#he lost his mind when he first listened to ABBA he was like | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keerysfreckles · 3 months

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falling in — steve harrington

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when a burnt down mall sends y/n to steve

warnings: use of y/n and she/her pronouns, steve got his ass beat (who's surprised), s3 spoilers duh, pure fluff/comfort, blood and injuries mentioned, pretty detailed makeout session

a/n: for my wife @keerysbrowneyes ily

masterlist !

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

y/n sat nervously at the edge of her couch in her small living room. she watched her small flickering tv at the other end of the room with nothing but worry.

helicopters roaring, a blazing fire and multiple reporters surround the loved starcourt mall. y/n's heart almost burst out of her chest when one reporter stated most people made it out safely.

steve harrington was the first person to flood her mind. the girl hasn't heard of him for the past three days, which only made her nerves skyrocket.

"sources say scoops ahoy workers were at the scene, with multiple young kids and parents. . ."

y/n was out the door, struggling to put on her other shoe while running to her car.

—

y/n didn't even let the car come to a complete stop before she was running past concerned townspeople, reporters and cops. she easily slid under the caution tape and fit in between two firetrucks, not bothering to listen to the cops and other authorities yelling for her to stop.

y/n looked from left to right. she first saw nancy and jonathan, and robin sitting in the back of one ambulance. will was with his mother, with el and mike besides them. lucas was comforting max. she looked at the last ambulance and saw steve.

as soon as their eyes met, time slowed. steve dropped the blanket from his shoulders and y/n's worn out converse hit the asphalt again.

steve stood from the ambulance, and for the first time tonight a smile broke out onto his face. he didn't care it was hurting his eye.

his arms are wide open once y/n reaches him. hers instantly wrap around his shoulders as he lifts her off the ground.

"you're okay," y/n lets the tears fall from her eyes, her voice is strained. "you're here, you're really okay."

steve kisses the side of her head before setting her back on the ground, however neither of them let go of each other.

"i thought i lost you," y/n admits.

steve chuckles, "you could never get rid of me that easily."

y/n leans back, her eyes roaming over the boy in front of her. she sees the large bruise surrounding his swollen eye, and the tiny cuts on his lips.

steve copies her actions, not believing the girl in his arms is really here. this feels too much like a dream that he didn't want to wake up from.

y/n puts her hand gently on steve's cheek just as a tear falls from his right eye. his voice is soft and broken, "can you take me home?"

y/n nods immediately, and carefully takes his hand in hers to lead them both to her car. they're stopped briefly by a cop, to which they explain y/n would be taking steve home.

they sit in the car for a moment, while an abba song plays quietly over the radio. y/n leans forward to turn it off. she didn't think steve was in the mood to dance to anything, let alone listen to a happy pop song.

"are you okay?" y/n knew it was a stupid question to ask, but she had to ask anyway.

steve only nods, as he wipes his cheeks as more tears fall. y/n simply gives him her hand. his rough hand holds onto it the whole drive back to y/n's small one bed-one bath house.

"wait, i thought you were taking me home," steve announces once he watches her turn down the wrong street.

"you really think i'd let you stay home alone after whatever you went through?"

steve shrugs.

"how hard did they hit you?" y/n lets out an airy laugh, which steve reciprocates.

y/n looks over to the passenger side after parking on the street in front of her dark red door.

"thank you," steve's voice fills the silence of the car.

the two walk out of the and in the housr wordlessly. they both leave their shoes in a pile by the front door, and steve follows y/n to her room. he sees she left the tv and lights on, guessing she left in a hurry.

"you take a shower okay? then if you want i can help with the other cuts."

steve gratefully accepts y/n's offer. he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding once he sits on the edge of y/n's bed. she comes out of the bathroom after starting the shower, and making sure it wasn't too hot.

steve holds his arms open again, making y/n walk towards him. she stands between his thighs as he rests his head against her chest, hearing the pulse of her heartbeat. the girl leans down to place a kiss on his matted curls.

"i'll be here when you get out," y/n whispers into his hair.

as steve showers, he's careful when he reaches and cuts or bruises, and can't help but let more tears fall. by the end of it he couldn't tell if it was tears or water running down his face.

he's quick to dry off and doesn't mind the water falling back onto his face and neck from his wet hair.

he noticed his dried bloody work uniform was replaced by a pair of sweatpants, a tshirt and boxers. he smiled at the thought of y/n keeping a pair of his clothes here for him.

steve leaves the bathroom and is met with y/n coming back into her room with a small basket in her hands.

"hey," she smiles towards steve, "how are you feeling?"

"that was a must needed shower," he chuckles.

"what's that for?" he points to the wooven basket now placed on the bed.

"a couple things to help with your cuts."

after steve came over to y/n's house their junior year, with the aftermath of a fight with jonathan byers, the girl knew to keep a first aid kit just for steve.

y/n instructs for steve to lay on her bed. he gladly let a loud sigh leaves his lips once his back hits the mattress, making y/n chuckle.

she sits on the left side of steve, making her be in the middle of the bed. she easily leans over him to turn on the lamp placed on the night stand. steve can't help but blush at the close proximity.

"these are just wipes, to get any extra dried blood off," y/n starts walking him through the steps.

she's careful when wiping around the cuts on his lips, and is surprised he only winces once.

she moves to his hairline and bruise covering his eye. the swelling has gone down drastically, and she can now look at both of his beautiful brown eyes.

steve keeps his hands folded on his stomach while y/n takes care of him. she goes to the next step and takes peroxide and cotton balls to the cuts.

after the cotton meets his lips he grabs y/n's wrist. she mutters out many apologies, not meaning to hurt steve more.

"it's okay," he stops her rambling apologies, "just hurts way more than i thought it would."

y/n continues treating his wounds. every so often steve's eyes would float to her features. to her concerned eyes, crinkling at the corners. or to her hair that kept falling over her ear, to which she always put back, yet it never stayed.

y/n finally takes a warm towel, steve guessed was from the dryer, and she dabbed it over his lips and eye. she watched his shoulders relax as she held it over his eye.

"are you alright?" she felt like she asked the question a million times tonight.

steve nods, "never better."

another comfortable silence fills the room. steve now sits up, making y/n bring the towel to her lap. steve breaks the silence.

"did you always have that freckle?" his thumb traces the light freckle on her cheek. she blushes from the contact. before she answers, steve moves his hand to fix the strands of hair that have fallen in front of her ear. his hand goes back to holding her cheek.

y/n's eyes move between both of steve's brown ones.

"steve," y/n warns in a whisper as he starts moving closer to her.

"i want you y/n. thats the one thing i've never been more sure of tonight."

his soft words leave a tickling breath over y/n's lips.

y/n makes the move to lean forward. her right hand reaches to hold onto steve's bicep as her lips collide with his. the kiss only lasts for a few seconds before y/n pulls away. her cheeks are flushed as she sees steve's widened pupils.

steve simply pulls her back to him with the hand that was still on her cheek. he turns his head to deepen the kiss, and he can't help but smile against y/n's lips after feeling her hand move to his neck. she grips the damp hair, threading her fingers through it.

steve's left hand goes to y/n's lower back as he moves her to lay down. he's now hovering over her, with his thighs falling between hers.

the two pull away, both with blown pupils, flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

"do you want me to stay–"

"yes."

steve couldn't even finish his question before y/n answers quickly and pulls him down tp kiss him again, with much more hunger than before.

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 4 months

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I loved your peter vs Alastor story, can we possibly get a part two? Like maybe Peter is looking for her and she hears about it through the news or something from missing persons reports. She’s changed her name and Alastor has told her there’s nothing to worry about, but keeps having dreams about Peter finding her? You can choose how it ends!

A/N: I didn’t think people would want a part two to that but since you asked you shall receive! I love writing about Yanderes going against each other it’s so much fun 🤗. I watched the first four episodes of Hazbin Hotel and guys i LOVE IT SO MUCH. I’m so glad I waited for this show, and I’m so glad other people are enjoying it as much as I am. Special thanks to @a-bookworms-teashop or also known as @forbidden-sunlight, for helping me with this short story! As per usual we all know I like cliffhangers so expect a part three soon <<33 happy reading & enjoy!

