#white x white ships should never have you acting this foolish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jessiebanethedragon · 4 years ago

Text

White Sands Warm the Cold Sea

Star Wars, The Bad Batch Pirate!au (Hunter x Reader

Summary: the reader, betrothed to a disgusting Coruscanti Lord flees her home world and lands herself in a plethora of trouble, a ship of clones, and one pirate captain whose cold exterior needs much more than the tropical seaside sun.

Warnings: Swearing, takes place in time periods where women have dowery's and suchlike. The readers dad and bothered are asses.

Chapter one: The Sentencing

Fate, you had decided, fucked you over. Which in itself, was not only a very unladylike statement, but was also very ironic. But how fitting for a woman of your time, to want something her whole life only to be told she couldn’t have it by the most infuriating of men. For passion to be pushed into a corset and cinched into fake smiles and batting eyelashes.

Everyone has a value, never mind how little or much, everyone is worth something. And you are worth a great deal to me.

At the time you’d thought your fathers words were a statement of affection, love brought to light by goblets of rum only to settle in your lap as you tended to the fireplace and did your best to lead him into his bed, staggering every step of the way. It was now that you understood his words. The choice of word may have been valuable, but the more accurate synonym, dowry explained his true intentions.

Enter one Lord Volim Nython, a pretentious man with a mind that was far more shallow than his pockets and a reputation to match. What Lord Nython did not already possess, he bought. And what he was without currently, was a wife. He was a man with a personality inked in gunpowder and steel, crushing his enemies in the war that made his predecessors and your fathers fortunes.

A very fitting match. Oh how quaint, the wedding would be so grand, and the children, oh they will be beautiful. The distinct lack of sincerity infuriated you, older women with tea parties akin to that of toddlers and the gloved hands they rest on their chests as they shake their heads at the utmost ridiculous things. While the tautly curled hair stays perfectly in place, rage resided in you at an unfathomable height. But, it was not without its reins, and as its rider, you had to lead your rage onto a path that would result in your success.

You chose this night carefully, knowing that it was on the last of every month, when the money came in from gambling, debts and the crown, that your father quite literally liquified his earnings. You shiver in your nightgown, every fireplace in the house was still burning, and the oil lamps were flickering away, though the household was asleep save for yourself. The main doors shifted open as the intoxicated man made his way in. And you steady yourself before greeting him.

“A good night, I'll take it then?” You ask with a breath of a laugh, wrapping a shivering arm arm around his shoulders and leading him over to the plush sitting chairs by the fire. He waves you off when you offer him water and so you sit on your knees by his feet. Grasping his hands on your own. He regards you with a suspicious look.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.” You start carefully, eyeing his look. The rug is warm from the flame and the way it illuminates his face, you wonder how many times your mother sat with him like this, or how often he looked at her in such confusion.

“Well? Get on with it then.” He slurs leaning further back into the red velvet. Causing you to shift and bunch your nightgown.

“I wanted to ask if, if you thought, the lord...”

“Lord Nython.” He confirms, watching you jump as the fire crackles, your nerves electrified by what you mean to bring up next. And it gives away your intentions before you can ask them. After all, your father may know you better than you had originally thought.

“Do not tell me what I think you are about to do.” he warns tilting his head down so the orange light reflects the way he regards you through his brow.

“I think we could make a better match.” You try and appeal to his motivations. “I think we stand to make a better-”

“I’ve been given offers.” He interrupts, the liquor making him less angry and more level headed as you had intended it to. “No one will wed you for the price Lord Nython will.” He moves to stand, the conversation finished, but you are not, having given yourself a stern word of not settling until you are free from the man's clutches.

“There are richer men outside of Coruscant.” You say with more force than you had intended. The translucent fabric whooshing as you stand. Your father pauses at the helm of the stairs, like a Blurg righting itself after an unsuccessful charge, he is listening.

“Naboo royalty, even a low Alderanian Lord would double Nythons offer.” You take cautious steps forward, hoping that his underestimation of your intelligence works in your favor.

“Those men are oceans away, Nython will wed you tomorrow if the crown gave its blessing.” He counters, but it is not a dismissal.

“Consider this an investment then, the payoff would surely be worth it.” You press carefully, like a healer tending to an inflammation, you palpate the area with caution looking to avoid the most sensitive of the inflamed tissue. Your father huffs.

“Providing you could snag a suitable man.” Hope flickers within you, and it warms you more than the fire ever could, it makes you feel power, and control. And hope, like it does with most, makes you foolish.

“Love is a powerful motivator.”

His booming drunk laugh shakes you, fear flooding you as you realize your mistake. But you were so close! So tantalizingly close to being free from the wretched man.

“You think men marry for love?” You see him wipe away tears of laughter as he sways on the dark oak staircase of your home. “You my dear, are even more dull than I thought.” You shake with anger and anxiety.

“I want to be in love! Like you an-”

“Do not say you mother and I. Ha. You are truly delusional.” He interrupts, taunting you with drunken laughter. Your father never speaks of your mother, and when he did it was pushed aside in favor of something else. But alcohol has a way of loosening tongues.

“I… I-” you stammer, if there was one thing you remembered about your mother it was the love she shared with your father and the stories of growing up and falling into a love so pure with someone it made your heart ache for it.

“We were not in love, she despised me, and I her.” He spits from his place on the stairs. The height difference adds to how small you feel. How his pitiful stare shrinks you and sends chills into your bones.

“I do not under-“ He interrupts again:

“It was an act! Pretend! Meant to fool young girls into thinking they could have a life as such. And even in death she continues to lie to you!” You blink away tears and think, you try to think he is lying, that they were happy, she was happy, and that in his intoxication your father lies.

“She was adamant that we would be in love for you.” He sighs, and drops to the stairs to sit and lean on the railing. “That we would keep up pretences for your sake so that you would strive for such happiness.” With his words it is as if he is taking away the core memories of your mother.

“I will not marry that man.” You have to push the words out, but the meaning is clear enough.

“Yes.” Your father says ever so sternly. “You will.”

“I shall not!” You fight back, hating how your eyes cloud with tears and emotions bubble up. “He looks at me like one does cattle, I am nothing more than a trade deal to that man!” both parties know you are right, from the first meeting when he had stalked around you, looking up and down, tutting here, humming there. Not engaging in any conversation that you’d deem intellectual or interesting. You’d been disgusted then, and you are still disgusted now.

“Please!” Your father wipes drunken saliva from his chin, “Lord Nython is giving us so much gold for your hand in marriage you should be grateful, and a renowned war hero like himself. You will wed that man even if i have to drag you to the altar.” You’re stunned, and horrified, and your father leaves you weeping on the dark oak stairs, a mess for one of the maids to clean up before he wakes in the morning.

Tag list: @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @peacefulwizardfox @rex-meshla @s1st3r @and-claudia @kamino-mermaid

comment to be added!

183 notes · View notes

bluebellhairpin · 4 years ago

Text

Their Cravat

Levi Ackerman X Reader

Part One

A/N: *ugly, wet, and hysterical sobbing in the distance* - Nemo

Warnings: Manga Spoilers. Character Death. Angst.

Summary: Levi realizes you’ve been with him, watching his back for a long time. He also realizes he never return the favor.

Listening to: ‘All The Debts I Owe’ by Caamp - ‘And I know you'll miss me, I'm barley fifty, and comin' with me are all the debts I owe.’

Masterlist

If there was one thing that Levi wasn’t quite used to losing, it was people.

He could lose homes, horses, hope, and the heat that swelled in his chest when he saw a familiar face, but friends, family, or faith? Losing those would break him, he could tell. He knew it.

His mother, Furlan and Isabel, his Squad, Erwin. But now he’d lost Hange too, and everything he once had was running thin. Too thin.

Now his oldest and closest friend was you, and he didn’t even know you that well.

Over his chosen recovery time - barely a week, if only a few days, it all blurred to him - Levi realized he didn’t know you as well as he ought to have. You’d been in the Scouts as long as he had, worked with his old Squad as long as Hange had, and been one of Erwin’s most trusted subordinates. His lack of knowledge of you made him feel something akin to awful.

Then, waiting and thinking among the hum of the airship, he looked over at you.

You looked so tired. Aside from the slump in your shoulders and the reddened eyes - things others passed for as your reaction to Hange - Levi noticed the sunkenness in your face, and the hollow look in your eyes.

You weren’t Humanity’s Strongest. You weren’t gifted with some superhuman ability to go feral with power. You didn’t have a titan form to turn into when things got bad. You were you, simple, human, and eventually you would break.

Levi was worried you already were broken, and that made you more dangerous than anyone else on this ship.

He remembered back to those days when he was told to rest. You brought him his cravat - pristine white, and smelling like the most clean thing he’d even touched in his entire life. That alone earned you his respect.

But you stayed, and he understood because you both knew Hange was too busy to do it themself.

You lurked at the back of the room when the doctors came in, refusing to leave him alone. You learned how to change his bandages, so then no complete strangers would be getting up in his space. You took him to sit at the basin, and snipped away at his hair because it got too long. You lathered foam onto his face, taking the blade across his skin so precisely it took you an hour to do properly.

You took care of him so well, and before that he only would’ve seen you as another fallen soldier if you’d died. Now that had changed.

You were all he had left now, and that was why he strapped into the gear despite the warmth in his veins and the chills on his skin. If he weren’t there, you could disappear. You were all he had left now, and he wasn’t going to let that go that easily.

But this world was cruel. No matter how much you gave, how much good you did, or how much you fought - this world took, and took, and took, and took, until there was nothing left for it to take.

His life was nicer now than it was back then.

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

Now, despite his great dislike of the mess, he found himself sitting among the grass, it’s blades tickling his bare arms. The sun was shining, and the breeze was warm, and he had never felt more at peace.

And yet still had never felt more alone.

In his lap lay his cravat, now more worn than it had been when you gave back to him it to him all those years ago, and now had a seam running from one side to the other. He shuddered to remember how it got there.

After Hange died, he could tell you needed something, anything, that was good.

Your act of kindness became his, and with wobbly legs, and shaking hands, he stood from his seat on that airship and went to tie it around your neck. From that moment on and up until the moment you died, no one could admit to seeing you without it on.

He wasn’t able to take it from you - no, the world was too cruel for that too - instead he plucked it from the sky as it slipped from your neck.

He supposed, sitting in that summer breeze, that the wind fifteen meters up into the open sky would have been enough to loosen it.

He wasn’t the nicest man, he knew that. He never did anything to make people want to be around him, and yet as he sifted through memories starting from the same time he met Erwin - you were there too.

