatpants and a band T-shirt that didn’t match. He was wearing a pair of battered jeans and a favorite gray sweater of his, edged in white faux fur. That much I had known.

I hadn’t seen his shoes yet.

And right before my eyes, one over the other, he crossed a pair of red Converse high-tops.

The strategy meeting was abandoned. I slammed my flash cards on the table, rising up and yelling, “WHO TOLD YOU?”

“OKAY, I ADMIT IT!” he screamed, looking like I’d gotten him with his hands in the cookie jar. “BEN RATTED HIM OUT BECAUSE BEN’S A SNITCH!”

“HOW. DID BEN. KNOW ABOUT HIM?”

“BECAUSE HE WAS IN THE LOUNGE THAT DAY AND SAW HIM TAKING IT!”

I flinched. “We’re not on the same page, are we?”

“You’re…not asking me about how Ben ratted on Flamethrower for taking Darkstar’s pudding, and I told Darkstar because I thought it would be funny to start shit?”

I wasn’t really sure where to take that. “…No.”

“Thennnnnn what are we talking abouuuuut?” His voice rose a little bit on every word to express his utter confusion.

I sighed heavily. “So you didn’t hear anything about my high school?”

“No.”

“Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Composer, I have no idea where this is going.”

I sat back down. “This is a complicated story. You don’t wanna – “

Instantly, Giovanni had repositioned, leaning across the table excitedly. “IS THIS WHERE I GET TO FINALLY HEAR ABOUT THE DARK AND TRAGIC PART OF YOUR BACKSTORY THAT DROVE YOU TO A LIFE OF CRIME?”

I found myself smiling. “I mean, my parents aren’t dead ghosts. I gotta have some raison d’etre, right?”

“Tell me. Tellmetellmetellme.”

I couldn’t look him in the eye. “So…when I was in high school, there was this…guy.”

“Ooh. This sounds promising.”

“And I really wanted…”

Oh, God. I couldn’t tell Giovanni that I was acting this way because of someone I’d had an obsessive crush on. Then he might make the connection that I had a similar one on him. (I had greatly overestimated how canny Giovanni could be about such things. This was back in the day when you could tell him upfront you loved him more than life itself and he wouldn’t get it.)

“…to be his friend.” And sadly, that was probably the heart of it, more than the romance aspect itself. “He was very loud and weird. But in a good way. Or so I thought, anyway. Not like I was alone, either. Everyone in my school wanted to be near him. EVERYONE. When he changed school districts our last year, there was literally a CROWD of girls around him at his locker begging him to tell them contact info. While I sat several feet away, pretending to read my book, hoping that he’d notice me for NOT being part of the crowd. What a load of bullshit. Then, of course, there are so many guys who claimed to be straight and hung around him just a little too closely…he was that pretty. He was REALLY pretty. And he was smart and he was charismatic and he was fun and…he just…he never wanted to interact with me. He’d throw me just enough of a bone to keep the flame alive, and then act like I wasn’t even real. Probably because I was super dumb and immature back then. Like, way super dumb. I would try to play along with his stunts and he’d blow me off. I finally became disillusioned when he…broke a rule, later on. It doesn’t matter. It was dumb. But I told myself he’d crossed a moral event horizon. I let myself believe it was that one incident for years. …It was never about that. It was about how I wanted to be close to him for years, and he wouldn’t let me in, and he wouldn’t completely shut me out, either. Though maybe that’s my fault for not just…walking up to him and asking him to be my friend. I’ve always been chickenshit.”

“So…what makes you think I know about him?”

Giovanni’s tone struck me as strangely sympathetic. I chanced looking into his eyes –

Oh, God. Wrong move. How had I never noticed they were that brilliantly pink before? I mean, I had known they were pink, but this was like having a rose-colored spotlight turned on me. And were those little gold flecks in the iris? Or was my crush-filter just seeing things?

But once I stopped seeing the trees, I got a good look at the forest. I couldn’t remember having seen Giovanni so pensive. So concerned, yet in a way that wasn’t over an injury sustained by a teammate or the impending arrival of the police. He was genuinely getting sad off this story.

“…Because the little quirks I fell for him for are just weirdly similar to the stuff you’ve been doing this week,” I admitted. “He and his posse did marker war all the time. I think his was red? I always wanted to play in the marker war. It looked like they were having so much fun, and I wanted to face off against him. And then the jumpscare. He did that to me, once. Almost exactly the same way you did. That’s where I learned the tactic of throwing an inanimate object through the door. He got me good, and I got mad, and then we never talked about it, if he thought it was funny or what. I thought maybe he thought I was ACTUALLY mad, and that scared him off.”

“So THAT’S why you didn’t exact your chocolatey revenge.”

“Bingo. I was just terrible at talking about my feelings, so I just insulted him a lot instead of being honest. It was probably all my fault. And the shoes. He had a pair like that. Exactly like that. I used to try and get his attention by…” I let out a long, deep sigh. “Telling him they looked like they were run over by a ketchup truck.”

“That’s not a bad one-liner.”

“‘KETCHUP TRUCK’ ISN’T A BAD ONE-LINER?” I shook my head. “Anyway. I dunno. I can never figure out if he was just an ass or if I was just…” I sighed. “These are just coincidences, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Giovanni confirmed. “They are. I thought I invented marker war. If you ever see this guy again, tell him I gotta sue him for the rights. And I wear these shoes ‘cause they’re devil-may-care and hot-rod red, keeping my aesthetic suitably edgy even when out of uniform. …They’re also comfy.”

“So I just told you all that for no reason. Like a dumbass. It isn’t even that great of a tragic backstory, is it?” I was laughing then, to try and cover up how absolutely sheepish I felt. “You didn’t need to know any of that, and nowwwww it’s all awkward.”

“Not awkward. Just…really confusing.”

“How so?”

Giovanni gave me a dramatic shrug; “Why didn’t he wanna hang out with you? You’re GREAT at marker war! You fit right in! And you’re honestly the most fun person I’ve ever scared! You think any of the boys freak out that hard? That was hilarious! You’d better watch your back now, because you’ve given me an incentive to try and do it SO much more.”

