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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Laisse tomber les filles 7

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; sexual acts and dubcon (not explicitly tagged for a surprise but nothing extreme).

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: We back at it again! Happy Tuesday.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

‘When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue...I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn’t, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another. I thought a spectacular change would come over me the day I crossed the boundary line.’

You read and reread the paragraph. You couldn’t help it. The first time you read that book, you just didn’t get the cynicism. There were still parts you couldn’t quite relate to. But that passage sank into you like a pebble in water. You felt changed already and after something so little.

You hadn’t seen Lee since Saturday. He had your number now and called at night. A few times, there was noise in the background; people, cars, life. You realised he must’ve been at a payphone, taking a moment away from his patrol. That was another thing about him; he felt so established, so wise, and that made you feel even less.

When the phone began to ring that night, you ignored it. And when it stopped, you picked up the receiver and dialed the only number you knew. Your mom picked up and you heard the sink running in the background. She was always busy when you called.

“Mom,” you said, “it’s me.”

“Oh, hi, dear,” she replied in her creaky tone, “how are you? Oh, is something wrong?”

“Um… I’m okay, I just wanted to call, I…” you thought of telling her about Lee but you weren’t really sure how. You weren’t even sure why you called her, only that you felt alone. “I miss you and daddy.”

“We miss you, too,” you heard her steps and her grunt as she stretched the cord and twisted off the faucet. “He’s been working hard down at the steel yard and he’s so proud. All the other men tell him to hush up when he brags about you.”

“Yeah? I… I’m working hard. Got an A on my last paper,” you played with the coiled cord.

“That’s great, dear,” she chimed, “are you sure you’re okay? You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” you said, “that’s all. Studying and all that.”

“I hope so. I wouldn’t want you going out late to one of those parties,” she tittered, “Noreen’s son got arrested at one of those and spent a night in jail. They spent their mortgage to get him out.”

“No, no, I don’t, um, go to parties,” you assured, not adding that no one would even think to invite you to one.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I’ll have to call back tomorrow,” she sighed as you heard the door clamour, “your father’s so intent on hurting himself these days.”

“Okay, um, it’s alright, I’ll talk later, love y--” the phone went dead and you listened to the dull tone.

You put the receiver back in the cradle and tapped your fingers on your lips. You picked up your book and sat back on your bed. You couldn’t focus on the words though as your mind lingered on the familiar sounds of home. You missed it terribly. You just wanted to take the bus and go hide in your old childhood bed.

The phone rang again. You knew it wasn’t your mother. You left it and when it silenced, there was only a second before it started again. You waited until the next lull and moved the receiver off the cradle and let the low hum rise from the speaker. You kept it off the hook and closed your book.

You didn’t want to deal with any of that today. Not Lee, not Plath, not the plague of woes that roiled your stomach. You flopped onto your bed and pulled your pillow over your head. You weren’t going to think again until your morning lecture.

📚

You sat near the front of the hall with your elbow on the small fold-out desk. You swirled your pen lazily in the air as you listened to the professor expound on the flaws of historical revisionism. He wasn’t the type to entertain questions or comments, he merely ranted and expected you to note those few words of value amidst the sea of thoughts.

You yawned, exhausted despite an early night. You felt empty and drained those last four days. Ever since…

You didn’t think about it. Tried not to even as it tugged at your mind. When the memory managed to poke through, you felt the same tingle between your legs and your cheeks burned in humiliation.

How had you let it happen? How could you let yourself do that?

You were so confused by it all. How could it be wrong if Lee said it was right? He was older, he was a cop, and he knew much more than you. You never even kissed a boy before him and he was so confident in everything he did that he must be doing it all right.

Besides, after everything, if you refused him, you’d have only been leading him on and using him for his kindness, even if you didn’t realise what you were doing. Because what you did know was that he was a man and you were a woman and that he was doing nice things for you. And you accepted them all. The least you could do was bide his affection. That was the age old exchange, was it not?

“Next week, we’ll review chapters five and six,” the professor’s tone piqued as his ramble subsided, “I expect a class discussion and you can expect ten percent of your mark to be evaluated from your contribution and I will know if you just ‘skimmed’ the introduction.’

The class grumbled as he dismissed you and you stood slowly, stretching the cramp from your leg. You packed up your bag and hauled it on your shoulder. You had a gap between that class and your afternoon publishing class. You trailed out behind the flow of chattering students but found many of them lowered their voices as they came out into the hall.

There voices fell to whispers as they entered the hall. The sight of a brown hat assured you of the reason. Sheriff Bodecker stood against the painted brick and watched the students pass by, each eyeing him nervously and some chuckling under their breaths nervously. You tried to hide behind a taller student but your name tripped you up.

Despite your efforts to maintain your invisibility, he’d spotted you and you knew you could run away. Several of your peers craned around to watch you, no doubt suspecting some trouble on your part. You dragged your feet and stepped out of the tide of fleeing co-eds to stand along the wall with Lee.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Young lady,” he said staunchly and kept his eyes on the other students, nodding at them darkly as they passed.

He waited until the hall was empty before he turned on you. You fidgeted and caught your bag as it slipped from your shoulder. Your thoughts wrinkled above your brow and you stared at his brown leather shoes.

“How did you… find me here?”

He was silent as he reached in his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and showed you a print-out of your schedule.

“Easy enough,” he tapped his badge nonchalantly, “I was worried. You didn’t answer last night.”

“I fell asleep early,” you said weakly, “morning lecture, you know?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “not that early.”

“I’m sorry, I was sleep--”

“You’re no good at lying and I don’t like you telling me fibs,” he growled, “you playin’ around with me, honey.”

“No, I…” you blinked as he folded the paper back into his pocket and pushed his jacket back to settle his hand on his pistol.

“Did you forget who I am? What I am?” he arched a brow darkly.

“N-No, sir, I… I got schoolwork and--”

“You can’t stop and talk to me for ten minutes?” he challenged, “you hurt me, honey. I’m out on patrol all night, in danger, and the only thing I got to look forward to is hearing your sweet voice.”

“I, um, I… er, I’m confused,” you eked out, “I don’t know… I…”

“Honey,” he leaned in and his hot breath glossed over you as he lowered his voice, “you know what this is, we both know what a bad girl you were on Saturday.”

“I didn’t…” you swallowed and choked on your voice, “I gotta go to the library--”

You tried to turn away but were pulled back by his tight grip on your arm. He forced you against the wall and knocked the wind from you as your bag tumbled from your arm. You gasped and stared up at him in fright. In that moment, he seemed bigger than ever; taller, thicker, and strong as hell. Stronger than you for sure.

“You don’t go nowhere ‘less I say you do,” his other hand shifted on his gun, “you got me?”

“What are you-- I didn’t… why are you being mean?”

“Me? Honey pie, you been avoiding me and I’m mean?” he snarled.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, I’m just... busy,” you whimpered as he squeezed your arm so tight it throbbed, “you’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting me,” he hissed, “you think I got time to be comin’ down here on duty to find you?”

“You didn’t have to--”

“I did,” he barked, “I had to make sure you weren’t hussyin’ around with any other boys, like I found you last week.”

“I told you, that wasn’t--”

“Shhhhh,” his hand flew to your chin and forced your mouth shut, “I don’t got the time for this, honey. I’ll be around tonight and you’ll wear a pretty dress for me, won’t you?”

You clenched your jaw and nodded stiffly as his thumb toyed with your lip. He smiled and the tension left his grasp.

“Good girl,” he drew away and squared his shoulders, “you be ready at six and don’t keep me waitin’ again.”

“Yes, sir,” you croaked.

“Mmm,” he nodded with a smirk, “you know, I think I do prefer ‘sir’.” He bent and kissed your lips before you could turn away. You let him and he stood straight again and adjusted his belt, “six o’clock, honey pie.”

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #fic #series #dark fic #dark!fic #laisse tomber les filles #the devil all the time #college au #au

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milknette · 3 years

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chapter 06 - anime

水鏡照らす光跳ねて、今が特別に感じた。

tumblr month: @adrinetteapril

links: ao3 | ff.net chapter: previous | next

ADRIEN makes it his mission to introduce Marinette to all the wonders of the human world.

He invites her out to try human activities, goes with her to try different human meals, encourages her to listen and watch various human media:

His most recent point-of-concern— anime.

“I just think it’s an absolute crime that you’ve never seen the in wonder and beauty that is Japanese anemonetion,” Adrien explains, putting on a dramatic face.

“... Japanese what?”

“Animation,” he amends, then noticing her judging expression, continues. “Look, I’m running out of puns! We’re hanging out way too much— I can’t catch up.”

Marinette finds herself laughing. “I mean, we could hang out less if you wanted to.”

“No!” He argues; says it a bit too loudly, really, as she evidently looks taken aback by his reaction. “I mean,” he coughs. “I just found someone to watch anime with me. You’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

(Adrien looks proud of himself. “Cool, I haven’t used that one yet!”)

She rolls her eyes, then stretches back upon the bed. Adrien casually sits on the chair, propping his head back upon the back rest. “So, what human torture show are you putting me through this time?”

“You say that like you didn’t cry over Moana.”

“If you did not cry while watching Moana finally accept herself and proclaim her love for both the sea and her people then I do not trust you—.”

He laughs, then nods in understanding. “It is a pretty good Disney movie,” Adrien points out. “A lot better than the earlier films.

“You mean, unlike the Little Mermaid?” Marinette responds dryly, visibly cringing in distaste. “The only thing that film got right about us mermaids was that we really don’t like mingling with humans. Ariel would be a one-in-a-million. And insane, probably.”

“So you’re Ariel, then?” She pointedly glares at him at even the mere suggestion of it, and he raises his arms in fake surrender. “I meant your interest in the human world! You are with us now, after all. And I like to think that you enjoy my company.”

“Eh,” Marinette only says offhandedly, lips tilting up the slightest bit at his unimpressed expression. “But I sure wouldn’t be the type to sell my soul to a— well, they don’t even exist, evil sea witch, just to flirt with someone. Especially one that’s human.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to do something as dramatic as sell your soul to get a human to fall in love with you,” Adrien says easily.

And what exactly does he mean by that?

“I— uh,” she flounders, takes a deep breath in, then shakes her head. “Anyway! What are we watching?”

(Yes, a smooth change of topic.)

“I figured that we could watch one of my personal favorites.” He grabs the remote and presses play on the stream— a pun that goes over his head and not hers, which makes Marinette truly wonder if she is spending too much time with him; if she’s already thinking of puns without even thinking about it.

Instead, the mermaid nods absentmindedly and decides to try and sit through the first episode— at the very least, to have him leave her alone. (Though the real reason may be that she just wants to spend time with him; though she’d never admit it.)

In any case, the decision doesn’t matter: because they end up binge-watching the entire series.

And Marinette cannot stop crying as the final scene cuts into view.

Adrien had somehow made his way to the bed halfway through watching, as she leans against his arm while staring helplessly at the screen.

“That’s it? It’s over?!”

He smiles in slight amusement, then nods. “Come on, it’s a sweet ending. And it ties up everything nicely.”

“No, it was perfect but I— I’m just,” she trips over her words, evidently conflicted and frustrated over the finale. “It’s done, right? There aren’t anymore new episodes or anything?”

“Nope,” he replies easily. “That’s all of it, since you inseasted on watching everything this morning.”

“What do you mean ‘this morning’, it’s only like 8PM—,” she pauses as he shows her his phone screen, the time 3:47 PM displayed front-and-center. “It’s almost 4AM?!”

She pauses, looking outside to see the moon slowly fading from view. “No but I— last time I checked it was— how did that happen?”

He’s full-on laughing now, and grins. “Power of anime; it gets you hooked, so you won’t be able to sleep until you finish all the episodes. Then you basically black out and only realize how many hours have passed when it’s already over.”

“You’ve introduced me to a cursed medium,” Marinette only mutters, running an exhausted hand down her face. “I’m supposed to be studying today.”

“Come on,” he says back, tilting her head in his direction. “I’ll help you out. This is for Mme. Mendeleiev’s class, right?”

At that point, she belatedly notices their altogether compromising position: lying together on her bed, his arm guarding her neck, and their faces only a few inches apart (she can see the green in his eyes: notice how they perfectly capture the shade of nature on land— beautiful), and almost falls over as she takes a quick step back.

The fact that she had been in such close proximity with a human, for an unknowable amount of time, makes her panic. The fact that it’s Adrien effectively makes her panic even more— though of a notably more intense variety and degree.

(She refuses to expound on the feeling.)

“Yeah!” Marinette finally manages to splutter out, before getting herself off the bed as quickly as possible and making her way to her backpack. She pats it awkwardly. “Have a lot of research to do if I want to ace that test.”

Adrien only stares at her for a moment, smiles, and she feels her mermaid-heart threaten to burst out of its chest. She doesn’t know how to explain the feeling, but Marinette finds herself thrown into overdrive when they’re together; unable to even conduct the most basic functions when he gets too close.

It’s absolutely inconvenient and irritating.

But she finds that it strangely feels good as well.

“You’re going to study now?” Adrien only asks, once again waving his phone in her direction. “It’s 4:00 AM, you can study later,” he says. “You just watched almost twelve hours of anime in the span of a day— that’s too much screen time for your brain.”

“But I’m not tired!” Marinette tries to argue, which would’ve held more basis if she hadn’t evidently swallowed down a yawn that tried to escape her throat. “As her TA, you can’t have Mme. Mendeleiev’s worst student failing her test, right?”

Adrien sighs, standing up and walking over to her. Once again, he’s at an extremely close distance, and Marinette’s almost confident that he can hear her not-heart beating.

He looks at her, and they hold eye contact. “I may be her TA, but I’m your friend first. So go and rest, Marinette. I’ll help you as soon as you wake up.”

“Fine,” she says resignedly, before walking over the bed. “What about you?”

“Well, I was just planning to hop over with you on your bed and—,” noticing the panicked expression on her face, Adrien laughs. “Kidding. Nino lives nearby, so I’ll probably crash at his to make it easier on both of us when I come back.”

“You don’t have to come back, you know,” Marinette responds, suddenly feeling the slightest bit guilty about keeping him in the area. “I mean it— I can do it myself.”

“But it’d be easier if we did it together, ” Adrien only points out. “Besides, you’d be getting help from her star student. I don't think that's something you can pass up on.”

“Ah right, the star who caused an accident to some poor faculty member for leaving water trails all over the outside of her classroom.”

He grins. “I seem to recall that being someone else’s fault,” Adrien hums back. “I was just trying to help out a friend.”

“Oh, so we’re friends now?”

“I’d be open to taking it to the next level,” He responds just as easily, echoing Alya’s statement from weeks ago.

The weight of her words don’t even dawn on her after a minute— with the panic consequently weighing in.

“Anyway,” Adrien continues, “I’ll be going ahead, so you have no excuse but to rest.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder, then nods to her lightly. Sea you later, Marinette.”

“You’ve used that already you know that right?”

“I think it’s a classeac,” he says easily, then opens the door. “I’ll come back in a few hours, okay?”

“... okay.”

He smiles, one last time, before the door effectively shuts, and she’s left to her own devices.

Marinette calmly walks over to her bed, then flips over to lie down on it.

She remembers basically cuddling with him over these sheets.

And then she screams into a pillow.

#sandbar nine #adrinetteapril2021 #adrinette april #adrinetteapril #adrinette #adrienette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml

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siswritesyanderes · 4 years

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omg could you p l e as e write that no-nonsense reader that's a literature junkie with a yandere percy weasley that absolutely adores how she corrects his love letters and grades them??? pretty please, with a cherry on top?

Initially, he had sat at your table in the library for two quite pragmatic reasons: because you were generally unobtrusive as you read, and because sitting next to another person meant that when people inevitably bothered him for homework answers, he could make the excuse that he didn’t want to be noisy and bother the person beside him. Those were the only reasons, at first.

After that, he supposed it was a matter of habit; if he didn’t see you at the usual table, he always wandered the library to find where you were sitting, and seat himself the usual distance of one seat away from you. That was the pull of routine, though, he reasoned; you had proven yourself a nice, quiet study partner, so of course he sought you out. There was no reason to sentimentalize the fact that he was drawn to you.

Then came the day a boy from Percy’s Transfiguration class asked to copy his notes. Demanded, really, with the excuse that he had missed class because he was ill. (Granted, Percy didn’t doubt the truth of this, so much. He just didn’t hand over his notes lightly.) When Percy suggested that he speak to McGonagall and get the information from her, the boy merely doubled down on his excuse, this time describing his illness (and the color and consistency of his vomit) graphically enough that Percy was, at a point, prompted to say:

“Thank you for that factoid; not at all disgusting. Anything else that will make me nauseous?”

“Nauseated,” you interjected suddenly.

“What?”

“I believe you meant ’nauseated’. ’Nauseous’ describes the stimulus, not the reaction. A nauseous smell will make you feel nauseated. If you yourself are nauseous, then you are causing nausea in someone else. Also, you’ve misused factoid.”

Percy blinked. “Have I?”

A crisp nod. “It means something that resembles a fact but is not; note the suffix ‘oid’, as used in ‘humanoid’. I suppose you aren’t entirely misusing it if you meant to imply that you didn’t believe he was telling the truth, but that wasn’t the impression I’d gotten. Also, it would be more fitting to just call it a lie, in that case; the connotations are different.”

In that moment, he felt inexcusably stupid for not having spoken to you sooner. He knew that some of his peers were clever; there was a whole House for those who valued cleverness, after all. And he knew that some of his peers were probably smarter than him; statistically, they had to be. But…well, he liked to learn. Being taught new things he might never have otherwise known (like definitions of commonly misused words) felt different from being corrected on any old homework assignment. And the frank, casual way you had said it was just so terribly attractive and seemed to imply that there was plenty more where that came from.

Like you had answers to questions he didn’t even know to ask.

He paid more attention to you, from then on.

It was honestly distracting. Just committing to listening to you speak, in class and to your classmates, had been expanding his vocabulary little by little; he often found himself jotting down words that you used, approximating the spelling as best he could, to look up later.

Not just words- facts.

Weird, obscure things that you would bring up with minimal prompting, about the etymology of the word “defenestration” or the statistical likelihood of dying from an incorrectly brewed potion.

And sometimes you were just smiling, or just soberly nodding in agreement to one of your potions partner’s many venting sessions, and as the days passed he became entranced with that, too. All of your little moments and expressions and words seemed to drag him deeper and deeper, until it became unbearable not to say anything.

He wrote out a letter explaining his affection; it was better than telling you in person, because in a letter he could plan and proofread. He spent two days poring over his own wording to be sure that he’d avoided any mistakes, and then he slipped the parchment into your bag. His heart beating in his throat.

The next time he sat with you in the library, you set a folded parchment down in front of him. He couldn’t breathe for a moment, but when he unfolded it, he saw his own handwriting and his own words.

With things crossed out.

His eyes hungrily raked over the tiny annotations you’d made on his letter.

There was a bracket drawn around a phrase and the word “redundant” jotted in the nearest margin. A whole sentence was underlined and called “bombastic”, and Percy quickly put one of his books in his lap because he was having a Reaction and he was pretty sure he was in love.

At the very bottom of the page, below his signature, you had written: “Good spelling, and good use of the word ‘limerent’. On the whole, though, I think that you could do better.”

Pride and affection and determination flooded him. He took out a parchment and began to compose another letter. This one he scoured for any of the same mistakes he had made in the first one; he would not be redundant or bombastic or have a “strange use of passive voice here”. He took another two days, this time not even listening in class as he wrote and edited and rewrote (an otherwise perfect page had to be thrown out because a stray ink mark too closely resembled an apostrophe) before finally slipping the finished product to you.