You were at the Underground, standing on a rooftop just in his peripheral vision.

You were there after he killed the titan that took Isabel and Furlan, blades out and ready in case anything happened while Erwin talked him down.

You were there at the first break in the wall at Shiganshina, rescuing more civilians and cadets than you were attacking titans.

You were there riding right next to Erwin when they went on the mission to capture the Female Titan, keeping those you could out of harm's way.

You were everywhere, looking out for him and everyone else, protecting them so that they could fight even harder than they would’ve otherwise. You protected and cared to people - for everyone, including him - even if you didn’t out rightly show it. You let them give their hearts. And when you needed it - someone to protect you - where was he?

He took his cravat in his hands, running his thumbs across the fabric and the stitches from where you were cut. The part of you that ought to have been treated with tender touches, and soft grazes was treated with a brutality that brought a sickness to his stomach.

He couldn’t help but cry, because he was alone, because he didn’t have anyone, because now that the world was a place worth living in none of his friends were there to live in it with him.

And never in his life had he felt so old.

In the time leading up to when you died, he made the effort to get closer to you - and closer did you get.

On the day you died, in the last moment you spent alone together was a touch - a kiss so soft and fleeting that he wanted to chase it. He should have chased it. The foolish thinking that he’d have an after to spend with you meant he didn’t.

The world was cruel, and that meant that he didn’t get nice things. He didn’t get a family, or friends, or a lover. He didn’t deserve a happily ever after, not by the world's standards. But he was allowed peace.

So as he sat in the grass, warm breeze in his hair, and that white cravat in his hands, he spared a smile as he wiped away his tears.

As those he did have left came ambling towards him with baskets of food in hand, and laughter on their tongues, he spared a thought for those who weren’t here.

His old family, old friends, old confidants.

You.

He had the remains of a life, he had peace, and he did still have friends - even if they weren’t old men like he was. He would enjoy the life he had now, even if none of the people in his past were there to have it with him.

They were waiting for him, and he knew that they wouldn’t mind waiting a little while longer - just so that one of them could say they lived a long, peaceful, life.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman one shot #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan one shot #Attack on titan spoilers

163 notes · View notes

plus-size-reader · 5 years ago

Text

Stubborn

Geralt of Rivia x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1575 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Geralt getting paid by a king to take his daughter far away from their war ridden country, though she is determined to make it more difficult than it should be

——————————————————————————————————

You didn’t care at all for the false promises of the Witcher.

Your kingdom was under fire, your father couldn’t handle the allegations against him, and you knew that with any luck, the entire kingdom would burn to the ground in days.

However, you intended to go down with the ship.

There was no way that you were going to just give up and flee, not when your people needed you. Though, your father had no intention of giving you the choice.

He had reached out to someone who he thought would be able to keep you alive. He did it for you, but you had been kicking and screaming since he informed you of your inevitable leaving.

How dare he suggest such a thing?

You were a princess, soon to be queen of your people, and he expected you to just leave them in their time of need. You would not be doing anything of the sort.

No one in their right mind would.

Though, you didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. You knew it, your father knew it, and most of all, this brooding stranger seemed to know it too.

You scoffed, watching the gathering in the courtyard below you. Your father, the King for God’s sake, was standing in the center of it all, across from some white-haired stranger.

Some brutish looking man that you would rather die than go with.

“How dare he, sell me out like a sow” you grumbled, running your hands over your face in anguish as you tried to compose yourself.

You could hardly contain the anger that was boiling beneath your skin, but a princess should never let her enemy see her that way. She should never let her people see her that way, and you knew that they would…

If you didn’t get it under control.

The very idea of it made you ill but before you could convince yourself otherwise, you made your way down the stairs of the tower, until your feet found the cobblestone of the street.

They were waiting for you, you knew that but part of you wondered how long they would wait.

If you didn’t show up, would they send out the hounds to track you down? Would your father stoop that low just to make sure that he could assure your safety?

After all, that was what he thought he was doing.

However, your father had no idea that you would actually be safe in the arms of that man. The King had no guarantee that he wouldn’t just drop you off in some small town and never look back.

It was foolish at best, but you were not one to argue. You had tried that and it got you nowhere.

So, you decided to play the role that your father wanted you to play. You decided that being the damsel in distress was your only chance at the upper hand, and you were going to use that to your advantage.

It was the fatal flaw of men-and your father was no exception to the rule, crown or not.

“There she is! We were beginning to fear that you would never come down, my darling girl” your father bellowed, a warning glint in his eyes though he smiled.

Getting you out of this place was his only choice if he wanted to make sure that you were protected, and he really thought this was the only way.

You couldn’t fault him for that, though you really wanted to. His fear had turned him into someone that you didn’t recognize and it was hard not to blame him for that.

“Of course father” you hummed, bowing your head down in submission, though every cell in your body was screaming for you to retreat back into your room and never leave.

You weren’t weak.

You didn’t need some stranger to keep you alive, but the time for arguing had passed.

“Well then my dear, this is Geralt of Rivia, he is going to take you far away from here” he introduced, gesturing to the other man, standing in front of him with his shoulders high.

You had heard that name before, in passing at some point, but you weren’t sure when.

You couldn’t place it.

One thing you did know was that you would not be going anywhere with him. They would have to drag you out of your kingdom by your ankles if they thought that you would.

...Your father couldn’t really expect you to agree to this.

The man was a brute and he was obviously just relying on the King’s fear to make a bit of silver, but you weren’t going to be a part of it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Geralt of Rivia. My name is Princess Y/N, of the Black Keep, but I’m sure that you knew that already” you chidded, your voice a tad aggressive toward the end, though you masked it with a sweet smile.

He only nodded, telling you that he did, in fact, already know that.

At the very least, he was competent...which was more than you could say for most of the men that your father had introduced you to over the years.

He seemed to have his head on his shoulders, but that opinion all changed when you caught sight of the amulet around his neck.

It was a large, circular pendant on the end of a long chain. A pendant in the shape of a wolf in front of a full moon, hammered down into a thin disk.

...You knew exactly what it was.

“You’re a witcher?” you wondered, your tone heavily accusatory as you eyed him. No one had said anything about this savior of yours being a bloodthirsty mutant.

All your life you had heard stories of witchers and the terrible things they did, and yet, your father was fully prepared to hand you over to one.

You could hardly believe it.

“You’re sending me away with a witcher?” you shouted, turning your attention around to your father, sitting atop his horse to bring him closer to the height of the man in front of him.

Normally, you would have never looked at the king in that manner, let alone spoke to him in that way but you couldn’t help it.

Before he was the king, he was your father and yet, he wasn’t acting like it.

“You will not address me in such a way! Remember your place” he countered, raising his voice at you in a way that could only be expected. However, it only spurred on the fire that you were feeling deep inside.

How dare he?

Your father, the man that you were supposed to be able to trust with your life, was fully aware that he was sending you away with one of the most dangerous men anywhere. Not only that, but he now had the audacity to treat you this way?

You couldn’t believe it.

“Fine. Come now Witcher” you ordered, in the sort of manner that could only be expected from a woman who had ordered people around all her life.

You didn’t even hesitate to stomp past him, acting as if you were going to walk right out of your own kingdom on foot. It was ridiculous, but for some reason, he almost wanted to comply.

“I said, come on Witcher!” you huffed, stopping your stomping just long enough to gesture to your side. You pointed at the ground as if you were ordering around a dog.

...You must have been joking.

Geralt found himself looking back at the king, as if to ask if you were being serious to which the older man only shrugged. He had been dealing with your tantrums long enough, so he wasn’t about to volunteer.

In that respect, you were the witcher’s problem now.

“Do you really intend on walking out of here?” Geralt asked, his deep voice flooding your ears as he closed the space between the two of you.

You still had your back to him, but you could tell that he was close to you, too close and you didn’t want it. If you were really going to go with this man, he had to learn boundaries.

“If I have to”

You were so stubborn, and so angry but you couldn’t help it. If he was in your position, perhaps Geralt would be reacting the same way.

...Though he seriously doubted it.

“Y/N”

You weren’t sure what it was about the simple word that stopped your movements. Perhaps it was the way that he said it, with that deep gravelly tone, with which he said everything. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d called you by your first name, and not by your title.

In any case, Geralt had gotten what he wanted. He had managed to halt your tantrum and that was all he could hope for at this point.

“I have a horse, if you’d calm down for a moment” he pleaded, clearly more inconvenienced than upset. He had no desire to reason with a spoiled little rich girl.

However, you were going to go with him, even if he had to carry you out of this place…

That was what he was being paid for.

Though, as Geralt watched your face contort in frustration, he wondered if this entire situation would be worth a few gold pieces.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia x ps reader #geralt of rivia x plus size reader #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x ps reader #the witcher x plus size reader #the witcher imagine #witcher #witcher x ps reader #witcher x plus size reader

264 notes · View notes

swellwriting · 5 years ago

Text

Datapads and Love Letters Pt.3

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Reader x Armitage Hux

Warnings: Smut yet again because I have no self-control.

Request: Please write a part 3 to the Hux fanfic. Maybe one of Kylo being jealous and trying to dissuade the reader from being with Hux.

A/N: Serving you some more Hux and some more Kylo, all in one! I roll a three-sided dice to decide whether to call him Hux, General or Armitage so I’m sorry for that business. ALSO lots of I-N-T-I-M-A-C-Y-!!!

Word Count: 2.5k Previous Part Two Part 4

Sunberry red wine stains his pale lips making them somehow look even more kissable. You take the wine glass from his hand, finish it and then place it on the floor outside the tub, bubbles drip onto the black tile, white iridescence contrasting smooth black. You’re sitting on top of him, a site he can’t comprehend, so beautiful and intimate and he still thinks this is some fever dream.

You lean against him, wrap your arms behind his neck and kiss him, he tastes like the sunberries, you prod his mouth open with your tongue, wanting more.

The bath started normal, sitting with your back pressed against him, relaxing. But now you were careless about the splashing bubbles and puddles on the floor tile, moving against him without care as you kissed him, noses butting.

You keep messing up the kiss, your mouth breaking into a smile until you cant keep focus and just giggle against his mouth. He’s concerned at first, he doesn't understand what’s so funny.

“What?” he asks quietly, smiling too now against your lips, happy to hear your cute laughter.

“Nothing I’m just, just happy, this is fun I’m having fun,” you say trying to explain your self. Hux thinks for a moment that his heart has stopped, he can’t handle so much pure goodness, the adoration in your eyes and voice is too much. He leans forward, you’re still sat in his lap as he rests his forehead against your collarbones and chest, his hair tickling your chin as you rest it on his head.