I wanted to make some kind of snappy retort about throwing soda bottles. However, it felt like I was receiving a catharsis long overdue. Maybe it didn’t matter who was wrong and who was right, back then. Because now, I had someone who did want to have fun with me.

Just as a friend, I thought. But maybe that was all that mattered, and the crush could be dealt with later.

“I was so much worse back then,” I tried to argue. “I was hyper.”

“So you mean you were even MORE fun?”

I almost wanted to cry.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey!” Seeing the perturbation on my face, Giovanni rushed around the table, lightly putting his hands on my shoulders as he knelt beside my chair. “You’re plenty fun to hang with, Composer! Every day, I’m really glad I helped you get started in the villain biz and invited you into the lair! I mean…back when I was in high school and I tried to do stuff like that for fun, nobody really paid attention to me, either, and I would’ve KILLED for someone to actually think I was cool instead of just…some weirdo who wore capes to school and drew original supervillain characters for all my art projects.”

“You wore a cape?” I asked. “That is so cool!”

“Yeah, well, no one said that THEN.”

“But it was! Now I’m kinda wishing we could’ve gone in the same graduating class.” And also wishing that he would never take those hands off of me, ever.

“NOYOUDON’T,” he said hurriedly. “Because I was…ummmm…I was a juvenile delinquent, and you were obsessed with rules! Yeah! And I just…wasn’t the person you’d want me to be.”

I wouldn’t figure out until a later discussion what that meant, truly, and it had nothing to do with breaking or following rules. But that doesn’t have to be tread upon now. “Actually, you’re right. Better things happened the way they did.”

“So what else did that loser not do with you for fun?”

“He was the most popular kid in our entire school,” I muttered. “No one thought he was a loser except me.”

“Yeah, because you actually have a BRAIN in there! And I say he was a LOSER!”

I smiled at him. “I guess…I dunno, I always heard he was great at dancing. And I always wished we could dance. Probably just because of societal and cultural expectations. But I’m a shit dancer. Like, there was this whole movement dedicated to making fun of – where are you going?”

Giovanni beckoned for me to follow him; “Come on!”

“Wasn’t this originally a strategy meeting?”

“Don’t care! We’re breaking the rules, baby!”

I followed him back to the staff lounge, where I watched him struggle to push the table off to the side. He got it out of the way before I could offer my help, then flitted to the radio sitting on the counter by the sink. “Let’s see here…”

I could feel my face filling with heat. “Boss, I don’t think this is a great idea.”

“Shut up. It’s my idea, so it’s a great one.” He was cycling through the stations. “No, no, no, no, no, no – PERFECT!”

What he’d found was an anti-authoritarian anthem currently on the rock top 40. Not exactly what you’d think of as a dance number, but it had enough of a beat that I could work with it if pressed.

Which he would have to do a lot of if he wanted to see me make an idiot out of myself like that.

“Come on!” he encouraged. “Show me some moves!”

“I’ll look stupid!” I hissed.

“SO? You don’t see that stopping me from doing literally anything!”

“…Did you even hear how that sounded coming out of your mouth? Also, this isn’t a dance song!”

“Um, it’s a song, so you can dance to it.” He gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “Are you really gonna make me start this?”

“Oh, no, you don’t n – “

“Cut in whenever.”

I wasn’t sure how him starting to dance was supposed to encourage me at all. Because I’ll be honest: he was probably only an average dancer. But I was below average, and looking at him through the crush-filter. He looked like the most graceful living being I’d ever beheld with my two eyes, spinning and rocking in time with the heavy guitar.

I was not going to look good next to that.

Of course, this was not any ordinary man I was dealing with. It was Giovanni Potage. Meaning he had a contingency plan. Without any warning whatsoever, he seized my hand and pulled me into a spin with him, and then, well, I was already in motion, so I had to keep going.

By the third song, it didn’t even feel awkward anymore. I just felt alive. I know I looked like an absolute dork, but I had stopped caring, throwing out arms and leaping about to the hard tempo of every dark anthem. The fourth song was a personal fave of mine – with an incredibly complex guitar riff that just begged a person to go double-time. As I attempted to execute a series of spins to match, I simply lost balance and fell over, hitting the table on my way down.

Stupid. Idiot. Why was I doing this? I’d just made an ass of myself in front of –

Without even really pausing, Giovanni dipped before me, offering his hand. I took it on instinct, then rose, letting him reel me right back in, so glad he’d just hit resume where I’d slammed into pause mode.

At last, I collapsed into the pushed-aside chair, panting heavily. “No more,” I heaved. “I need…to catch…my breath.”

He hopped up to sit on the tabletop beside me. “Now THAT was some fun,” he remarked. “We gotta do that more often.”

This was the same pitfall I’d dropped into so many times back in the day, with the ghost of my past. Making up excuses to get near him. Taking casual opportunities to interact with him without making my real intentions clear. Maybe this whole time, I was afraid that would drive him away.

Maybe this whole time, I’d been thinking of him as a jerkass without actually acknowledging how hard he really blew me off for three fucking years. So what if I wanted to get closer to Giovanni? We were friends. And I liked him. Maybe that would go somewhere. Maybe it wouldn’t. And most importantly, he wanted to dance with me.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We should.”

#selfship #i'm at soup!#and if it turns out any of my classmates IS reading this #i'll eat my personal fan

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sunshineoptimismandangels · 6 years ago

Text

Autumn in Lima - Chapter 6

Chapter Six - I Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore

Pairing: Klaine Author: Sunshineoptimismandangels Fic Word Count: 21,196 Chapters: 6/? Summary: For this Tumblr prompt:

“I’m stopped at a light and you’re singing with your windows rolled down and wow do you have an amazing voice” Kurt and Blaine have the perfect meet cute, but how do you make it work after you meet the man of your dreams?

Read from the beginning: AO3 | FF.net

AN: *A coffin lid slowly creeks open and my sorry ass raises from the grave* She lives!