This one you handed back with fewer structural complaints, but more thematic ones. In multiple places, you merely underlined a phrase and wrote “cliche”. So he was being graded for originality, too. You had high standards, which only made the chance of meeting them more enticing.

He was going to earn your approval. Approval would turn to love. One day, you were going to love him; he’d make sure of it. You would be with him, the two of you would be together, you would love him. Like he loved you.

“Hasty conclusion; insufficient evidence,” you jotted on his next one, with an arrow to the word love.

Evidence. Of course, you wouldn’t just accept that he loved you with no sub-points to back it up.

Merlin, you were so endearing. He had to earn your trust, prove himself. His whole next letter expounded on his feelings for you, as concretely as he could. He avoided subjective descriptors, as he knew that you would critique any use of words like “beautiful”, and focused on specific qualities you had and how they made him feel. Once he had tapped into that well, it seemed he couldn’t stop; he wrote out all of the things he had noticed about you that no one else had, and how it annoyed him that your friends were so inattentive to your feelings, and all of the details of the future he imagined for the two of you.

That letter he did not receive back for several days.

He spent those days in a daze of mixed anxiety and excitement. He imagined that you hated the letter. He imagined you loved it. He imagined that you were tearing it to shreds. He imagined that you read it to yourself every night.

He couldn’t catch your gaze in or between classes; you didn’t study in the library anymore. He didn’t notice that he had taken to following you in the hallways until one of your friends spotted him and whispered to you, and his anxiety spiked; he sprinted in the opposite direction, hoping you hadn’t turned around in time to see him.

The next day (by which time a torturous week had passed), you set a folded parchment in front of him on your way to your seat in Charms class.

It was not his letter; it was a note of your own, inscribed with only the words, “You are very observant. Thank you for the conversation, but I don’t know that I am interested.”

His heartbeat raced. His eyes looped over the words, fixating on different ones each time. He did not feel despair, nor defeat; how could he, when he knew the kind of people you had already settled for. You were brilliant, but your friends weren’t nearly as smart as he was. They didn’t care for you as much as he did. They wouldn’t be as successful as he would, provide for you like he would. The people you chose to surround yourself with would never deserve you, but he could come to. He had just failed to get that across, but soon he would succeed.

His eyes tightened their loop, now focused only on the words “I don’t know”.

That was the most important part, he decided. You had not been blunt in your rejection; you were unsure. He could fix that, could explain himself, could teach you how to accept his love, the way you had taught him so much.

Slowly, so as not to break the reverie he found himself in, Percy withdrew his quill, inkwell, and parchment from his bag. He would write you again. A letter a day, two letters a day, as many as needed. As many observations and declarations as it would take. He just needed to prove himself.

...

(Caught myself referencing the song “Other Friends” towards the end, then just kinda went with it. Hope you enjoyed this one!)

#male yandere #possessive #obsession #yandere percy weasley

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pinknerdpanda · 4 years

Text

Dead Sea

Word Count: 4,317

Characters: Modern AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff

SSB Square Filled: “Why the long face?” (Bolded and Italicized below)

Beta’d by: @shy-violet-soul - what would I do without you?!

A/N: Alright, here it is. My first attempt at MCU Fanfic and hopefully the first of more to come. I really love Bucky’s character and the ways parts of him can be expounded upon. This particular piece was written for @heli0s-writes 2K Challenge. My prompt was the song “Dead Sea” by the Lumineers. I kinda picked it apart and used bits of lyrics within the fic, which are highlighted. This is also the first fic for my @star-spangled-bingo card. Hope you enjoy! I’d love to hear your feedback!

If you’d like to be added to my taglist, send me an ask!

Dead Sea

“Why the long face?”

Four words, spoken with casual naivete and a breath of gentle teasing. Bucky froze, the unlit cigarette, now forgotten, dangling between his lips as he looked around for the source of his distraction. His gaze landed on her as she flicked her lighter, bringing the flame to her own cigarette and taking a drag. Her hair itself was like fire, brilliant red and vivid orange dancing around her face in the breeze. She smiled, smoke billowing in delicate tendrils from her nose and mouth as she held the lighter out.

Bucky blinked, glancing around once again. Surely she was addressing someone else? His eyes narrowed as his search came back empty and he looked at her again.

She wiggled the lighter in his direction and chuckled, the sound electrifying every nerve in his body and making the hair on his arms stand on end. A sound that pure and beautiful should be reserved for...well, anything or anyone except him. Bucky knew he should turn around and go back inside - leave her alone and untainted by his mere existence.

And yet as she watched him patiently, the sun overhead making her eyes and hair sparkle, he silently nodded his thanks and accepted the proffered item. It took a few failed attempts before he successfully ignited the tip of his cigarette and inhaled the bitter smoke, returning the lighter in silence.

“I’m y/n,” she offered, tucking it away again.

Dumbstruck.

It’s not a word Bucky would have used to describe himself in recent years. As a naive, fresh-faced kid 20 years ago? Sure. But a former soldier and recently retired enforcer for a powerful mob back East? Hell no.

And yet, there was no other word to describe it.

Bucky Barnes was dumbstruck.

He took a long drag and exhaled, hoping the cloud of smoke would provide some sort of camouflage as he spoke.

“‘M’name’s Bucky,” he mumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” her tone brightening around her widening smile. “I haven’t seen you before. You new?”

Bucky nodded, hiding again behind his antiquated bad habit.

“I work just there,” she gestured behind her, cigarette carefully poised between two fingers. “At the salon. I’m a stylist.”

Bucky jerked his thumb to the door a few places down from where she’d pointed.

“I just started at the pawn shop.”

Y/n nodded, taking another drag.

“You said something. Earlier.” Bucky cleared his throat, his continued socialization a surprise to himself. “What did you say?”

Y/n grinned, sheepishly, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it with the toe of her worn Converse.

“I asked ‘Why the long face?’” Y/n pulled her jacket around her, shielding herself from the chilly gusts of late winter air. “It’s just...well. You looked kinda sad.”

Bucky chuckled, flicking his cigarette away deftly. “I’ve been told that’s just my face.”

Y/n pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze at him, nodding thoughtfully.

“I appreciate the concern, though.” One side of Bucky’s mouth quirked up, the ghost of the charming ladies-man he’d once been playing over his features.

“I’ll see you around, Bucky.” She laughed to herself once more before ducking her head and retreating toward her shop, the door closing behind her.

I hope so. Bucky thought to himself. I really hope so.

----

The next few weeks passed in much the same way; smoke breaks shared behind the strip mall, shy smiles and quiet comfort found in the low murmuring between them.

“But why did you leave New York for bumfuck Ohio?” She pressed gently one day, flicking ash into the wind. “This place is just so...boring.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, having dreaded this question from the moment he put the Empire State in his rearview mirror. The dread compounding even more as the thought of telling her the truth flashed through his mind.

Bucky took another drag before tossing the butt on the ground and stomping it out mercilessly.

“New York lied to me. I needed the truth.” Bucky smirked in self-contempt, the irony heavy on his tongue. It wasn’t entirely false, but it wasn’t the honesty he wished he could give her, either. “Besides, boring isn’t so bad.”

He chanced a look in her direction and found her, nodding thoughtfully as she often did, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. To Bucky, that one gesture felt as though she saw through him, though the feeling wasn’t raw and exposed as he kept anticipating. It felt...reassuring, somehow. Like she saw him as someone he wasn’t even certain he was, and was just biding her time until she could reflect the image back to him.

“Well, whatever brought you here, Bucky,” she smiled, brushing the neon green and pink hair from her eyes. “I’m really thankful it did.”

Bucky cleared his throat, refusing to look at his watch, as though doing so would deplete their time together faster.

“What about you? If it’s so boring here, why do you stay?” His tone bordered on teasing, but as soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them.

Y/n blinked rapidly, the edges of her smile crumbling visibly. He could practically see her forcing her facial muscles to keep it place.

“It’s my dad,” her voice was barely a whisper. “He’s sick. Cancer. My mom left ages ago and I’m all he’s got.”

She shrugged, leaving him with more questions than answers. Bucky knew better than most not to press the matter. She never did with him, so he allowed her the same respect.

“I’m sorry.”

Y/n nodded, a silent acceptance of his sincerity. She took a small step forward - her warmth and vitality crowding his space in all the best ways - and, leaning up, pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Blood roared in Bucky’s ears and his heart thudded against his ribs almost violently. The feel of her chapped lips on his skin lingered as she stepped back.

“Have a good afternoon, Bucky.” She started to walk back inside, but turned to face him again. “You oughta come by sometime, let me get my fingers in that hair of yours.”

Feigning offense, Bucky scoffed, and pushed some of the long strands back over his ears. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Y/n smiled, a renewed joy in the curve of her lips. “Nothing.”

Bucky watched as she retreated back through the door of the salon, finding himself, once again, dumbstruck.

----

“What about - ” she drew the word out, finger outstretched as she settled on the one she wanted, “that one?”

Bucky chuckled. Of course she would pick that one.

“That one is Vega.”

Bucky turned his head, finding her profile highlighted by the glow of the heavens above. He found her joy intoxicating.

He’d been nervous when he asked if she wanted to do something after work earlier in the day. Nervous and more than a little clumsy, having already convinced himself that she’d turn him down. But she hadn’t. In fact, Bucky thought she almost looked relieved. Though whether it was because she’d hoped he’d ask or because she simply needed a brief reprieve from the responsibility of caring for an ailing father, he wasn’t sure.

All he knew for certain was that sitting there, blanketed by an inky black sky dotted with shimmering stars next to her was the only place he wanted to be. He felt a bone-deep peacefulness he’d never experienced in his life and it had everything to do with the pastel blue-haired girl who’d agreed to go stargazing with him.

"You know," he began, swallowing thickly when she turned to face him. "They say that Vega was a goddess who fell in love with a farmer. She descended the heavens to be with him and promised to bring him back with her. Her father became so enraged with them, he banished them both to the sky, but far apart from one another."

"That's so sad," she whispered, her face scrunched.

Bucky nodded.

"But," he began, desperate to wipe the frown from her lips, "once a year - on the seventh day of the seventh month - a bridge of magpies forms across the milky way so the lovers can be reunited once more."

It worked.

Y/n's eyes glittered brightly with excitement again and at once Bucky's breath was stolen from his lungs. In that moment, Bucky would have lassoed the moon and brought it to earth if it meant being cocooned in her mirth for a few more seconds.

"That's so romantic, in a horribly tragic kind of way." She laughed, the sound knitting together pieces of himself he'd long assumed irreparable. "Thank you for this, Bucky. I needed some fresh air."

"Anytime, sweetheart."

The voice in his head bellowed that the blush gracing her cheeks was a figment of his imagination. But, as her hand linked with his, the roar of doubt and fear subsided for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly, meticulously cataloging the feel of her palm in his own.

"What are you thinking?" Her melodic voice vibrated through the night air.

"Sometimes," he started, unsure how to put his chaotic thoughts into words. "Sometimes I feel like I'm sinking and I can't seem to catch my breath."

Her thumb soothed gentle circles over his knuckles, sending a shiver down his spine.

"But for some reason - when I'm with you - I feel like I can't help but float." Bucky cringed. As often as he'd considered expressing his budding feelings for her, he had done a piss-poor job when the moment presented itself.

And yet...

Her lips were warm against the rough skin of his hand and it shot little jolts of electricity up his arm and throughout his body.

"I'll be your Dead Sea, Bucky," her breath tickled the hair on the back of his hand as she pressed another kiss there. "You'll never sink when you're with me."

----

“You’re insane.”

Y/n giggled merrily as the rhythmic swells of Latin beats carried on the breeze from the Puerto Rican restaurant a few doors away.

Bucky grinned. "Probably."

"It's raining!" Y/n protested, a whine lacing her words.

Bucky tipped his head to one side, his hand held out feeling the gentle patter of rain against his skin.

"’S’not raining, it's sprinkling. I know you're sweet, but I promise ya won't melt." His words were flat, but his lips betrayed the attempt at a deadpan retort.

Y/n simply narrowed her gaze at him, crossing her arms over her chest, though her smile muted the effect of her challenge.

“Aw, cah’mon, sweetheart,” Bucky drawled, Brooklyn accent thick and charming. “No one’s gonna see us.”

“I don’t know how!”

Y/n glanced nervously from Bucky’s outstretched palm to his face and back.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher.” Bucky quirked an eyebrow as his lips drew up in an inviting grin.

Reluctantly - but only just - she released the air from her lungs in a dramatic sigh, throwing her hands in the air.

“Fine. But it’s only because you’re cute.”

Bucky’s smile widened as his pulse quickened, a rush of warmth heating his cheeks as she placed her right hand in his. He draped her other on his shoulder before planting his right hand against her back.

“It’s easy, just remember one, two, three. One, two, three.” He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “Now, when I step forward you step back. Just mirror my steps and follow my lead. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Slowly, carefully, Bucky moved them both in a less-than-graceful rendition of a Salsa dance. He didn’t care when she stepped on his toes and cursed under her breath. All that mattered to him was the feel of her in his arms and the sparkle in her eyes as their steps became somewhat synchronized.

"So," Bucky mused, taking advantage of her gaze averted in favor of their feet. "Cute, huh?"

Y/n's steps faltered, her left foot landing hard against Bucky's right and her head connecting with his chin as she tried to jerk her eyes up to his. Bucky yelped in pain and y/n stumbled backward, her feet tangling with his as they both crumpled to the ground in a heap.

"Oh my God, Bucky!" Y/n gasped, hands scrambling for purchase as she tried to untangle herself. "I'm so sorry! Are you ok?!"

Bucky's deep laughter halted her efforts to climb off him. She laughed then too - high, slightly embarrassed giggles that she tried to cover with her palm. Her eyes widened as his arms tightened around her waist, drawing her in closer.

Bucky swept the faded purple hair from her face, brushing his thumb against her jaw as their laughter died. It was as if time stopped and the only thing that existed in that moment was the two of them. Her breath caught gently when he hooked his fingers behind her neck and began to pull her face to his.

Whether it was poor timing or just another way for the universe to screw him over, he couldn't be sure. But before their lips met, the skies opened up and large, cold raindrops pelted them, instantly drenching them both and ruining whatever moment it might have been.

Y/n squealed, jumping to her feet and ducking under the shelter of the awning. Defeated, frustrated and wet, Bucky slowly ambled up and joined her a few moments later. Bucky groaned running his fingers through his soaking hair and trying in vain to wring the water out. Y/n grinned, her cheeks and nose dusted a light pink that he was sure hadn't been there before he'd asked her to dance.

"Y/n," Bucky started but froze when he realized his voice was one of two calling her name in the same moment.

"Mrs. Perry's timer just went off!"

"I'll be right in!" She called back cheerfully, though her eyes shone with reluctance as Bucky stared into them. "Shit. I'm sorry, Bucky. I uh," she pressed her palms together and dropped her gaze briefly. "Thank you for the dance lesson and sorry for...ya know...being about as graceful as a baby moose."

Before he could protest her self-deprecating remark, she leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and turned to go back inside. Bucky stared after her, his cheek warm despite the chill the rain had tried burying inside his bones.

----

Bucky’s thumb drummed nervously against the wooden surface of the reception desk as he did yet another visual sweep of the room. It was more quiet than he’d expected, though to be honest, he had little to base his assumptions on.

A few agonizing moments later, a tall, raven haired woman with blood red lips and a ring through her eyebrow approached. She smiled warmly at him, wiping her palms on the front of her black apron.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Bucky swallowed, his nerves making him jittery. “Yeah, I’m looking for y/n.”

“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?” The woman frowned, a deep crease marring her heavily made-up face. “Judith was supposed to call all of her appointments last night.”

Fear prickled at the back of his neck and a shiver ran down his spine.

“I didn’t have an appointment. I’m Bucky. From next door? Is she okay?”

“Oh of course. Bucky.” The woman smiled and then sighed. “Her father passed away yesterday afternoon. I know she’d been expecting it eventually, but I don’t think anyone is really ever ready.”

His heart broke for her. He wished he’d known or that there was something he could have done. He’d make the earth spin backwards if it would make her happy.

“Do you know where she lives?” Bucky cringed knowing how stalker-y that sounded. “I just, I’m worried about her.”

The woman pursed her lips, her eyes roaming over his face, studying him. Whatever she’d found there must have been enough because she pulled out a pen and a slip of paper.

“If anything happens to her, Bucky From Next Door, I will not hesitate to kill you. I know where you work and I know that boss of yours better than you do.” She scribbled something on the paper before pushing it towards him. Her expression softened, then, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips. “Besides, I think she could use a friend right now. If that’s what you’re calling yourselves these days.”

Bucky blushed, but nodded. He mumbled his thanks as he hurried out the door.

----

Bucky paused, his fist poised to knock on the bright yellow door as he sucked in a steadying breath. The setting sun stole the warmth of spring from the air and he found himself shivering. Just when he calmed his nerves, the door opened suddenly, startling him and forcing him to take a step backward. Y/n’s face was pale and her wide eyes were rimmed with red, but the visible signs of sorrow did nothing to lessen her beauty.

“Bucky?” She gasped a second before she lunged for him, wrapping him in a fierce hug.

He held her as she shuddered against him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. The sound of her broken sobs made his stomach churn and he rubbed small, comforting circles against her back.

She pulled back suddenly, rubbing her eyes violently and huffing a frustrated laugh.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blubber all over - “

“No,” Bucky cut her off. “Sweetheart, don’t apologize. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Sniffling, she tried smiling, though it was little more than a faint upturn of her lips.

"You are, aren't you." Her nose scrunched in thought. "How did you know?"

Bucky ran a shaking hand through his hair, eyes focused in his scuffed boots.

"I, uh," he cleared his throat. "I stopped by to see if I could get a haircut. They told me about...what happened." He looked at her then. "I'm so sorry, y/n."

She nodded, arms wrapping around herself.

"I knew it was coming soon, I just," she took a deep breath and released it. She continued, voice soft. "I thought I would have more time, ya know?"

Bucky hummed in understanding.

"You want to come in? I just made some coffee." She laughed. "I don't even know why I came out here. I think I'm a little out of it."

Bucky followed her inside, shutting the door behind him. She led him through the small entryway and into the kitchen, dodging a small pile of suitcases stacked near the doorway. Glasses rattled as she searched for a pair of mismatched mugs and set them on the counter beside the coffee pot.

"You goin' somewhere?" Bucky tipped his head toward the bags when she looked at him.

Her eyes flashed with something Bucky didn't understand before she turned back to her task. The scent of black coffee was comforting as she handed him a mug. A frowning panda glared up at him from the surface of the cup below the words "I hate mornings." It made Bucky smile.

Y/n cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. She faced him, hip resting against the edge of the counter.

"He had been sick for so long, I started to think that this was all my life would ever be. I figured I'd stay, take care of him, maybe get a few cats." Cradling her own mug in one hand, she ran her fingers through uncharacteristically messy orange hair. "But, now that he's...gone…" her voice trembled on the words, but she continued. "I don't know. I think domestic life never really suited me. I kind of want to live for myself, for a change."

Bucky nodded, forcing down the lump in his throat before taking a sip of coffee.

Y/n smoothed her hands along the sides of her mug, her brow furrowed as she stared at the black liquid.

"His funeral is Tuesday," she sniffed. "I didn't really have any expenses here, so I've got some money saved. I thought, why not just get away for awhile, ya know?"

Bucky set his cup down and took a step toward her. Her breath hitched, though she didn't look at him. Carefully he tugged the mug from her hands and placed it beside his.

"Well, I'm glad," he smirked, placing his hands on her shoulders and squeezing gently. "Cause you and cats? That's just not right."