He kisses in between your breasts, wet skin meets his lips, kisses become sloppy, the taste of wine on his tongue stronger than the soapy bubbles on your skin.

His hands travel to your hips and you know what he wants, where he’s going with this.

“Can we?” he asks in between kisses, working his way your neck.

“So soon?” You tease and he blushes darker than his wine-stained lips.

“Oh no, I just...” he tries to explain himself and you giggle bringing a finger to his mouth to quiet him.

“I'm just teasing! You think you can do it again though?”

He raises a brow, silently asking what you mean.

“Oh, well men sometimes can’t go again, so soon. Usually, you’d need a bit of time to, mmm, recover is not the word I’m looking for but I think you get what I mean.”

He nods his head understanding, he feels foolish and unexperienced, like he should know more about these things. The only time sex was talked about in the academy was how it ruined soldiers, and that it was forbidden. Which makes sense from a school point of view who doesn't want any academy babies being born.

“Have you never-?” You ask and he doesn't catch on, so you sink your hand into the bubbly water and wrap your fingers around him, he’s soft in your grasp until you start moving your hand slowly up and down, he closes his eyes from the action, and puts his forehead back against your chest “-touched yourself?” you finished and he was glad his face was hidden because he couldn’t imagine how red it was, his face felt burning hot against your cool wet skin.

He feels almost as if he is in trouble, for what he’s not sure, but he doesn't want to admit this to you, he feels dirty to say it allowed.

He brings his lips to yours quickly, kissing you hard, bucking into your hand desperately.

“I'm gonna assume you have.” You say, so calmly talking about such a personal subject with him, but you feel so at peace with him, so content and free, why hold anything back. He nods while still kissing you, you smile against his lips.

“It’s okay, it’s not a bad thing, I have to.” You admit as you let go of him and grab his hand that was caressing your breasts and bring it between your bodies and guide his fingers to where they were before. “I've thought about you,” you admit and he stops kissing you, looking at you in awe.

“That weird?” You mumble, cheeks heating up under his gaze.

“No, it’s not weird, I just never imagined you would then…” he trails off as you kiss him again, he moves his fingers inside you and you start pumping his cock again, moving your hands out of sync, splashing water all over the place.

“Did you ever do it more than once?” You ask, curious if all of your efforts would be for nothing.

“Sometimes, it depends,” he admits quietly accidentally biting your lip as you rub a soapy thumb over his tip.

“Think we can do it?” You ask playfully and he quickly nods his head before you even finish speaking.

“Yes absolutely.”

You move closer to him, hover above his cock that’s gripped in your fingers, he doesn't take his fingers away, still sliding them in and out, his palm rubbing against your clit, you close your eyes and rest your forehead on his.

“You kinda gotta move your hand,”

“Oh,” he mumbled and fumbles, grabbing your hips and helping you move onto him, he slides inside easy and you waste no time, no pausing through transitions.

With each rise of your hips more bubbles and water splash out, you don't care enough to control your quick movements, you’re moaning into the kiss, into his mouth, he bites your lip again, mumbles an apology. He holds your hips tight, reaching fro control as he stops your movement, you feel him come inside you and then continue to move your hips as he watches your face expectantly.

You rest your forehead against his as you reach your high, stomach twisting, eyes rolling back. His face is elated, but he looks proud of himself. He pulls you flush against his chest and scoops water in his hands and lets it drip down your back, his fingers follow the liquid, running his open hand down your back and then bringing more water up. Your head is resting on his shoulder, heartbeat calming, breaths getting slower.

“You’re going to fall asleep in the tub.” He says quietly, trying to crane his neck to see your face.

“We can go to bed.”

Before long you’re sitting at the end of his bed, wrapped in a large towel, one is wrapped around your hair too. He brings you a pair of his pyjamas that should fit you well enough and you take them with a smile, he watches you get dressed, still in awe of you, that you’re his, that he gets to touch your body.

“What side do you sleep on?” You ask as you crawl up the bed, he points to the right so you crawl to the other side and pull the thick blankets over top of you. He follows quickly and is glad that you make the first move to cuddle up to him, holding him close as you quickly fall asleep.

The next morning you wake up early, you have a droid bring you your belongings and then get ready, sharing the bathroom with Armitage, brushing your teeth side by side. He likes this less lonely life already, though he isn’t sure how often you will stay over.

He leaves before you do, kisses your cheek, tells you to have a good day, a pip to his step, you put him in too good of a mood.

You walk up to your door where Kylo is waiting like he always is.

“Do I have the wrong room?” He asks sarcastically.

“Nope!” You say with a smile, your helmet in your hands and lightsaber on your hip.

“You’re radiating, I can feel you through force,” he says flatly.

“Awe thanks Kylo!” You tease as you start walking, he quickly follows you.

“It's annoying.”

“Not everyone can be brooding 24/7 like you are.”

“ I do not brood,” he argues, sounding ridiculous.

“The only person on this ship who has seen you not brooding and angry is me.”

“ I think you get more annoying every day,” he murmurs, putting his mask on.

“And I think you’re just jealous.” He whips his maks back off and drops it on the ground loudly, his facial expression would make you laugh if this was any other situation, he gawks at you.

“Jealous?” He says like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard but you can feel his emotions through the force so plainly they fill the entire training room. Kylo is almost controlled completely by his emotions, which usually isn’t a problem, anger works in his favour most times, but when he’s weak, he’s very weak.

“It’s coming off of you in waves, I can feel it.”

“And I could feel you through the force last night, you and him,” he says with disgust and you’re taken aback.

You’re confused and you don’t mean to look into his mind for an answer but you do it by habit, crossing a line by accident but it’s too late to take it back, you see him sitting in his room, sensing your overwhelming happiness and joy, the light surrounding you and he’s worried, worried that Hux will make you weak, worried that he’s losing his only friend in the universe.

“You aren’t losing me, I’m still your apprentice, your friend.”

“We are not friends!” he yells and you take a step back, the inner conflict, everything Snoke wired into his brain is messing with him. Telling him he shouldn’t want to be friends with you in the first place so why is he so upset at the notion of losing you as one.”

“Even if you won’t say it out loud I know we are.” You try to calm him.

“Get out of my head!” He yells and pushes you back with the force, you fall to the ground looking up at him. You want to match his anger but you are far more sensible than him, you know this can be repaired easily.

“Come sit with me,” you say quietly and he stays standing, ignoring you. “Please,” you gesture down to the mat in front of you.

He sits down begrudgingly and silently.

“Kylo, you need to allow yourself to process emotions other than just anger, I know you think it makes you stronger with the force but that isn’t true, it clouds your mind, it makes you act too rashly. I know the thought of losing me scares you, I’d be scared to lose you too, but that doesn't mean I don’t get my own life.”

“Your sounding very Jedi mastery right now,” he says, not allowing himself to smile but he isn’t as angry anymore at least.

“Ew, do not call me a Jedi,” you joke and he laughs a bit.

“I was a Jedi once,” he says and you hold back a laugh.

“You were only a padawan technically, I know Jedi’s are all about their technicalities and rules and such.”

He rolls his eyes, “you’re insufferable.”

“Mhm, so are you though.” You smile at him and it’s a weird moment, one not shared often. For people so ruled by their feelings, you think you would talk about them more, but you don't. “We should train, you got some anger issues you need to work through,” you tease standing up and he stands across from you, grabbing his lightsaber and looking at the hilt.

“Maybe if I hit you in the head with this hard enough you will come to your senses?” He asks, taking his stance and pulling his helmet on.

“Good luck getting close enough,” you counter, as you run at him with your sabre ignited.

Kylo did not like this new relationship, but he decided he would try to ignore it. What he couldn’t ignore was Hux standing in front of him asking him a question while a bunch of other officers waited on his reply.

He had his mask off and he was standing unnervingly close to the general, Armitage was tall on his own but Kylo towered over everyone. Thank his boots for that.

Hux looked up at him expectantly and an uneasy silence filled the room, Kylo wasn’t listening to the General speak, he was busy fantasizing about killing him, sticking his sabre through the Generals stupid heart, choking him with the force, it seemed so nice in his head.

He finally realized everyone in the room was staring at him so he dug into Hux’s mind for the question he had asked prior. All he found were Hux’s worried thoughts.

-Oh kriff he seems mad, he’s angry, he’s always angry, does he know what I did, oh kriff does he know what I did?- Hux’s thoughts ramble so fast Kylo almost can’t keep up, he speaks allowed.

“Do I know you did what?” Kylo asks angrily through gritted teeth, the officer standing nearby takes a step back, that was not an appropriate answer to Hux’s question about whether or not they should move against a nearby planet that was rumoured to be a rebel sympathizer.

Hux’s face pails instantly, he realizes Kylo is in his head and he tries to control his thoughts but they jumble in his mind as Kylo sifts through them, he stumbles upon the events of last night, bits of what took place between you and Hux, kissing, dinner, and then bare skin, baths, Hux hands on his apprentice.

“You did what to my apprentice!” Kylo yells and grabs Armitage by his neck using the force pushing him backwards and up against the wall.

Hux grasps for his neck, eyes wide, accepting that this is how he’ll die, completely worth it though if he’s being candid.

Kylo is seething, partly because he hates the idea of Hux being anywhere near you, touching you, angry he accidentally saw you in such a compromising situation but Hux didn’t mean it, he tried to suppress the thoughts it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t block Kylo’s prying mind out of his own.

“Please remove your hands from my boyfriend’s neck Ren,” you say quickly, using the force to loosen Kylo’s grip, Hux falls to his knees. You called him the less personable name you could, you even almost came close to pulling the “Solo” card.

Kylo looks at you and then quickly looks away blushing.

Hux grasps as his neck, trying to catch his breath.

“What is going on here?” You ask an officer and they shrug, fear-stricken still.

“I looked into the General’s filthy brain,” he pauses and then looks at your sorrily, “I didn’t mean to see, I…” he’s lost for words and you walk over to Armitage, offering him a hand, pulling him to his feet and then interlocking your fingers with his as you pull him out of the room.

“Perhaps you should stay out of other people’s business then hmm Kylo?” You ask and you aren't angry since you suspected this would happen eventually.

Kylo rushes into his office and slams the door shut. You bring Hux back to your room to take care of him and his bruised neck.

“He’ll get over it soon enough.” You say as you trace your fingers down the pale bruised skin of his neck, the bruises travel under his collar, forming darker splotches quickly.