Warnings: violence, obsessive tendencies, mentions of blood, lots of manipulation, talks of mental abuse, lots of dark content ahead!!

Songs you can listen too while reading: Close to you by Rihanna. Slipping through my fingers by ABBA. Desire by Megan Myers. Love on the Brain by Rihanna. Forget her by Jeff Buckley. Meet me in the hallway by Harry Styles. The Grudge by Olivia Rodrigo.

Part 1

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!

Forget her

Living in New Orleans was nice. People were always so kind, and everyone was so welcoming. Getting a new name was easy, surprisingly. The government didn’t make it hard to run away from psycho ex boyfriends who didn’t know how to take a hint. Living with Alastor was nice. He was always a gentlemen, a gentle man, a good lover too. He made sure to never treat you the way Peter did.

In fact he was quite the opposite with you. Inviting you out to parties with him, keeping you out of the public eye as to not bring the wrong type of attention around. Everything felt like it was starting to get better. He would bring you flowers, take you to work with him even, or work from home. Alastor was nothing short of the perfect boyfriend. In fact he was perfect and more.

But lately, something seemed to have you on edge. He had been fidgety. Checking his phone constantly but always reassuring you with the polite smile. A reassuring one he tried to keep on, but you saw right through. He was hiding something and you wanted to know what.

According to Husk, Peter had since moved out of the apartment he had been living in, with no notice too. He had gone completely ghost. There was no sign of him anywhere, according to your knowledge. It was a Saturday evening when it had all happened. When your intuition had finally proved to be right.

“You said I wouldn’t be seen.” You said, the article about an appearance the two of you had made up on your phone. Alastor was walking through the kitchen, tossing various ingredients into a large pot, his jambalaya coming along nicely.

“ Dear please, there hasn’t been any sign of you for months. I doubt the bastard has even seen it, let alone have any access to technology.” He brushed you off with a chuckle, sliding the ingredients off the cutting board and into the pot. You sighed and put your phone down on the counter. Maybe you were being over paranoid. But ever since reading the article, a chill had ran up your spine that didn’t seem to be leaving any time soon. Alastor noticed you looking off to the side, lost in your own mind. He reaches out, hands brushing your sides gently. “Why don’t you take a bath, hm? Ill even set it up for you. What do you say dear?” He asks calmly, a hand on your lower back, ushering you out of the kitchen and past the open living room, making your way down the hall to the bathroom.

“ Alright fine. But we need to talk about this later.” You say, and he responds to you with a kiss on your cheek. You go to your shared bedroom, going through the large walk in closet to find a change of clothes for after your bath. The water is running in the bathroom, the smell of fragrances light on your senses. You make your way back to the bathroom to see Alastor leaning over the tub slightly, candles already lit on the sides of the tub to allow you to relax. There’s your favorite book next to a cup of wine, along with the radio playing light jazz. Everything is perfect, as it should be, and for a moment you can forget the feeling of strained eyes on you. You can forget it all as you’re embraced by a man who loves you. Who truly cares.

“ Take your time darling. I must run out for a bit to get some extra ingredients. Will you be fine without me?” He asks, taking the robe from you as you sink down into the tub, eyeing you carefully, enough to give you butterflies. You smile, one of his favorites and nod, reaching to the side to pick up your glass of wine, the red stains your lips slightly as you pull the cup away.

“I think Ill be okay, thank you love. Be quick please, I might just nap here.” You say jokingly. Alastor smiles, folding your robe up neatly in his hands before nodding to you lightly. He leans down to kiss you, a soft tender kiss, before leaving you in the bathroom alone. It’s when you hear the front door shut that you sigh, now knowing he’s gone. The water is just right, just warm enough on your skin for you to rest your eyes a bit.

A bit turns into an hour, and when you hear a loud glass shatter from the kitchen is when you wake up from your nap. You hadn’t been serious about sleeping in the tub, but mistakes happen. You quickly pull at the drain, the water slowly slipping down as you grab your towel and get yourself dressed, sliding a simple nightgown on before stepping out of the bathroom. “Alastor?” You call, but you’re met with silence. Your vision is hazy, the steam from the water seeming to create some sort of film over your sight, but you manage. Walking down the hall and into the living area, you see a vase shattered on the ground. What you don’t expect to see, is a distraught Peter standing across from you.

“Guess again Baby.” He says with a smile. He sighs and takes in your appearance, eyes completely devouring your appearance. “What are you doing here?” You ask, panic written all over your face.

“How did you find me?” You ask again. Peter tuts at you, standing straight up, revealing just how tall he really was in comparison to you. He has a folder in his hand, one he throws on the floor in between the two of you, and it just barely touches your feet as it slides across the floor. “What is this?” You ask, eyeing him closely. He grins, hands behind his back as he watches you pick up the folder.

“Your perfect boyfriend.” He responds. The pictures inside reveal themselves before you can even process whats going on. Pictures of Alastor and you about in the city. Ones of the two of you at home, the two of you at dinner. Intimate moments, things that were supposed to be private. All laid out right in front of you. A picture of Alastor and you at a friends wedding. His face was burned out of the photo, but you knew who it was. The more photos you looked through the more you found. Magazine clippings of Alastor with you in the town. Paparazzi seeing you both together at parties, dancing around each other like no one was watching but the worlds eyes were on you. Peters eyes were on you.

“He told me-“

“Told you what?” Peter snickered, stepping closer, the broken glass crunching under his feet. You kept going through photos, one right after the other. Then, one really caught your attention. Mimzy. She had been so obsessed with Alastor and how you were no good for him. Now, in front of you was a photo, the two of them with their arms around each other, almost like lovers, but not quite friends. How long ago was this? Why didnt he tell you about this?

“He doesn’t love you. Not the way I do.” Peter said, stepping closer, arms raising for a hug. “ Let’s just go home. We can put this all behind us. I can forgive you.” He said, a smile on his face. He was still the same. He thought he had done no wrong. He lowers his arms when he sees you don’t come closer, but instead reaches for your hands, pulling them to his chest. “What do you need? Money? I can give you that. If- if you want more freedom we can go out! We can do whatever you want-“ He pleaded, eyes begging for yours to look at him. “Please, just come back. He took you away from where you were safe. Now you have everyone judging you, when you don’t need that.” He said, hand cupping your chin to force you to look at him. “Are you really happy here?” He asks.

It feels like time freezes for a moment. Were you really happy? All the press, Alastor always being gone or out at parties. The social events. The liquor, the drugs. The dancers and the crowds of people together. With Alastor, it was always a party. But with Peter, things were different.

With Peter, you were quiet. Alone but without the drugs, the partying and the social interaction. With Peter you really never lifted a finger, not like you physically could. Peter always brought gifts home, even if he was upset with you. He always did laundry, had things neat and tidy, or as much as they could in the small apartment. With Peter, you were taken care of. With Peter, you lived a calm life.

Well, at least that was how he saw it.

With Peter, there was a constant fear surrounding you. Suffocating you. He never let you live, took away your freedom and your life to keep you tied down to him. He had hurt you on multiple occasions, raising a hand to the person he swore to love so dearly. He had threatened to kill your family, your friends, anyone who stood in between the two of you. Peter didn’t love you, no, he was obsessed. Did you really want that life back?

“I.. I am happy here.” You finally said, pulling yourself away from Peter. His eyes looked defeated. He looked, complex. In a matter of seconds his demeanor changed entirely, standing tall in his anger, his pride.

“Happy? Happy with a man who took you from me?!” He yelled, lunging forward and caging you between him and the wall. His eyes looked manic, like something had snapped. It was only then you noticed him reaching into his pocket, glass shard in hand. “I told you what would happen if you ever left.” He said, hand in the air as the shard came down quickly. A slice to your cheek had you sliding down the wall, tears streaming down your face as blood ran down your neck, fingers shakily holding onto yourself for some support.