Y/n giggled, the sound oddly strangled around the sudden resurgence of tears.

"C'mere," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head under his chin. She breathed deeply, hugging him closer and fisting her hands in the back of his shirt.

This time when she pulled back, she kept hold of him, but her face twisted in confusion.

"Wait, did you say you wanted a haircut?!" Her voice bordered on incredulous.

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. "Thought it might be time for a change. 'Sides, you said you wanted to get your hands on it."

Y/n gaped at him and reached up to run her fingers through his chestnut locks. The feel of her nails against his scalp forced his eyes closed and he hummed lightly.

She tugged on one strand, not enough to hurt but enough to get his attention. When his eyes opened again, the soft look on her face startled him. Her hand dropped to the curve of his jaw, her thumb brushing gently against the bristles peppering his cheek.

"Maybe a trim, but there's no way I could deprive the world of this hair, Buck. That would be a travesty." She blushed. "I only wanted an excuse to run my fingers through it."

Without giving himself a chance to back out, Bucky dipped his head and kissed her. Her lips were warm and she sighed, pressing herself closer to him. His tongue licked across her lip as his nose brushed hers. He pulled back, tugging her bottom lip gently between his before sucking in a steadying breath.

She smiled, pressing her forehead against his. "About time."

Bucky chuckled, pecking her lips twice as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Come with me."

Her voice was so low, he wondered for a moment if he'd imagined it, but her gaze was pleading.

"Y/n," he sighed. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

Defeat, exhaustion, embarrassment and rejection played across her face as she nodded, her hands dropping at her sides.

"Sorry," she breathed, turning away from him.

Bucky caught her elbow and turned her back to face him.

"It's not because I don't want to, because God knows I do," he bit down on his lip, clenching his eyes shut in preparation for what came next. "There's just things about me that you don't know. Things I don't want you to know, because seeing disappointment in your eyes might actually kill me."

Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his mouth before gently tugging his lip from between his teeth. His eyes found hers again and his heart stammered at the tenderness there.

"Bucky, I don't have to know everything about who you used to be to know you are a good man. I could never be disappointed in you."

Her words lifted a small part of the weight he'd carried from the East coast, though he figured the bulk of it would likely remain with him forever.

"When I left New York, I didn't know exactly where I was going. I just headed west, kept moving, until I got here. This just felt right, somehow. I don't know why I stopped here, y/n. I needed someone I could trust, but it felt impossible. I felt like all I would ever do was sink under the weight of what I left behind." He smoothed a hand through her hair, watching the way the light danced over the brightly colored strands. "But then I met you and, I know I don't deserve it, and I'll never be worthy enough, but you make me want to try. Try to be better, try to be a good man."

She frowned at him then, and confusion jumbled his thoughts and burned his eyes.

"You don't have to try, Bucky. You are." She smiled. "And I already told you. You'll never sink when you're with me."

Bucky kissed her, this time with a fierceness. Her tongue meet his eagerly and once again he found himself sinking, but this time in all the best ways.

He pulled back, his lips swollen and his lungs aching for air.

"Come with me, Bucky." She plead again, her voice was rough and he knew he'd lost any willpower he'd once had to her.

He nodded and she rewarded him with the sweetest smile he'd ever known. Once again he found himself dumbstruck.

Curling her fingers with his, she tugged him out of the kitchen - away their already forgotten mismatched mugs half-full of warm coffee - and led him to the sofa. He sat down, pulling her onto his lap and resting his chin against her hair.

A comfortable silence fell between them as he stroked her back and breathed in the scent of her. If he could bottle up a moment in time to save forever, this would be it. He'd never felt such peace and while he struggled to accept his worthiness of such a feeling, knowing she trusted him meant the world.

She sniffed, pulling back to look into his eyes, and the sorrow he saw etched into her face was palpable.

"Would you stay the night?" Her lip quivered as she tried and failed to blink back tears. "I - uh- I don't want to be alone."

Bucky pecked her lips, brushing away the wetness trailing her cheeks. "Sweetheart, you don't have to be alone, ever again."

----

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stringergames · 3 years

Text

Downtime Roleplay 4 - Checking Out

Post Session 5 - Misty Eyed

Ireena and Magpie spend some one on one time in the Kolyana Library, as the rest of the party continue to exasperate Ismark downstairs.

Words spoken in Elvish are denoted in italics. Spoiler warning: contains spoilers for episode 5 of Edge of Night

Content warning: grief, implied dead parents, alcohol consumption

"So, Mr Magpie, do you like poetry?" Ireena smiles at him as they climb the stairs.

"I do, it can be very beautiful. I prefer such things set to music, but that's a personal taste."

Magpie casts a slightly wary eye over the opulent staircase, taking in the disrepair and lack of upkeep. He takes another sip of wine and makes no comment.

"I enjoy the simplicity of poetry, so much can be said with so few words." Ireena is caught up in her own enthusiasm and does not notice Magpie's appraisal of the house. "Novels are good for escaping entirely to another realm, and you already know of my enjoyment of learning through books." This is said in Elvish, with a smile, before switching back to Common. "But poetry will remain my favourite, I think. If only for its love of pain that cannot be spoken in other ways."

Ireena opens a door on the landing that leads to a damp room piled with books, in the centre of which is a chair. The dust marks on the floor indicate that a desk once also stood there, but judging by the fate of other furnishings in the house, this was probably pilfered to become barricade materials a while ago.

Magpie replies in Elvish, quietly pleased to be able to use his native tongue. "Songs are my favourite, I believe. The dual storytelling between lyrics and tune is wonderfully versatile, but poetry definitely has a beauty of it's own, I can see why it calls to you so." He takes an almost hesitant step into the room, and checks back that she's joining him.

Ireena follows him into the study and responds in Elvish, clearly excited to be able to do so. "I wish I had a better understanding of music. It is a rare thing to hear music in Barovia that isn't a funeral march. Unless you encounter the Vistani whose performances are... livelier." Ireena smirks, and gestures to the room. "This is my library!"

Magpie quirks an amused grin at her Elvish, and takes a slow look around the room. "We heard Vistani musicians at the party. They played very well, Sierra was there among them actually. You'll have to see if she'll play the violin for you, it's truly beautiful."

"I would like that." Ireena pauses, wondering how far she can push her luck. "Maybe you would dance with me."

Magpie crouches in front of a bookshelf, scanning the titles distractedly, not so much as reaching a hand out to touch any of them. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy that, I was... never in a position to be taught any of the proper dances, and quite besides, I've been reliably told I have two left feet."

Ireena crouches next to him. "Then I shall simply have to teach you."

Her smile is soft and her tone no longer teasing. The tension in her shoulders is heavy, but not directed at this conversation or her present company. It is tension she's clearly been carrying for a long time.

"I like this one." She selects a book from the shelf. "It's long, but it tells the most wonderful story of a hero who journeys to find his way home after a long battle away from those he loves." She strokes the cover wistfully.

Magpie looks over at the book, admiring the cover.

"Sounds like a compelling tale." He casts his eyes to the floor briefly, and takes another drink of wine before focusing back up on Ireena and the book. "You have so many books, it must be lovely to be able to come here and escape with them."

"Father loved to read. And there weren't exactly many other ways for me to spread my wings beyond this village." She sighs darkly and gestures at the window. "Even before..."

Aware that her façade has slipped again, Ireena straightens her shoulders and attempts another smile.

"But yes, I am lucky. There are a few tomes in here that predate the beginning of the Von Zarovich reign in Barovia."

"Really? How old does that make them?" Magpie looks very interested at the promise of old books, a shadow that had fallen over his face lifting a little.

"Well over a century! Father rarely let anyone handle them, they're very delicate, but I always loved the way old books smell."

“Incredible. I shan’t ask to look at them, but what are they about? I often find some of the most fascinating stuff is in the oldest books.”

"There's a first edition of some very dramatic plays, and a couple of these epic poems too. If I'm being entirely honest, I am not completely sure I know what is in all of the oldest books Father had. But please, if you would like, feel free to select any volumes that take your fancy to take with you. It is wonderful to finally have a fellow bibliophile to share these with. My brother is not opposed to literature, but he's mostly been too busy with more important things to indulge me in expounding the joys of fiction."

Magpie looks gently surprised. "You'd let me bring some? Just like that?"

"I doubt Ismark will miss them, I will certainly be bringing some with me, and Father hardly has a use for them any more. Of course you may take some, as many as you would like." She laughs a little. "Or as many as you think you can carry, at any rate!"

Magpie laughs a little in return, a hesitant set to his face still. "It won't be many then. Most of us ended up here without a bag. You're sure I can borrow some?"

"Borrow, have, whatever you would like. And while we can't promise armour or weapons, I feel confident my brother can provide satchels or something to carry possessions in." Ireena puts a hand on his arm gently. "I mean it, really."

Magpie flinches at the touch, and pulls his arm away gently. "Satchels would be a great help, I don't think Fox's bag will survive anything else being put in it."

Ireena retracts her hand, but does not seem offended. "I did notice that sewing does not appear to be among Lord Ripley's particular skills."

Magpie laughs properly this time. “Apparently not, though I’m not sure I can say much after the gods awful job I did on those replacement gloves. It turns out not having something proper to cut the fabric with is a significant hindrance.”

"I hadn't liked to mention it, but they were somewhat unorthodox." Ireena giggles. "I wondered if it was some new trend from where you're from!"

“Decidedly not, just shoddy and hurried craftsmanship on my part.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “If you’re certain I can take a couple of books with me, do you have sections you’d rather I chose from? Or perhaps any recommendations?”

"You must feel free to choose whatever you'd like, although I suggest you take something less likely to fall apart when you touch it! But if you are open to suggestions, then I could show you some of my personal favourites?"

“I’d welcome that gladly, I find myself decidedly in a position of rather too much choice, and while I’d often like nothing more than to stay up all night browsing, I fear after the day we’ve had I need the rest.”

Ireena starts pulling books from shelves and various piles. They're all well-thumbed volumes, but don't seem in danger of falling apart completely. They span a wide range of genres: a poetry anthology by a Lord Byron, the classic epic poem she'd picked out earlier, a trilogy of long form fantasy, a collection of old Elvish plays, a couple of shorter looking novels (one historical fiction and one murder mystery), and a nonfiction biography of ancient rulers of Barovia. She sets them down in a pile in front of Magpie.

"This should narrow down the selection somewhat, I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I have chosen my favourites of many genres." She looks between Magpie and the pile a little nervously. "I hope there's something to your liking here?"

Magpie looks at the pile in astonishment, and brushes a gloved hand delicately across the covers.

"All of it, I'd wager; I'll struggle to pick those that I can carry from such a fascinating collection." He looks up and catches her eye. "Thank you. Truly."

Ireena shows him a flash of the smile she must've had before the recent events of her life, and it lights up her whole face for a moment.

"You are more than welcome, Magpie. I am aware that the journey ahead of us will be difficult, but I will not regret the opportunity to spend more time with you." She pauses and then adds almost as an afterthought, "With all of you. It will be nice to be able to say I have friends."

"It would be lovely indeed." Magpie looks back at the books, carefully thumbing through a couple of pages and starting to sort them into two neat piles. "After such a kind gesture, the least I could do is help you with your Elvish, if you still want to learn."

"Very much so, if it isn't too much trouble!" Ireena suddenly looks like she might cry and turns towards the door. "We should be getting back to the others, it is intolerably cruel of me to leave them solely in the company of my brother for too long." She turns back, and if her voice cracks, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Besides, as you said, you've all had a very long day. I imagine you will be wanting to rest soon."

Magpie blinks a couple of times at the abrupt change in mood, but makes no comment on it. He drains the last of his wine and sets the glass down, carefully picking up a stack of five books he'd set aside, the biography of rulers of Barovia, Elvish plays, and trilogy of fantasy, balancing them carefully in his arm before picking his glass back up.

"Are these alright? Is it too many?"

"No, no of course not! That's fine! Would you like some help carrying them?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have a good hold on them, and there's no risk of me spilling my wine." He gives her a cheeky grin. "Well, shall we go and save the others from the company of your brother then?"

Ireena smiles back, small and shaky, but perhaps more real than some of her smiles up to this point. "An excellent idea, Mr Magpie."

She leads the way back out of the study. She pauses on the landing and points at another door. "I believe that is to be your room for the night, if you'd prefer to drop the books off there, although I have no objections to you bringing them downstairs to share your finds with the others, if you wish."

"I –" Magpie looks torn, and a flicker of something passes over his face. "Perhaps, I'll drop most of them off. Bring just one down. To flick through."

"Great, I can wait here, or just meet you downstairs if you'd rather?"

"I'll be just a second." Magpie smiles at her briefly, and dips into the room to gently place the books down, keeping hold of the Elvish plays, and returning to her quickly.

"Shall we?" Ireena gestures at the staircase.

Magpie nods, and walks alongside her downwards, gently clutching the gifted book to his chest.

Written by Francesca Forrest & Nick Drew

Edited by Rowan E. Madden

Edge of Night is a dnd 5e actual play podcast, brought to you by Stringer Games. It is available on iTunes, Spotify & all good podcast providers.

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annhellsing · 4 years

Text

Fleurs du Mal

notes: if i had half a brain cell i’d stagger this shit but you guys know me and i fucking don’t. so the results of my coffee-fuelled write-a-thon last night are being posted at the break of day. enjoy!! rating: explicit, my dudes!! here there be smut!! pairing: homare arisugawa / reader word count: 2,437

Your love, who does not know he is your love, waits patiently before the mirror.

It’s a bit difficult to understand how he could not know he is loved, really. You undo his tie with all the fondness and familiarity that practice implies. This is not the first time you’ve done this for him, dressed him down to reveal his softer parts. Nor shall it be the last.

All is rather silent but for the ticking of the clock. His grandmother’s record playing Vivaldi’s Autumn has run its course. Neither of you speak at first, content inexplicably with one another’s company to the point that no words are needed.

Homare likes very much when you do this, even if he does not yet know the reason. He likes to imagine that it’s because he’s loved, but working up the courage to confess such a thing is much easier on paper.

Conversation never plagues him so, but you have proven to consistently defy his expectations. He very much cares about what you think of him. And though he is utterly correct, he does often wonder if the mutual dalliances enjoyed on slow afternoons are being misinterpreted on his part.

It stays his tongue in the worst way possible, for you similarly lack the ability to define your relationship. So, you take his clothes off slowly with playful and flirtatious intent. Yet neither of you can admit as much until the act begins.

“With the way that you dress and undress me, I feel a little bit like your doll,” Homare comments, good-natured in tone even as his stomach does flips. Butterflies roost in his chest, not his gut. There is where his words reside, choked and stifled by the flock of delicate wings making his chest flutter uncomfortably.

He wants to say he likes being your doll, could he please be your doll forever? But he does not.

The spell is broken, it seems. You look up at him with soft, loving eyes who’s emotion he is certain he reads incorrectly. You smile at Homare, taking in the beauty of his face and wishing that now were the time for kisses. You’re sparse with them, not wanting to drive him to discomfort with your emotions.

“Mm, you’re prettier than any Barbie,” you tell him, relying on teasing to alleviate how tight your own rib cage is.

His tie’s been cast aside. Your fingers work open buttons without pausing to explore his skin underneath. Homare is fair and beautiful, smooth and clean. He might appreciate comparisons to a lily or a rose, but your resolve wavers when he smiles back. And your compliments die on your tongue.

“I care very little for my appearance,” he begins. You can believe that, at least. “I prefer compliments directed at the mind— ah!”

He cries out for you’ve come to the bottom of his shirt and untucked it from his waistband. You press your hand to his lower stomach, drawing your palm up his chest and feeling with a confidence that you can’t voice.

“Softer, too,” you mumble, unable to say anything more. Homare’s smile returns quickly, with a fox-like tilt that emboldens you just a bit. He seems pleased, if still surprised with the attention.

“You can thank Azuma for that, he was quite transparent about his skincare routine,” Homare adds. Your shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.

“That’s nice of him,” you say. Your hands move of their own accord, pulling him a little closer by the thin taper of his waist. Homare turns towards the mirror. You take up the place behind him, drawing his back against your warm chest.

You explore, as soft and careful as any lover. And yet he is still quite sad about the fact that the two of you are not in love. He reaches behind, holding your hips but allowing you a moment to touch and feel at your leisure.

“I quite agree,” he chimes, settling in for the long haul of touches meant to heat the blood. He’s already stirring in more ways than one, fighting back small and contented noises on the basis of pride.

With you, Homare is gripped by a phantom desire to expound your virtues and profess the depth of his emotions. But a pride that does not belong to him rattles his ability to do so. It belongs to his past, he suspects, to one woman in particular who was easily able to destroy him.

Of course, he does not recognize this behaviour as destructive at all. Only honest. You have been left with the pieces of his heart she scattered. He only hopes it’s some time before you cut yourself on them.

But you touch him like he is not broken glass, indeed as if he were not broken at all. Your clever fingers undo the button in his dress pants, making him stiffen up in anticipation in more ways than one.

You coax relaxation from his slight frame once again with patience. However, he still finds it difficult to breathe as you dip your hand into the front of his trousers.

Surprised by what you find, your eyebrows lift. That smile comes back, just as fox-like as his while you feel beneath his boxers.

“Did Azuma show you how to take care of what’s down here, too?” you ask. That impish smile of yours burns in the mirror. Homare feels very exposed, even with his shirt hanging only part way open and his trousers still preserving his modesty.

He understands your joke enough to give a short laugh, the sound somewhat strained, but does not retreat. You take to stroking the skin around his half-hard length, which is fast approaching fully erect under such careful attention.

Homare gives a strangled sigh as you explore, your hand cupping his balls and giving a soft squeeze. He’s mostly smooth to the touch. You set your head on his shoulder, content to feel.

“That was a bit of experimentation on my part,” he admits, turning to look at you. He gives the end of your nose a gentle peck. Unable to keep himself still any more, his hand falls to your wrist. His grip is loose and unhurried. He doesn’t want you to stop, exactly.

But the tightness of his fingers increases a bit when you brush somewhere not sensitive, but painful. Your expression shifts to one of concern.

“Poor thing, you nicked yourself,” you say. You retreat from the source of pain but do not fully remove your hand.

“There is a reason I am not in the sciences, my flower,” Homare smiles still at you, hoping that his mishap with the razor won’t put you off. He’s aching for you now, his lower belly now a mess of writhing anxiety and glorious heat.

“Ask me if you want help with any further experiments, angel,” you say, offering up a soft kiss immediately following. He sighs again, as you return to your former occupation with even more care not to hurt him further.

“Your enthusiasm is rather exciting,” he says. His voice takes on a rather unexpected, sultry tone. You lift an eyebrow. “I do hope a few minor flesh wounds won’t chase you off.”

“You look ravishing, Homare. Where else have I to go that’s half as interesting?” and he has no answer to such a question. He supposes, had you any idea of his true nature, you might find elsewhere to spend your time.

But as it stands, you return to him time and time again.

Rather, he returns to you. His family home is a little lonely, and has been ever since his grandmother passed. But you look after his parents when they have need, and after Aeriel when she does.

It’s almost shameful to Homare that his love’s picked you because his dog decided you were good at heart. But he looks at your smiling face in the mirror, at the way you dip your head to kiss his neck and he knows you’d find no shame at all in that. You’d likely be flattered.

Of course, if you didn’t spurn his affections wholesale. He would understand that entirely. But as it stands, you’ve neither asked for such things nor voiced any true feelings you may harbour. He is more than content with this passionate, if infrequent affair as it is. At least this way you’ll stay with him.