“If I can survive that long!” He says and then winces at your touch.

“Does it help if I kiss it better.” You tease kissing his nose.

“Very much so.”

SW TAGLIST: @bluerorjhan

EVERYTHING: @jordan-ia

Requested part three in the comments: @elentiya @huxismyman

#armitage hux x reader #hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage #armitage x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux #general hux x you #general hux #Hux #hux one shot #hux fanfiction #general hux smut #smut #hux smut #hux x reader smut #star wars fan fiction

211 notes · View notes

vaingloriosa · 5 years ago

Text

love brought weight

Summary: When war against alien beings took the love of your life away from you, you cross time and space to find him again.

Word count: 5.5k

Characters: Quentin Beck x female!reader (though I do not use any descriptions or explicitly call the reader a “woman”, i do use the word “wife” to often describe the reader)

Warnings: major character death, angst, pining, cross-dimensional love, more anguish, slight “far from home” spoilers

Author’s note: my first quentin fic and i got a little carried away with this story? VALID! so, the gist of the universe i created is that alternative timelines can cross to different timelines. think back to the ending of endgame and those portals and how scott describes quantum realm physics...but this is on a much grander scale. it’s an occurrence that is readily accepted so it isn’t “freaky” but rather sorta normalized to see alternates crossing the timeline. hope i didn’t lose y’all jsjskaljskal. forewarning though: i did write some of this story while on a lot of ibuprofen...i get absolutely silly whenever i’m on that. i also made quentin bisexual because Rights. gif made by me :)

Quentin isn’t sure why he continues to twiddle with the gold band around his ring finger while he’s not performing in front of an audience.

After every debriefing, he takes a bow as the curtain draws before him, the spotlight diminishing from his view, he can’t help but reach for it. The ring acts like some sort of tether, bound somewhere between the role Quentin plays and something far fetched...a yearning feeling that breaks his own heart at times. He can’t quite find the words to express how he feels but he knows to ignore such foolish longing.

Focus, Beck.

Focus.

Home.

A mystery to be solved.

Staring down the familiar cherry wood door before you, there’s a hint of hesitance as you bring your fist up to the door. It will be him, but he won’t be yours. Being in this universe felt foreign to you with the eerily stillness of the Venice air. Back in your universe, it felt as if the world was engulfed in an endless war, a hellish nightmare that had not a single light at the end of the dark tunnel. However, you had your husband, the two of you surviving alongside each other until...until...

You blink back the tears before they have a chance to fall.

Perhaps you weren’t as ready as you thought you were. Though you may argue that the years it took to find yourself on these steps in front of this exact same door that kept the outside world away from you and the love of your life may say otherwise. You poured everything you had to get to this very point in time to be with him again, to reconnect, to have your soulmate in your arms again.

No, you are ready for this.

Knock, knock.

You can feel your body vibrate, goose flesh forming along every inch of your skin, heartbeat slightly drowning your own thoughts. There’s a beat of silence then you think to yourself that maybe this may not be the best time for a reunion. You look over your shoulder to admire the scenic night life outside the bustling tourism. The water current beats against the concrete, boats gently floating near the pier, a hypnotic lullaby. Street lights illuminate passersby as their laughter fills the once still air. You can’t help but smile at them, memories flooding back from your universe with your loved ones. Moving to Venice may had been a spur of the moment kind of deal but you had him by your side every step of the way. You miss waking up in the morning to him, interlacing your fingers into his, the way he would hold you close to his chest.

It becomes too overwhelming to bear the heaviness of the loss of Q-

“Can I help you?”

Your head perks up at the sound of a voice you never thought you would ever hear again. Slowly, you turn around to face the man that had sacrificed his life in return for your safety.

“Quentin.”

Your voice sounds nearly disembodied; even being taken aback by the sound. You swallow thickly as your eyes fixate on the face you thought you had lost forever. The way that everything seems to be in place, how it’s like looking at an exact copy of him, like he never really left, put into this alternative universe that you found yourself in. Your heart begins to skip, you feel your palms become clammy as if you were on your first date with your Quentin all over again.

Oh, it’s him! It’s him! It’s him!

Oh! You know it’s him!

Your eyes beam as if reinvigorated by being in close proximity of his aura. “Hi, I’m your wife from another timeline.”

Silence.

Quentin narrows his eyes at your form to try and soak in who you are and what you just told him. Is he in a dream? Is he currently sleep walking? Another one of his illusions that came back to bite him in the ass? Or, rather, are you what he’s been searching for?

He shakes his head violently.

You begin to protest. “I know it sounds wild, believe me I know! After losing my Quentin, the other Quentin in my timeline, I desperately been trying to find my way back to you.”

Quentin takes a step back, still clutching the door like a lifeline. Even in the dim lighting of the light post shows how white his knuckles are and you know he’s frightened and overwhelmed like you were once you crossed the timeline boundary. You want to reach out, to hold Quentin and tell him it’s going to be alright because you are there to help him through this.

He takes another look at you, then shakes his head again, letting out a shaky breath. Despite the fact that “cross-timeline destiny” has been achieved before doesn’t mean that he fully understands the concept. There were others who have crossed the quantum realm into different worlds and universes but experiencing for himself...it all feels unreal. Quentin has always been more methodical, leaning against science as proof of existence. You standing there may be the lifeline a part of his is reaching for but he thinks with his brain first.

“Listen, I am not him. This “Quentin” of yours must be really something for you to travel through space and time like that but believe me, I’m not what you’re looking for. Goodnight.”

He goes to close the door but you press the palm of your hand before it can lock. Quentin looks at the door then shifts his gaze to you. It’s not a look of determination or anger but rather of brokenness. How shattering it is to look into your eyes that loved someone like him, eyes that carry memories of the two of you.

A ring on your left hand that proves who you are.

You blankly stare at the ghost of a man you used to know, somebody that’s supposed to be dead and shredded into bits. You long to embrace Quentin, to be protected once again against the evils that the world can bring. Memories flash before your eyes as you gaze into those ocean blue eyes of the lover you thought you lost. Lazy weekend mornings, faily evening strolls through the streets of Venice, resting on each other’s shoulders, just conquering the everyday with each other. You know it’s going to be a 500 mile journey to get there yet you are determined to be there every step of the way. You have loved your Quentin and you have crossed several boundaries, bent the known physics of the fabric of time to be with him again. You will not let that stop you from getting him back; the hero you’ve lost before.

“How did Other Me die?”

The first week had been particularly rough for the two of you. How does one even navigate a situation where someone is claiming that she’s his wife from a different dimension? Tense to put things lightly. Quentin often finds you watching and observing him as he gets ready for “work”. You gaze from the corner of the couch while he cleans up the house or waters the plants outside on the patio. Every time at breakfast, it’s always stifled in awkwardness where you can’t help but break a little as you remember your mornings with your Quentin. Ones where you snake your arms around his waist while he cooks, little kisses placed on your forehead before he leaves for work, how you two would play footsies underneath the table and giggle during any ordinary day.

Now there’s just silence.

Until Quentin decides to take a step forward in discovering more about you.

Your chest heaves a bit as you straighten yourself. You’ve tried to give Quentin some space to try and adjust to his new reality since you did just intrude on his personal space. Only when he’s ready to talk, you remind yourself.

“Well, you died a valiant death. There was only one way into stopping the hellish fight with these monsters from another world that you tried to create a portal to engulf them. And that saying...’the captain does down with the ship’...my friends had to pull me away as I watched you waved goodbye with a kiss then turned it on. The portal you created obliterated you. Afterwards, I ran over to your dead body and kissed your forehead for one last time. I told you how much I loved you.”

Quentin mulls this information over for a few days.

He wonders if he should call you “alternate’s wife”.

Sure, Quentin may not live up to his Other Quentin namesake with sacrificing himself up like that but there’s something deep down that believes he is capable of doing exactly that. He’s always wanted to be the hero in his own origin story.

Peering over his shoulder, he watches you paint your nails on the couch in the living room. It’s evening already and the television is playing the news with the volume on low. Quentin can’t help but feel a pull, mesmerized by such simple actions as blowing your nails dry. He has to admit that you are still very much his type. Perhaps this Other Quentin has some taste.

Before you can even catch him in the act, he turns back to his work.

Alternate wife.

Explains the ring around his finger that he has chosen to hide away.

The one who makes him laugh, one that challenges him, nearly breaks his own mind to try and figure you out. You’re good company to the market as you playfully toy with him and reminisce on how the two of you used to do this every Saturday. Sometimes the looks you give him, the way you involuntarily reach for his hand...it kills him to know that he is not Other Quentin.

Still, Quentin tries to be there for you.

One night he wakes to the sounds of your screams.

This is the third time this week.

Quentin rushes over to your side as your whole body rattles. You run your hand over your face and leaving them there. He’s not sure how to comfort somebody who comes from a different timeline who is supposedly your alternate you’s wife and has nightmares about the night his Other died. It’s not like people Google search “how to console someone who has seen another version of you die a horrific death with their very eyes” frequently. To see you in such a state slowly broke his heart.

All he can offer is a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.

Those nightmare nights are complete opposites to nights where you get drunk off his beer and become a giddy individual who loves to over share.

“You know I love you, Quentin? Mmm, so, so much. Like you know the universe? The stars and the moon? She has nothing on us.”

You take another sip as Quentin still nurses his first bottle.

You sit right next to him and curl your legs under you, carding your fingers through his silky hair then try to mess around with a few strands. You miss being this close to him and you know it’s the liquid courage coursing through your veins right now.

Another sip sends you back into memory lane.

Your features brighten up, placing a finger up as you place your bottle on the coffee table. “Gosh, I just remembered our first date together and how I thought it was such a disaster. You are afraid to eat in front of others but I didn’t know then so I really thought you were like...blowing me off just to seem disinterested. It was like ‘Hello! I’m carrying this whole conversation or what!’ When I got that text afterwards about that whole fear, I always found it quite endearing. I’m glad we worked through that together though.”

You giggle at your own anecdote and Quentin rubs the back of his neck.

How did you know about that? The last few girlfriends and boyfriends before that never quite understood it, let alone find it “endearing”.

“Ooh!” you nearly screech as you bounced up and down on the couch. “I’ll never forget that giant teddy bear you gave to me for my birthday then having them eye us having sex that night kinda killed the whole mood.”

Quentin watches as you come alive for the first time in a few weeks (after the last time where you nearly blacked out). You dance to the sound of your own tun and try to recruit Quentin on the “dance floor”. He chuckles, places his hands up in mock surrender, and tells you that he should be going to bed. You pout, folding your arms across your chest, and telling him that he owes you a dance.