Yup, I know it has been a long time between updates and trust me when I say no one is more annoyed by that than I am! But here I am again with a long overdue new chapter - if anyone is still out there reading I just want to thank you for sticking with me!

I hope you enjoy this chapter enough to forgive me of my unpunctual ways. ❤️

____________________________ November

Rachel was stretched out on her stomach next to Kurt on his bed during her visit home for the Thanksgiving Holiday. They were both comfy and content as they flipped through magazines, Kurt with the latest issue of Vogue and Rachel was thumbing through People. It was one of those lazy times when you are so comfortable with the person you're with you don't necessarily have to talk. That is, unless you're Rachel Berry.

"When are you going to come to visit me in New York?" Rachel asked not looking up from her magazine, but bumping her ankles against Kurt's side.

"I'm going to come live with you in New York next year," Kurt said glancing up quickly from an article on 'super-chunky sweaters' to his friend, she was in pink pajamas with her hair pulled back in a ponytail as she glanced back at him with a smile.

"Yes, but that's too loooong." She whined getting up from where she was lying to lean back on the headboard next to Kurt. "I miss you."

"You are seeing me right now."

"Kurt, New York is lonely." Rachel frowned and didn't meet his eyes, "I love it and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, but it is a hard city and I just want my best gay to be there already."

"Rachel, we've talked about how I don't like the term 'best gay," Kurt sighed letting the magazine drop to his lap

"My best friend then! You know you are." Rachel leaned her head on Kurt's shoulder. "I feel like maybe New York will start feeling like home if you're there."

"You have friends at NYADA," Kurt said wrapping an arm around her.

"Kind of. The other students there are so competitive it's hard to know who is really your friend."

"Artie is there." Kurt really didn't like the idea of Rachel feeling alone.

"And I love him, but we don't hang out that much. He is more of a group friend."

"You know Blaine now." Kurt tried again, his heart compressing in his chest seeing his friend so somber.

Rachel perked up so quickly at that she almost hit Kurt's chin with her head, "Yes, that's true. We are both very busy and very popular so we don't have a lot of time to spend together, but he is a little ray of sunshine!"

"Popular?" Kurt said lifting an eyebrow, "You just said you were lonely."

"Popular doesn't always equal friends, Kurt. Though, Blaine seems to have a ton of friends and admirers. He is almost too likable."

"Admirers?" Kurt asked opening the magazine again and trying to seem casual.

"Yes, I met him for lunch at NYU one day and he practically had people fawning over him."

"Guys?" Kurt bit his lip and tried to look interested in a Balenciaga oversize wool sweater, okay actually, he would look great in that sweater.

"Yes. Men, women. Anyone who has good taste."

"Hmm," Kurt hummed to himself, his stomach twisting, wondering if Blaine was interested in any of those 'admirers', "You know he once confessed he was lonely himself. Maybe he isn't interested in sociopaths."

"He's lonely too? Oh, that is good to hear."

Kurt looked up at Rachel giving her a scowl, "I'm sorry, you want Blaine to be lonely?"

"No!" Rachel's gasped, "I mean… not very lonely. I'm just glad to think maybe he enjoys spending time with me as much as I enjoy spending time with him."

"Please don't tell me you have a crush on Blaine." Kurt deadpanned, only half joking. He knew Blaine was solely interested in guys, still, it would be awkward to have the same crush as Rachel.

Rachel smirked and winked at him, "No, I'll leave that to you."

Kurt could feel his cheeks fill with color and wanted to roll his eyes at himself. He was a twenty-year-old man, why was he blushing like a sixth grader and the mere mention of liking Blaine?

"Admit it, you do." Rachel said bumping shoulders with Kurt.

"Of course I do," Kurt worried his lip for a minute, "You know that we…"

"Fucked."

"Rachel!"

"Oh please, we're adults here."

Kurt looked at Rachel sitting there in her bright pink pajamas, and lifted an eyebrow, "Some of us are. And yes, we had sex. And it was… really good."

Rachel wiggled excitedly, "I'm still upset you won't give me details."

"I'm still disturbed that you want them." Kurt said rolling his eyes, "But the thing is, it is more than the fact that we slept together. Blaine and I… just click, you know? We text every day and talk on the phone and Skype regularly. He… he has become someone I really trust and care about."

"That sounds ideal, Kurt."

"Except he lives in New York and I don't know what he thinks we are, he could be dating as far as I know."

"Really? Wouldn't he mention that?"

"Not if it would make things awkward, he might not. I know people do long distance relationships, but most of the time those people are in a relationship before the long distance. Blaine and I… we just met and then he was off to New York City again."

Rachel sighed and shook her head, "You know we've had this conversation before."

"I know."

"And I'm going to say what I said then. Why. Don't. You. Talk. To. Him? Ask him what you are?"

"Because!" Kurt said throwing his hands up and up on the magazine, "I can't have a 'what is the title of our relationship' talk with someone I don't even know if I'm in a relationship with!"

"Kurt, you're being difficult." Rachel crossed her arms over her chest, "What are you afraid of? You know he likes you."

Kurt was quite a moment thinking it over, he wanted to bite back that he wasn't afraid, but he knew that wasn't true. Finally, he let out a long breath and looked Rachel in the eyes, "It is six more months until I'm done with school. That's half a year. And then I won't actually move to New York until the end of July. That's two more months. That is a long time to ask someone to wait for you, especially when you've only been on one official date-"

Rachel opened her mouth to speak but Kurt knew what she was going to say.

"Even if we did sleep together on that date. I can't ask him that. I can't expect that from him, I could potentially mess things up between us before I even get to New York. I don't want to ruin a good thing before it really has a chance to get going. It's too much pressure."

Rachel's shoulders slumped, "I guess you have a point. But Kurt, if you aren't going to try and be some kind of couple now, you have to let him go. I mean, not as a friend, but you can't spend the next eight months hung up on him without saying anything, that puts too much pressure on things when you do move. Maybe… maybe you should be dating?"