“You’re very clever to realize that you stand in the presence of a poetic genius,” he muses. “Very few know to appreciate my company, muse.” You bite down very softly on his neck, pulling from him a quiet mewl. In his ear, you whisper,

“Tonight, I think you’re the muse,” and the shiver that runs up his spine is nothing short of wanton. You grip him on two fronts, putting a hand both to his throat and around the base of his cock. Homare stiffens and then sighs.

You apply no pressure to either, you simply hold him as he is with his back to your chest. While he can admit that the two areas you’ve sought out are quite delicate, he’s glad to an extent that you did not think to take him by the heart. At least, not literally.

“Will you come to bed?” you ask, “Or shall I see what other secrets you’re keeping underneath your trousers.”

“Take me,” he whispers, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck when your lips find his shoulder. Your hand leaves his throat, moving down his chest before falling to his side.

You entwine your fingers with his and remove your other hand from his trousers. Homare is turned around and guided towards the mess of pillows and quilt at the centre of his parent’s guest room.

He sits, looking almost in a daze. You’re still mostly dressed as well, but when you guide his hands up your thighs and to the waistband of your underwear, Homare understands. He plays a moment with the soft, elastic lace. His thin fingers touch your thighs with a reverence best reserved for church.

“Don’t tease me, muse,” you whisper to him, “that’s my job.” Leaning in, you take another, fragile kiss. Homare decides to be petulant, biting gently at your lip and seizing forward all of a sudden so that he might still have your lips on his.

You indulge, doting and gentle as always while your hands push into his bright locks of hair. Homare seems hesitant to take your panties off, moving his hands over the roundness of your hips and the outward press of your pelvic bone. Over the fabric, he makes a show out of exploring your mound.

Your hand grips the hair at the back of his head when it becomes obvious he’s dragging his feet. It’s only ever for the sake of irking you, and the reaction is one he favourably courts.

“My, my, my, never in all my years have I met a woman with such impatience,” he exclaims, “and not to mention so lacking in a sense of humour.”

“Oh, I have a sense of humour,” you say, “wouldn’t it be funny indeed to make my own fun without any help from yourself?”

Homare is quite glad that his ego is feeling rather strong today. Such teasing holds no bite. But still, as if to turn the thought from your mind he begins to slide your panties down your thighs.

“That’s better,” you say, “I do love you.”

His hands still.

Those eyes, red and so often full of sly emotion go wide as dinner plates. Homare looks stricken for a second, as if you’ve said something truly awful as opposed to a confession. He stares at you, mouth slightly agape.

“You love me?” he asks, his voice now more like a croak than its previous, sultry invitations. Slowly, you nod.

“I---” you start. You close your mouth. It was a mistake to so freely give it up, but the sentiment is truthful. You do love him very much. “Have I never told you?”

“I thought---” Homare begins, but the second half of his sentences dies. “Come, kiss me again. I have been denied that for far too long.”

“Only because you stay away for ages,” you reply, settling back into the familiar territory of breathless kisses. You touch your lips to his, bending down to reach his new height.

You crawl into his lap and his big, thin hands support you. The kissing comes and does not ebb, every time you try to pull away to speak he hauls you back in for more. It’s almost like he’s looking for something between your lips, the courage to speak his own truth.

It comes on swift after you push him onto his back. Homare falls with you on top of him, caught up in the sound of your heady laugh as you shift and hold yourself above him.

“I love you, too,” he starts very suddenly, lifting his head so that you are near enough for comfort. “Never doubt I love, my flower.”

“Mm, really?” you ask, though your tone still holds that gentle teasing that so sets him at ease. Homare doubts you are trying to name him liar, you place both of his hands on entirely scandalous locations. You fiddle with his trousers to try and press towards unity.

He’ll allow it, the both of you have been bubbling with unrequited tension for far too long.

“I love you in so many ways that they cannot be counted,” he insists, “though since I am poet I shall no doubt have to try---”

You dip your head, taking another kiss.

“I’ll count mine for you,” you say, “my reasons number in the thousands.”

“Flatterer,” he scolds, though the criticism holds no malice.

“Hypocrite!” you exclaim, tossing your head back and laughing over him like you belong nowhere else. Homare grips your hips and prays you can think of nowhere better to sit. “Your poems hold truths aplenty but you speak too highly of me in most of them.”

“Never,” he says, his lips finding the center of your sternum with the intent to kiss through your skin. If he focuses, he can hear the perfect beat of your fond heart. “I could never find the words to speak higher of you than what you’ve earned.”

“Write that down, Homare,” you playfully urge. But your hand moves somewhere dangerous yet again, making him moan and driving all thoughts of poetry from his mind. He’s nearly-incoherent when you add, “But not right this minute. I have things to do presently.”

#homare arisugawa #arisugawa homare #homare arisugawa x reader #a3!#homare x reader #a3! homare #anniewrites #nsft #thank u to ava who dragged me to clown hell

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earnmysong · 4 years

Text

Tag Game!

the brilliant @beth-is-rainpaint asked that i expound on the following. if you’d enjoy doing so as well, by all means!

1. what is the color of your hairbrush? a very boring tan wood with black bristles

2. a food you never eat: coconut; i adore the smell and i’m okay with the flavor. the texture to me, though, is veryyyyy reminiscent of fingernails. not that i eat fingernails...

3. are you typically too warm or too cold? i would rather have icicles on my eyelashes than be anything close to sweating. so too warm, i guess?

4. what were you doing 45 minutes ago? picking up my mobile order @ starbucks

5. what’s your favorite candy bar? hershey’s cookies and cream

6. have you ever been to a professional sports game? yep! a great many new york mets games, the best of which was the world series game @ citi field on halloween of 2015. it was my first year teaching, and i said if my boys made it all the way that it would be a good omen for my career so getting tickets was definitely a must!

7. what is the last thing you said out loud? ‘ooooh nice’ - upon hearing ‘there’s no way’ on sirius xm on my way home

8. what is your favourite ice cream? rocky road

9. what was the last thing you had to drink? a chai latte from starbucks

10. do you like your wallet? sure! it’s one of those vera bradley rectangular keychain deals, and it has pink fish all over it.

11. what is the last thing you ate? a blueberry pop-tart

12. did you buy any new clothes last weekend? indeed; i finally bought a no doubt tee, and some holiday leggings from old navy

13. what’s the last sporting event you watched? the voice counts, right? :D

14. what is your favorite flavor of popcorn? boom chicka pop’s sweet and salty kettle corn is a gift to humanity

15. who is the last person you sent a text message to? one of my coworkers, as we were putting together a review of the nitrogen and carbon cycles for our kids tomorrow

16. ever been camping? my backyard excursion as a youngster didn’t last the whole night, and when i went to camp for a summer? it decided to lightning every single time we attempted

17. do you take vitamins? should i, given my physical state? most definitely, of course! do i? nope, have you met me?

18. do you regularly attend a place of worship? yes. now it’s mostly virtual, but it actually helps my anxiety immensely!

19. do you have a tan? absolutely, 100% negatory

20. do you prefer chinese or pizza? chinese, alwayssssss

21. do you drink your soda through a straw? i drink everything through a straw, even hot lattes where the label says ‘not recommended for hot beverages’. if i die of cancer, we know why...

22. what color socks do you usually wear? my favorite socks are a pack of fortune cookies and a pack of ‘donut worry’ donuts, both from forever 21

23. do you ever drive above the speed limit? i don’t drive a car, and my wheelchair goes 3 miles/hr max. so, nope.

24. what terrifies you? clowns, lightning, drowning, choking ahahaha

25. look to your left, what do you see? my signed ingrid michaelson posted from the ‘songs for the season’ tour!

26. what chore do you hate most? n/a

27. what do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? heath ledger! RIP, sir. how can it be thirteen years in january?

28. what’s your favorite soda? vanilla coke

29. do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? drive-thru all the way

30. what’s your favorite number? seven

31. who’s the last person you talked to? my mom

32. favorite meat? chicken nuggets

33. last song you listened to? ‘happy anywhere’ by blake shelton ft. gwen stefani; i still can’t believe i immensely enjoy it; i’d sworn off all of their duets; as a lifelong no doubt/gwen fan, their relationship still doesn’t compute; I’M HAPPY THEY’RE HAPPY, THOUGH

34. last book you read? dash + lily’s book of dares; i wanted to see how the novel compared to the show

35. favorite day of the week? definitely friday! i adore my job, but knowing a recharge is around the corner is a sweet sweet feeling

36. can you say the alphabet backwards? if i had the desire to attempt, i bet i could

37. how do you like your coffee? at home? with cinnamon toast crunch coffee-mate; out and about? a chai latte, not coffee, is usually my go-to

38. favorite pair of shoes? for someone that can’t walk, i have tons of shoes! out of all of them, my most interesting fashion statements are the women of marvel vans and millie bobby brown’s orca converse high tops

39. time you normally get up? pre-covid? 5 am; currently, in my tele-working glory? 7am

40. what do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? sunsets, because my brain always goes ‘the sun has gone to bed and so must i’

41. how many blankets on your bed? four

42. describe your kitchen plates. white china middle with colored fruits around the rim

43. describe your kitchen at the moment. decorated with all manner of thanksgiving cards from friends and family

44. do you have a favorite alcoholic drink? i don’t indulge regularly but, when i do, i enjoy a dark and stormy or a sex on the beach

45. do you play cards? my dad and i played a bunch of euchre this summer

46. what color is your car? my wheelchair is purple and my accessible van is blue with a white stripe down the side

47. can you change a tire? not on your life

48. your favorite state or province? i may live in virginia, but my heart will always belong to new york (city)!

49. favorite job you’ve had? my current one is pretty great! i’m an itinerant ESOL/SPED and i love my kiddos with my entire being!

#HI HELLO HAVE WE MET NICE TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE #thisismylife

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ranposlittle · 4 years

Note

Hi! I don't know if you've ever answered this but I'm really curious to know as to why you've chosen Ranpo? I mean why do you like him in particular? Oh and what do you think about Mori? And who are your top 3 characters from BSD (like Dada material characters)? I've got so many questions🖤🖤🖤

Haha it's absolutely fine, anon~ I would love to answer all the questions that you have for me (●ˊᵕˋ●)

Warning: I'll be taking about some sensitive or possibly triggering topics on my answer about Mori (on item number 2). Please skip it and prioritize your mental health first 🤗

I've actually talked more in depth about this in the Q & A, but what I like about dada in particular is that he's not an ability user. I find it extremely attractive (and super hot) to see a "normal" man keeping up with the finest ability users out there. I also like the complexity of his character. I'd love to expound on this so if you'd like, I can make a whole post for it haha bcos really I have so much to say. As to why he's my "dada", basically, I just can see him as a dom haha in my own opinion of him, I think he likes to be the one who have the say on things. Of course, not to the point of being overly controlling, but more of liking the feeling of being "the man" haha. I mean, even Fukuzawa- the only person he have so much respect for- can't even order him around sometimes. He doesn't like to be looked down upon on or to be treated like he's an ignorant child, he's just lazy about the things he deemed unimportant. He likes to be praised and be viewed in high regards, so I think he'll appreciate someone who is a sub bcos subs do just that with their doms. I also think that he acts all childish but when with someone who is a bit more childish or innocent than him (for example, Kenji and Kyoka), he is very willing to act more responsibly. He doesn't mind explaining to Kenji the details of something he doesn't understand, or to instruct Kyoka how you eat a certain candy– even if he ended up eating it himself haha like, imagine this. Me, a sub, telling him: "Can you pls teach me how to open a ramune?" He will smile proudly and reply, "Of course, I can! I'm the best there is. You can't do anything without my help, don't you? Come here, I'll show you." — that'll be very dom of him haha he's very capable of being in charge if he wants to and idk I just don't think he's more into submitting. I think maybe bcos of his underlying insecurity, he would like to have that constant affirmation that he's the best and he's at the top of everything. Combine that with his playfulness, you get the best kind of a daddy– dominating but still fun. So yeah hehe I hope I made any sense 😅

Ooh, Mori. I have a lot of thoughts about Mori haha but to put it simply, I feel nothing towards him. I don't like him nor do I hate him. I'm truly indifferent towards him. The only time that I thought about Mori for a long time was when one night, I sat up on my bed thinking if Mori touches Elise (in a you-know-what way) or if he can even touch her at all. I looked it up and found a post explaining that the protagonist in Vita Sexualis expressed how he think he's asexual. This is the post and they also made some good points about Mori so pls check it out. So it made me wonder, if this is where Mori's ability is derived from, does he feels sexual attraction to Elise or just plain attraction? Because if we are going to go with the notion that he feels no need for sexual gratification, then we can say that he's only attracted to Elise. But why? The thought I came up with is maybe his attraction isn't really about age– bcos his attraction is towards Yosano. Well, Yosano's child self at that. It's possible that the first time he felt anything remotely close to admiring or being attracted to someone is when he met Yosano. Perhaps it's because of the beauty he found on her ability, or maybe her strong personality, but the bottom line is: Yosano became the image of his idea of what love or attraction is. This is what I came up with bcos I parallel Mori to the character of Humbert Humbert in the book "Lolita" where he became attracted to minors bcos of his first love when he was 14. Maybe Mori never got out of that moment bcos he might've felt like his "love" for Yosano was cut short or that she was taken away from him, and that's why he kept Elise in that age, bcos that's how old Yosano was when she was "his". At least that's is how I see it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not justifying or moralizing his actions. I just think that maybe Mori isn't gonna be attracted to just any child, I think he will be if they possess certain characteristics, like how H.H. likes "nymphets". I haven't read the manga though and I don't know when Mori manifested Elise, if it's before or after he met Yosano. Or if Elise's appearance has always been of a little girl. So I could be totally wrong with this and if that's the case then, never mind everything I said haha

I got asked a similar question before but it's just my fave characters and not the ones who I think is "dada-material" haha so just to be clear, aside from dada, my top 3 faves would be: Tachihara Michizou, Kenji Miyazawa and Q. So, for the top 3 characters that for me are "dada-material", it would be: Junichiro Tanizaki, Chuuya Nakahara and Oda Sakunosuke~ Bonus: Yukichi Fukuzawa. But only if you're into older men of course hehe

Thank you for your ask, anon! I had fun and I really love answering all of them~ don't be shy to ask more when you get the chance, ok? Bye bye~ ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎

#i tried to keep my answers as short as possible bcos i could really go on and on and on for hours ;-;#angelanswers

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thomasstalsworth · 4 years

Text

Too Old ... Prologue

The mooring was not far.

A familiar walk that he knew quite well. Tides knew how many hours, days and more he had spent at Stormwind’s harbour. Weeks on work, weeks off, labours and endeavours both above and below the strictest board. He walked the length of the harbourway with his arms at his sides, hunched somewhat forward and shoulders flexed to help keep him awake.

“Innit’ boys! Innit’! Don’t let off the load! Whale her in - whale her fuckin’ in!”

A cry broke his attention as he walked past one of the dockheads. Early morning had given the harbour to a pink spray of light, scarce enough for the common man’s sight -- but Tom was no common man. He had his plenty share of early morning labours beneath his belt. Plenty share.

Though none would notice, he gave a nod of his head and stuck a thumb to one nostril, heaving a breath to send and dislodge the mucus left in him. A wart-like salutation to those workers and dockhands and day-labourers currently heaving on the axle to bring in cargo to deck. But it was a salutation nonetheless. Work he knew. Work he knew well.

Steady forward, that he managed.

Down the harbourway, South as the crow flew, he kept his steady pace toward the mooring of the Dancing Dolphin. A vessel that was, as of the prior evening, without a captain. That situation was one he had the unfortunate task of rectifying in the early morning light.

“Oi! Sorry -- sorry. Fault a’me.”

Tom gave a dismissive hand to the young lad who bumped shoulder with him. Young creature that the lad was, he was walking backward with no attention as he lugged a wheelbarrow. Clipped Tom on the shoulder, enough to dislodge his stride a step or two. He kept onward.

Moray was the only option. An obvious choice not just by his experience and temperament but by his rank. The man was the first mate, after all. Albeit first mate to no captain any longer, as of Tom’s own furious word the prior evening.

He paused one step to scrape his face. A foul prior evening to recollect, and so he did not tarry his mind on it. There was work to do, the crying and the screaming was done.

There was work to do.

He rolled one shoulder and flexed his jaw as he came about the dockhead wherein the Dolphin was moored. As much to ease the swell and ache of his muscles -- sleeping on sand was a young man’s endeavour and he was young no longer -- as to keep him awake -- sleeping nary a wink was a young man’s endeavour, and indeed, he was young no longer.

Scarce a soul was alive to consciousness along that particular dock. Only a few schooners seemed settled to the rope and anchor besides the Dolphin herself. Luxury vessels for the spare measure of those with coin to slip aside for an afternoon, an evening, a week perhaps on sail for no profit. Still despite his title and status and all else he had come into, Tom felt so disparate from those creatures. Perhaps he still was apart from them though; he had work to do.

He paused at the gangway of the Dolphin.

It was less than what -- twelve hours ago, more, less? -- that he had stormed off the same gangway beside Sigurd. A fury within him despite the calm demeanour without. But anger was quick to burn and quick to burn out. Pain last longer, Tides knew how well he understood that. The stretch of evening behind him could attest to such.

He came aboard the Dolphin to no fanfare. Few souls were awake, those who were looked to him only briefly before dipping their head and gaze anywhere else. Fear? No -- perhaps something between fear and an awkward sensibility. Doubtless the situation held some appearance, despite it not being voiced.

It would be voiced soon enough.

He carried on past the main deck, trekking up with a ‘clack!’ of his wooden leg along the stairwell to the quarter. Moray was not a man to sleep beyond the first dreaming of Sun on the horizon, he knew that well. They had sailed together enough times and fought bare-fist even more. If Moray was anywhere, he would be at the helm to settle compass early or somewhere around the captains’ quarters looking for --

Well, looking for someone who was not there.

The first shred of genuine sunlight started to pierce the precipice of the sky, and Tom paused to glance toward it. There was a break in the halo of gold where the Stormwind lighthouse crest the horizon, and he sighed to behold it. Perhaps not out of awe, no -- he had seen that lighthouse enough times for enough reasons to be null against the beauty. Perhaps out of explicit acknowledgement from the cosmos that yes, yes the past twenty four hours did happen.

Nothing to be done about it any longer.

He turned and headed into the hallway and stairwell landing that pathed from the quarter deck, below the helm, toward the captain’s quarters. And there, just as he had expected, he found the man he sought.

Moray was outside the captain’s quarters, giving a soft ‘rap-rap!’ of his knuckles against the door. By the way his barrel-frame was postured and the mild thinning of his hair was tucked downward, as if to hear inside the room, Tom could tell that was not the first time he had knocked.

Tom paused, sighing quietly for what was to come.

“-- Moray.”

The man in question turned about, confused in the eye at first, but his naval posture returned immediately upon noticing that it was he, the Admiral Stalsworth, that spoke. Even so many years of tide behind and under the both of them, together and apart, the man straightened and stocked himself with both hands tucked to the base of his spine.

“Admiral. I did not expect to see you, I apologize.”

Tom nod at that, giving an expression of tilt lip that he hoped looked more humored than sad. Although sad was what he felt, down to the salt and gullet of his bones.

“Aye, aye t’that. I naw’r thought I’d be seein’ you this mornin’ either. -- Y’been to th’galley yet?”

Moray’s dark brow turned upward, a short glance given back toward the door of the captains’ quarter. He jut a thumb in the direction as well after a moment.

“Ah -- no sir. I have not. Perhaps you could help me, I am attempting to rouse the Captain yet she appears more interested in drooling into her feather-pillow than rousing for breakfast bell.”

Tom’s lips came a bit taut, cheeks pouched as he nod once.

“Mh, that so?”