He caves in with a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You provide your own music as you sing out loud some song Quentin’s never heard before but sounds eerily familiar. It’s some funky pop song that sounds like a top 40s song yet all that is in the background. He focuses on you only, the way your face is animated, lifting his arms up to twirl yourself around and not giving him the chance to dance on his own. You keep telling him that you love him with your entire being and that the rain has nothing on the love you two share.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you...

You press your head against Quentin’s shoulder.

He can feel your shallow breath against the fabric of his night shirt and he feels goose flesh forming. You have started falling asleep with one hand interlaced with his and a hand on his shoulder. Slowly, that hand that was on his shoulder drops down to the crook of his elbow.

Quentin carries you and he finds it a tiny bit ironic at the name of the hold: bridal style. You’re his alternate wife and he’s your alternate husband in a timeline unlike his, a timeline he tells the people at work about. He lays you carefully on the couch you’ve called home for almost a month now and pulls a blanket over your form. You bury your head into your pillow to try and get more comfortable.

Could it be possible to be jealous of a man Quentin’s never met before?

He’s jealous of Other Quentin finding someone like you in his timeline. Somebody who is willing to sacrifice the very physics of time to take a leap of faith and find him again. Quentin will admit that much about his love for his Other Self.

He envies the Other Quentin on how the exact same person sleeping on his couch watched another version of himself perish in front of her eyes yet still had that much love within her to approach a corpse full of blood and a rotting flesh to press a kiss against his temple.

Those same fingers that interlaced his brushed off guts and gore from Other Quentin’s face and still found love even in death.

And he has the audacity to call himself a “hero”.

Anomalies are known to happen in science.

When there’s an unusual blimp on the radar that isn’t of his own doing, Quentin’s blood runs cold. He can’t explain it on his own rehearsed terms and desperately tries to regain his composure in front of Agent Fury and Agent Hill.

Just plaster on another face.

However, deep down, he’s afraid.

Sabbath morning.

He places a plate of Challah bread in front of you as you shift in your chair. You move your head to the side as you wonder if Quentin knew this was your favorite type of bread. Maybe an alternative universe is just a mere mirror of oneself; still the same but slightly different.

Quentin nudges the honey pot closer to you.

The sun highlights the amber tint of the honey that you drizzle over your piece of bread. You take a moment to bask in the warm rays of the Italian sun while sitting outside of Quentin’s patio. Birds call out from above, clouds nearly stationary against the pale blue sky, and the world continues to spin on its axis. You take a small bite of your bread, licking a few honey droplets off your thumb.

It’s a comfortable silence between the two of you before you spot honey along Quentin’s lips.

Out of habit, you reach over to his chair and direct his head towards you with your hand so you can inspect him. You swipe a dampened thumb across the seam of his bottom lip, bringing your thumb to your lips and licking the stray honey right off. Quentin feels that pull again, the pull that you that’s intoxicating and has been drawing him closer and closer to you ever since the moment he found you standing outside his door. Why can’t he just admit the feeling? How can he admit that he can’t live up to the expectations of Other Quentin? The man you once fell in love with? How on Earth is he jealous over how Other Him managed to find someone as beautiful and loyal as you? He thinks he doesn’t deserve kindness, nor does he think he deserves the love that you are trying to give him.

A love that has stood the test of time over an alternative timeline.

Something tells him to give into that pull like a ship returning back to the sea of the unknown. It’s exciting, electric, new. Quentin brings hims lips closer to yours, you closing the gap until both of your lips are mere inches away from each other. His breath tickles your skin and it’s so damn familiar that you’re becoming more unhinged with each passing second. The scent of honey on his lips brings a certain sweet delirium that stirs inside of your body. Quentin shivers as his nose presses against yours and the softness of your skin sends a new wave of chills down his body.

Quentin places the ghost of a kiss on your lips.

He can’t. Not now.

You don’t deserve this emptiness.

Quentin shuts his eyes closed in frustration, pressing his forehead against yours for a second then apologizing.

“Sorry, I have a debriefing to attend to.”

You are not his to keep, anyways.

He wants to be your Quentin but he doesn’t know if he can. Quentin knows he will never hurt you nor put you in harm’s way yet he’s scared his technology might unintentionally do so. Maybe he’s slowly going soft on you as you stubbornly sleep on his couch, eat his food, crack jokes from here and there, and make him smile whenever you can. You are more than just some random roommate but...he fears it’s something more. Maybe the Other Quentin is rubbing off on him in some way, shape, or form even despite such cross-destiny conspiracy that his brain is yelling at him to stop believing in. The longer Quentin stares into your eyes, with infinite knowledge and wonder in them, he begins to wonder if he’s truly fallen for you. The idea of you? Was this just the jealously of Other Quentin?

Or the imminent danger unraveling before him and having no way in stopping? Could it be that he’s afraid of losing you?

Maybe the biggest act of love that he can give you now is to let you go in order to be safe. You don’t deserve to be thrown into the whirlwind of his creation, a deceitful bitter lie born out of cold revenge. To Quentin, admitting that he cares for you is a step in a frightening direction of questioning if revenge is the right way in dealing with Tony’s betrayal. In his fury, he never predicted there would be an actual imminent danger.

He stands up suddenly, pushing the white iron chair away from you then departing. You don’t open your eyes, not just yet. You squeeze them tighter as you hear the sound of the front door close then you feel your chest tighten. You erupt in a ravaging sob that causes your entire body to shake in the process. You bring your trembling hands to your mouth to try and muffle your cries but to no avail. Your fingers brush upon your quivering lips as you try to memorize the shape of him once again.

You love him, you love him, oh, how you loved him in your universe. To do anything to kiss Quentin’s jawline again with his stubble tickling your lips. How he would place kisses on the back of your hand, on your palms, on your neck, your body was a temple and he wanted to show you the utmost devotion. You miss his intimate touches, his hair against the palm of your hand, his warmth near your body. The memories only add fuel to your fire with no end in sight to your crying.

How could you be so selfish, you wonder to yourself.

To think Quentin could be the same as the Other Quentin. How could he love you the same way as yours did?

But it’s him, it’s him...you know it’s him.

Perhaps you are merely just Icarus who flew too close to the sun. Maybe you will die in your own act of selfish hubris with scorching wings that acts as your medal of valor for your efforts in time travel. Have others felt the same way that you did after crossing over a new timeline? Shame? Guilt? Selfishness? You felt alone in a universe that is not yours to keep. Had it all been worth it?

You yearn for his touch, the warmth of another human being.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering up to clean up the long abandoned breakfast.

Anxiety greets him like an old friend. Oh, how the cold Beck before him would guffaw!

Quentin reconvenes with his team and discusses the next illusion. Not as elaborate as the ones they’ve pulled off before but Peter is more than naive to notice. It’s yet another role to act with a script that gives him commands and actions.

He remembers you.

There’s a hesitation as he hovers over the phone number that reads “home”. But why? How can he tell you that the monsters that infiltrated your timeline and killed the Other Quentin, causing you to find your way back to him, are ripping through the fabric of time to destroy this world? The world you thought would be safe? The reason why Quentin pushed his true feelings aside was that he was afraid of hurting you and now there’s actual threat to his livelihood.

Now is not the time to think about his illusion, it’s about saving your life. Feelings coming bubbling in his stomach but Quentin knows this is the right decision, much to his team’s dismay.

After all you’ve done for him, Quentin accepts what has always been there inside of him.

Calling home.

You hesitate at the bar door.

It’s like being in school again when you peer into the windows then your eyes lay on a mysterious figure sitting at the bar. There’s a kid with glasses next to him hunched over a glass much different than the beer bottle of the man. He’s dressed a little funny in what only appears to be a costume of sorts. It’s hard to make out who it may be but you begin to scan the other patrons of the bar. They’re all very much in their own little worlds, caught up in the whirlwind of different discussions.

You wonder where Quentin may be.

The man at the bar turns to the kid and your heart nearly drops. The profile reminds you of Quentin but why would he be wearing a costume? With newfound gusto, you enter the bar.

He turns to see you and his eyes light up. It’s Quentin.

You tilt your head to the side.

Quentin reaches his arm out to you and you walk a little closer. As you approach, the kid turns his attention to you and suddenly you feel very out of place, almost awkward.

What’s happening right now?

“Peter, this is—my alternate’s wife.”

Your breath nearly catches in your throat as after so long, he acknowledges you for who you really are. You feel a hand at the small of your back, almost hesitant but gets stronger as the kid named Peter reaches his arm out for you to take.

“It’s really nice to meet you. Mysterio only told me very little about you but I respect his boundaries, y’know?”

Mysterio? Talked about you?

You turn to look at him but a solemn expression replaces the one he had before. You place a hand on his shoulder and shake your head.

“Are you alright?”

Quentin closes his eyes for a second then lets out a shaky breath. He swallows thickly as he catches your gaze for reassurance, to make sure he is doing the right thing. Quentin begins to replay the gruesome death of Other Quentin he’s conjured up as you told him more and more details over the course of the month. His eyes bore into your soul, knowing the inevitable.

He waves his hand like a conductor and just like that, the illusion drops.

The bar begins to dissolve in thin air with dusty chairs and tables coming to light. You spin around to take in your new surroundings, watching Peter stiffen then removing his glasses. His boyish features turn to that of pure confusion. You look over at Quentin who stands up to take off the chest plate of his supposed armor and tossing it haphazardly to the side. His mouth is agape, almost as if to say something but closes it back up.

Quentin’s afraid to reach out for help. He’s vulnerable in front of you, his lie exposed to you once and for all.

Will you love him any less? Will you care about him any less? Will you understand?

“I’m a fraud,” Quentin begins with his eyes glued to the rotting floorboard of the establishment. “There’s not too much time to explain everything but we are all in real danger.”

He glances up at you with pleading eyes, ones that beg for forgiveness. “Those monsters that came and destroyed your timeline? Well, they’re back in this dimension and I don’t know how to stop them.”

You are taken aback. You can feel yourself become lightheaded, a chill running down your spine as your eyes become wide open.

Oh, no, you tell yourself.

Not again.

“You are smart, Quentin. I believe in your work and so should you.”

Yet he feels absolutely powerless. No illusion to save him from this destruction. No more hiding behind a façade perfectly constructed to his liking.

Several papers sprawl all over the table in a headquarters you never knew operated underneath Venice. All those times you strolled with Quentin in your other life, you never knew this was all happening at the same time. However, you felt somewhat secure in a place like this. Even with the agents you met, Hill and Fury, with a tough exterior towards strangers, they warmed up to you after finding out who you are.