“Peter please-“ you pleaded with a whisper. Even after all these months away from him he still managed to make you feel so small.

“I see what’s going on.” He said, chuckling a bit. He crouches down, eye level with you now. “He has you completely brainwashed doesn’t he. I’m sure he-“ He stops when he hears the front lock being turned. The door opens to reveal a humming Alastor, eyes shut as he hums a song to himself softly. He turns to lock the door, before turning back around, finally opening his eyes to see the sight of Peter and you on the ground.

Everyone is quiet for a moment. Peter looks panicked, Alastor looks, unreadable, and you look, frightened. Alastor drops the bag of groceries, and before you can process what’s happening there’s a knife being drawn from under his shirt sleeve. Not a large one, but a size big enough to kill a man. To kill Peter. Peter stands quickly, clutching the glass shard in his hand so tight he begins to cut himself. The two meet in the middle, Peter swinging to try to slice Alastors neck. Something about the way Peter misses, the way Alastor inhales sharply. His eyes widen but in a different way. One you’d never seen from him before. There’s a difference in the way his eyes gloss over, the shine in them just a bit brighter than before.

Nothing would ever be the same after tonight.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin demon #alastor #peter vs alastor #ybf peter x reader #peter your boyfriend #your boyfriend peter x reader #ybf peter #yandere peter x reader #yandere alastor #Yandere alastor x reader

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moondancediner · 2 years

Text

daydreaming - ii

summary: Tess tries to figure out what Rooster wants from her. It doesn't end well.

bradley bradshaw x tess mitchell

word count: 5k

warnings: swearing, fluff, angst (happy ending in pt 3 i promise), small age gap (about 3 years), alcohol, daddy issues, best friends to lovers and it's very complicated.

a/n: once again, i was sure this was only going to be two parts and now it's three. so.... sorry?

i debated talking about Tess's mom in this fic and decided against it cause it doesn't add or take anything away from the story. i just imagine Carole took her under her wing after she found out and the two of them kept Bradley and Tess close so they would always have some sort of family around.

italics are flashbacks, regular text is about one year after the mission

part ii is brought to you by Coca-Cola, Shania Twain, and ABBA

Also, lmk if you caught the New Girl reference

masterlist || pt.I || pt.III

Tess’s feet pounded heavily on the sidewalk by the time she reached the Hard Deck. Penny’s house wasn’t far from her bar and Tess’s head had been a mess for nearly a week, spinning out of control since the second she laid eyes on Bradley. She cleaned her room, bathroom, kitchen, and Amelia’s room all before noon and still, there was no reprieve from the tsunami that her mind had become.

Months ago, she’d read in a blog post about connecting mental and physical health - its clever title Running From Your Brain: All the way you can connect your body and mind was what drew her in - that running was a great way to clear one’s mind, so, after digging through still unpacked boxes and every closet in Penny’s modest home, she laced up her dusty sneakers and headed out into the early California afternoon, hell-bent on calming the raging storm.

Moments after the initial high wore off and her lungs started fighting that burn from rough breaths, it seemed like it was going to work, like the Bradley shaped shadow that was following her around had finally subsided. It was only her, the sun, and the pavement beneath her cushioned toes. The pain of her breath washed away any other thought, because how could you think of anything else when your entire body was screaming at you to just stop. Tess always relished in this sort of feeling, she loved being able to feel the muscles in her body change and shape themselves anew, molding themselves into what was needed to complete the task.

Bradley always teased her about never becoming a pilot, and he would tell anyone that would listen that she had a preternatural sense up in the air. ‘It’s scary how much of a natural she is’, he would always say.

Tess didn’t know if it was just pure genetics, or if it had something to do with the fact that she took her first ride in the cockpit of an F-14 when she was just five years old. Her mom had nearly lost her head when Tess came home that night and immediately started sharing all about how daddy had taken her up in his plane. Pete let her sit right up in the front with him, she was so tiny he was able to buckle her into his seat with him, and he was confident in his ability to keep her safe - it was just a short fly around the island after all.

Tess wasn’t allowed inside a plane again until she was twelve.

Then Mav taught her to fly his Mustang when she was sixteen, a month before she got her driver's permit - he insisted she learn to fly before she learned to drive. She was a natural, and Tess would never forget that first time she snuck out of the house and into Bradley’s Bronco, nearly getting caught by Ms. Henderson’s yappy chihuahua, the two of them a giggling mess all the way to the runway. He snuck them through security and she got them into the air before anyone caught them. The sound of his silence and awe was something she still dreamt of.

She expected someone to be waiting for them once they landed, expected a good, stern talking to about how dangerous it is to steal a plane and fly without any kind of clear pattern. But only Maverick was waiting when they touched down, arms crossed over his jacketed chest, fighting a smile as Bradley and his daughter walked sheepishly toward him.

The one thing Pete was sure to never forget was how Bradley reached out his hand and grabbed Tess’s, putting himself in the line of fire, fully ready to take any and all blame for the night’s activities. Pete could only point to the exit, following them on his motorcycle all the way to Tess’s house, making sure she was inside before he cruised away.

None of them brought it up again.

Tess let out a small curse as the ball of yarn that had become her mind once again became unraveled. The image of Bradley sitting outside her childhood home pulling at all the loose ends.

Tess and Bradley avoided any serious conversation about their relationship like the plague. For years and years it was just something fun while they were together, something simple, and Tess liked to think they remained best friends for all of these years because of it.

But suddenly, it was holding hands out in public, kissing in front of anyone and everyone, a hand always somewhere on her body, as if he needed to be grounded by her. He was with her every second he wasn’t training, searching her out, spending hours sitting at the bar while she worked, sneaking into Penny’s house in the dead of night because he couldn’t sleep without her. Small, absentminded things that were never there before but Bradley acted as if they had always been like this. Like it had always been so easy.

It made Tess want to vomit.

All those years pining after him, waiting for him to just notice that she was so deeply in love with him, waiting for him to stop running away from her for just a second long enough to see her see them see the good in staying.

Tess knew how much he loved his job, how much he loved flying and she would never fault him for that, but he was so scared of leaving someone the way Goose left Carole.

The way Goose left him.

So what was different now? What was so different about this mission that had him clinging to her every night, every second he was around?

And why was she getting her damn hopes up?

But by the end of the run that was supposed to help clear her mind Tess felt no relief and instead had one extra question buzzing around her brain.

Who the fuck runs for fun?

She pushed the wooden doors open, knowing Penny would be in there doing her usual daily bookkeeping, and promptly fell to the ground, something she wouldn't dream of doing on any other day had she not cleaned said floors the night before. There was nothing quite like scrubbing a sticky floor for hours to distract from the chaos of life.

“Fuck. Running,” she managed to get out between labored breaths. Amelia appeared above her, lights casting an angelic glow around her head, and handed her a glass of water. “You’re an angel.”

Amelia just laughed and walked back over to her spot at the bar. “You’re welcome. Mom’s in the office if you’re looking for her.”

Tess sat up to take a sip, eyes blurring for a moment at the sudden movement, before focusing on the back door, and the ocean that waited just outside, which she was sure could cool her off much faster than the small glass in her sweaty hands. So she stood, dusted invisible dirt off her running shorts and placed the glass on the countertop as she walked by, making sure to ruffle Amelia’s hair as she passed, just for good measure.

“Tell you mom I’m good to close tonight when she comes back out.” Tess popped her shoes off when she got to the back door, briefly hoping that they and her socks wouldn’t stink up the place while she took a quick dip, “and can you grab me a towel from the closet? I’m going to go jump in the ocean to cool off.”

“Enjoy the view,” was all Amelia said, waving a hand without turning around, head buried in some textbook.

Tess was only mildly confused about that statement until her eyes adjusted to the bright sun and she was met with a team of abs and wet, sweaty sun-skin that had her jaw dropping in utter surprise. The team of aviators playing right where the water was cresting the sand didn’t notice her walking towards them, and she was thankful for the couple minutes she got to just stand and watch them play some strange version of football, sure it was something Maverick cooked up.