“Aye, sir. She has been -- “

Moray caught himself as if he had more to say, but deigned not to share in entirety. The phrasing was key, of course, as it often was in conversation to strict and naval superior. Not to mention parent.

“-- busy. It is not the first time she has roused a bit later than the first morning bell. No fault done, of course.”

Tom fought the urge to scrape his face and expound a sigh. He was a good first mate, still.

“C’mon down ta’ the mess with me, Moray. Galley’s sure ta’ have atleast a dripping a’ hot coffee this late in th’morning.”

Late, he said -- it was doubtful the hour was past five and a half in the morning.

Moray double-took on the captain’s door, but he gave a bob of his own chin and followed after Tom as he headed down the stairwell -- both careful not to notch their noggins on the tight spacing of it -- toward the galley in the belly of the Dolphin.

Into the guts they went, passing the few sailors of the vessel who were awake and working their morning shift. Tom did not forget to note how few of them seemed to be -- well, doing something. There was a casual … not quite laziness as it was not lazy to not be at performance of work if there was no work to perform. A ship could only stay so long at port before there was naught else to do except shine the mugs, trim up the hammocks, and have a wank.

Thankfully they did not pass any such of the latter in-the-midst.

For the credit of the crew of the Dolphin, the galley was well-stocked. Indeed, it was not as if the Company ever allowed any vessel to go without strong larder and pantry, but all the same. It was what one did with their supply that was often the difference between an excellently fed and happy crew, and one that would go to blows over a stray toe-nail.

Tom knew that well. Tides and Light and shit in a boot, he knew that damn well. His first runs across the ocean were all done under the profession of ‘kid who can turn shoe leather and potato gruel into a decent breakfast’.

Despite the reason he was there in the galley that morning, and what he was there to explain, he felt a little pride in the fact that his child had managed to educate and retain a crew who did well to feed and supply one another. Hopefully they would keep to that in the lasting of their lives.

‘Skrrt!’

Tom pulled out a chair in the middle of the near-empty galley. Most of the morning crew seemed to have already eaten and guzzled their share of coffee and tea. But there was still some hot brew to be had, not even lukewarm yet, and Tom had done the kindness of grasping both he and Moray a tipple.

Moray, himself, who seemed more and more suspicious to the Admiral -- although through the bare veins of stoic sense that he always held. A stone-face the man, even moreso than Tom’s other favored sailor, Captain Florence.

Both men sat, scuttling their chairs up to both lean forearm against the table. A platform of function rather than fashion, still it held a wood-tarred love and care that both prided the Admiral and brought fresh ache to his gut.

Emotions to engage later, alone.

“I’d ask if ya’ want cream or sugar, but I know you’d throw th’pot in my face.”

Tom managed to bring up a smile, sipping at his own cup of black coffee as he looked over the table at Moray, who did the same.

Both men settled their pewter mugs of caustic, syrup-thick sailor’s breakfast at the same time.

“Hardly, sir. I would not dare break something so precious as a coffee pot. I’d hit you with the chair.”

There was a pause, a thankful break in the dull tension in the air of the vessel, and both men barked a few laughs and steady weathers of the gut that came with timed-honored camaraderie

Then the pause was longer, and implication returned to the air. Moray spoke first.

“-- I suspect there is something you need to tell me, sir. I mean this in no manner of disrespect, but rare has it been cause for you to come and simply share a cup of black brek with me.

Perhaps without even thinking about it, Moray punctuated his words with a glance back toward the stairwell they had came from. A glance toward the captains’ quarters, as if his Captain was about to waltz down and scrub the sleep from her eyes in the petulant manner she often did.

Tom nodded slow and with a certain kind of down-cast glance that men held to them when they had poor news to spread. Boyhood guilt or scuttle, no -- it was a man’s sort of caught jaw and slow intake of breath. He looked up to Moray, both men catching the gaze of the other.

“Captain Atwater has been removed from th’service of th’Company an’ stripped of her rank. She is no longer th’operatin’ officer of th’Dancing Dolphin, nor your commandin’ officer. She is not, as of now, an employee nor adjunct of th’Anchor Trading Company, per my own order.”

The pause that followed may have been fifteen, twenty seconds, but it felt like the rest of the day from break of sun until the dying dusk. Tom held Moray’s gaze, though both men were steel in the face. Perhaps doubt to his own, but Tom could not help but think Moray held the greater metal about him. Eventually he spoke.

“.. Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”

Storms were strange things. Every sailor knew them well, well enough at least to respect them. What conjurations of the world brought about the swells of water and power of air; thunder and lightning and hail, felfire and every other kind of strength to bend a ship to heel -- sailors knew to respect them. It did not matter, in the end, why they happened. Only that they did. And to endure was as important as to sway or as to avoid. To run rope and sail was to be playing mercy with the most powerful portion of the world. Endure, that was the sailing way.

“.. Aye, permission granted.”

To his credit, and Tom did give the man his credit for it, the entire table was upended faster than he could push back in his chair. Tom almost ended up on his ass, saved only by a grasping hand to use his own chair as a brace as the wooden table flew so far as to ram the ceiling of the mess. Hot coffee was not a kind thing to have anywhere but slowly, carefully along the tongue. The beverages of both men flew in an arc, leaving a reasonable portion over them both.

“She is the reason I AM ALIVE! THE REASON THIS CREW IS ALIVE!”

Moray’s voice was a roar, a bellow, a beating charge of a gorilla in the depth of Stranglethorn. Tom would know, he had faced down his fair share of such beasts at the working end of a double-barrel.

The first mate to a now-defunct captain bellowed from within his chest, a hand extended in fury of muscle as he jabbed and demanded explanation. He came as close to blows as he could, stepping upon the Admiral with a breaking step.

The sound caused any crew on the deck, or even the next, to scurry off to the main.

“And the reason you were there to begin with, with no help, no reinforcement a’ any other.”

Tom spoke calm, and clear, and with the kind of settled anger that came when a man was done screaming, done yelling -- done. When judgement had already been passed and there was naught else to do but to repeat, and uphold, and retain it.

“She act’t with impunity, she act’t with a martyr’s heart, an’ she did all such without any spittle to th’rest of the Company despite th’threats faced. Th’die is cast, Moray, ain’t none t’be done ta’ change that. Aye? Y’know that, I damn well know you do.”

Tom may have been beyond the power of indignation and rage, but Moray was not. A man who was otherwise stone, serene, stoic, now he was hot in the face and swollen with blood.

“No, you do not tell me what I know. You were not on this vessel, were you, hmm? You know exactly how a single second of circumstance can change everything. You know that the captain’s word is law.”

A heave of breath left Tom, and he raked his sleeve over his neck and face to remove the leavings of warm coffee.

“Aye, I do. So’s the word further up.” An unspoken mention of his own title left in the air.

Moray breathed with the power of a man who was about to -- or just finished -- a fight. But he did settle in the spirit, or at least in the body. He stood with his arms at his sides, albeit fists clenched, meeting Tom’s gaze.

“I made th’call, Moray. These last months coul’ have been far better fer’ th’crew, fer’ you, fer’ HER, an’ fer’ the Company if she’d have put even one thought inta’ eatin’ whatever sense a’ pride or personal vendetta or fuckin’ martyrdom or whatever it is she’s got boiled in her. This ship? -- “

Tom motioned to the vessel within which they stood, tussled with coffee and roaring words.

“-- This ship could’a taken two round trips ta’ Barrowfield n’ back with steady grain an’ good work, paid work, in th’time she’s kept it grounded here in Stormwind. I ain’t about ta’ ask you about what she’s been doin’, what murder-mystery horse shit she’s gotten herself into.”

He paused, steadying his own rising conjurations of parental disagreement and anger.

“-- Not m’place. Ma’ place is ta’ ensure the best for all of this Company an’ the peoples upon which desperately rely on us. I don’t know if y’heard but th’Fourth War is over. People are hurt. People are hungry. People need work.”

It was a stinging point of argument, but Tom used it because he knew he had to. He had to try to get some semblance of sense of the larger picture through to the man.

But often the best traits of men are the worst, through whatever lens one viewed it through.

“Hurt and hungry, you say?”

Moray’s voice was steel, leveled and measured now without the power of a jungle beast.

“I do not play odds, sir.” He emphasized the deferential title, staring at Tom.

“You put your daughter out hurt and hungry. That’s your choice to make. Not mine. But she is my Captain and I will abide by that trust.”

Both men held their ground, staring and grasping to their battlements. A warfare of the mind.

Eventually though, Tom was the first to open the gunneries. He swiveled his shoulder and point his arm and forefinger toward the door of the galley, out to where it bled to the main deck and -- beyond -- the gangway.

“Then go. I ain’t about t’hold you here if that’s the make of things. You want to leap down th’hole of irresponsible horse shit that she has decided to stake herself on, fine. You go. Damn well I don’t want that, because I sure as fuck need ta’ fer’ what is about to come, but despite what anger you’ve got in yer’ belly right now, you know I’m right.”

What Moray did or did not know, or would come to know, was rather irrelevant. O’ Captain my Captain, his soul spoke to him, and rare was it that he and his soul made any kind of polite conversation any longer.

Without a word, Moray undid the pinning of rank upon the lapel of his coat. He flicked it between thumb and middle finger, letting it rattle and clink across the galley floor, all muddied with coffee. Beneath his coat, he removed the two pistols upon which he had been issued by the Company, opening their breeches to unload the cartridges for the sanctity of safety. He dropped them and the pistols to the galley floor, eyes unbroken from Tom’s own.

The saber at his side, Moray kept. That was his, and he would leave with it.

And so he did, with a final point of eye to match Tom’s own, he marched out of the galley and the Admiral listened with the briefest hope of return even as he walked down the gangway and onto the dock, only to be gone. Gone and carved from heart just as she was.

Tom shut his eyes, breathing the stale scent of coffee, wood tar and sea brine.

There was still work to be done.

Through the communication stone within the outer pocket of his coat, Tom spoke by proxy. His thumb ran over the runestone, and offered up speech by a particular channel to one party only.

“-- Florence? It’s me. I’m helmin’ tha’ Dolphin to Stormholme this afternoon. When I come inta’ harbour we need ta’ speak. There is task what needs done an’ done quiet.”

With only a minute’s pause to collect himself and reacquire his sense of command. Tom walked out onto the main deck. Those members of the Dancing Dolphin’s crew that were awake and at-stations, lax as the tasks they had were, turned to look at him.

“-- Aye, y’have all seen, heard n’ assume’t correctly. Miss Atwater n’ Mister Moray are no longer officers upon this vessel, nor within th’Company. Any who have issue with such order are welcome ta’ make mention a’ such an’ reacquaint their path a’ career at the endin’ of this last voyage. We will be takin’ sail back ta’ Stormholme, Kul Tiras. Any with qualm to be made known or complaint can say so then.”

Tom paused, eyeing the crew. He turned and started up the stairwell to the quarter, not stopping until the distinct ‘clack-clack-clack!’ of his wooden leg reached the captain’s wheel.

“-- All hands, ready fer’ sail!”

#RP #Canon #Too Old

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ditherwings · 4 years

Text

Magic Trick—A Good Omens Secret Santa Gift Fic

This is my belated GO Secret Santa gift for @hardly-functioning-morals! I’m sorry it’s late, but hope you like it!

Sorry about the odd formatting; I had to post this on mobile, and it came out a bit wonky. I expect I’ll cross post this to AO3 once I have a chance, and clean it up. My account there is bastet_in_april.

***

Magic Trick

by bastet_in_april (ditherwings), for hardly-functioning-morals

Aziraphale had always developed fascinations for peculiarly specific bits of human culture, and Crowley usually enjoyed indulging even the ones that he found a bit odd. What was the draw in Regency-period silver snuff boxes, for instance? It wasn’t as though Aziraphale had any particular use for them--he didn’t use snuff, and so had no reason to wish for a dainty container as a means to carry the stuff about in a pocket. Crowley saw little interest in collecting ancient leather-bound first editions with cracked spines and dusty pages, either. He didn’t read, he liked to insist, and, if that was a lie, then surely glossy coffee table books full of remarkable photos were more his style.

Still, Crowley loved to indulge Aziraphale’s fascinations. He enjoyed the excitement on his face as he examined a new find for his bookshop, turning the pages carefully with gloved hands. He loved the surprise on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley present him with a beautifully engraved little snuffbox, with mother-of-pearl inlay. He loved the way Aziraphale would expound on the delights of a new patisserie shop, and the way his eyes would roll up ever so slightly at the ecstasy of a perfectly prepared piece of nigirizushi.

Stage magic, though, was where Crowley drew the line.

It had happened while Crowley was asleep. In 1871, an up-and-coming stage magician named Alexander Herrmann parted ways with his brother Carl, in order to establish his reputation via a solo act. While Carl continued to tour Europe, Alexander headed for London.

In 1871, Aziraphale was still an angry, terrified recluse. It had been nine years since his fateful meeting with Crowley in St. James’s Park. He hadn’t seen Crowley since their argument, and he wasn’t sure whether he was more likely to dissolve into tears or shouting if he saw Crowley again, or, frighteningly, if he didn’t. So he stayed in his shop, fretfully conditioning old leather bindings and being increasingly curt with the few customers who dared cross the shop’s threshold. Perhaps the neighborhood noticed. Perhaps it was a concerned neighbor who thought that odd Mr. Fell really ought to get out of that dusty old shop more often who slipped the advertisement under the shop’s door. Perhaps it was simply a paperboy who’d been paid a bit extra to distribute the fliers. Perhaps it was chance. Perhaps it was ineffable.

Regardless, Aziraphale picked up the flier and was charmed and arrested by the image of the thin man with the goatee and curling mustache, dressed smartly in a black tailcoat and brandishing a magic wand. “Herrmann the Great!” it proclaimed. “Master of the Magical Arts! Now Performing at the Egyptian Hall!” The man was surrounded by whirling petals, playing cards, and doves in flight, and comically outlandish cartoon demons peered from the edges of the playbill to marvel at the magician.

Helpless, Aziraphale’s first thought was that this was exactly the sort of show Crowley would love--a perfect chance to see humanity’s remarkable capacity for imagination at work, while the demon snarked and snickered into his hand at the feats of “magic,” from where he sprawled into his seat. Aziraphale crushed that thought down into something small and sad, like a crumpled ball of paper, and tucked it neatly away. He took a deep breath. There was no reason not to attend the show on his own. He couldn’t hide in his shop forever, as the world continued to move around him. And perhaps Crowley would have the same thought, and Aziraphale might yet see him in the crowd at the Egyptian Hall, heckling the performer and downing expensive wine.

So it was that Aziraphale found himself in a packed theater, its ceiling bedecked with pseudo-Egyptian frescoes complete with strings of artistic renderings of hieroglyphic text (having resided in Egypt for a time during the Ramesside period, and categorically unable to resist reading anything with words on it, if it was within view, Aziraphale was rather bemused to find that the hieroglyphs on the column to the left of him read, “your mother keeps house with water buffalo, and your father smells of lotus root”). Aziraphale was disappointed not to spot a familiar shock of red hair, or a distinctively sauntering gait, amongst the theatergoers.

The crowd buzzed with excitement as Herrmann took the stage, looking theatrically dapper in a tailcoat and tophat, and slightly malevolent, with his goatee and curled moustache like a villain from a penny dreadful. He produced a deck of cards, seemingly from thin air, fanning them out in flourishes, conjuring them from audience members’ pockets, and then turning them into an explosion of colorful ribbons that streamed through the air. Aziraphale felt himself get drawn into the show, as pieces of set dressing--grand fruit trees, ruby-colored lamps, even a burbling fountain--appeared in puffs of incense-scented purple or green smoke. The crowd gasped in wonder or shock, as Herrmann unveiled each new wonder. He produced a dove from a woman’s evening glove, making her laugh with delight. To the surprise of the crowd a rabbit leaped from his tophat, after he tapped it twice with his wand. The onlookers erupted into delighted laughter, as the conjurer tried and failed to convince it to return to his hat, finally turning it into a monogrammed handkerchief, instead. Aziraphale marvelled quietly at the ingenuity of humans, to create miracles of their own. This was so different from the times he had witnessed angelic miracles being performed before crowds of humans. That had been a thing of terror, each witnessing mortal made small and helpless before the gaze of Michael or Gabriel. The magician, conjuring marvels and wielding powers the crowd did not comprehend, instead welcomed them into the experience with humor and charm, sharing the wonder of it with them, and delighting in their reactions.

Aziraphale thought again of Crowley, and bit his lip.

The magician waded a bit further into the crowd, pulling a shiny coin from behind a boy’s ear, and offering him the prize. He paused before Aziraphale, and doffed his silk top hat, offering it to Aziraphale, “You, good sir! Look into my hat! Can you confirm for the crowd that it is empty?” Aziraphale stood, peering into the hat, before agreeing for the rest of the audience that it was empty, and an ordinary hat, as far as he could perceive. “Thank you! Now I see by the lines of care and worry upon your brow that something troubles you, so I have the spirits to deliver a wonder to set your heart at ease. The imps and spectres have told me that what you fear shall not come to pass! Now, reach into this empty hat, and see the wonder the demon has delivered as a sign!”

Aziraphale reached into the silk hat, and felt his hand close around a smooth, round shape. He pulled forth a perfect, shining red apple.

***

Mrs. and Mr. Device were celebrating their anniversary by going on a short trip to the seaside, and needed a babysitter to look after six-year-old Magrat. Adam and the Them had each been given due consideration as potential sitters, but it was nearing end-of-term at school, and university applications and exams were making the teens look increasingly unglued. While Madame Tracey might be trusted with a small child, both parents agreed that Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired) was a last resort, only in case of impending apocalypse, option. So, after some deliberation, and after Anathema’s cousin had begged off due to plans involving concert tickets, the professional descendant (retired) and witch (current) rang up Crowley’s mobile.

Crowley always sounded hunted when he answered his mobile, as if he were a bit worried about whose voice might be on the other, but was pretending at nonchalance. “Yeah, who’s this?” he asked. “Anathema Device,” Anathema answered.

“Book Girl!” Crowley exclaimed, relaxing. He’d attended her wedding, and known her for years, but some nicknames stuck. She rolled her eyes.

“Are you and Aziraphale free on Thursday evening? Newt and I are going on a day trip, and need someone to look after Magrat while we’re away.”

“And you thought you’d ask a demon to babysit?”

“I thought I’d ask my friend. Don’t pretend you don’t adore babysitting her. She told me that you read her stories, last time, and did all the voices.”

“What can I say, she’s a little hellion. What’s not to love?” Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “Give me a moment.” There was a pause in which Anathema could hear Crowley having a murmured conversation with Aziraphale, before Crowley lifted the mobile again, voice coming through clear and audible. “Sure, we can take her for the day. You two kids go have some fun.”

Anathema breathed a soft exhalation of relief. Promise secured, she began to let Crowley know exactly what he was in for.

***

Magrat Device did not want a babysitter. She was very certain that she should be allowed to stay up late on her own, thank you very much. She knew how to work a microwave, and had her parents on speed dial, and wouldn’t eat ice cream for dinner (honest!).

Her parents disagreed, which was why Crowley and Aziraphale were currently poring over a takeout menu, on her parents’ couch, trying to determine what one might order in to feed a six year old.

Anathema and Newt had named their daughter Magrat because Anathema knew the value, to a growing child, of being able to read one’s name in a book. Newt was pleased that this book, at least, while full of witches, fools, kings, and mistaken identity, did not involve an apocalypse.

It wasn’t that Magrat didn’t like spending time with Crowley and Aziraphale. The last time they had babysat her, they had gone to the park and Aziraphale had showed her how to feed the ducks, and Crowley had gotten her an ice cream, and then they had gone home and read from her favorite book--the one that had her name in it. But, the thing was, that had been when Magrat was five. Now, Magrat was six, and that was different. Six was grown up. Six year olds didn’t need babysitters, because six year olds weren’t babies.