You are brought back to reality when Quentin sighs in frustration.

Just like before.

The life you knew begins to mirror in this timeline and you are petrified of the outcome. Would history repeat itself again and you are left picking up the pieces? Could this happen again where you lose the love of your life again? Were you simply chasing a future to call your own? Or was it simply destiny to live broken?

No matter the impending destruction, you stick right by Quentin’s side, or Mysterio that others refer to him as.

Quentin pulls out the wedding ring again.

He thinks it may bring him luck, maybe even strength, but deep down he knows it represents more than that. He touches the ring to remind himself of you and the journey it took to find him here.

It all feels a little too late when Quentin begins to reciprocate the touches that were once one-sided. He actively seeks you out, having you close to him whenever he can. Even if the days between the two of you is dwindling, Quentin tells him that he won’t stop expressing how he feels in the only way possible. You begin to sleep next to him on his bed, curled against his bare chest and falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. You two share lively conversations over every meal with laughter filling the room. Quentin holds you closer whenever a nightmare startles you awake.

It all feels like you two are running out of time.

During a particular debriefing, you recount the plans that Other Quentin had in defeating these alien beings. It pains you to revisit memories just days before his death and even looking at Quentin brings back that forlorn feeling.

Maybe this time is different, maybe this time you can stay.

You two hold onto maybe.

But maybe is never good enough.

The moments before the inevitable begin to play out again and it’s all painfully real. Quentin has the contraption along his wrists, ready to go into the line of fire for his final act. In order for this all to work, he must get close to the actual being in order to extinguish it out of existence.

He had volunteered.

Just like Other Quentin had before.

Hot tears drop down your cheek as you try to find your voice to call out to Quentin. There is utter chaos going about with Peter, known as Spider-Man, begins rescue efforts with other agents from S.H.I.E.L.D. working besides him. You can feel the heat from the fiery being and you close your eyes to blink back the ash that the wind peppers you in. Your arm is being pulled back by Agent Hill, her barking orders being tuned out as you watch Quentin walk past you. He stops with his back towards you.

This is his time to be the actual hero.

He stalls for a bit then turns to you. You can tell Quentin’s eyes are glassy with tears but they weren’t tears from the heat.

Sadness.

In your mind, you begin to plead for mercy, that this couldn’t possibly be happening again to you and your Quentin. The progress you’ve made comes crumbling down as each minute ticks away. Nothing ever seems to last.

Quentin steps forward and places a warm hand to one side of your face. You forcefully remove your grip from the agent to wrap both of your hands around his wrist. He says your name in a gentle voice and you begin to shake when you begin to relive the nightmare that woke you up in the middle of the night time and time again. The love of your life brings you closer to his face and closes the gap, sealing your fate with one final soft kiss on your lips.

And this time he means it.

You are pried away from Quentin once again as he gives you a reassuring nod, a sad smile on his lips. Oh, how you want to reach out for him, to throw yourself into the line of fire if that meant being with him again in another life.

For his final act was out of the love for you. He knows that in order to protect you, he must sacrifice his life for the safety of not only you but for others.

There’s a blast of green that drowns over you as two cosmic beams light up the night sky. Agent Hill shrouds you with her body despite the fact that you are safely away from the chaos.

It’s happened again.

You don’t listen to the chastising commands coming from the agent once the beams die down. You are determined to find Quentin again.

History repeats itself, first as a tragedy but for you, then it’s another tragedy.

Lying on the ground is the man you traveled far to find again. The one who held skepticism towards you but you could tell he was warming up to you slowly. The man who saved your life again.

You drop to your knees at his lifeless body. You wish to kiss his fingertips again, to laugh again, to dance together again, to tell him you love him again.

You brush some of his hair side then trace his jawline gently with your index finger. There are several abrasions, burns, and blood all over his face but you know it’s still your Quentin. Tears begin to blur your vision, smoke permeating the air which wraps around you like a shock blanket.

You loved and you loved and you lost him, then you loved and you loved him then lost him again.

You press a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I love you, too, Quentin.”

Tagging: @kwaiky, @xmicrxn // @omi-writes-things (AHHHHH??), @cura-posterior // @can-t-figure-it-out (i hope u open ur home to all this angst, my friend), @aliebestraum // @fuckodinlives (bruh moment ://) @phalangewrites // @chaotic--lovely (i know u said keep it optimistic...well...), @reyskywclker (you KNOW i had to do it to ‘em), @deviantramblings (i am so sorry), @arsynia (true mysterio sluts), @obsiidio (HHHHHH it be like this sometimes), @alphysian (asjdksajlska ltierally...we had it coming huh), @drmsqnc (hello, queen), @bum-rayee (hehe :3c), @lastflyinggrayson (oh hell yeah babeyy!), @anniesburg (they call us mysteriHOES) and last pero not Least @the-darklings (now i know why u write a lot for your stories....the words just keep coming and they won’t stop coming)

#angel writes #quentin beck x reader #quentin x reader #quentin beck #mysterio x reader #mysterio #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #mysterio imagine #marvel fic #far from home #spider man far from home #idk how to mf tag omg i havent written in so LONG #love brought weight

152 notes · View notes

smallblueandloud · 5 years ago

Note

For the AU ask meme: Thirteen x Rose, Role Reversal AU ✿

thank you so much for being patient with me - i hope this makes up for the wait! (under a cut, because this one got long. turns out i’ve missed doctor who writing, lol.) send me an au and i’ll send you 5+ headcanons about it (eventually!)

jane smith is thirty five years old and she lives in cardiff.

she lives with her granddad, graham, and her step-second-cousin (yeah, it sounds rather awkward) ryan, who’s the grandson of her granddad’s second wife grace. ryan’s got a best friend named yaz, who’s training to be a police officer, and who stops by more days than not after she gets out of work.

ryan’s working as a mechanic, and jane goes with him sometimes to help him out - she loves using her hands and working to take things apart and put them back together.

she herself has a job as a primary school science teacher. she loves working with kids - has for her entire life - and she loves teaching them to look at the universe with just a little more wonder. she’s never really thought about having kids, though. she’s never really dated anyone very seriously, is the thing, and anyways she doesn’t want them. she used to, she knows, but something changed at some point, and now she knows that’s never going to happen.

it’s just her and her granddad, these days, and of course ryan and yaz, since her parents died in an accident while she was in uni.

but she’s happy! she loves her students, she loves what she teaches, and she loves getting up in the morning. she’s working on a novel in her free time, about an adventurer of some kind who travels through time and space - she’s thinking it should be some kind of kids’ series, to teach them history and science in an interesting way - but she’s rather bad at writing, so it’s not very good. she loves writing it, though!

one day, she’s out to the store with her granddad when she bumps into a blonde woman, completely knocking her foodstuffs out of her hands. after a hasty apology (or seven) later, and lots of blushing, jane and her granddad go on their way.

graham teases her about it, a little, but jane still has to work on her lesson plan for the coming week, so she rushes him home and tries not to think about the woman’s (rose, she’d said, my name is rose) smile and hands and-

jane is thirty five years old and has only ever had three boyfriends. she’s starting to think it might be because of a bigger issue than her chronic absent-mindedness.

a few weeks later, she’s out to the movies with ryan and yaz, when they run into rose again. this time, she’s with a friend of hers, who winks suggestively at her when he introduces himself but seems nice enough.

jane’s… reasonably sure that rose and her friend jack aren’t dating, but something about jack still puts her on edge. she shrugs and tries to wave it off, though, because the movie is rather good and afterwards they go out for ice cream.

surprise, surprise! rose and jack are there too. it’s a genuine mistake on everyone’s part, but the two groups sit together to discuss the movie, and by the end, ryan has gotten rose’s number to ask her a question about the engine that rose mentioned she’s building in her garage.

ryan makes plans to go over to rose’s house to look over the engine, and he asks if he can take jane along (she’s a big fan of mechanics, too!). rose agrees immediately, and so off jane goes, and tries not to act too embarrassingly.

at some point, ryan is engrossed in the engine, and rose sidles over to jane. they begin a conversation, mostly about engines, that devolves into their greater life circumstances, and eventually about jane’s job.

jane is halfway through a long, impassioned rant about the utter beauty of the voyager probe and the things that humanity decided represented itself when rose kisses her.

jane is thirty five years old and she is definitely not straight.

they break apart to ryan grinning at them. nice one, jane! he says to her. she’s had a crush on you since the beginning, he says to rose.

rose smiles at her. that’s good. i have too.

and so begins the tale of rose and jane. they’re suddenly in the middle of each other’s lives, and it’s wonderful.

rose is over at their house almost once a week for movie night (they cuddle on the couch - it’s the highlight of her week). jane goes over to the house that rose shares with jack every friday, and they work on rose’s engine together.

jane can’t draw, and she can’t really write, and she can’t paint. but she can make things. she gets into the habit of making little mechanisms for rose - sort of half sculpture, half tool things that will, for example, fix a squeaky hinge, or walk after being wound up, or just look pretty. rose collects things that remind her of jane and give them to her the next time she sees her - things like lines of poetry, pictures of beautiful places, or flowers. jane gets a lot of flowers.

sometimes she catches rose looking at her sadly. she always says it’s nothing when jane asks, but one day, at jane’s house, she confesses that jane sometimes reminds her of an old, old boyfriend, who rose still misses. i guess i have a thing for adorable science nerds, says rose, grinning. i love you, though. you know that, right?