She spotted Bradley quickly, picking his tall, golden haired head out from the crowd while she slowly meandered down the sand and laughed as he scored a touchdown, chest bumping his teammate while Hondo blew his whistle and Tess’s mind was once again an ocean of questions she had no answers to.

And Tess had never been happier. Or more terrified.

The worry that pelted her chest every time she thought about this mission left her gasping for breath in the middle of the night. Bradley and Maverick refused to tell her more than the sheer basics and it had her laying in bed every night for the past week staring at the ceiling while the fan made slow rotations above her, memorizing the feel of Roosters muscled shoulders under her arms, fingers tracing lines across his back while his sleeping head rested on her chest.

Maverick spotted her after another play and ran up the beach to where he had a chair and towel set up, almost as if he knew she would show up (or maybe it was just a spot for the old man to rest when the young ones wore him down), abandoning his team in favor of sitting with her. They protested - loudly - but he waved them off without a second glance.

“Hey kid,”

“Hey, Mav,”

He reacted as if he’d just been punched in the gut, and Tess tried not to let it affect her. She’d kept him at an arms distance since he came back - it was just another tidal wave of questions she knew she wouldn’t get answers to. She was used to him disappearing for periods of time, that was par for the course with a father like hers, but it was always accompanied by a note, a text, a call, a damned email even. This time he was just gone. No calls, no communication at all. And Tess was at her end with him.

She still remembered the first time he left, still felt the sting that everyone else’s dad’s and mom’s and whoever lived with them all the time - were there for them. That even the ones whose parents were separated still had two homes to go to. Tess had one home - a good home - but her dad never had a home base. He was constantly switching, moving around from place to place, and it seemed like he was always gone and out of her small reach. On a boat in the middle of some ocean where contact was impossible. Even the other girl in her class - Jessica P, the name still made Tess want to roll her eyes - whose mom was in the Army, got to exchange letters while she was gone, or make phone calls and send pictures, something Jessica never let anyone forget.

On show and tell days she would bring in those letters and pictures from far away places, and then rub it in Tess’s face that she never got anything of the sort from her dad, even though Tess was absolutely sure - even at eight years old - that her dad’s job was way cooler than anything Jessica’s mom was doing, or would ever do.

She would always come home crying on those days, and Rooster - he was still just Bradley back then - would find her after a couple minutes, when she didn’t show up in his backyard like she always did after school, and hold her and tell her that her dad’s job was way cooler, and that Jessica P must be the dumbest person in the whole elementary school. And it always made Tess laugh, and even though they never really talked about their dads because it always made Bradley so sad, he would talk about all the cool things the pilots did, and he would make up stories about all the crazy things their dad’s got up to in the air.

And that was her dad. Tess got used to him not being around, got used to him showing up out of the blue, to her being shipped off to visit him whenever he had a spare moment. She knew that he loved her, knew that he wanted to be there for all the milestones, but something in him kept him away, kept him pushing towards the job in front of him. Kept him running away.

And just when she got used to him not being around, the constant ache of not having him around, Bradley joined the Navy.

“Have a nice run?” He teased, taking in her disheveled state, though the mischief in his words never quite reached his eyes.

“Fuck no, it’s so humid it felt like I was inhaling water every time I took a breath,” she laughed with him, coming to stand next to the chair he sat down in, hands on her hips while she observed their game, “what are they playing?”

“Dog fight football,” he told her, smiling at his invention, “gotta play offense and defense at the same time… You should join them, take my spot.”

“Ha, yeah right, I came out here to cool off not get even sweatier,” and she tried to calculate how quickly it would take her to run into the water before she was caught, but her odds didn’t look promising with that giant wall of aviators in her way. So, she watched Bradley again, having the time of his life with his old and new friends and her gut twisted again. “How bad is this mission?”

“Well, if everything goes to plan, not bad at all,”

And if that was supposed to make her feel better, it sure didn’t.

“So… you and Bradley?” He asked tentatively, like if he pried too hard she would come crumbling down.

“Yeah, I guess” Tess said in a huff of air, unable to help the smile that graced her lips.

“When did that happen?”

She shrugged. “I guess it’s always kinda been there.”

“Tess,” the tone of his voice made her want to run, sprint as far from him as possible because it sounded sad and like a warning and like he was about to say something she didn’t want to hear, sounded like he was about to tell her it wasn’t a good idea. To stay away from him because it wasn’t going to end in sunshine and rainbows.

But to stay away from Bradley Bradshaw would be like trying to breathe underwater.

“Sweetheart-”

“Hotshot!” Hangman spotted her before Maverick could say what he wanted to say, and Tess was thanking whoever for the perfectly timed interruption. “Get your ass over here!” His yelling alerted the rest of the crowd and then Rooster’s eyes were on her and she barely had time to get out a short string of curses before he was sprinting up the beach for her.

“Bradley! Don’t you dare!” She held out a hand and when that didn’t slow him in the slightest she turned tail and ran. Tess sprinted towards an unclear direction, looking back every couple seconds to see him getting closer and closer and she couldn’t help the screams and laughs that escaped her while he chased her.

He caught up quicker than she anticipated, arms coming around her waist and she was both surprised and impressed that they didn’t immediately topple into the sand. Instead, he spun her around and then repositioned an arm so it was under her legs to carry her bridal style over to the waiting group.

“Ew T, you’re so sweaty,” he commented when she brought her hands up around his neck to stabilize herself, but the smile on his face betrayed his words, and him lifting her slightly to place a kiss so sweet and gentle it had her toes curling, negated his words completely.

“You’re one to talk Bradshaw, I’m practically slipping off of you right now,” she laughed against his lips. And what a slip it would be, she thought, his taught, rock-hard abs under her body.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” his efforts earned him a laugh so full of sunshine, her head chucked back into the light, his whole body warmed.

He only put her down once they reached the group of pilots, all yelling and cheering that she was joining the game, and once she was on her feet again, Tess ran over to give Phoenix a hug while Rooster was yelling for a time-out to the other team.

Tess made sure to send a look over to Hangman, two fingers coming to squinted eyes before she pointed at him, making sure he knew she was coming for him and he smiled motioning for her to come and get it.

They had a funny relationship, her and Jake. He had an ‘I’m the best and I know it’ attitude that never quit, but she saw through his facade the second they met. He flirted with her and she flirted right back, but she put him in his place so fast his world shifted on its axis and ever since they’ve developed a teasing friendship. Hangman knew he could let her have it cause he knew she’d give it right back to him. And Jake knew from the second Bradshaw’s eye’s landed on her, that she was completely off limits.

“All right, I’m quarterback-“

“Of course,” Tess interrupted Bradley, rolling her eyes at his macho display. The rest of their team tried and failed to hide their laughs throughout the small huddle that they now formed.

“Oh, alright Hotshot, tell me how you want it then,” his voice was rough as gravel and she hoped that the sun blocked the fact that she was turning bright red. It didn’t, and Rooster made a note to tuck that line away for later.

“You can still be quarterback, I’m gonna be your running back,” she pointed to her chest and then around to the group, assigning everyone their positions one by one until she got back to Bradley, “I’m gonna run up the left side, Nat you go right and try to distract Hangman. From what I’ve seen he more often than not leaves his left side completely open and just has Coyote hanging out back there. Now, I’m way faster than Coyote so, B, as soon as Hangman lets go of the ball, you throw it to me and I’ll be home free.”

Tess had never seen a group of Naval Aviators so quiet before.

“Holy shit, I’m so in love with you,”

Her heart might as well have been a puddle of pink heart shaped goo. A blind man seeing the sunshine for the first time couldn’t hold a candle to him at that moment. And Tess could only stare back, everything she was about to say taking an escape route from her open mouth.