Kurt laughed at that, "And who would I even date Rachel?"

"Please, you cannot be the only out gay student at Rhodes. I'm just saying, be open to opportunities. You are still young! Don't back yourself into a corner. Sexually speaking."

"Oh, my god."

"Kurt, think about it."

"Fine, I'll think about being open to something." Kurt begrudgingly agreed and flipped the page of his magazine. "You're annoying."

"I'm right."

"I'm glad you back home for Thanksgiving."

"You love me." Rachel said with confidence, bumping his shoulder again.

Kurt smiled and reached for his phone and the long text string he had with Blaine just from today.

Kurt: Looking forward to your visit in December. Can't wait to talk to you in person.

Kurt was counting down the days until winter break. Not only did he need a break from school. winter break was going to be more important than ever this year. Blaine was coming home to visit his mom and new step dad for Christmas. Meaning in just a few days Blaine would be a town over. In a few days Kurt would see Blaine face-to-face. The thought of it sent shivers down his spine.

As much as Kurt couldn't wait he was also a bundle of nerves over it. Fretting over what he'd wear when he saw Blaine again, tripping over his own shoes when he was lost in thought about Blaine, and overall just being a bumbling mess, so much so that his dad sat him down at the kitchen table one morning to check on him.

"Are you on some kind of new study drug or something that the kids are doing these days to stay alert?"

"What? "Kurt stared at his dad in shock, "Dad. No." Kurt may not tell his father about all his exploits, sure, but his father should know him better than to think that. "I don't do drugs."

"Okay. Okay," Burt nodded, "I had to ask. I'm the dad, that's my job and you've been… off for the past few days."

Kurt looked down at the table and cupped his hands around the mug of coffee Burt had poured for him. "I may be a little nervous."

"Midterms are over buddy, no reason to fret over them anymore."

Kurt looked up and smiled as his dad, Burt was trying here even if he was way off the mark. "It's not that. It's… Blaine. My friend in New York?"

"Bud, I know who Blaine, is you may have mentioned him once or twice... Or a hundred times." But wasn't even attempting to hide his amusement. And okay, Kurt had probably talked about Blaine a lot more than he'd realized.

"Well," Kurt continued ignoring his father's teasing smirk, "He will be in town for a few weeks and I'm looking forward to seeing him. That's all."

"So looking forward to seeing him that you forgot to add water to the coffee machine this morning?"

Kurt looked down at his mug, "This isn't the coffee I made?"

Burt laughed out loud at that, "No. Carole saved it once she smelled something burning."

"Oh god," Kurt buried his face in his hands, "I'm sorry."

"You really like this guy?"

Kurt didn't look up but nodded.

"And you're nervous because…?" Burt waited as Kurt fiddled with his mug, "You don't think he likes you?"

Kurt sighed and looked up, "Not exactly, I was talking to Rachel-"

"Oh god."

"No, this time I think, she may be right. Rachel said I need to either tell Blaine how I feel or… move on. I figure if I don't tell him when his home then it is probably time to move on."

"It is shit or get off the pot time?" Burt offered.

Kurt looked up with a smile, "That succinctly sums it up. What do you think I should do?"

Burt took a sip of his coffee and looked lost in thought for a moment, "I think that in my life I regret the shots I didn't take more than the things I tried for, even if I failed."

"Yeah," Kurt nodded feeling his confidence growing. "Yeah, I think I know my answer."

"You usually do."

December

Kurt: So tonight

Blaine: Tonight?

Kurt: We are going to see each other for the first time in nearly 3 months.

Blaine: I'm sorry, who is this? 🤔

…

Kurt: Not funny

Kurt: ... It's Kurt.

Blaine: Kurt! I was joking! My humor is awful when I'm nervous.

Kurt: What are you nervous about? 😊

Blaine: I have a hot date tonight and I really want to impress him.

…

Blaine: Kurt?

Kurt: This is a date then?

Blaine: Please tell me you're the one joking now.

Kurt: I wasn't sure it was a date.

Blaine: Oh.

Blaine: Do you want it to be a date? I hate talking about this over text message, I need to hear your inflection. I can't call though because I'm with my mom.

Blaine: It doesn't have to be a date.

Kurt: I'm I infringing on family time?

Blaine: No! It would just be rude if I got up to make a call right now.

Blaine: Kurt?

Kurt: Yes?

Blaine: You didn't answer my question.

Kurt: Yes, I want it to be a date. You didn't see that happy little shimmy dance I did when you said it was a date? 🕺🕺

Blaine: Will you reenact that in person later? 🙏🙏🙏

Kurt: Maybe. If you earn it. 😉

Blaine: I can't want to see you.

Kurt: Four hours!

Blaine: 😍

…

Blaine: 3 hours!

…

Kurt: 2 hours!

…

Blaine: 1 HOUR! I'm trying to pick out what to wear and I'm a mess!

Kurt: I'm going to think you look good regardless.

Blaine: I'm grinning like an idiot.

…

Kurt: Blaine?

Blaine: Kurt?

Kurt: I'm pulling up to your house. Should I knock? Is your mom home? Am I about to meet your mom? Why didn't I think this through!?

Kurt jumped a bit in his seat and looked up from his phone as someone tapped against the window of his car. He smiled finding Blaine standing outside the door, his hands in the pockets of his coat and a bright smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Kurt quickly rolled down the window.

"Hi."

"Hi!" Blaine was beaming and Kurt knew the same could be said for him. "Are you going to come out of the car? Or at should I just go around the other side and get in?"

"Oh!" Kurt quickly opened his door, barely missing hitting Blaine, and hoped out of the car. They stood in front of each other for a beat before they both moved forward, but Kurt didn't know if it was a hug or a kiss, or a peak to the cheek. It ended up being an awkward hug with Kurt brushing his lips against Blaine's ear.

This was as bad as their first date, except it shouldn't be - they'd talked to each other countless times since then and knew one another so much better now.

They pulled apart and Blaine's cheeks were rosy, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his feet. Kurt was internally kicking himself because for some reason the air between them was stilted and strange.