“What would you like to eat, dear girl?” Aziraphale asked. “Is a curry too spicy? Or would you like some of the smoked trout and quiche from that lovely little cafe down the street.”

Magrat scowled, shoulders hunched up near her ears. “I don’t want anything to eat.”

“You’re a growing child. Can’t you try to eat something?” The angel looked pleadingly at her. “It’s alright if you don’t finish it, but I shouldn’t like to think of you going hungry.”

Magrat shook her head stubbornly.

“Tell you what,” Crowley said. “How about we order a sampler of a few things, and if anything piques your interest, you can try some of it. If not? Well, we’ll just leave the leftovers for your parents--save them having to cook tomorrow.”

When the takeaway arrived, it smelled enticingly of saffron, spices, butter, and fresh bread. Magrat stubbornly turned away, even as her stomach growled.

“Right,” Crowley decided, clapping his hands and straightening up out of his artful sprawl. “I know you don’t want to be babysat. Why would you? You aren’t a baby, and babysitting just sounds a bit demeaning. Or painful. The thing is, though, we aren’t just your babysitters, Magrat.” He tilted his head down to meet her hazel-colored eyes. She could just catch a glimpse of his bright yellow ones beneath the dark lenses of the sunglasses. “You’re a witch, so we’re your magic babysitters. Like when Hagrid took Harry Potter to Diagon Alley for school supplies.”

Magrat came slowly out of her slouch, considering this. “You’re not magic, though,” she argued. “Not like wizards, or witches, anyway. You’re an angel and a demon. You don’t have magic wands, or pointy hats, or cauldrons. You don’t pull rabbits out of hats. You might as well just be boring old regular babysitters, like Wensleydale or Auntie Sue.”

Aziraphale perked up, looking triumphant. “Oh, you think so, do you?” he asked. “Find me a hat, my dear, and we shall see!”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, angel, please not that. If she wants a rabbit, just miracle one up! Don’t you remember what happened last time? This is going to end in cream cake stains and tears--mostly mine--you mark my words.”

Aziraphale smiled serenely. “Nonsense, my dear. Now, Magrat, a hat, please?”

Magrat pulled a baseball cap from where it had been tossed onto the end of one of the umbrellas in the stand by the door. “It’s not the right kind,” she said.

“Oh, any hat will do. Now, I want you to check that it’s empty.” Magrat reached into the hat, feeling only the canvas material it was made from. “It’s empty,” she confirmed, interested in spite of herself.

“Right, now I need a magic wand.” Aziraphale looked around himself, as if expecting one might conveniently appear. It didn’t, so Azirphale snatched up a fork from the bag of takeaway on the table. He puffed out his chest, and cleared his throat theatrically. “Abracadabra expecto patronum bibbity bobbity expelliarmus!” The angel tapped the slightly rumpled baseball cap three times with his magic fork, and then picked it up and put it on his head. He wiggled his fingers, his eyes theatrically wide.

Magrat leaned forward, despite herself. Crowley covered his face with his hand.

With a dramatic, “Ta da!” Aziraphale whipped the cap off of his head and presented it to his audience. “One rabbit, as ordered!”

There was a pause. Aziraphale looked into the still-empty hat with bewilderment. Magrat and Crowley, however, were unable to tear their eyes away from the furry, bewhiskered little bunny rabbit that was perched comfortably amidst Aziraphale’s fluffy curls. His little pink nose twitched.

Slowly, Aziraphale’s eyes turned upwards towards his hairline, and he yelped, and made a grab for the rabbit, which leapt off of his head acrobatically and right onto the table, upturning the dish of eclairs, sending them flying through the air.

“What did I tell you?” Crowley asked, snapping his fingers. The eclairs settled back onto the plate on the table. And the rabbit was rather confused, but ultimately pleased, to suddenly find itself in the middle of a heavily guarded and carefully fortified garden of prize-winning vegetables (inciting wrath and suspicion of sabotage in the gardener, when he discovered the ensuing damage).

“Mmphghhahaha,” a peculiar half-strangled noise escaped Magrat’s mouth, like the first bit of water springing through the crack in a dam, presaging the deluge. She laughed until she had tears running down her face. Aziraphale, his face softening from bewildered shock to delight and fondness, laughed with her. Crowley, despite himself, let go of his second-hand embarrassment to join them.

The real magic trick, Aziraphale would explain to Crowley after the angel, the demon, and Magrat had finished their dinner, and demolished a respectable number of chocolate eclairs, was not pulling the rabbit from the hat. The real magic was surprise, wonder, and laughter.

#good omens #fanfiction #good omens fic #GoodOmensSecretSanta #aziraphale #crowley #stage magic #ineffable babysitters

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absentlyabbie · 4 years

Photo

a family and (mis)fortune fic

on ao3

moments growing up in the life of tommy merlyn, part-time wayne foster child. (two)

—————

January 1993

It had been years since Bruce had seen Rebecca.

The last time he’d seen her face to face had been her wedding reception, and even after years of marriage to Malcolm Merlyn and the birth of their son, Bruce’s first instinct was to think of her as Rebecca Carlisle. She had been more than a decade older than Bruce, but he had only fond memories of her, one of the few old family friends who remained in contact with him after his parents’ deaths. His father, she had told him once, had been the reason she decided to go into medicine.

And now Bruce was in her home, a stone in a sea of black mourners’ suits, searching the tastefully appointed great room’s decor for echoes of the woman whom he had called a friend.

Aside from the photos placed here and there of the small Merlyn family, Bruce found the room empty of her presence, dressed in the coolly impersonal style of a well-paid interior designer, catering to the tastes of someone far less warm and vivid than Rebecca Merlyn.

Someone Bruce would have been unable to pick out of a lineup approached to gladhand him, his name already far too familiar on their lips. Sensing an imminent overture about stocks and mergers, Bruce smiled politely and made slick, quick excuses, slipping away through the crowd of Starling’s richest and most fashionably sad. He picked up a glass of scotch from the tray of a passing waiter, more for something to be seen doing than any desire to drink.

He carried the crystal tumbler like a shield, navigating the gossiping, murmuring crowd less with the aim of getting anywhere particular than being a more difficult moving target. Since pulling into the graveled drive in front of the ostentatiously modern Merlyn Manor, he had begun to wonder if flying out to Starling had been a mistake. There was little here in the way of honoring or grieving Rebecca, most of the attendees seeming to see the occasion as an excuse to socialize with members of their preferred class and goggle over the spectacle of tragedy amidst wealth.

Bruce’s distracted, evasive path took him through an open door and he found himself in a sitting room only a little smaller than the great room. It was less densely populated, mostly by the constraints of the room’s dimensions. By the windows, a circle of black-clad men gathered, all with their own glasses of expensively terrible alcohol in hand.

As Bruce drifted closer, hoping to take camouflage among the flock, he discovered Malcolm Merlyn holding court before them all.

Bruce’s mood soured even further almost instantly, though he tried to stifle it with a healthy dose of shame. The man had just lost his wife, but it was still too much effort to muster a charitable thought about Malcolm, even with Alfred’s chiding voice in the back of his head. On the one occasion they had met, at his and Rebecca’s wedding, Malcolm had made Bruce’s skin crawl in a way unmatched even by some of the nastiest criminals Bruce tangled with at night. There was just something contemptuous and cold blooded about Malcolm Merlyn that not even the most charming smile could disguise.

Bruce would never understand what Rebecca had seen in him.

Now, Malcolm leaned against a wall table like a king slouched on his throne, commanding the attention of his peers with eyes bloodshot and burning hot as coals, the skin of his lips twitching towards a sneer as he expounded on some point or other. Bruce hovered at the edge of the group, eyes narrowing as Malcolm’s words caught his attention.

“—the real problem. Nothing will change, no part of this city can be lifted for the better, until that shithole district is raised from the level of its lowest gutters. Those people live like animals, and they treat each other like animals. They die like animals.” Malcolm’s hand tightened around his whiskey til the crystal squeaked, his voice thickening, darkening as he went on, “They let my wife die like an animal. Like she was no better than the trash they come from.”

The hair on the back of Bruce’s neck raised at the rage running like a riptide under Malcolm’s words, and at the murmurs of agreement rippling through the men around him.

The sandy-haired man standing at Malcolm’s elbow, Robert Queen if Bruce recalled correctly, hummed thoughtfully, eyes on the amber liquid swirling in his own glass. “The city has neglected the Glades for nearly a generation, and I hate to see that this is the results of that neglect. We all throw money at the problem through our foundations and our companies’ charitable arms, but there’s been so little improvement. Even Rebecca’s clinic—”

Malcolm cut him off with a grim laugh. “Her clinic. She dedicated her goddamn life to helping these fucking people, gave up a top rate medical career to treat addicts and whores and help them pump out the next generation of gang bangers and criminals,” he snarled, “for practically nothing. And that’s how they thanked her in the end. With nothing. Like she was nothing.”

More rumblings of concurrence rippled through the men around Bruce, making him take a cool and assessing glance at each face, reach to recall each name.

“As far as I’m concerned, every one of them is as responsible for Rebecca’s murder as the thug who pulled the trigger,” Malcolm went on, all but growling. “Some ills run in the blood, and criminality and apathy is in the breeding, the culture of every part of the Glades. They don’t want to be helped, or bettered. They don’t want to be saved.”

He paused to toss back a slug of whiskey, in the motion catching sight of Bruce out of the corner of his eye. He turned the crowd’s attention with his, gesturing widely in Bruce’s direction with his drink. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, Wayne? Gotham is practically overrun in every corner with this trash, and I’d run out of fingers on both hands before I could stop naming ineffective and corrupt mayors, every one of them promising social change, every one of them steering their city deeper into the shit. Gotham doesn’t want to be saved, either.”

Bruce carefully unwound the tension in his shoulders and put on the affable, friendly mask he’d cultivated for his daytime persona, if a shade more somber. Around the bitterness on his tongue, he answered, “I don’t know that I’d agree to that. I’ve never seen that there’s a one-size-fits-all cure-all to such a complex problem, and I have to admit. It’s always struck me as reductive the way we view that stratum of society from on high and diagnose their problems without ever lowering ourselves to hear about the nuances and possible solutions from the actual people living those lives.”

Malcolm’s expression got colder and sharper with every word, but Bruce was being as restrained as he could be; after all, the fist in his pocket had not yet introduced itself to Malcolm’s face. Refusing to break from Malcolm’s scalding stare, Bruce went on, “I think Gotham wants to be listened to about what they actually need and who they are, rather than ‘saved’ from themselves. I’d imagine your Glades aren’t any different.”

The sneer that had been twitching at Malcolm’s lips since Bruce arrived finally pulled across his mouth, baring his teeth even as he scoffed. “You make it so painfully obvious how young you are, kid. Shouldn’t have bothered to speak to you like a grown man who knows anything about the world. You better divest yourself of that naive optimism before the world rips it out of your hide, mark my words.”

A scattering of uncomfortable chuckles followed as Malcolm tossed back the rest of his drink, and the fist in Bruce’s pocket tightened so hard he felt his bones creak. Malcolm knew damn well who he was, and there wasn’t anyone who knew who he was who didn’t also know how much younger he’d been when life had killed any naivete he might have possessed.

Before Bruce could swallow his loathing and anger to formulate a response—or better, an excuse to leave—something bumped by his leg and a young child squeezed through the crowd to catch at Malcolm’s sleeve.

“Dad—”

“Not now, Tommy,” Malcolm dismissed irritably, pulling his arm away from the dark-haired little boy. “Go play with Oliver.”

The boy—Tommy—stuck his chin out stubbornly despite the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks and the tears that so obviously spiked his lashes. He reached for his father’s arm again. “But Dad—”

Malcolm slammed his glass down on the table, making more than just Tommy flinch. “I said not now, Tommy. Do not make me repeat myself again.”

Bruce’s nostrils flared, his throat closing with fury at Malcolm’s display of temper towards his son. Bruce had seen Tommy at the funeral, small and miserable with tear-streaked cheeks as he stood alone in the cold wind through the eulogy and burial. It had pained Bruce to see him so abandoned, with not even a kind butler to hold his hand as his mother was lowered into the ground. It was too easy to see his own heartbroken face overlaid on Tommy’s, or Dick Grayson’s, the boy Bruce had felt for so keenly he’d taken him into his home only months ago.

Bruce took an ill-considered step forward, but at the same moment Robert Queen stepped aside to let a lovely blonde woman, his wife Moira, enter the circle and reach a hand towards Tommy.

“Tommy, dear, Oliver is looking for you. Come with me.” Moira waited until Tommy reluctantly took his hand, and she turned a sympathetic look to Malcolm.

Malcolm visibly swallowed his anger, showing a little of the grief he had buried underneath it. He reached out and squeezed Moira’s arm. “Thank you, Moira. Tommy forgets sometimes that he is not to interrupt when adults are talking.”

Tommy shrank under the warning glance his father cut at him, eyes lowering to the floor before Moira tugged him through the crowd and away.

Bruce’s gaze trailed after them as they exited the room, his disgust for Malcolm roiling nauseatingly with concern for Tommy. Now that he had seen more of the man Rebecca had married, he worried deeply for how the child she left behind would fare alone with his father.

His concern had apparently not gone unnoticed.

“Just wait, Wayne.” Malcolm recaptured his attention with his acerbic tone. “I heard you took in a foster kid recently. You’ll learn about that,” he gestured after Tommy with a roll of his wrist, “too.”

With those dismissive, mocking words, Bruce’s disdain for Malcolm crystallized, his anger going icy. When Malcolm got no answer from him, he returned to sharing his revelations about the poor with his wealthy friends, and Bruce waited only moments longer before he made a careful and quiet escape.

—————

@memcjo @klaus-hargreeves-katz @its-a-pygmy-puffle @keabbs @princesssarcastia @obscure-sentimentalist @icannotbelieveiamhere @p0cketw0tch @andyouweremine @storiesofimagination @acheaptrickandacheesyoneline @cronusamporaofficial @batsonthebrain @adeusminhacolombina @relevanttosomeone

#tomym merlyn #bruce wayne #arrow #arrow fic #batfam #malcolm merlyn #family and (mis)fortune au #fam au #bruce wayne is 24 in this #who let this tall child fight crime and raise shorter children

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v-thinks-on · 4 years

Text

A Social Visit

Part 2 of Jeeves and the Amateur Cracksman

Previous | Next

“Mr. Manders,” Jeeves announced, waving the aforementioned into the flat.

“What ho!” I exclaimed, jumping up to greet him.

While A.J. Raffles came closer to Jeeves in height, Bunny Manders, though dwarfed by Jeeves and even by myself, upon examination in the light of day, seemed to have some family resemblance in the set of his features that, combined with his youthful appearance, made it easy to believe he was Jeeves’s kid brother or young cousin, not that Jeeves gave any indication they had ever so much as exchanged a passing how-do-you-do.

“Hello,” Bunny said with a sidelong glance up at Jeeves. “I’m sorry Raffles couldn’t make it, but he told me to convey his regards.”

“Not at all! I’m sure a famous cricketer like him has all sorts of places to be and things to go to and what not. Tell him I say, ‘What ho!’”

I waved it off genially enough, but I confess I was more than a tad disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to rub elbows with the acclaimed A.J. Raffles. Still, we Woosters are nothing if not gracious hosts, and if I was to be entrusted with his pal Bunny, then it was the least I could do.

I waved Bunny into the sitting room. “Have a seat, make yourself at home! Jeeves, drinks all around, what?”

“Sir?”

Jeeves had drifted over to fiddle with the window while I had been preoccupied with our guest, but now he resumed his place at attention. Jeeves had been on the frosty side for the past couple days - I couldn’t say why, having thoroughly rearranged the wardrobe, I had just about ascertained it didn’t have anything to do with my costume - and now was no different.

Bunny jumped a little at his sudden appearance, clearly unaccustomed to how Jeeves has a way of flickering in and out of the presence rather than walking like any ordinary fellow.

“Care to join us for a spot?” I asked. “Bunny’s your cousin after all.”

“That is very kind, sir, but Mr. Manders is your guest.”

I shrugged - that’s the only thing to do when the man is in such a state, though there was something in his tone that grated more than a little. “Have it your way, Jeeves.”

While Jeeves biffed off to prepare the drinks, I turned my attention to playing the gregarious host. “Lovely afternoon, what?”

Bunny tore his eyes away from Jeeves. “Oh, yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“Do you play cricket?”

“No, not really. Do you?”

“Hardly - I’ve never gone in for sports myself except for a touch of golf or tennis. I did try rowing once, but it didn’t last long. The coach, an old pal of mine, Stilton Cheesewright, was a real terror; I’ve never stood so much rapid fire abuse. But I throw a mean dart. My club, the Drones, has a competition every year and I would be a shoe-in if not for Horace Pendlebury-Davenport!”

“Really?” Bunny said, with the air of a man who had gotten rather lost along the way.

I was about to endeavor to explain when Jeeves shimmered over with a pair of glasses.

Bunny leaped like he had been stuck with a pin, nearly knocking the proffered glass out of Jeeves’s hand. For a moment, he just sat there, looking like a chap who had just seen a ghost, which I supposed wasn’t such a strange response to Jeeves appearing and disappearing like a genie out of a lamp, especially not for a fellow called Bunny. I’d only just grown accustomed to the man’s mysterious ways myself.

Finally, Bunny took the glass, though he kept an eye on Jeeves, as though he expected him to vanish into thin air at any moment, which I could have told him was sure to happen sooner or later.

“I don’t suppose you could walk a little louder, Jeeves? Tie a bell around your wrist or somesuch?” I suggested.

“I will endeavor to make my presence known, sir.”

You may know that Jeeves sometimes takes on an expression, or rather a lack of expression, altogether reminiscent of a stuffed frog or other such specimen, typically when he’s present and wants to give the impression of not being so. There’s something of a wax statue in the chap, absolutely silent with no presence at all. Well, I’ll tell you that Jeeves could have passed for a stuffed Jeeves then. I reflexively glanced down at my raiment, but as far as I could tell, there was nothing offensive in the lot, and it’s unusual for Jeeves to stay silent on such matters.

When I glanced back up, he was gone.

Bunny and I sipped at our drinks in a companionable silence for a tick or two before I remembered; “Say, you grew up with Jeeves, didn’t you?”

Bunny hesitated on the reply. “Yes... You could say that.”

“Has he always been like this?”

“I suppose so... How do you mean?”

“Oh, all brainy and whatnot. Ate a lot of fish, I expect.”

Bunny seemed to take a moment to process the question. “I don’t think we ever had fish,” he said at last. “But he’s always been intelligent, just like Raffles. I was the only- well, compared to them...” he struggled with the words.

“Oh, rather! I mean, you should hear my Aunt Dahlia - or worse, my Aunt Agatha - talking about how much of a lost cause I am, negligible intelligence, waste of space, you’d think I’d run away to live a life of crime the way they put it. I’m just lucky my cousins Claude and Eustace are worse. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like if they had a real paragon like Jeeves to compare me with.”

“It’s not much of a comparison.”

I gave a sad shake of my head. “No, and I couldn’t tell you why he’s stuck around as long as he has. I would’ve thought he’d have left as soon as another posish. opened up, but he’s still here biffing around.”

“You don’t know why he’s working for you?” Bunny asked, sounding truly intrigued for the first time since he arrived.

“Not a clue. Did he always want to be a valet? With a brain like his, he could give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money. I assumed he went in to support his family and what not, but that was before I knew he was related to a fellow like A.J. Raffles, though really I should have known Jeeves couldn’t just be any ordinary chap.”