(jane is floating on air for days after that conversation.)

rose’s job is dangerous. jane doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but she knows it’s under jack somehow and that it’s important work. sometimes she gets to dinner looking exhausted and worried, and sometimes she’s injured - she never tells jane exactly what it is, though, just smiles at her and asks about her students.

one day, though, jane is out with everyone - rose, her granddad, ryan, yaz - for dinner. the waitress is being very rude, asking all sorts of personal questions, and downright ignoring yaz. she even leans over their food - to “see how good it smells”, apparently - in a bid that seems like a convoluted way to spit in their food as they watch. jane is, therefore, in a bad mood.

rose seems nervous, too. they don’t even get through their appetizers before she’s completely ignoring any attempts at conversation in favor at craning her neck to watch the waitress, who’s standing at the door of the kitchen with three other people who do not look like they belong in their restaurant. in fact, if jane squints, the shortest one looks a lot like a little boy in the class next door to hers.

several things happen in quick succession:

the four at the kitchen turn and begin to walk towards their table as one. rose opens her phone and yells NOW into it. jack - of all people, what the heck is going on, thinks jane - bursts in carrying something that jane belatedly recognizes as a huge gun-looking thing. it seems like it wouldn’t be out of place in her terrible novel, in fact.

jane rips her attention away from rose, who is grabbing the gun from jack and yelling EVERYONE GET UNDER THE TABLES, because ryan is tugging on her sleeve and looking panicky.

we need to go, he says, and behind him yaz and jane’s granddad nod in frantic agreement. we have to go, jane!

i’m not leaving rose here! says jane, before everyone’s attention is drawn back to rose, who’s locked in some sort of... stalemate with their rude waitress, who has also produced a sci-fi looking gun.

jane, says rose, very quietly, turning back to her. she looks like she’s in pain, but she also looks very certain of how this is going to go. please. you need to go.

jane doesn’t go.

rose sighs and turns back to the waitress. you’re here for me, i expect, she says. fine. as long as you don’t hurt the others.

jane, says yaz, but jane ignores her. jane, we really HAVE to go. now.

the waitress laughs. you think we’re here for you, silly girl? get out of our way.

rose blinks, surprised. you’re-

she turns to look at jack, who looks just as surprised. you’re here for me? he says. i’m not going to be able to help you. you can’t steal anything from me.

the waitress laughs again. oh, humans. so arrogant. step aside. she looks across the restaurant and makes eye contact with- with jane, of all people. she and the other three begin to move towards her. jane suddenly understands, with devastating clarity, what the phrase “a deer in headlights” feels like.

no! shouts rose, and shifts in between them. her voice has changed, somehow. it sounds different. it sounds powerful.

you will NOT harm them, she says, but something is wavering, like her students’ voices do when they haven’t practiced something enough yet. they are under my protection. SHE IS UNDER MY PROTECTION.

and again, the waitress scoffs, and brushes rose aside as if she’s nothing.

i’ll give you anything you want!, says rose, sounding desperate now. the power has left her voice, or maybe run out - and now she just seems scared. i love her! i can’t- you can’t- my husband warned me of you. i know who you are! the Family. your kind nearly killed my husband. you will NOT kill my girlfriend!

finally, the waitress stops to look rose in the eye. she shakes her head. foolish girl, she says. you may be powerful, but you are still young, and your ship is far away. who are you to claim to protect a time lord?

NO, shouts ryan and yaz, in unison. jane falls to her feet with a splitting headache that she’s only just noticing she has, and graham runs to her side. doctor, he says, we need you! come back, doctor! look- and he pulls an old fashioned fob watch out of his pocket. doctor, come back!

jane has just enough time to think it’s just like my novel, when-

he opens it, and everything goes white.

the doctor is several thousand years old and lives in her tardis.

she lives with her friends: graham, his grandson ryan, and yaz. she also lives with rose tyler, the love of her life, who returned to her after a lifetime spent in another universe with another version of her.

when the doctor thinks about how they reunited, she can’t stop herself from laughing. “you must’ve thought i was so foolish,” she says to rose, one day, as they’re sitting in the kitchen together. “here i was talking about saturn and the mysteries of its rings, and you’d been all over the universe, both with me and on your own.”

rose smiles at her and winds their fingers together. “i dunno,” she says, and looks at the way that their matching rings glint in the light. “i thought you were magical.”

#a-s-u-n-flower #a s u n flower #doctor who #thirteen x rose #wlw #sb and l answers #sb and l rambles #sb and l writes #IT'S DOOOOOONE #i am AWARE that this is more than five but this idea has been germinating for like a year now so #here you go #i'm gonna try to work on the god complex rewrite this weekend too!#.....i really love this ship and this show and ugh i've missed it #(just for the record this is a WHOLE 1760 words and i wrote it all today! fear me!)

36 notes · View notes

nexttrickanvils · 5 years ago

Text

P5 Fic: Stolen Away

Because this idea has been bouncing in my head for a while.

Characters: Haru Okumura, Akira Kurusu, (brief appearance by Haru’s asshole fiancé and mentions of her dad)

Ship: Akira x Haru

Notes: AU where Akira is a real thief

Some skeevy dialogue from nameless background characters

---------

As a child, Haru wasn’t fond of her father’s parties, she found them boring and it meant less time for father to be with her. Father always assured her that her dislike was merely due to her childishness and that as she grew older, she would develop an appreciation and see the appeal.

Years later and no she still did not see the appeal.

How could anyone see the appeal of watching various important men giving each other false smiles and compliments to curry favor with each other?

Not only that but Haru would often overhear their conversations, bragging about their cruelties and acts of pettiness. She would never say it in front of her father but it made her skin crawl.

This party in particular has been a difficult one for Haru due to it being a (at least according to father) a celebration of her recent engagement to a politician's son, Takamasa Sugimura. But honestly it felt less like a celebration for her and more like one for her father and Sugimura-san.

All throughout the night, she felt like a porcelain doll being showed off. None of the guests even really talked to her but rather about her.

“Ha, ha congratulations Sugimura-san.”

“Isn’t she a cute little thing? She’ll make a fine little housewife for you!”

“Oh ho ho! Just out of high school huh? I always say it’s best to catch them young!”

The comments kept coming and Haru felt more and more uncomfortable and more and more trapped. She… she needed… she needed to...

SHE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF HERE!

To everyone’s shock, she pushes away Sugimura and rushes to one of the balconies outside. She then immediately slams the doors shut.

Haru takes several deep breaths and looks around. There was no one out here but her. She sighs with relief as she walks towards the railing and leans against it.

She knows that eventually she has to go back inside and apologize to her father and Sugimura for her behavior. Specifically for creating a scene and potentially embarrassing them both. She might not even go back on her own, she half expects a furious Sugimura to burst through the door and drag her back.

But for now, Haru enjoys the quiet and coolness of the night.

She stays this way for an unknown amount of time before she hears the sound of footsteps on the balcony. She sighs and turns around, ready with an apology on her lips.

“I’m truly sorry for my behavior earlier, I don’t know what came over...”

Standing before her isn’t Sugimura but rather a young man she has never seen before, with dark messy hair and grey eyes behind a white and black mask.

‘But the party isn’t a masquerade… why is he…?’ she thinks to herself

“Are you alright, Okumura-san?”

“W-who...?”

The young man smirks and presses his finger against his lips in a shushing motion. He walks towards the balcony doors and places what looks like a cane in the door handles, preventing the doors from opening.

Haru panics briefly, afraid that she was trapped with another monster. But the young man raises his hands and his expression becomes more sincere.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you, I simply don’t want anyone to interrupt us, especially that asshole of a fiancé of yours. I saw you out on this balcony and felt that I just had to help.”

“But who are you?”

“Let’s say I’m a gentleman with a love for treasure and a weakness for damsels in distress. Now let me ask you again, are you alright Okumura-san?”

It’s a simple question and yet Haru finds herself unable to stop crying. He closes the gap between them and wipes away the tears running down her face.

“It’s alright, let it all out. It’s been a rough night for you hasn’t it?”

Haru looks up at him with an apologetic look, “I-I’m sorry. Y-you must think I’m so childish, a-acting like this...”

He shakes his head and she can see the kindness and sympathy in his eyes.

“Not at all. Go ahead and tell me what’s wrong. It isn’t healthy to keep all of that inside.”

Haru nods and rests her head against her mystery gentleman’s chest.

“I… Father says this party is for me but… as it went on, it became obvious that tonight is about him. Celebrating the connections he’s gained and how much closer he is to his plans to enter politics.”

“I see… and your fiancé?”

She thinks of the same polite line that she’s been told over and over to give about Sugimura whenever someone asks about her thoughts on the engagement. About how he’s an intelligent man with a bright future and she grows angry and let’s her true feelings spill out.

“I CAN’T STAND THAT CREEP! He treats me like a plaything for him to show off in public and to throw around in private! And his friends aren’t much better! Making terrible comments about how I’ll make a “fine little housewife” or how lucky he is to “catch” me just after high school!”

After all that Haru stops to catch her breath and looks up at the gentleman. For a brief moment, she can see a righteous fury burning in his eyes but it’s quickly replaced with a warm fondness.

“You’ve been holding all that in for a while, haven't you? Well... don’t worry Okumura-san, I’ll give these pompous assholes something else to talk about very soon.”

Haru stares at him, wondering what he means by those words until she finally recalls something from the morning.

A black and red calling card sent to her father, promising that tonight his most valuable treasure will be stolen.

“Y-you’re Joker aren’t you?”

The young man looks surprised for a moment and then chuckles.

“Well, well, aren’t you clever? Shame our little moment here had to end but now you should be running back inside to tell your father that I’m here.”

She should do that shouldn’t she? Warn her father that the Great Gentleman Thief Joker had arrived.

But that isn’t what she does… instead she steps away from Joker and raises her arms.

“Then… then HERE I AM! STEAL ME AWAY! I AM MY FATHER’S MOST VALUABLE TREASURE!”

She can feel the tears flowing again and she can tell that Joker knows that she’s lying. Maybe once a long time ago, she could say her father treasured her but…

Joker stares at her and Haru starts to feel foolish. She lowers her arms and walks towards the balcony door.

“...I promise I won’t tell my father, you’re here. Thank you for listening to me.”

However just as she pulls the cane out of the door handles, Joker speaks up.

“Wait… you realize it will be a difficult life...”

“Huh?”

“Tagging along with a master thief? Being on the run? You’d have to say good-bye to a lot of comforts, Okumura-san.”

“...Please... call me Haru... and I would give up everything if it meant I could be happier.”

Joker smirked as he took one of Haru’s gloved hands while the other pulled out a device with a hook on the end. He fires the device and the hook catches on one of the higher balconies. With that, he climbs to the top of the railing, pulls Haru up to join him, and moves his hand to wrap around her waist.

“Don’t worry, I’ve used this thing plenty of times. Now hold on tight, cause on the count of three we jump.”

Haru wraps her arms around Joker as he counts down. Then he reaches one and the two jump off the railing but before long they’re swinging down. Once they were low enough, Joker lets go of his grappling hook and the two tumble to the ground, with Joker cushioning the fall for Haru.

“My goodness that was… that was…!”

Joker chuckles as they stand back up.

“There’ll be more of that in the future. But right now I need you to hide, I still have your father’s treasure to steal and all that shouting is likely going to attract somebody.”

He plants a gentle kiss on Haru’s hand as he assures her that he’ll be right back.

Joker grabs the hanging grappling hook, presses a button, and is immediately pulled up to the higher balcony.