She tried not to let everyone around them know that this was the first time he had ever said anything like this to her. She loved Bradley, had been in love with him for as long as she could remember. But Bradley Bradshaw didn’t love like that. His dad died before he was five years old, Maverick crushed his dreams, ripped the carpet out from under his feet and delayed his dream career, his mom died too young and he was not going to put someone else through that pain or loss that he’d been through his entire life.

It was different than saying I love you - they said that all the time. He said he was in love with her.

Thirty years of waiting and Tess was hoping for something a little more romantic, but fuck if that wasn’t the most Rooster way to do things. Flying by the seat of his fucking pants.

“Shit, I think I might be in love with you too,” Phoenix said with a laugh, breaking the silence that still fell over the group. Everyone laughed along with her and started getting hyped up, patting each other on the backs and chest bumping their way over to their new positions.

Tess could only look at Bradley and try to decipher that look behind his sunglasses. He trailed her all the way to her starting position, right behind him, and didn’t turn around until Fanboy was calling for his attention. Everything about his expression was unreadable.

Life moved in slow motion until the hike, until Fanboy released the ball to Bradley and she took off running straight for Jake. Hangman’s ego played into her plan perfectly, he held onto the ball until she was close enough to touch him, and as soon as the football left his fingertips she turned, catching Rooster’s throw to her chest and dodged Coyote’s outstretched arms all the way to the endzone. Or, wherever Hondo decided the endzone was.

Tess threw the foam ball into the sand while Hondo blew his whistle and then turned around to rub it in Hangman’s face that she bested the bastard, but her celebratory dance (which may or may not have included a tongue and fingers pressed to her forehead in the shape of an L) was cut short when Rooster ran up to her. His arms wrapped around the bottom of her thighs and he hoisted her up to the sky.

He spun her around, once, twice, and then set her down in the sand.

Tess looked up at him, that darkness taking over her green orbs, sucking the sunshine out of his chest as she turned and walked away from him.

Bradley stared for a moment, watched her walk away, watched her run her hands up and over her face into her ponytailed hair, watched her shake out her hands, wondered if he actually saw a slight tremble through her fingers or if that was just his imagination playing games with his head.

He didn’t bother explaining to the group when his feet finally caught up to the rest of his body and he took off down the beach after her.

He reached out a hand to her, landing on her upper arm that she brushed off quickly, like he’d just electrocuted her. “Sweetheart-”

“Don’t you dare.” She turned, a pointed finger coming up to tell him to keep his distance, or else, and he looked to her face, to the tears streaming down her cheeks.

He couldn’t remember the last time he saw her cry.

Other than his mom’s funeral, where even there she only shed a few tears when everyone had gone and left.

No, this was a rare side of Tess that even he rarely got to see.

“God!” She yelled, bringing her balled up fists to her eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

“Honey, I don’t-”

“Bradley!”

His spine snapped straight. As rare as it was to see her cry, it was just as rare that they used each other’s first names. Neither of them really knew how it started, but as kids they came up with so many different and funny nicknames for each other that it started to feel weird to say the other’s given name out loud. And her voice when she said it… it sent ice cracking down his veins.

He stared at her again, sure that any words that came out of his mouth right now would be the wrong ones, that his words would only unleash the angry beast that hid behind her eyes.

After too long of a pause, she finally whispered out, “what do you want from me?” and Bradley swore he felt his heart crack in his chest.

Tess couldn’t take it anymore. Her own heart felt foreign in its place, like it was someone else’s, like it didn’t fit in its spot anymore. Like it didn’t belong there.

The question danced on his tongue: “what are you talking about?” but he stopped himself before he could ask it. Because he knew what she was asking, what she needed him to say, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to say it. To do it. To finally put his money where his mouth was.

He just confessed that he was in love with his best friend and he couldn’t bring himself to finish the job. Snug on that perch. Same old Rooster.

They stared in silence again and when it became too much, when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to hear what she needed to hear she finally said what she’d been holding back all this time.

“You’re a coward.” Her head shook as she said it, bottom lip trembling while she blinked the tears that crested her eyes back into her head. And when he continued to say nothing she turned and walked away. Headed for the Hard Deck and for once in her life, hoped that he wouldn’t follow.

He didn’t.

Bradley begrudgingly followed Tess back to their group of friends that had now completely taken over the back of the bar, fingers lazily curled around hers while she led him through the crowd, past Hangman who was showing off to some girl at the dart board, past Coyote holding his hand over his eyes, much like that first night they’d all arrived in Miramar. Phoenix and Bob still played pool at the blue table, though it seemed that more socializing was happening than any actual game.

Tess smiled and danced her way over, head bobbing to the music coming out of the old jukebox, giving a little shoulder shimmy as she made eye contact with Halo across the room, singing the words to her friend.

It was part of her birthday surprise, having absolutely anyone and everyone he could manage to get a hold of back in this bar, where she met most of them for the first time. He even managed to get old friends from their school days crammed into the tight space. The smile on her face had been well worth the weeks of headaches, scheduling, and secrets.

Bradley pulled her closer, lifting their joined hands up for her to spin under, which she did easily, hand landing gently on his exposed wife beater, green eyes just as gentle on his face. His free hand fell gently into place on her lower back, keeping her hips close to him.

“Having a good time?” He asked, swaying her slightly to the gentler song that now played.

“The best. Thank you.”

Her lips pursed and he leaned down to place a sweet kiss onto them. Even after all this time, every time he kissed her it still felt like the first. Like that late summer in his Bronco, right before her senior year, right as he was about to leave for flight school and she had done nothing but complain all summer about how she still hadn’t had her first kiss yet. So he did the only thing he could think to do, he grabbed her face - probably a bit too rough, but she was starting to grind at his nerves - and he kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone before.

And Tess would never tell anyone this, but she never wanted to be kissed by anyone else ever again. Every first kiss after that was a pale gray sky compared to the searing fireworks of colors that erupted over her body that night sitting outside her house while the sun set in front of them.

“Anything for my girl,” he said against her lips once he pulled away.

“Hotshot!” Jake called, interrupting Bradley’s mission to get her out of this bar as quickly as possible. “Come get your ass kicked!”

Tess looked over to see him waving her to the darts board. They had a running competition going. She was up by one game and there was no way Jake Seresin was leaving California again before that changed.

“One of these days,” Rooster mumbled, pressing his lips to hers a few more times, not quite ready to let her move away from him.

Tess laughed. “He’s so good at interrupting us.”

She pulled away, dropping from the tips of her toes she needed to stand on to reach his face, and grabbed the beer from the hand that wasn’t on her, taking a swig.

“It’s like a radar goes off in his little pea brain.” He grumbled, and Tess let out a laugh he wanted to get tattooed on his heart.

“I better go before he causes a scene,” she said without moving her feet, as if she was waiting for any excuse not to go. “Try not to miss me too much,” she winked and walked off, his beer still in her hand.

Rooster watched her walk away, hips swaying in a way he knew was meant just for him, and it wasn’t until she reached Jake that he realized she stole his drink. He laughed, shaking his head at his wife who was now shit talking with Hangman and Coyote, the former's conquest of the night long gone and forgotten. The word - wife - still felt fresh in his mind almost a year later. The day he asked her to marry him played like a movie every time he saw her.

“Did I ever tell you,” Maverick said, appearing to Rooster’s left, “what she made me promise right before the Uranium mission?”

He looked down at Mav, who’s eyes didn’t stray from his daughter from the moment he walked through the doors.

“No, I don’t think you did,”

---

thnks for reading, i love you a whole lot

If you liked this, please consider reblogging🫶🏻

want more? all you gotta do is ask babes

#top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #mitchell!reader #pete mitchell #hangman #jake seresin #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x oc #oc #top gun #top gun maverick fanfiction #rooster x oc #rooster x reader #rooster x you #my writings

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starks-hero · 1 year

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Okay you did not need to deliver such a fucking fantastic fic! Apologies for the entire ass rant I'm about to leave but you don't get to write something this good without some maniac of a fanfic reader squealing and flailing about it so...