Bunny nodded thoughtfully at the comparison. “No, I wondered why he went into service. He did stay and help when the rest of us went our separate ways, but-”

Jeeves gave a quiet cough, like a polite sheep on a distant mountaintop, to announce his presence - Bunny jumped at the sudden interjection, but not nearly as much as before. “I could not help but overhear, sir - if I may.”

“Do enlighten us, Jeeves. Why did you decide to become a valet?”

“Life is too short, sir. To spend that shortness basely were too long.”

“Well, there you have it,” I declared, though I wasn’t at all sure what it was that I had.

Bunny frowned, seemingly intent upon deciphering it himself as Jeeves shimmered off.

Our conversation wandered off to other subjects until Bunny made his excuses and got up to leave. I followed him to the door, still expounding on whatever the latest topic was.

Jeeves coughed softly to announce his presence as he brought in Bunny’s jacket. He gave the jacket to Bunny and then took a step toward me.

“Sir, I took the liberty of liberating your cigarette case from Mr. Manders’s jacket pocket.” He held out the now unfettered case.

“I can explain!” Bunny burst out, looking rather like his namesake, as he glanced nervously between Jeeves and myself - mostly looking at Jeeves, to tell the truth.

“Another one of your pranks?” I asked - nothing else seemed to make sense.

He rather jumped on it. “Yes! It’s a competition. We’ve always tried taking things from each other, and, well, since Raffles failed, I had to try.”

The scales seemed to fall from my eyes, if you get my meaning. “Jeeves, I never would have expected you playing a game like this. Do you try to steal things too?”

“No, sir,” Jeeves said with some disdain.

“But you did?”

“Well-” Bunny attempted.

“I have not in many years, sir.”

I could nearly imagine it, Jeeves in miniature and all his cousins sneaking around an old manor house in the dead of night, trying to get away with a toy or book in a clandestine game of cops and robbers. I only wished I’d thought of it in my formative years.

“I say, Jeeves, you’re full of surprises! And Bunny, you’re welcome ‘round any time, though I’d rather you didn’t run off with my cigarette case.” I took a cigarette out for good measure. “I’m sure we can find you something else - I wouldn’t want to break a family tradition.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Bunny stammered, still looking rather beet-like.

“Anything for a chum. I have an old cigar box I never use, if you like.”

I had been hoping to get the bally thing off my hands ever since my engagement with the girl who gave it to me ended, but Bunny was having none of it, and so I dropped the case, or box as it were.

“I really must be going,” he insisted.

So, I bid him, “Toodle-pip!” and saw him on his way.

“A very amiable chap,” I proclaimed as I meandered back into the sitting room.

I had a mind to settle on the sofa and return to the tale of suspense I had been reading earlier that afternoon - they were just about to discover the second body - when I noticed that Jeeves had materialized by the window and was peering down into the street below.

“Something catch your eye, what? I hope we didn’t send Bunny straight into the fray.”

“Not exactly, sir.”

I meandered over to the window to see what it was Jeeves was making such a fuss about - by Jeevesian standards at least - but his powers of perception must have been much greater than mine if he saw anything more than Bunny making his way around the square.

“It’s a nice day for a stroll, but nothing to write home about,” I remarked.

“I was merely observing the unkempt gentleman with a pronounced limp following Mr. Manders.”

“Oh!” I spotted the fellow, sure enough trailing a bit behind Bunny, but gaining ground despite his awkward gait. “Do you think Bunny’s in trouble?”

“I expect not, sir.”

“If you’re sure, Jeeves.”

“Quite confident, sir.”

“Right-o, then!”

I tossed myself down on the sofa and not a few moments later Jeeves rippled in with the tea.

Part of The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves

#v writes #The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves #Jeeves and the Amateur Cracksman #Jeeves and Wooster #Raffles

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

East of Nowhere - Year Four

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

YEAR FOUR

Three Years, Three Weeks

You twist in sweat-soaked sheets, your body writhing next to Sam as a dream flickers to life behind your closed eyes.

The bunsen burner is a polished silver and far larger than any you’ve ever seen before, the flames a brilliant blue and strong as they lick upward. You reach over to turn the base, to feed it with oxygen. At once, the fire becomes golden and takes the shape of a flower head. You watch the many petals became more distinct, folding outward, radiating light and warmth. It’s the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen, more fleeting than any other, yet seemingly eternal.

This looks exactly like your college biology lab, right down to the lopsided stool that rocked when you sat on it. Despite the similarities, you know this is a different place, the anxiety rising as the edges of your vision ebb and flow.

Then you’re outside, standing in the street in front of the house that you and Sam share. It’s as if God has adjusted the colors of the world in the night, like it’s as easy as twisting one of those old plastic dials on a television set. Everything is brighter than it should be; the trees aren’t just green but radiant virescent hues that burn themselves into your sleepy retinas. The houses are as vibrant as if they've been repainted by moonlight and now stand vivid in the golden rays that fall unfettered through the clear sky. The road that should be black asphalt is a sleek river of gray with perfect paint lines and the street-lamps are blue. But, they’ve never been blue, not ever. Everything is so right it’s wrong - really wrong. The front yards that had been disheveled with the decay of late winter just yesterday were a riot of colorful blooms. You turn back to look at the house, the curtain twitches. Someone’s inside and you inherently know it’s not Sam. You hurry to the front door only to find that it is locked. You beat on the hardwood of the door, calling for Sam as a face appears at the window...your face...but with darker eyes and a smile that makes you want to cry.

“Go away,” dark you hiss through the glass, “we don’t need you anymore.”

“He’ll know,” you yell back, “Sam will know that you’re not the real me.”

“What makes you so sure?” dark you smirks, “he hasn’t been able to tell so far.”

Three Years, Four Months

“I’ll go first,” you smile and inch closer until your knees are touching his. You’re both cross-legged on a tattered flannel blanket in the middle of a sun-soaked clearing, surrounded by an ocean of white dandelions. It’s past mid-day, but it’s still warm enough to put a flush in Sam’s cheeks. He smiles bashfully, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Leaning toward him you whisper, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” he admits rubbing a hand at the nape of his neck, “but the good kind.”

“Me too.” You grab his hand with two of yours and pull it toward your chest, speaking as you trace the veins of his palm with your thumb. “You probably don’t even remember…”

“Try me,” he urges, reaching out to grab a lock of your hair. He twists it around his finger, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We’d been here a year maybe and we were running out on Miller’s trail. You veered off at full speed, on that skinny dirt footpath, the one right past that huge downed pine and all the roots?” Sam nods affirmatively. “I could barely keep up with you and you just kept looking back at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and yelling at me: ‘Come on Y/N, I know you’ve got it in you.’”

“I’ve never seen you run that fast,” Sam chuckles, watching as you trace your index finger up his wrist.

“Shhh, it’s my turn to talk,” Sam mouths a quick ‘sorry’ and you continue.

“I chased you all the way to that pond at the north end of the woods and I lost you toward the end. When I rounded that last corner, you were just standing there waiting for me by the water’s edge. I ran up to you, I was going to push you in but instead, you picked me up and hugged me like it was the most natural thing in the world. At that moment, I knew how I felt about you. I don’t know if it was the feeling of you holding me or how happy you seemed to be, but it was the trigger. I wanted a thousand more of those moments. Nothing was the same after that.”

“I remember that day,” Sam expounds, “I even remember what I said to you.”

“No way,” you scoff.

“I told you that no one ever made me want to push that hard, that I move faster when you’re chasing me.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that,” chuckling you drop your gaze, but only for a moment because Sam isn’t done.

“That’s not the only thing I remember. Your hair smelled like that eucalyptus shampoo you used to use and the hair tie you were using broke half-way through the run, so it was down and wild from the wind on the trail.” Sam breathes looking at you as if he’s still in that moment.

“Well,” you blush, constantly amazed by the details he’s able to recall. Reaching to the blanket you pick up a thin, silver ring and slip it onto his finger. “That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

He holds his hand up to the light, thumbing at the ring at the base of his finger. Then closes his eyes momentarily, breathing once, in and out, before looking back at you. He takes both your hands in his, turning them palm up just as you did with him. His line of sight shifts away from yours to where his thumbs are pressing into your wrists. “It’s not just one moment for me...and there are some things I haven’t said, things that I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” you’re not sure where this is headed.

“I dreamt about you, a long time before I met you. I used to have this recurring dream when I was in college. It was before I met Jess. I used to dream about a woman, I could never remember the details, just feelings. She made me feel like this; safe and happy. She helped me understand that life could be more than blood and sacrifice. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen...she was you. When I first saw you I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, that you were just similar. But I don’t think that’s it, I think I saw my future and it was you.”

Sam’s told you about premonitions and latent powers, so this doesn’t come as a complete surprise. You want to speak, due to the whole series of alternating questions and comments racing through your brain, but you remain silent. This is his turn.

“Am I making you reconsider?” Sam’s only half joking, you both know it. You shake your head no and he squeezes your forearms in response. “Do you remember when we were still living at the motel, that night when we drank half the lobby bar? You were mixing Mojitos, which for the record were awful, and I can’t even remember exactly what we were talking about but it was something about Dean and family. You didn’t even look up from what you were doing and you said: ‘Well you’re my family now and you will be, even when we get out of here, so you’re going to have to explain that to Dean because I’m not giving you back.’”

You remember that moment well, you’d been a little drunk and had spoken without thinking. Sure, you meant the words, but at the time, it felt like too vulnerable of a confession.

“I’d told you things about my life that must have sounded crazy and terrifying, but none of it phased you. You saw through all of it and somehow found me. Not Sam the hunter, or the son of John Winchester or the guy who almost ended the world. Under all of that, you found me. I don’t think anyone’s ever known the truth and managed not to let it change how they see me. Not until you. That’s when I knew.” He looks up to you, just to make sure that this is real and you’re not backing out. You lean forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips in confirmation. He clears his throat, picking up your ring and slips it delicately onto your finger.

When he’s finished, you interlace your hands, the rings on each of your respective hands rubbing together. There’s a soft breeze that’s blowing in from the east, swirling rogue hair around your face as the sparse clouds above you part. A tingle, hardly noticeable, begins to climb up your spine. The wind is electric as if it’s carrying with it a thousand different emotions: love, sorrow, joy.

“Something’s happening,” your voice is almost nonexistent, only a fragile whisper. Tears fall from your eyes as feelings bubble up from your gut and spill out in fat tears down your cheek.

“I feel it, too,” Sam’s crying with you as he stands and reaches for your hand. You rise to your feet and, for a split second, time seems to stop. Then, in tandem, every white pom-pom of every dandelion in the field bursts into a million small, white explosions around you. The wind picks up and carries the spinning seedlings into the air.

“What is this?” you mutter in awe.

“I think it’s confirmation,” Sam laughs, pulling you into this arms, “I think this moment, finding each other, it’s why we’re here.”

Three Years, Six Months

Considering the general lack of purpose and abundance of free time, it’s surprising that there are still places in Shadow Hill where neither you nor Sam has ventured. However, The Tattoomb is an aptly named tattoo shop that you honestly can’t remember setting foot in before today. It’s nestled between The Sweet Shop and Cool’s Pharmacy near the end of main street.

The name proves accurate, for as the door shuts, you have a vivid flash of being sealed in a sarcophagus. The tall windows facing the street have been painted over black and you blink as the overhead fluorescent lights flicker to life. A thick layer of dust seems suspended in the air, as the light bulbs hum electric in the background.

“Tell me, just one more time,” Sam urges. He’s squatting, sorting through supplies in one of the lower cupboards.

“Not again,” you whine, dropping onto of the reclining chairs. “I know it like the back of my hand, I swear.”

“Humor me, once more and I’ll stop.” He looks up, hitting you with a full-on serious stare until you concede with a roll of your eyes.

“Fine. If I wake up back in the real world, the first thing I do is call Dean.”

��What’s the number?”

You rattle off the phone number without hesitation. “If I can’t reach him I try the other two numbers, for the angel and the sheriff. If I still can’t reach anyone and I have a way to get there, I go to Kansas where I find the Lebanon Community Library and I wait for you.”

“That’s right. If for some reason none of that works, just wait, I’ll find you.” Sam looks at you thoughtfully. He raises a tattoo gun and gestures for your to take off your shoe.

“And these in case we forget each other,” you squirm, visibly displeased with what is about to transpire.

“We don’t have to do this Y/N,” Sam offers, but neither of you are backing out.

You shake your head, “Let’s say we, one day wake up and have no memory of each other. There’d be nothing tying me to you...and...I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“I know, me neither.” He sighs clutching your thigh, “You ready for this?” He’s used the temporary tattoo stencil to create the outline of your new permanent tattoo. He presses it onto the inside of your foot, near the heel. Wetting it just enough to soak through the thin paper, you both wait.

“No, but when have I ever let that stop me. You do know what you’re doing, right?” You trust Sam, but this is a whole new level of commitment.

“I read the instruction manual, twice. With the outline, it’s like paint by numbers.” He winks at you, flipping his hair back.

“You’re instilling so much confidence in me right now.”

You sit through the process with surprising restraint. The topical anesthetic he applied prior helps, but it still doesn’t completely numb the pain. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long; twenty minutes later, you’re looking down at small black letters reading:

Find Sam Winchester

39.809734, -98.55562

It’s simple and to the point. It took the better part of two days to find the perfect words, just enough information to make sense without turning into Memento. The two of you quibbled over several variations until agreeing on the simple turn of phrase. You’re not entirely thrilled with having the coordinates to an underground bunker permanently inked into your skin, but it’s better than the alternative.

Sam covers your heel with a bandage, “I think this is my cue.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to do it,” you squirm.

“I’ll manage,” he assures you, slipping off his shoe and sock before crossing his left calf over his right knee. From what you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to feel it, unflinching as he etches your first and last name into his skin, followed by the coordinates of your hometown.

“You think that’ll be enough?” you ask, handing him the container of Tattoo Goo.

“I know myself well enough to know that I if I wake up with a girl’s name on my body, I’m gonna want to know why. That’s all I’d need. I’ll find a way to remember and I’ll have help.”

Three Years, Eight Months

It’s a frigid morning, icy wind is whipping at breakneck speeds, howling past the windows. The snow stays late this year, starting as gently falling flakes from above and morphing into a snowstorm that hasn't seemed to stop. But, the blustery outdoors is no concern to you or Sam as he turns the knob and the shower sprays down warm water over both of you. Dipping under the stream, you wet your hair and then give him a turn. There’s a series of slow kisses, just the lazy touch of lips while his nose rubs into yours, his tongue slipping easily into your mouth.

You had a fight the night before, a knockdown, drag out, go-to-bed-angry-fight about a grilled cheese sandwich, of all things. Sam was pushing your buttons, insisting that the burner wasn’t high enough, the bread had too much butter, the cheese was cut too thick. You wanted to slap him.

But, last night seems like a distant memory as he climbs into the shower and slides the door shut.

When he finally pulls away from your mouth, he moves to slip behind you. He washes your hair, massaging as you close your eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong fingers rubbing your scalp, slow deep circles that send a tingle down your spine. Once he’s done with your hair, he moves on to the rest. He rolls soap between his hands until it lathers, then rubs his sudsy hands over your rib cage and up under each breast. He teases for a moment before giving in and cupping each one, kneading and clutching as you squirm back into his chest.

The water washes the soap away, but his hands don’t leave. Instead, fingers tug at your nipples as he lowers his mouth to the back of your neck, kissing and sucking as he pulls harder at your tits. You whine as he twists your nipples, applying just the right amount of pressure to awaken other parts of your body. Sam’s become an expert at all the places that get you going; he’s spent countless hours experimenting with touches- gentle here, harder there.

One hand stays on your breast while the other trails down your stomach. His hand spreads wide as it sweeps over your belly and then further. Large fingers sweep over your mound as the pad of his index finger finds your clit, and with expert precision, begins slow measured circles as you whimper.

“You like that?” Sam grins at the sound you make, nipping under your ear.

“Yessss..” you hiss, letting your head fall back onto his chest. As his mouth latches onto the skin of your neck, his hands don’t stop the well-rehearsed movements. His finger moving firm and steady over the little bundle of nerves at the apex of your legs controls your whole body. The insistent rhythm of his hand between your legs and tugging on your nipples work in conjunction as your pussy begins to betray you, slick sliding down your thighs where the water washes it away.

You grind back into his embrace, his cock firmly pressing against your butt cheek. He ruts forward as you push back, relieving pressure, but not enough.

“I’m gonna come, baby,” you moan as your legs start to grow weak. Sam wraps his arm around your torso, holding you up. The hand between your legs hooks under as two of his long fingers push inside your cunt, his thumb goes right back to your clit. He knows you don’t like to come without something inside you. He knows you hate that feeling of your pussy clutching at nothing. You reach back and above you, running your hand up his neck and knotting a fist of his hair.

“God, you’re wet this morning, this all for me?” he sucks your earlobe into his mouth as his thumb grazes your sweet spot and your orgasm rips through your body.

“Sam!” you call his name when you come, twitching in his grasp as your eyes roll back into your head. His thumb stills, but his fingers don’t budge, still shoved knuckle deep inside where you’re tight, clenching in frantic, repeating pulses.

When he does pull his fingers from you, it’s only to turn you toward the shower door. Still behind you, he takes each of your hands, one at a time, placing them on the glass of the door. You bow forward, breasts pressing into the cold glass. Back arched, ass out, Sam saddles up to your backside, one hand on your waist, the other guiding the head of his cock between your legs. You feel him, sliding over your slit and then pushing inside, one smooth push until his balls smash against your sex, leaving you unbelievably full. From this angle, he can push deeper than normal, reaching a place inside that makes your entire body quiver, shaking like jello from a mold.

“Sam, I can’t,” in lieu of finishing your sentence you make a desperate sound, one hand fisting as it pounds the door as he pulls out and shoves back in fast, begins a steady rhythm.

“I’ve got you,” he grunts, both hands on your hips, supporting your weight. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m not gonna last long like this.”

One of his hands snakes around your hips, pressing your stomach where there’s a faint swell in your belly with each thrust, his cock making your stomach bulge as he fucks you from behind.

“So deep,” you pant, pressing the side of your face into the glass, searching for some kind of stability. Sam moves his finger down, searching for your clit, but instead, you bat his hand away, the angle is just right, making you see stars with every stroke of his manhood, “I can come just like this.”

“Shit,” Sam grits as he almost shoots his load right then. The idea of you coming from just his cock makes his balls tight. You raise up a little, mustering every last ounce of energy you have standing on your tiptoes and suddenly the angle goes from just right to sweet-mother-fuck. He slides home once, twice, and that’s all she wrote.

If it weren’t for Sam’s support, you’d be on the ground, instead of suspended mid-air as he pushes inside again and again. It doesn’t take long before he’s coming, too, with a grunt and a stutter of his hips, spilling inside you.

Afterwards he holds you, wraps his arms tighter until you feel his thumping heart pressed into your shoulder blade. There are more of those lazy kisses accompanied by gentle touches as he washes your skin for a second time.

Three Years, Eleven Months, One Week

You stand next to Sam at your dining room table, the surface littered with dry herbs, open books, and at the center, a brass bowl. He’s grinding lavender while you read over the list of ingredients. This spell has been a long time coming, Sam stored it away on a whim when he first came across it four years ago, and he assumed you’d never be able to collect everything needed to make it work, but things are different now.

You’ve grown most of the herbs, collecting others from the forest, which is how you found the missing piece of the puzzle, the Olivine gemstone. The smokey green rock was nestled among the larger chunks of stone and granite near the north end of the town. He could hardly believe it when you pulled it from your pocket three days ago.