Haru watches in admiration until she hears the sound of doors swinging open. She quickly finds a spot to hide as she hears Sugimura’s voice on the balcony.

“Are you ready to apologi… Haru? HARU!? WHERE ARE YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE...”

That is not the tone of a man worried about his fiancé, that is the tone of a spoiled child angry that he lost his plaything.

Before, that tone scared Haru and made her feel weak.

But now as she turns her attention to Joker smoothly sneaking into her father’s office, she feels that she has nothing to fear.

#Persona 5 #Haru Okumura #Akira Kurusu #Shuharu #Akira x Haru #fanfiction #Anvil Writings #OTP: Partners in Crime #I admit the ending's a little rush but oh well 🤷‍♀️

60 notes · View notes

stabasoccasionserves · 6 years ago

Text

Beware a Sunless Sky

Gift for @belphegor-chyan

Hope you like it.

Fic prompt #2 Fitzjames x Goodsir

Rating: T, I guess. (No explicit sex, but I ran out of ways of writing a sex scene without actually mentioning the anatomical necessities.)

Word count: 1875(because I have no self control)

P.S. Before I stop talking, you have to bear that title because I am a pretentious little shit who loves to indulge herself. Also, this is the first time I’ve written a fic so I’m sorry if the characters seem a little out of character.

The ship having long since gone into a fitful sleep Goodsir came in to sit on the bed beside him, fingers threading into his, another arm resting against his shoulder.

“I am well aware that even if a monstrous bear was not hunting us, and our frozen deaths not imminent, there still would be no future here.” He traced the bones of Fitzjames’ wrist.

James turned to look at him, his dark eyes glimmering, and said unhelpfully, “I know you are, Goodsir.”

“James, I am also aware that you are terrified.”

“I have been terrified for two years and some odd months.”

“No,” said Goodsir, “much longer than that, I should think.”

He snorted. “Tell me, if our cities are iron and marble and steel, and our factories run on steam and fire, and we have everything that is great and everything that makes a nation powerful, why then, do we still fear the dark? I can hear the ice against the ship at night; can hear it swallowing us alive, and feel it crushing our bones to dust. Is that merely my mind imagining things or is it real?”

Goodsir, not answering, took his hand, turned it palm up. The tremors receded and Goodsir traced the lines, his thumb over the tender skin of the inner wrist. Fitzjames sat absolutely still, the touch of the hand burning into his skin. “If you ask Mr. Blanky, or Mr. Reid, they will tell you it is real. I believe that pain and fear are worse at night. Like ink.”

“When I dream at night, it’s of the open water. The ocean. And the waves are black as India ink.”

Fitzjames was never a reflective man, not in the maudlin sense of the notion. Reflection for the purpose of betterment – in war, in politics, in rational thought – certainly. But never for the sake of reliving old memories. It was not an act for which he had time before. For which he never gave himself time before. Fitzjames was proud of his speed. He was proud of how he lived quickly enough, and moved quickly enough that the fastness and the tiring speed let him replace loss. And never let him grieve, or mourn deeply and harshly. Or even to love.

Naturally things had changed.

Breaking away from Goodsir, he contemplated the darkness outside the window. Everything was pitch black and yet it was white snow under the sky. There was no sense of daylight coming; and the knowledge of it driving him further into gloom. He hated this in-between moment intensely; hated the softness of it, the distinct uncertainty. The mucking about in the unknown. England was a land he thought of less often than he would ever care to admit. When there was the new wind upon his face, it was not English; when he heard the sound of water, the crack of pebbles underfoot, the smell of dried seaweed, pockets of razor shells in his coat; saw sheer granite cliffs, they were never England. Goodsir was England, though. Goodsir asking, shyly, carefully, foe tales was some of England. He was suddenly aware of Goodsir’s hand on his, palm against palm, wrists crossed together, his fingers soft against the rough calluses of Fitzjames’. And from this their hands locked together rose a warmth, and an aching hollow want.

Goodsir’s mouth was against his, and the candle-light fell on the gold-brown face and on the curve of his neck and left a shadow on the hollow of his throat. He could feel the full warmth of his body, the roughness of the beard(of his sunken, shadowed eyes, his canting head, his gaping, glaring stargazers; dazzlingly bright, full of eyes, full of buttoned care, full of heart, stains, fraying wool; full of blackblackbrown-eyed love—)

It was a slow and hushed thing, the desperation of encounters passed resolved into gentle, certain movements of unhurried men, driven with a passion that came with the threat of death. His breath was warm; his mouth slid down along his throat; he ached with every part of him – mind, body, and heart; foreheads pressed, dizzied by each other in the heavy silence of the Erebus’ cabin; questions stemming tenfold from the start of every answer; hopes silenced into griefs.

Fitzjames raked his fingernails through Goodsir’s hair. This man. This torment. This anchor.

Collapsed beside him, Goodsir breathed evenly, staring at the wood above them, as if dragging them both into the melding mass of damp flesh and desire, surrounded by wood and iron and ice. The ache was deep and sweet; everything, all of it, every damned thought, craving, and want that passed between them in touch and kiss and silent reverence.

Fitzjames smiled bitterly at a sudden blooming thought, and Goodsir asked, “What’s bothering you?”

“The names.”

“The names?”

“Of our ships. Erebus and Terror.”

“What about them?”

“That two more aptly named ships never sailed the seas.”

Goodsir laughed. Called him the child of apathy and illusion.

“You come dangerously close to guessing my true origins, Goodsir.”

“Why else do you so helplessly believe in a higher power?”

“You know what I think of religion.”

“I’m not talking about religion.”

“Well, I don’t believe in religion.”

“No. You believe in sacrilege,” Goodsir insisted, “You believe in misguided idealism. You are a misguided idealist. You are a nervous wreck. You are a nervous wreck in a uniform.”

“I don’t believe in anything.” Fitzjames said stubbornly.

“You throw you trust away so easily, I worry.”

“There’s nothing but trustworthiness in the navy.” He smiled grimly.

“I know. I worry about that too.” Goodsir asked after a pause, “Shall we rise?”

“Just a few minutes more,” he said, surprising himself with the harsh crack in his voice. Only to solidify this memory. If he died tomorrow, if he died, then his last moments should be filled with hands and burning eyes and passion and greatness and fierce, flaming regard.

“As you wish, James,” Goodsir’s fingers trailed up his back, burrowing into his hair. “I wish,” he said, “I wish you’d call me Harry.”

The candles flickered and the ticking of the watch grew oppressive as they lay close. They needed to rise, to return to their duties, but every moment they spent together, alone, shone diamond bright and gentle against the woodwork and the blackness.

The shadows lengthened imperceptibly, and Goodsir said, “We really must rise now.”

They parted, drifting away like dead leaves in autumn, like snowflakes. As they dressed they watched; assessed; remembered. James had a scar near his ribcage, his arm, a bruise rising on his collarbone.

Goodsir’s gaze was drawn towards Fitzjames, the lonely figurehead, gaunt and swaying; his shirt clasped in his arm; holding himself so tense it seemed unnatural.

He will hate himself a little more for Sir John, Goodsir thought, he will eat less, sleep less; and one day he will wake up and see that he is only a skeleton held together by the skin covering his bones; driven by vanity. Only a shell of a man, empty and brittle, while the truth of his self has been buried so deep for years that it has started to wither and die.

“Are you wake, then?”

James snapped, “Of course I am.” Then softly, “What do you mean?”

“You look shattered, James.”

He gave a bark of a laugh, ”I look better than I feel. I have a sudden need to indulge myself. I want to get drunk, Goodsir, as drunk as a pig. No - don’t interrupt. Goodsir….Harry, I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I don’t get drunk I might shoot myself. ”

“You’d never do that….you’d never. James. Here. Look—,”

“I should have—,” his voice hitched; he slipped, collapsed, and sat kneeling. “I might have saved his life.” His voice so twisted and so aching that it set Goodsir’s chest burning cold. James had spent an afternoon prowling Sir John’s watery grave; where he died, legs torn open; where he died without the sun and the sky. There would be no markings, no headstone; their captain, who called out once, twice, thrice before he died and there would be nothing left to say that he ever lived.

Fitzjames would remember those three impossible cries every day of his too-long life.

“There was nothing—James? James, are you crying?”

“Of course I’m bloody crying! I’m ashamed of myself.”

“No you mustn’t be, James—,”

“No. I am ashamed and I am frightened. I think I’m going mad—,”

“James, please—,”

“I keep thinking that if things had been the way they were before, if maybe he would have lived? And I know it doesn’t make sense, because none of this would have happened, then, and we wouldn’t be here. And the two of us—,”

“James,” Goodsir said, softly.

“No. I know. I know. I know it’s foolish to feel like we are leaving him behind. To feel that Sir John will lie cold and alone because we will be gone. I know that’s not sane. I know.” He shook his head. “And it will be like we were never even here. We were barely even here.”

Goodsir knelt beside, pulling James back against him; and he relaxed into the embrace, his tense back curving against Goodsir’s inhuman strength. He held him up, and James gripped the back of his hand. He supported James. This was support.

“It doesn’t matter that we were never really here,”

“I know.” James whispered.

“It doesn’t matter…..because every drop of our blood on the snow, every drop of water we drink, the air we breathe, we are a part of and are alive. Every sunrise we saw, and the snow we felt, and the spark of life that runs us, survives.”

Fitzjames thought of Goodsir, and of Crozier. Of Sir John and Little and le Vesconte. People he liked. People he had despised. Been captivated by. Cared for. Lives, he had been slow to understand, could not exist alone. They must touch one another and be forever changed by the event. Transformed. Not just added to, or diminished; but altered so as to become something else entirely. Something utterly new.

“As outsized your pride is, James, you are not infallible.”

“I know. I know that. Have known that all my life.”

Goodsir wanted to say that he did not know that. That he had thought of James as a man of inexhaustible energy. And that he had no idea how to deal with all this. That all his scientific facts had no meaning here at the very throat of the world, because there were people whom nothing—not his scalpel and his medicine, and not spite and anger and violence—had been able to save.

He did not say that, though, because it was true and messy, and heavy beyond either of their carrying.

But there was a gentle comfort to Goodsir’s voice, something warm-blooded and sustaining. The hope of a man wondering if he was doing the right things, saying the right things. And love was something Fitzjames understood in a limited context: a circle made by arms; a smile and a laugh and voice and a touch without expression; the sunlight on Harry’s hair.

#amcterrorgift #the terror #goodsir #fitzjames #goodsir x fitzjames

23 notes · View notes