Firstly, the title absolutely divine, but then I am a sucker for romantically poetic notions especially if there's a thread of angst in it

This is the first Thorin fic I've ever read, I'm not that big on Thorin (esp not when fili is right there👀 ) but *ahem that gif also your note of 'the intimacy of going insane with your crush' reeled me in, if that isn't the best genre ever! 🤣

You captured the eerie murkiness of Mirkwood so well and you really got Thorin's essence like nothing seemed out of place at all

THE DIALOGUE 👏👏👏 magnifique

'In the bogs of a cursed forest with your friends lost and your mind bewitched, all so that the king would keep looking at you as he was now'>>> I loved every word of this. You know that feeling when you haven't listened to ABBA in a while and then out of nowhere you hear it playing somewhere and there's a rising of joy in your soul and it feels like all the world has been righted. That is the feeling of that paragraph. Sorry but I love words and I love reading and you just killed it with that wording okay

🌌THE WHOLE INTERACTION WITH BOG CREATURE THORIN!!!! "I'm so glad, Amrâlimê, you must not look so surprised, my love" his thumb grazed your jaw, "that I should wish to call you such a name">>>cue me almost throwing my phone and screeching like the fell beasts of the Nazgûl🌌

Not to mention Thorin's interaction with the bog creatures! "Reader" being dismissive about the safety of the others and 'Thorin offering a baffled look that doubled as a warning'

Once again need I mention THE DIALOGUE IN THIS FIC! 💕

Question about the LOTR Dead Marshes, if you drown in there you become one of them, right? So if an siúlóir portaigh get you drowned do you become one of them?

In case you couldn't tell (lol) I'm seriously loving your own irish mythology infused into Tolkien's world

I feel like celtic/irish stuff and Gaelige fit quite well in Tolkien's creation. I dunno why but the Irish language feels at home in Tolkien's world to me, same with Scottish Gaelic

I have such little grasp of my own language it feels like old world/other worldly literary/mythical creation to me. Probably why it meshes so well with Middle Earth in my mind. Like it doesn't seem real to me but maybe that's cuz I'm from the North 🤣 (I will get my ass in gear and learn it better one day but laziness and annoyance win thus far)

Thorin staring off into nothing. Being brought back to reality by the sting of his wound. And then the first thing he does is worry/obsess over the illusion he saw. **weeping**fucking weeping* Your honor I need them to be together 😢 If you ever part 2 this pls tag me girl

P.s. I find it cruel that you aren't a published author. I need to read a whole book by you. Your writing style is sublime. It's just in that exact vein that is just so appealing to me. I'm not great at articulating myself so I'll just say this had me like 'ooh you bastid (affectionate).' YOUR. WRITING. SLAPS. If you ever publish your own book pls alert me cuz I will read it despite the possibility of it inducing cardiac arrest in me. Sorry books make me excited. From your mythology of the siúlóir portaigh and your general writing style I'm getting V.E. Schwab vibes but way way better

Imma shush now. Peace out ✌ God Bless 🕊 and Slán

Putting a read more option because I'm about to lose my mind :)

I want to start by saying that this is one of if not the kindest messages I've ever received, I mean wow. You completely moved me to tears. Watch me drive to the North right now just to give you a hug.

If it's okay I'm going to rant right back at you lol because there's so much things you mentioned that I want to discuss!

The title is actually based on a poem about sirens! I thought it fit the vibe of the fic really well.

Dialogue is something I've always struggled with. I could use a thousand words to describe a tree but I always get nervous when it comes to dialogue. I feel like when I write conversations they're always clunky so to get such positive feedback about that aspect of my writing is so lovely <3

GIRL YOU DID NOT JUST COMPARE MY WRITING TO ABBA! I needed to sit down reading this part. This is the greatest compliment I've ever received–

“If an siúlóir portaigh get you drowned do you become one of them?” when it comes to the siúlorí I haven't really fleshed them out enough (haha get it) to have any solid lore for them. So far all I have is that they roam bogs, marshes and wetlands and use a siren-like approach when hunting their prey. Wether they attack people to sustain themselves, to condemn their victim to the same faith as them or just out of maliciousness I haven't decided. It's completely up to interpretation :)

Bestie, don't get me started on how well the Irish language and Irish culture fits into the world of Tolkien. I could write essays. I think that's why I've always found middle earth so comforting, it's a fractured reflection of my own home.

As someone who's been out of school for a year and is still learning gaeilge, I promise we'll get there someday :)

Prior to my Thorin fic I hadn't written anything since October of last year due to writers block and self doubt. So to not only hear such lovely things about my writing but to also be compared to a published author– You have no idea how much it means to me. Thank you so much! You are every writer's dream.

Slán go foil, mo chara! Agus go raibh míle maith agat <3

#brb printing this out and sticking it on my wall #achromaticerebus #mail 💌#rambles

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enbysiriusblack · 2 years

Text

I'll never smile again, until I smile at you

Remus played the song, instantly reminded of his mother. He was absolutely nothing without her. She was his happiness, his shred of optimism and joy. She kept him busy and away from the self depreciating thoughts and actions that his mind gave him. She was the only light left in his moonlit life; and now even she was gone. Remus was meant to be helping out with the fields while he was here; but now Hope had gone, Remus couldn't find it in himself to go out there again.

I'll never laugh again. What good would it do

He didn't think he had smiled for years. The laat time must have been when he last met up with Peter in '81. Just the two of them meeting at a random muggle pub, when James and Lily were in hiding and Sirius had just moved out. Peter was always there; willing to listen and drink with him, to make him laugh and joke in dark times. Him and Peter knew each other so well, almost brothers in the way Sirius and James were. Peter was goodness, trust, and laughter.

For tears would fill my eyes

Lily would absolutely despise this song. It was slow, like you would slow dance to it at a wedding or something. Lily and James never did that; they chose to have their first dance to some stupid abba song because that's the kind of people they were. Lily was his first friend, but they only ever had ten years together. One decade. But she was his world. And yet, he was still here without her.

My heart would realize that our romance is through

James always wanted to die before the rest of them. He didn't manage it with Regulus, Marlene, and Dorcas. And he kind of lost a part of himself because of it; like he couldn't really fully live without the fact they were gone while he was still there. Remus understood that too well know. Because James was the best of them, the kindest person he knew. And he would have changed the world if he had more time. Instead, it was Remus left. Who did nothing more than drugs, and sex with strangers, and crying to terrible songs in his parents house.

I'll never love again

He slowly reclined from his sitting position on the floor, lying down on the cold wooden panels. Dorcas had gone on a rampage at the loss of Marlene; Remus sometimes thought he should probably be doing something like that. Against Sirius, or Dumbledore, or the death eaters still out there. But he didn't have the will for it. And Dorcas was always so much braver than him, even if she wasn't sorted that way at 11 years old. He admired Dorcas, in the way Peter did with Sirius as a kid. They were who he wanted to be, dreamt about being; but were too much of a lost cause, a waste of life, to be them. Dorcas was brave, and Remus wished he was too.

I'm so in love with you

Marlene was his first love; in a weird way. It wasn't particularly romantic at all; but with two 12 year olds suppressing their feelings towards their best friends, they felt entirely in love for a moment. And it sort of stayed like that, in a platonic way, ever since. Marlene never really knew she'd die, unlike the others. She was the sort of person that you'd think would survive anything, that would live forever if it was possible. And then, she didn't. It was very sudden, like a split second and she was no longer alive. He wasn't even around at the time, and never made it to her funeral if she had one. Remus didn't even know if she had one, maybe he hadn't even asked. He really was a terrible person.

I'll never thrill again to somebody new

Regulus was the first of the group to die. Remus always felt protective over him ever since he first talked to the boy. He saw himself in Regulus at first; a young trans boy, introverted with an uncaring outward manner, and very much clueless of the world. Regulus wasn't like Marlene, he definitely knew he would die. Regulus liked talking about that sort of thing; so did Remus, before he was really met with the full impact of death. But Regulus was sweet; not in the way people expected, but in the little things he would do for the people he loved. And even he did like to think and talk about it, he didn't deserve to die.