He sets down the mortar and pestle, spilling the mix of pummeled herbs into the center of the bowl, where it joins a complicated mix of gems and crystals. You check off the list as he adds each one.

“So, we still need the beak of a raven,” you curl a lip in disdain.

“Got it.” Sam’s holding the tiny piece of bone between his fingers, “he died for a good cause.”

You nod, grateful Sam’s willing to do all the dirty work. “That’s it, I mean except for the next part.”

The blood of true love. Apparently old world magic doesn’t work without hemoglobin. He takes your hand in his, “Sorry,” he winces, using the tip of his blade to cut the flesh of your palm. Wet and warm, the blood pours from the wound and Sam moves it over the bowl, squeezing until he’s satisfied it’s enough. He picks up a cloth from the table, wrapping it several times around your palm, the dark stain seeping through. “My turn.”

Now, it’s time for you to get your hands dirty. The spell was explicit in its instruction; the blood has to be drawn by the lover. Taking the knife from him, you draw in a sharp breath, it’s now or never. Pressing down, you drag the blade, the feeling of his skin splitting makes your stomach turn. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but he remains stoic for your benefit.

“That’s good, you did it,” he praises, taking the knife from you and holds his hand over the bowl, offering his half of the sacrifice. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he looks down at the leather-bound book. Next, he pulls out his wallet, removes a photo of him and Dean when they were kids. It’s as old as it looks, tattered around the edges. He’s about to burn the last thing in his possession tying him to the outside world. He scribbles a message on the back:

Dean,

Shadow Hill. Trapped. Two of us. I’m alive.

Sam

“I think that’s it.” He’s trying something new with this spell. No summoning or teleportation, he’s simply going to communicate, attempting to open a window through the fabric of space and time to push a message through.

Picking up the box of matches, he strikes one on the side of the box. His eyes dance from the flame to you as he drops it into the bowl. There’s a spark, a flash of light, then multicolored smoke twisting upward. There’s deafening silence, a stillness as you both stare at the dissipating smoke.

Then, chaos.

The walls of the house violently shake, as if the earth below is moving the very foundation. There’s a horrifying sound reverberating all around you, painfully loud like the scream of a thousand trumpets.

“Sam,” you reach for him but he’s already moving. Both hands on your arms, pushing you in front of him.

“We gotta get out of the house.” The sliding door that leads to the back deck shatters like it’s been hit with a missile, glass, and wood exploding in all directions. You feel it hit your face, but continue moving as Sam tries to cover your body with his. He guides you through the now empty doorway and down the trembling stairs of the deck.

Your feet hit the grass and you fall to your knees, the very earth undulating in savage tremors. Sam scoops his hands under your armpits and lifts you back up, dragging you away from the house and into the middle of the backyard where you both collapse. You watch in terror as the entire neighborhood shakes and rattles, akin to the feeling of teeth clanking together in your mouth.

There’s a sound like the tearing of fabric, only at a brutal volume that makes you both cover your ears. Above the house, a hundred feet in the air, a sliver of white light begins to appear. It begins to expand, the chorus of sounds reaching a potent crescendo as shiny beams stream out in all directions like a star exploding in the daytime sky.

Just when you think your eardrums will pop, the shimmering tear begins to collapse in on itself, sucking in sound and life like the cousin of a black hole folding inwards until there’s nothing left.

With a bright flash, it’s gone just as quick as it came.

The two of you sit side by side, stunned as the world returns to normal.

“I think it worked,” Sam whispers looking to you. His optimism is tempered as he gets a view of your face, “Jesus, baby, you’re bleeding.”

“What? Where?” you don’t feel pain with the adrenaline still pumping, your heart still thumping wildly in your chest.

“Your head,” he reaches up and wipes his finger across your hairline. Tiny shards of glass still lodged in your skin catch under the pads of his fingers.

“Oh,” bewildered you bring a hand to your face to check, but it’s the wide splotch of blood on your palm that steals the attention. You turn your hand over, staring, but unable to make sense of it.

“Where is that from?” There’s a catch in his voice, an octave higher than normal as he grabs your wrist for inspection.

“I don’t know,” simultaneously you both took down, Sam gasping in horror at the jagged piece of wood protruding from the right side of your stomach. You wrap a hand around it, moving in slow motion because there’s a buzzing in your brain that’s muting everything else. You look up to him, offering casually, “I think I got hurt.”

“Fuck,” he bats your hand away, “don’t pull on it okay? It could make it worse.” You’re conflicted as to what is more troubling, the sight of your impaled stomach or the expression of sheer terror on his face.

Nodding agreeably you lay back. He lifts your shirt up, exposing the wound, and hisses when he gets the first look. The Sam that remains calm, cool and collected is not the man hovering over you. Instead, he’s panicking. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels warm….although, I do feel kinda funny.”

The edges of your vision blur as a tingling sensation spreads outward from the gash, snaking through extremities until it reaches your fingertips. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, much like your foot falling asleep, except this is everywhere.

What you can’t see, is the amount blood that’s pouring from your belly, staining the green grass, and soaking through the denim of Sam’s jeans where he’s kneeling beside you. One moment you’re looking at him and the next, your eyes are rolling back into your head, lids fluttering shut.

“Nononono,” he shakes your shoulders but you remain limp. “Come on, please don’t let this be happening. I don’t know what to do, baby.” He cries, blinking back tears.

Sitting back on his haunches, he takes a deep breath, separating action from emotion. He does know what to do, he’s been through his before, countless times with Dean and others. He makes a decision, taking you into his arms and jogging around the house and through the side door leading to the garage. Inside, there’s an old Toyota 4Runner he fixed up last year. He places you in the passenger seat, but the maneuver twists the wood stuck in your gut, pain jolting you awake with a scream.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be alright,” Sam places a shaky hand momentarily at the side of your face before closing your door and running to the driver’s side. Laid over the seat, you lean against his shoulder as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road.

“I don’t have what I need here,” Sam assures you.

“Where are we….” you choke out, clutching the open wound as you slip back into the dark.

“The hospital,” Sam mutters.

He pulls the car up to the emergency entrance, throwing the car into park with a jerk. He plucks you from the vehicle and scurries through the wide, automatic sliding doors then down the hallway of the abandoned Shadow Hill Community Hospital.

He knows the layout because when you first arrived, you searched this hospital from top to bottom. It’s just like everything else here, it resets every night, which means there are fresh medications and sterile instruments every morning.

Backing through the swinging doors of operating room one, Sam places you carefully on the gurney, then he goes to work. Flipping every switch on the wall, the fluorescent lights flicker to life while he pulls open drawers, collecting everything he can: forceps, clamps, needles, adhesive tape.

Next, he moves to the small locked cabinet, breaking the glass to get inside. He reads each vial until he finds the lidocaine. Moving back to the table, he presses two fingers to the pulse point at your neck where he can feel a faint pulse. He fills a syringe and tries to numb the area around the wound as best he can.

And then, he does the most difficult thing he’s ever done in his entire life. He tries to save yours.

You hear the gentle blip of a heart monitor before anything else. It takes every ounce of strength you can muster up just to blink and once you do, you wish you hadn’t. Your eyeballs feel like sandpaper, as does your mouth.

Turning your head, you’re greeted with the sight of Sam. He’s asleep on the adjacent hospital bed, mouth hanging open and belly down. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue scrubs, instead of jeans. His normal five o’clock shadow is thicker than normal making you wonder exactly how long you’ve been asleep.

“Sam,” you call, your voice little more than a scratchy whisper. He doesn’t budge.

Like an ancient computer coming online, sections of your body are waking up, one after the other. You wiggle toes, then fingers, just testing the basics. It’s when you try to sit up that every nerve lights up, pain so great that it’s hard to get a handle on. Your breathing is labored and placing a hand on your chest, you wince, pulling down the neckline to reveal twin burn marks above each breast.

“What the hell,” you murmur, touching one of the blisters carefully. The realization dawns on you, these are the residual imprints from a defibrillator; your heart must have stopped.

“Sorry about those, I had the voltage up too high. In my defense, the lower settings weren’t getting the job done,” Sam’s voice is thick from sleep as he sits up, sliding from the bed and into the chair next you. He looks somewhere between relief and exhaustion. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“It’s good to be here,” you counter, then cough. The pain in your stomach surges as the muscles contract and you howl.

His brow furrows in concern as he takes a cup from the bedside table and holds it up to your lips. “Drink something.”

You swallow, then sputter, before shooing him away. Even swallowing hurts. “It was bad?”

“It still is bad,” Sam’s mouth twists, his eyes flicking down the floor and back up to you. He reaches out, taking your hand and squeezing. “For a while, I didn’t know if you were gonna survive, then I didn’t know if you’d wake up. I stitched you up as best as I could, but you’re gonna have one hell of a scar, it’s not pretty.”

“You have more than your fair share, so, now we match.” Offering a weak smile you watch him watch you. “How long was I out?”

“Four days.” He’s trying to stay positive, but the look in his eyes is telling a different story.

“What’s wrong?”

He releases your hand, rubbing his palms on his knees, “It’s infected. You were running a fever until this morning.”

“That’s good, right? That the fever’s gone?”

“Yeah, I just...I didn’t know what I was doing Y/N. I was just trying to stop the bleeding…” he stops himself from telling you what he’s really thinking: that you could have internal damage, slowly killing you from the inside and there’s no way to know.

He doesn’t tell you that when your heart stopped and the screech of the flat line filled the room, he screamed along with it. He came this close to losing you. He doesn’t tell you that he stayed awake for two days, crying next to your bed and begging that someone would hear him. He tried bargaining with whatever silent force was watching over this place, pleading for the God he knows exists to intervene and save you.

But, there was no relief. Nothing. The two of you are nothing more than a forgotten experiment left to self destruct.

It was all on him.

Recovery is slow. You wonder if you’ll ever fully heal because the pain is an ever-present companion, haunting every move from morning until night. You struggle to sit up, then stand, then walk. It’s three weeks before Sam allows you to go home, still protesting as he drives you the four minutes from the hospital to your house. After that, it’s long days in bed, reading and eating meals brought to you on a tray until you think you’re going burst from the boredom of it all. But, you don’t complain, you just grin and bear it.

Yes, healing is a long and involved process for you both. For Sam, it’s the brutal realization that there is no safety net. It’s a simple fact he knew before but now he feels it, the desperation sinks in, right down to his bones. This place might repair itself every night, but that same magic doesn't work on flesh and bone. There’s no one to fall back on, no one to reach out to. The love he feels for you should make him happy, but it’s tempered with a sense of dread because eventually there will come a situation he can’t fix.

It’s only a matter of time.

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#East of nowhere #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic #series

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jellydes · 4 years

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Our Long, Arduous Attempt To Watch 'Case,' And Why Some Classic Movies Seemingly Just Vanish

"It is all that you longed for. It is nothing you'd anticipate." That's the slogan that graced cinema banners in 1985 for the film Cocoon, the Ron Howard film that would proceed to turn into the fifth most noteworthy earning film of that year and win two Oscars (Best Supporting Actor and Best Visual Effects). That banner slogan is, maybe, fitting in that in case you're dreaming about watching Cocoon at the present time, not exclusively is it all that you longed for, you're simply must continue dreaming – in light of the fact that Cocoon isn't accessible for you to watch. Anyplace. One of the most pervasive motion pictures of the '80s is simply gone. Evaporated. Mysteriously absent on any stage in the time of streaming, a second in time where apparently everything is accessible inside seconds by means of the press of a couple of catches.

It was abnormal planning, in light of the fact that the day I chose I needed to rewatch Cocoon without precedent for I can't recall how long was the day preceding Wilford Brimley passed on. Thus, my worthless endeavors to watch this film were met, the following day, with taking off accolades highlighting film cuts from a film that is difficult to track down – including one from Ron Howard himself* – for a film I needed to observe considerably more at this point.

*What's extraordinary about the scene that Howard tweeted is, in setting to Brimley's genuine age at that point, it's really interesting. Brimley's Ben Luckett is telling his grandson, David, who is 11, that they plan on leaving with the outsiders to go to a world with no demise, yet not seeing David any longer is providing Ben opportunity to stop and think. Presently, in the watcher's psyche, we are thinking, admirably, what amount time do they have left together in any case? Be that as it may, as a general rule, Brimley experienced an additional 35 years after this film, so the line to this 11-year-old child truly could have been, "Look, David, I'd just be around until no doubt about it."

So how about we back up for a moment. Since the pandemic hit the United States in full power back in March, I've been on, what currently appears as though, a ceaseless film long distance race. A great deal of the films I haven't seen previously. A great deal of them, similar to Cocoon, are films I haven't found in a very long time. Occasionally, I'll go over a film that isn't promptly accessible by means of a real time feature and each time I end up astonished in light of the fact that, generally, these aren't dark titles. Be that as it may, I'm much more shocked when a film isn't on those real time features, nor is it accessible to lease on iTunes or Amazon. That is the point at which I end up very confused.

Also, this has happened a couple of times throughout the most recent couple of months. I took a stab at watching Mannequin, which is mysteriously absent, despite the fact that Mannequin 2: On The Move is in that spot on iTunes fit to be leased whenever. In spite of the fact that the first Mannequin is by all accounts accessible on-request to DirecTV clients, and if that is a type of select arrangement, it at any rate kind of clarifies its nonattendance. Notwithstanding, I comprehended this by simply purchasing a cheap Blu-beam. This situation rehashed itself when I attempted to observe Less Than Zero and Johnny Dangerously. The main contrast being neither of those motion pictures have been delivered on Blu-beam, so I needed to depend on purchasing genuinely economical DVD duplicates.

In any case, the thing pretty much all the motion pictures I just referenced, none of them were top-five earning films of the year as was Cocoon. This would resemble Fast and Furious 7 being difficult to track down later on.

From the outset, I did what I generally do: I checked the web to check whether Cocoon was on any of the streaming stages. It was most certainly not. At that point I went to iTunes and, abnormally, Cocoon: The Return sprung up, yet not the first. I attempted Amazon, no karma. I even attempted YouTube, which at times has motion pictures in full that the studios only sort of abandoned, however no. And furthermore, it wouldn't bode well to dump a major film like Cocoon onto YouTube. (However, in the event that you need to watch the Kenny Rogers vehicle Six Pack, well, you're in karma).

I scoured the web for anything about this and went over a GQ piece from December about outstanding motion pictures that aren't accessible on streaming, and it makes reference to how Cocoon is difficult to track down, so in any event it lightened my feelings of trepidation that I was simply by one way or another missing something.

From that point I simply figured I'd simply do my helpful stunt of requesting the Blu-beam and it'd before long be on its way and I'd without further ado be watching Cocoon in excellent HD. All things considered, actually no, not all that snappy. It turns out Cocoon's 2010 Blu-beam is currently no longer available. Also, since Cocoon is as yet a genuinely well known film, it's not modest, drifting around $100. (On the off chance that you go looking through yourself, don't be tricked by the tolerably valued Blu-beams, those are all locale 2 and you'll require a Blu-beam player from that district to watch it. There are many negative Amazon surveys from irate Cocoon fans grumbling their circles don't chip away at their players.) As much as I needed to see Cocoon, I would not like to burn through $100. At last – at long last – I found a Cocoon DVD from 2004 on eBay and purchased that for $25. At the point when it showed up, it was one of those DVDs that has the full-screen variant on the other side of the plate. It's 2020 and this is the means by which I watched Cocoon.

Anyway, this all look bad to me and I needed a clarification. For what reason was it so difficult for me to discover Cocoon?

Rewatching Cocoon on my tragic 2004 DVD with a full-screen form promptly open, I thought that it was more enthusiastic as a grown-up. There are a ton of subjects about misfortune that I missed as a child when everybody in my family was all still alive and sound. In those days, I thought it was a pleasant film about outsiders. (What's more, in those days, I had no clue Wilford Brimley was just 49 when he recorded the film.) Yes, there are outsiders, driven by Brian Dennehy set for salvage their companions who had been abandoned hundreds of years prior, all encased in covers at the base of the sea off the bank of Tampa. The cases are brought to a pool to gestate, with a symptom being that people who enter the pool are given recuperating powers – as a couple of individuals from a retirement home nearby before long acknowledge in the wake of sneaking in and utilizing the pool.

The scene that truly got me was — after various inhabitants of the retirement home were welcomed by the outsiders to leave with them, promising a universe of no sickness or passing (sounds truly great!) — youthful David sees his grandparents (Brimley and Maureen Stapleton) leaving by vessel (driven by Steve Guttenberg) to meet the outsider shuttle. David bounces on board the pontoon ultimately. Afterward, as they are being pursued by the Coast Guard, David bounces in the water so the specialists should protect him and not pursue his grandparents. Brimley's Ben is going to hop in after him, however David tells his granddad, seeing him for apparently once and for all (we will overlook the continuation, which, once more, you can watch), to go and that he's not apprehensive. It's a great, contacting second about bidding farewell to friends and family. I will concede, watching Cocoon just because subsequent to losing my grandparents and my dad, the waterworks hit me. What's more, it's considerably more ridiculous this film isn't accessible for more youthful watchers who have never observed it and who won't buy a 16-year-old DVD off of eBay. I speculate that if Cocoon were on Netflix, or whatever, it would be really well known.

In this way, I began making a few inquiries. I messaged the delegate of Lili Fini Zanuck, a maker on Cocoon. As of this composition, my messages have been not returned. (However, on the off chance that Lili Fini Zanuck has a Google alert on her name set, it would be ideal if you realize that I'd love to converse with you.) I messaged the screenwriter (Tom Benedek), who additionally hasn't yet restored my email. I messaged Ron Howard's marketing expert, who advised me to contact his specialist. sO I messaged Howard's operator, who presently can't seem to restore my email. (I knew this was a longshot in light of the fact that, in the previously mentioned GQ piece from December, it incorporates a tale about somebody who knew Ron Howard by and by who messaged Howard for the appropriate response and he didn't react.) I messaged the delegate for the impacts director, who won an Oscar for this film, and got no reaction. I even messaged somebody who worked in circulation at Fox and, you got it, no answer. Truly, in the entirety of my long periods of expounding on motion pictures I've never been disregarded by this numerous individuals.

At that point I messaged Steve Guttenberg. Through his rep he said he would not like to examine Cocoon, yet inquired as to whether I'd read a content he just expounded on Hurricane Katrina. (As I am composing this piece, he sent me the content. I still can't seem to understand it.)

I likewise addressed agents at Disney. See, there are a great deal of inquiries still about Fox's inventory of movies after the Disney buy. What's more, indeed, Cocoon is a Fox title, however from what I do accumulate this is not the slightest bit identified with Disney. Cover has been lost without a trace some time before the Disney deal was finished. Likewise, if this was Disney keeping down Fox titles (which truly doesn't appear to be the situation, in any event carefully), that wouldn't clarify why Cocoon: The Return can be observed right now as you are understanding this.

Amazingly, the exact opposite thing I heard was an update that they were all the while investigating it. Furthermore, look, I get it. Envision working distantly throughout the previous five months and having somebody come all of a sudden to ask, "Hello, you realize that entire studio you just purchased? For what reason did they not have Cocoon, this one explicit film from 35 years prior, accessible?" Though, I liked that he would state, "Gracious, better believe it, that is only an oversight," at that point hit a catch and Cocoon would be accessible for all of us to lease or purchase right away. (Things being what they are, indeed, in my psyche at Disney home office there's only a catch that says "Casing" and, when squeezed, it appears on all the web-based features.) Though, if another Ron Howard film, Splash, can be on Disney+, I don't see an explanation Cocoon can't be?

(On the off chance that I get notification from any of these individuals, I will refresh thi

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