"Um… did you want me to meet your mom?" Kurt asked glancing to the door.

"I do… but maybe not right now?" Blaine said following his gaze but not giving an explanation.

That was okay, Kurt assured himself. Blaine not wanting Kurt to meet his mom didn't have to mean anything bad. Right?

"Dinner then?" Kurt asked trying to get things back on track.

"Yes." Blaine nodded and his smile grew when Kurt rushed around the car to open the passenger side door for him.

They were mostly silent as Kurt drove to the restaurant they'd agreed on, Blaine giving directions as needed because he was more familiar with Westerville. This didn't feel right at all. He and Blaine never had trouble finding things to talk about. And Kurt had never felt awkward like this around him, but the air between them was tense and heavy.

Kurt pulled up to the restaurant and they walked in and were seated before either of them said anything, and then they both tried talking at the same time.

"How are your classes go-"

"Is your brother-"

They both stopped and smiled and tried again, talking over each other once more. Kurt bit his lip and looked down at the table. He heard Blaine clear his throat and then reach forward to lay his hand over Kurt's. "Go ahead."

Kurt looked up to see Blaine smiling at him, his eyes dancing and Kurt's shoulders relaxed a little. "Did something happen this afternoon? You seemed excited about this evening, but now things feel… weird."

Blaine's smile slipped and his eyebrows shot up, "No. No, nothing happened. Did something happen with you?"

Kurt shook his head, "No. So why..," Kurt blew out a breath of frustration and motioned between himself and Blaine. "What's wrong here?"

Blaine squeezed Kurt hand and turned mouthed, "One more minute?" to the waitress as she stared for their table.

"I don't think anything is wrong here." Blaine said looking back at Kurt, "At least I hope not. I know for my part I'm just… well, I guess I'm letting my nerves get the better of me because I've been looking forward to this moment for three months and I… I may have put too much pressure on myself to make it perfect."

Kurt could feel a small smile curl up on his lips, "I'm in the same position."

Blaine let out a little laugh and leaned back in his chair, pulling his hand away from Kurt's but looking much more comfortable as he ran a hand through his short loose curls, "Okay. Good." He beamed at Kurt. "You have nothing to worry about, just being here with you has already exceeded my expectations."

Kurt laughed at that, he wanted to say, I thought my heart would beat out of my chest when you held my hand just now, but instead went for, "I tend to do that," and sent Blaine a wink.

Things were a little easier after that. They ordered food and the conversation flowed effortlessly like it always did between them. There was still a small ball of worry in Kurt's stomach. He wanted to talk to Blaine about whether or not they were a couple, or how serious Blaine was about this (Blaine was the one who called this a date), and if Blaine was dating while in New York - but things were going so well Kurt really didn't want to spoil the mood.

He was also seriously distracted by having Blaine no more than two feet away from him. Of course it was important to Kurt that their relationship was more than the physical and now that the initial nerves were fading Kurt wasn't surprised talking to Blaine was as delightful as ever. The issue was that Blaine really was extremely distracting, the way his fingers held a spoon as he lazily stirred the coffee they'd ordered with dessert, his dark lashes fanned out on his face as he glanced down shyly when Kurt flirted with him, his gorgeous lips tipped up in a smile as he talked about his family.

Kurt wanted to tackle him right then and there, the other restaurant patrons would just have to be scandalized, Kurt was this close to not caring.

They lingered well after dinner was done, talking and laughing and sharing long looks as the initial nerves between them completely dissipated, neither of them seemingly wanting the evening to end. Kurt felt caught between bringing up some potentially heavy topics versus finding a dark corner someplace where he could press Blaine against a wall and tease him with heated kisses and roaming hands.

"I guess we should let the waitress have this table back," Blaine said scrunching his forehead adorably as if leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Probably," Kurt reluctantly agreed, "And tip her well."

Too soon they were back outside standing by Kurt's car, neither of them making a move to get back in.

"It's a little cold, but if you're up for it maybe we could walk around the town center a little while?" Blaine was wrapping a red scarf around his neck that made his rosy cheeks stand out. "The Christmas lights are really nice in this area."

"I would love that."

Blaine smiled and Kurt reached out for his hand, wishing they hadn't put gloves on so he could feel Blaine's skin against his own. He didn't care that it was cold.

"I love Christmas lights," Blaine said as they passed a store with brightly colored lights looped around its edges, the big kind people use to use before the small twinkle lights came into style. "They always make me feel like a kid again."

Kurt was watching Blaine's lovely profile, his strong jaw and almost pouted lips in the colorful hues cast by the lights they were passing. "When I was little my mom and dad and I use to get cheap gas station hot chocolate and then drive around and look at the best-decorated neighborhoods while listening to cheesy Christmas music on the radio." Kurt said smiling at the memory, "I loved it."

"That sounds wonderful," Blaine said squeezing Kurt's hand. "You don't do that anymore?"

"It's been a while, but maybe we could start again. I can see Finn really getting into that." Kurt laughed at the thought. Finn would probably be like an excited puppy, he'd bring it up as a suggestion.

They got to a lane with rows of small Tuliptrees hibernating for winter and strung up in glistening white lights. The lane was so full of trees they hardly even needed streetlamps the fairy lights were so bright. Kurt and Blaine spent a good amount of time there laughing and taking pictures, at one point Blaine slipped on the frosty sidewalk but quickly got up eyes sparkling and with flakes of snow in his dark hair.

They posed in with the lane behind them and Kurt pulled out his phone to take yet another picture and Blaine swooped in to plant a kiss to his cheek. Kurt' skin grew warm and his stomach flipped over. The evening was turning out to be something almost magical.

"Do you want to… head back?" Kurt asked his breathing hitched as he turned to Blaine and found their faces close.

"I don't know…" Blaine answered slowly, seemingly confused by Kurt sudden shift of focus, or maybe just addled by how close together they were. "I don't want the evening to be over."