Within my heart I know I will never start to smile again until I smile at you

Remus closed his eyes to imagine himself with them all again. But they would show up univited. This song didn't remind him of Sirius, it couldn't. The song was nice and loving and full of longing for people you cared about. And Sirius wasn't that. They were the opposite.

Within my heart I know I will never start to smile again until I smile at you

He could fool himself as much as he wanted. But Remus knew deep down that he was still a little bit in love with Sirius. And maybe that just didn't go away even if they were a terrible person. Because memories of happiness still existed. And maybe it was alright to miss those; not the person, but the feelings and memories that went with it.

#I'll never smile again by frank sinatra #remus lupin listens to frank sinatra #have as much safe sex with strangers as you want !! i only wrote like its wrong cause its remus' thoughts and he hates everything he does #i went to a kiesza concert last night and one of the songs she performed nearly made me cry so ill find it and write something on it that #(i dont really listen to kiesza. we jusg sort of stumbled upon the concert and it was free. so thats why idk what the song was)#marauders era #marauders #remus lupin #wolfstar #marauders angst #remus lupin angst #wolfstar angst

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elizabeethan · 2 years

Text

look in the mirror (and cry)

Part 5 / 7

Summary: Chrissy survives Vecna’s first attack, just barely.

Season 4 rewrite wherein Chrissy survives and Eddie is a soft worried angel

Author’s note: Okay SORRY 7 parts now. I'm basically positive.

Rated M

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Things

Get added to my Hellcheer fic tag list

Tagging: @sotangledupinit @klauscarolove @itsfabianadocarmo

~~~~

By the third day of hiding out at Reefer Rick’s with Chrissy Cunningham, he’s just about lost his mind.

They’re both manic, he thinks. They haven’t stopped singing, trying hard to overpower the vocals they’ve been hearing for far too long now. He tries to introduce her to the new Metallica song he likes, showing her how he’s been practicing the chords on his guitar as she watches patiently with stars in her eyes. Or maybe he makes those up. Either way, once he stops, she smirks at him and starts singing ABBA. And as much as he likes her, he isn’t sure how much longer he can listen to her rendition of Dancing Queen while Somebody To Love is playing at the same time.

Still, though, he does like her. A lot. Which is why he grins at her and holds her uninjured hand above their heads and spins her around as she dances playfully.

And then he realizes that for the first time in the three days she’s been here with him, the sleeve of her cardigan slips down her arm and it gives him pause. Because when he sees her wrist, he realizes he can’t keep considering one of her arms hurt and the other not.

He stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut and face falling into a serious stare that seems to startle her. She’s always on edge, and he’s been trying hard not to feed into that, to give her a reason to tip over the edge of the cliff she so often finds herself teetering on and plunge towards an abyss of self doubt and self hatred. And he knows by the look on her face that he’s inching her closer and closer to falling down there. But he can’t pretend he didn’t see it.

“Chrissy,” he starts softly, as gently as he can manage through his anger. “What happened here?”

“Vecna,” she says immediately, hiding the fearful look in her eyes, but he sees it.

“It’s,” he starts, picking up her hand carefully and inspecting the purplish greenish marks encircling her wrist. “It’s just that… this doesn’t look like your other bruises, Sweetheart.”

Maybe he shouldn’t know what her other bruises look like. Maybe he shouldn’t imply that he knows. But the other ones that she got from Vecna are yellow, fading back into her skin, all but healed. A week older, maybe.

“It is,” she mutters. “It’s– it’s the same.”

It’s not the same. She didn’t get it at the same time and she didn’t get it from the same monster. The bruises encircling her wrist are not from some other-worldly demon with long clawed fingers, they’re from a high school jock Eddie’s always hated, and now he has a real reason to hate him.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he murmurs to her, although he isn’t sure she does know that. He reminds himself that they still barely know each other even though it feels like they’ve been best friends for years. While he may feel that way, what makes him think she does? “I mean… whatever you’re comfortable with. You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says, trying to hide his anger with the man who put three finger shaped bruises on Chrissy’s dainty undeserving wrist. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He loves looking into her eyes. The deep blue reminds him of the ocean, kind of near the shore where the water isn’t too dark yet. Her irises have darker lines of navy running through them that remind him of the rippling waves of a sea he’s never seen in person. As he stares at her, he knows that he’ll never need to see the ocean himself as long as he can keep gazing into her glassy eyes.

“I’m okay now,” she whispers up to him. He finally releases her arm, silently apologizing for holding it for so long, and when he does, she steps closer to him and places it behind his back as she falls against him. “You’re half the reason I left, you know.”

“Left…?”

“Left Jason. I mean, I know you know he did that,” she tells him, lifting her hand from his back and placing it back down in a gesture of explanation. “He was angry that I was with you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, because fuck, he’s the reason this happened to her. If he hadn’t been so nervous about her trying the ketamine by herself, he wouldn't have invited her back to his trailer and she wouldn't have been found there. And he wouldn’t have grabbed her so forcefully that it bruised her skin.

“Don’t be,” she insists. Without thinking, he wraps his arms around her and holds her in what’s becoming the most natural position for the two of them. She nuzzles her nose against his neck and he almost dies. “Just be happy for me.”

He runs his hand up her back and then down again, taking a deep and grounding breath. “I can’t be happy that your boyfriend did that, Chrissy.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she corrects. “When I was unconscious, all I saw was Vecna and my mom and dad as monsters and… and you. You were always there, pulling me out and saving me. You’re what brought me back, Eddie. When I woke up, I knew that if I was with Jason when it happened, I wouldn’t– he wouldn’t have been able to pull me out of that. I don’t think anyone else could have.”

He can’t speak. He’s been forcing himself to be reasonable, to be logical these last few days, to push past his own desires and his desperate longing for Chrissy Cunningham to love him the way he loves her. And sure, there it is, he loves her. He has since eight grade when he saw her passionately do what she loved up on that stage and he noticed for the first time the way she really, truly smiled. And he loves her now, even more since he’s gotten to spend time with her. What started as a crush has developed into something so much more, and it hasn’t taken long at all for him to get here. But he’s still been trying to keep himself in check, because he’s the Satanic Freak and she’s the Queen of Hawkins High.

But she’s telling him that, holding onto him, sleeping beside him, dancing with him, singing with him, kissing him. And he isn’t sure he can keep himself in check anymore.

“What are you saying?” he asks, as if he can handle the heartbreak of her telling him anything other than what he’s so desperate to hear.

“I’m saying… dammit,” she curses into his neck, and he laughs because it’s the first time he’s ever heard her swear, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the last. And then she pulls away from him, one hand nestled safely between them and the other cupping the side of his neck, and he hopes she can’t feel how quickly his pulse is hammering against her palm. “I’m saying– I just think there has to be a reason, right? I mean, some connection between us that… There’s something about you and me that’s strong and innate and… intimate, I guess? I just– it wasn’t just Queen, Eddie. It was you.”

“Me,” he repeats.

“I always looked at you from afar and thought you were so cool. I used to wish I could be just like you. Or that I could be your friend, because you’re always so confident and you just do whatever makes you happy, you know?” He nods, although his mind is swimming and he isn’t really all that sure if he does know. “And now that we’re friends– I mean, we are friends, right?”

“Of course,” he smiles.

She smiles back, grinning, her teeth shimmering in the dim light behind him. “Now that we’re friends,” she continues, “I’ve realized… it’s not quite… right.”

There it is, he tells himself. The bucket of ice water, metaphorically dumped over his head, soaking him through so that in his mind he looks like a pathetic, ugly, wet poodle. It’s not quite right. He knew this moment would come, that she would pull away and realize that she’s crazy for being nice to the freak. He drops his arms from the small of her back and takes a step back, and watches her face fall in surprise as her free arm hits her thigh.

“I’m sorry, Chrissy, I didn’t mean to overstep–”

“Eddie, no–”

“You just went through so much, and here I am, making you feel–”

She stops him. It’s kind of like that time a few days ago when he stopped her, only this time he’s a lot more stunned than she was when her lips crash into his. He stands there like an idiot, eyes wide open for a second, hands still by his side, until her hand cups his cheek and his eyes flutter shut and his hands are on her waist. And then she sighs happily, and she deepens the kiss as she tilts her head, the two of them fitting together like the last two missing puzzle pieces.

Chrissy Cunningham is kissing Eddie Munson. Willingly. With tongue.

Eat that, Carver.

His desire to gloat is immediately squashed when she walks him backwards, his calves hitting the couch. He sits down when her hand presses on his shoulder, keeping his hands on her waist as respectfully as he can, although he wants to slide them down as she perches herself upon his thighs. Her fingers slide from his cheek and up to behind his ear, playing with his hair and scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that makes him sigh and groan into her mouth, and he feels her smile against him. And then he smiles, too, and then they're both laughing. And maybe his immediate thought should be that the mood has been killed, but in reality, he feels even closer to her.

“I didn’t mean it isn’t right,” she breathes. “I meant just being your friend isn’t enough anymore. I meant… I want more.”

He can’t open his eyes because if he does, there’s a possibility that he’s been dreaming. Maybe he’s back in that boathouse and Chrissy really hates him for what he did to her. Maybe he’s back in his own bed that fateful Friday morning and Chrissy never came to him at all. But her hand is still on his cheek and her forehead is against his and her breath washes over his lips and he can’t be dreaming, right?

So he opens his eyes and she’s right there, eyes filled with hope and fear and he thinks she’s blinking tears away. “More?” he asks, unable to stop himself from running his thumb gently along her cheekbone.

“Yeah,” she whispers back. Her eyes stare into his desperately, her lids all fluttery as her long lashes practically flit over his, and man oh man, did he never think he would be here.

“I can do more,” he whispers the most unromantic and unmoving words that have ever passed his lips. “I mean– I’m–”

“Perfect,” she says, kissing him again, and it strikes him that he’s never been this flustered before. Sure, he’s been with girls before, after his shows, but it’s never been like this. Whenever he’s with those other girls, he’s suave and smooth, cool and collected, badass metalhead Eddie Munson. Chrissy Cunningham has him blushing and stumbling over his words and still she says he’s perfect.

So he kisses her again, unable to think of a single other thing to do here. He just holds her hips and sighs when she does, groaning when she lifts slightly off of him and lets his hands slip down lower towards her thighs.

Chrissy always wears skirts to school. He’s noticed plenty of times, the way her soft skin looks beneath the pleated fabric. Sometimes she’ll wear jeans, and that’s adorable, too, but there’s something about her right now, in her lounge shorts and a bulky sweatshirt that she can fit over her cast. There’s something about the way the shorts look so tiny on her ass and the sweatshirt nearly swallows her whole. Something about it makes him forget to think before he digs his fingers into the skin of her thighs, and something about that makes her moan into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says agaisnt her, pulling back slightly and catching his breath as she rests her forehead on his. “I can definitely do more.”

“Sure you’ll survive?” she asks, and it strikes him that she’s flirting with him. Chrissy Cunningham is flirting with Eddie Munson.

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”