"Me either." Kurt pulled in closer to Blaine and tugged on his scarf a little to bring Blaine's face even closer as Kurt lowered his voice. "We could maybe find someplace… private?"

Blaine's eyes widened as he finally caught on and his already ruddy cheeks flushed, "Um… yeah. I would really like that but…"

"But?" Kurt's heart skipped a beat.

"My mom and Keith are at my house."

"And my place has my dad, Carol, and Finn," Kurt added glumly.

Kurt was close to suggesting they get a hotel room, as sordid as that sounded…

"Um… There's a nice little hotel near my place…" Blaine cheeks where bright red at this point and he cleared his throat not making eye contact with Kurt.

"You read my mind." Kurt breathed closing the nearly nonexistent space between them and capturing Blaine's lips with his own. Blaine hummed into the kiss and as soon as they broke apart he eagerly nodded towards to direction they'd parked.

It didn't take long to get back to Kurt's car, and he was very tempted to push Blaine against the door and just kiss him right then and there, they could move to the back of the car… but they'd almost done that once before, and honestly, while it wasn't super busy here, it was still a public place. He could wait to get to the hotel. If he had too.

Kurt had never booked a hotel room for the sole purpose of hooking up before. He wondered if Blaine had? Kurt stayed in the car while Blaine got a room and then they parked and rushed up to the second floor. Soon Kurt was unlocking the door and walking in backward while tugging Blaine by the scarf around his neck.

"Jesus Kurt," Blaine breathed as he moved in and the door closed behind them. He kept his lips close to Kurt's skin as Kurt's hands tried to maneuver through all of the clothing Blaine was wearing. Damn this winter layers.

"Help me with this coat!" Kurt laughed pulling his face away.

"Of course." Blaine practically whined and kicked off his shoes while also shrugging off the coat Kurt had unbuttoned.

They stood by the bed a moment hands moving across one another as pieces of clothing fell to the floor one at a time. Kurt's skin prickled in the air of the room after being bundled up so long and his arms instinctively crossed over his chest as Blaine finished hopping out of his pants, both of them now in nothing but their underwear.

"Cold?" Blaine asked gently reaching out for Kurt's hands - letting Kurt know he could stop him if he wanted to - and pulling Kurt's arms away from his chest.

"A little."

Blaine cocked a confident smile, "I bet I can warm you up..."

"That's exactly what I want you to do." Kurt teased and the sat down on the bed, letting go of Blaine's hands and scooting backward until he could lean against the headboard.

Blaine looked at him head to toe and then groaned before quickly crawling up the bed to meet him with a heady kiss.

"I don't want-" Blaine gasped between kissing him, "You to think-" A longer kiss, deeper, making Kurt moan and cling to Blaine's back. "That I'm only interested in sex."

"I'm very interested in that right now," Kurt said nipping a little at Blaine's bottom lip.

Blaine laughed and pulled back, but left a hand on Kurt's now panting chest, he let it slide down tantalizingly slow as he spoke, "Oh, so am I. I just… that isn't all this is. You and me, that is." His hand got to the waistband of Kurt briefs slipping them off and looking almost bewitched. "Kurt I… really like you."

Kurt smiled at him, his voice caught in his throat for a moment. "Good. Because I really like you too Blaine. And after months of us talking without doing anything physical… I figured you must like me for more than just sex."

Blaine's smile grew so that his whole face lit up, eyes scrunching, "That's very true."

"But right now we're here… together…"

Blaine didn't even respond with words he just fell forward kissing Kurt again.

Kurt laughed around the kiss, "And I am going to try and show you just how much I like you, Blaine Anderson."

Kurt held onto Blaine's back and then flipped them over so that he was hovering over Blaine's prone form, knees on either side of him. Then he kissed down Blaine's tan chest and quickly pulled his underwear off as Blaine trembled beneath him. Kurt's started to take Blaine into his mouth, the sound of Blaine's moans shooting through him, as Kurt eagerly worked to make his point. Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

#klaine #klaine fic #klaien fanfic #klaine!au #Fic: autumn in lima #sunshine writes

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welcome-to-lovecraft-country · 5 years ago

Text

The Devil Inside

Author’s Note: This is my first story on Tumblr and I am very nervous about how this will turn out. This story is not around a certain fandom, but my fellow SPN Family will like some of the words I used. This is an original horror story. I also wrote this story two years ago around Halloween. Please enjoy and happy Halloween. xx-Anna

Waking up in an abandoned house is not a normal occurrence for everyone, but for me, it was normal. Getting up from the cold, dirty, cracked tile floor, dusting off the dirt and dried mud from my clothing and my body, I can still see the dried burgundy-colored blood on my hands and my chipped black nails. My back and arms aching in pain from horrible slumber during the night itself.

Smoothing over my long, white, blood-splattered dress to get rid of the wrinkles that were on the dress. Realizing that the dress was completely ruined, I tried to figure out how I get out of the building without attracting unwanted attention from the outside world. I try to look out the window to figure out where I am in town, but that was no use. However, the windows are covered by old newspapers.

Fixing my hair, making sure there were no knots, tangles, or pieces of trash on my long, black, wavy hair. I made sure that there were no bruises or injuries on my arms and legs from the night before; then I realized the bruises that covered my collarbone, stomach, arms, and legs. I try to cover the bruises up as much as I can, but there is no use. The color of the bruises is so dark with a darker reddish hue.

As I walk towards the bathroom that had cracked and discolored tiles and various forms of weird, strange bugs and various colors of mold on the walls in there, I feel a presence beside me. I wash my face with the water from the rusting pipes. I look into the dirty, cracked mirror and saw the dark red blood that was all over my face, but I ignore that. I knew that it wasn’t real. I focus on the sound of my heart beating in my chest and keep whispering the phrase “Violent delights have violent ends” over and over to keep me calm. I don’t know why, but it keeps me calm like this.

“Are you afraid, Aurora? You should be very afraid, sweetheart.”

When I was done, I look deeply into the mirror; I saw a reflection of myself, but I knew it wasn’t me in the reflection; I knew it in my heart that it wasn’t me. As the mirror started to crack, the girl inside the mirror started doing motions that I wasn’t doing myself. Her skin became almost translucent. I could see the veins underneath her skin. The person’s eyes turned like a snake’s own, the ultimate betrayer and sinner like me.

“I am Lucifer, sweetheart. I thought you knew this about me by now.”

“See child,” he said as he gave me an evil smirk. “Such a sweet, innocent, pretty little girl you are, Aurora, too bad that you have no soul anymore. This is what happens when you play with me, sweetheart.” I hate that stupid pet name he gave me since we first met; it always made me feel small and worthless compared to him. Someone from heaven can be as evil as someone from hell.

“What do you want from me? I did nothing to you and you know that. Just leave me alone,” I shouted angrily and irritated; tired of this endless cycle of events that has happened every single day for the past ten years, a never-ending cycle of unbearable and neverending nightmares that he did to me. I felt like a slave, a piece of property to him.

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Just because of one stupid, selfish mistake that my mother made long before I was born. A mistake that will cost her and my dad’s lives and legacy. When I was sixteen years old, my parents had a conversation with me about how I was brought into this cursed, dark world. A few years before I was born, my parents had a hard time trying to conceive a child.

My mother was thirty-four years old, a high school English teacher and my father was thirty-eight years old, an Assistant District Attorney for the city of Arcadia, California, my hometown, a town that is three hours north outside of Santa Cruz, California. That town, I think, is rotten to its own core even after what happened to my family. My parents tried every possible solution for them trying to have a child. The doctors told them it would be a miracle. My mother had a solution.

She knew someone that could do satanic sacrifice to summon Lucifer himself. A witch who could help them make a deal with Lucifer.

She traded the soul of her firstborn child on their sixteenth birthday. After I was born, he came to visit my parents afterward; his vessel was an old family friend, David Mulder, my dad’s best friend since childhood who had died when he and my dad were seventeen years old when he got in a car accident in high school. He reminded them of the promise they made to him. A promise that they will pay with their own lives.

When my parents told this story to me, I refused that this person could have my soul and my own body anytime that he wanted it. I thought it was some kind of sick joke. My mother explained to me that he could go after me until I give my consent to this promise that she made to him.

As I grew older, I was more rebellious and courageous than anyone in my family who knew about this deal expected out of me, even though my father thought I was stubborn and stupid for not giving Lucifer the “yes” that he needs. My mother knew that in her heart that I wouldn’t give in to his claim to my soul and my vessel and that I will die because of that.

“Are you sure your dear, dead mommy told you the truth, sweetheart? Did you really think your father was a good man after all of these years, sweetheart? You have to learn the truth for yourself. Don’t let the people that your father convicted hunt you down like an animal. Did you really think that your parents loved or even cared about you, Aurora? Think again. Learn the truth about who you really are, sweetheart. It will change your whole world forever...”

Every year until my twenty-sixth birthday, he started to kill off every person that I cared the most about in front of me. Boyfriends, friends, family members, and anyone that even tried to help me throughout the years. I thought he was making a point about how stubborn I was and how I lucky I was that he wasn’t going to kill me yet. Every time it happened, I questioned why I am still on this earth. I attempted suicide five times in the past seven years to escape his torture, but he wouldn’t let me die.

He wants me to have a fate worse than death. He said that he wanted me dead, he would let me. He said that I was a piece of property to him. Every single day for the past ten years, I have woke up in this abandoned building after a night of him possessing my vessel for the night (an unfortunate clause in the deal). Even now, I still have no idea why he still takes pleasure in riding my vessel like some kind of animal that he owns as a pet. I had to deal with the ramifications of what he did every night.

“Have you ever felt infant’s blood on your chin,” he asked after I woke up one morning, touching my lips and chin with his thumb.“It will feel fantastic on your smooth skin like velvet, sweetheart. It is like euphoria, Aurora, something you have no experiencing in your own life. When I am controlling you, I will make you watch everything that I will do using your identity and body. It won’t be torture. No, I won’t do that to you. It will be a present for you. It will be something that you will like, deep down. I promise you that.” He told me that he went easy on me for our first go-around, at that exact moment, I knew that I thought it could be the end for me.

I wanted to kill him right there, right now, and just escape from his custody of my body. I have no idea how horrible he really is and scares me so much. Later that day, I read an article about what he did that previous night.

He killed a small family in the next town over, and I was worried that the police will figure out it was him using my identity the entire time. That feeling keeps me awake at night, thinking about the horrors that he did to those innocent people. So I started to run away. Escaping from the town that I once called home, I have been in every city in every state in the continental 48.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The exact same thing I wanted since the day I first saw you.” He flashed his snake-like eyes at me. He grabbed me by my throat and pulling my hair to the point of breakage. I could tell that he meant business and he wasn’t playing around anymore.

“I am not going to kill you. I am going to hurt you really, really bad to punish you for being a stubborn, selfish little girl.”

“Your vessel,” he said in my voice, touching my face in a parental way with his surprisingly cold hand (and still holding my hair in the other), “I want to show the entire world who I am and what happens when you lock me in a cage for eons and who I really am. The only thing you have to do is to say yes; otherwise, you are stuck with me for the rest of your puny, pathetic, human life.”

He transformed out of my identity to make a point about the power that he has over me, then went into another person’s vessel, which I have seen before.

I know that the man’s name was Nick. He was a married Irish-American man. I had to look up towards him, because of his height. I always wonder what his family thinks about him: being a vessel of Lucifer then being a husband and father. Nick was the man who told Lucifer “yes” before me. Nick was a man of honor, not anymore. His wife and child died in childbirth, which led Nick to a deep depression and alcoholism that no human could get out of alive and perfectly sane.

Lucifer used him as a way to appeal to my own empathy and compassion--he saw it as my own weakness. Sometimes, I would talk to Nick, when Lucifer doesn’t need him. He always seems like a kind soul. Then, I fell in love with Nick. He always has this personality that any woman would swoon over. He was always the person was there and who understand me for me.

For some apparent reason, Lucifer always seems to write something on the wall when he possesses Nick. I don’t know what it is, but I know it could mean something about the fate of Nick and me both.

“Nick, you are such a pathetic man. Why did you have to say yes to me? You would be happier with your bottle of whiskey. Is it because I showed you your potential future with your recently deceased wife and child? You fell in love with this girl who looks a lot similar to your wife. Wow, you have a type here, buddy. I hope that you don’t lose this one. Too late for that one.” He turns his head towards me; I feel bad for Nick. He never wanted any of this.

Now, Lucifer is using him as a pawn in his little game. All I was that I won’t make it out of this alive, not like this anymore. Lucifer twirls his fingers like he thinking of something, which makes him dangerous and very unpredictable.

“Love can make you humans act and do things very strangely. You can kill, die, or hurt someone else to find love itself. Why did my father create you puny, little things anyway? You, humans, worship false idols that don’t protect you from harm. It distracts you from what is really going on in this world. Corruption, lies, murder, adultery. I even want to put you out of your misery. They do nothing but hurt or even disappoint you all. My father created you humans to live and grow, but you do this to disrespect us? I am going to make you feel my wrath for all eternity.”

He led me to the chairs in the middle of the room and told me to sit. We both sat down in the chairs. He sat up in the chair. That moves his body closer to mine. I was scared about what he was going to do to me.

I look into Nick’s eyes to let him know to treat me as an equal to him, but I know he can overpower me without any effort. I kept focusing on the sound of my heart beating in my chest to keep me calm, even though the rest of my body wants to eject itself out of mercy.

“What is wrong, sweetheart? I thought you would like me like this.” He laughs in my face, making this situation feel like some kind of sick joke. It makes me sick. I had feelings for him in ways that I have never felt before. Nick was someone that I still do care about.

“I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this, you know that. Just leave me alone!” I walked away from until a presence draws me back, eye to eye.

“You wanted this. All of this! Everything I have done is for you. To impress you; inspire you to be like me. Deep down, you wanted this; all of this!”

“You are insane! I never wanted this. Any of this. You killed my parents to impress me?! I can’t do this anymore. The deal is off.” I tried to leave the room, but he stops me in my tracks by holding me by my arm, pulling me closer to him so he can whisper in my ear. His grip was getting tighter by the second.

“I didn’t kill them, Aurora. You did.” All of my attempts to not make any aggressive actions towards him went horribly awry. He comes towards me like he was trying to comfort me. Instead, I punched him square in the nose. As he went down to the ground, the blood starts dripping from his nose. I wanted to give up right there, but there was a part of me that wanted to keep fighting against him to make sure that he will never hurt me ever again.

Instead, I started to cry; my entire body broke down into something that I never experienced in my life. I felt like I was going to give up and give my life away from me.

“There is a darkness inside you. Something that we can both relate to, sweetheart. It doesn’t make us bad people. It makes us special. It makes us unique, strange even.”

I want to die right now, but I can’t. He holds my face in his hands holding on to me for dear life. I wanted to kill him right there and right now, but at the same time, I wanted to kiss him passionately. I know that it wasn't lusting, it was love.

No, I love Nick. Not this monster, I thought.

It feels like I am going back to him every single day like a dog coming back to its owner. Love and hatred for one man; I don’t believe that anyone understands the pain and agony I have been through. It felt like I was in an abusive relationship or even I have Stockholm syndrome.

“Stop playing the innocent victim, Aurora! You and I both know that is not you. After all this time, I think you secretly enjoy our fun times together. Recently, you stopped having control of your own body. Let me have the reins, Aurora, I will promise you that I will do everything in my power to bring back your parents. This secret will just be between both of us; they won’t even know about our deal. You live the life that you deserve. I promise you that. Just say yes.”

“Yes,” I said in total surrender. I had nothing else to do besides sit there and do nothing about my fate, which would happen anyway. I gave in after ten years of torture and humiliation that he put me through just because I didn’t give in to his demands. Maybe I was selfish and stubborn. I didn’t want any more innocent people to die, just because I said no to him again and again.

I just wanted it to be over for once and for all. He leaned in and gave me a kiss to seal the deal that I committed to. I felt I made a choice that I couldn’t get out of, but at the same time, I felt I made the right choice.

Suddenly, I felt a bright light going through the room surrounding us. A state of euphoria and freedom, as he said when talking about what it would feel like for him to be possessing me. It feels amazing.

What is happening to me?

Now, I feel surprisingly calm about this, but I can’t be. I should be freaking out, telling him to get out of my body. However, I feel like I had a force inside me, controlling what I say and what I do and I can’t do anything about it. An anxiety attack starts creeping in, but suddenly, it stops like it never happened in the first place. I have no idea how I did that. I feel calm, but I don’t at the same time. I am terrified for my life right now.

“Calm down, Aurora. You are making the right decision about this.”

I know I made the right decision because I know that I feel like I made the wrong choice as evil sets in. I feel stronger than I have ever felt before, and I don’t feel like an innocent victim anymore.

“It is the exact same thing I have been feeling for eons. Now, you get to feel my power. You and I will get to take over the world, sweetheart. We will be partners in crime, like, always, Aurora. It will be us together forever.”

Now, I have the devil inside me and he is going to run rampant using my body and my identity as a vessel for his horrendous and vicious games that he is going bring into humanity.

Nick, I’m so sorry. I love you.

I’m sorry that I could not stop it. I had no other choice. He won’t stop until everyone will be punished, even me. Humanity will be destroyed forever, and there is nothing that any of us can do about it.

Goodbye, cruel world.

Goodbye, forever.

“Too bad. She told her story so many times to people like you. Pathetic, puny humans. You do not know the complexity of this story and its costs. Now, it is my turn to tell the actual, true story now. This is going to be so much fun. Now, where would we start?”

“Why did you make her here again?” asked Nick.

“It is so simple. Don’t you see it? I want you to at least see her again before you die.”

#horror #fiction #halloween

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