~~~~

She’s reported missing, just like she thought she’d be. The news of it startles her awake, her head lifting from Eddie’s lap as the afternoon sun streams through the dusty windows. It was breaking news, loudly interrupting the quiet movie he must’ve put on once she’d finally fallen asleep.

The report claims him to be the number one suspect. The assumption is that he stole her from her bed the evening of her return from the hospital, intent on finishing what he started. He’s now been accused of two murders and one attempt, plus kidnapping. If anyone sees him, she knows in the pit of her stomach that they wouldn’t hesitate to take justice into their own hands.

His hand soothes up her back when she startles awake, comforting her with the warm, vast expanse of it as she tries to catch her breath without panicking. “I knew this would happen,” she muses sadly, and he just shrugs.

“It’s okay. Being accused of murder and kidnapping was on my Bingo card for serior year.”

“Stop,” she rolls her eyes, trying to laugh at his joke but finding it hard to do so when it seems so painfully unlikely that he’ll ever make it back to finish out his senior year for good this time. How could he possibly show his face when all is said and done, even when he is found innocent?

How can he be found innocent if no one in town knows that this is all Vecna’s doing?

He’ll have to run. She’ll probably have to go with him, to avoid her mother’s wrath.

“Hey,” he starts, encouraging her to rest against the couch once more and relax her tense muscles. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine, right? If anyone’s gonna get this sorted out, it’s Dus–”

He’s cut off by the sound of the motor approaching the house, one he seems to recognize as he tells her to lie down. The back of the couch faces the door and hides her well from whoever wants to come inside, but he stands up and she feels fear rushing through her veins as he peers out the window.

“Eddie,” she whispers, desperate for him to hide, too.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. He walks to the door and opens it, much to her terror. “It’s the Party, we’re okay, Sweetheart.”

Her first thought was that it could be Jason. And then she shudders at the thought of what he would do if he found them here.

~~~~

A very small part of him wants to freak out, lose his shit, scream at the top of his lungs, and run and hide until either all of this ends or they all die.

Obviously, he can’t do any of that. He doesn’t do that running and hiding thing anymore.

It’s not very metal.

Max offered to sacrifice herself, shut off Kate Bush and sit in Vecna’s attic until he takes over her mind so that he’s distracted while they try to kill him. It’s a smart idea, to get him into a trance so that Steve, Nancy, and Robin can sneak up behind him and take him out, but leaving it up to a kid is stupid and reckless and irresponsible, and Eddie’s never been that irresponsible.

But then, the only other option is Chrissy. And that…

He doesn’t like that one bit.

But Max is a kid. And Chrissy is a good person– the best. She would never let something happen to any of the Sheep if she could help it, and, she reminds him, neither would he.

So a week after their first night together at Reefer Rick’s place, a week after Chrissy went missing, the town ablaze searching for the poor injured, kidnapped, head cheerleader, less than a week after Chrissy told him that he wants more from him than friendship, he finds himself in the attic of the old Creel house, goosebumps never settling.

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him with a soft smile, the one he loves and never really saw much of before a week ago. “Promise. I’ll be fine.”

He has to believe her, because he finds himself believing everything that comes out of her mouth, but part of him doesn’t want to. He wants to be negative, tell her she doesn’t know that, drag her out of here and flee, but he can’t. He doesn’t do that shit anymore. So he just nods and tosses her the most pathetic, least encouraging smile he’s ever felt cross his own face.

Chrissy, his friend-turned-something-more, smiles softly back at him, cringing as she sits daintily on the old rickety floor and brushes the cobwebs away. He looks at her in awe, at the way she sits there with a gentle smile even though she’s broken and bruised and being held together with metal pins and a plaster cast. “How can you be so sure?” he asks, not wondering how she knows, but more… how she can believe it.

“I just… know,” she shrugs. “I know you’ll keep me safe. I know if you’re here, I can fight him.”

Well, that’s a lot of pressure to put on one guy.

But Chrissy's strong. He knows she doesn’t need him, because she’ll fight off this son of a bitch just like she did last time.

“You could fight him without me,” he assures her. He knows it’s true because he saw the strength in her face and heard it in her voice when she called out for Vecna to come and get her the second she pulled her headphones off her ears.

“I’ll still need you to put Queen back on when I start to levitate, though,” she jokes, taking his hand once he’s seated across from her and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’ll be okay,” she whispers.

He just nods, holding himself close to her, hoping to never have to pull away and letting his brows furrow painfully when he feels her stiffen beneath his hands. He presses his palms to her cheeks, his forehead on hers, and he begs her to be careful. He whispers that he’s here, that she’s okay, that she’s amazing and strong and perfect, and he’s telling himself as much as he’s telling her.

There’s no way of knowing how long this is supposed to take, so he backs up slightly, hands still cradling her face and heart skipping a beat as he watches her eyes race back and forth. They’re cloudy like they were that night, glazed over in the height of the curse Vecna puts over her, and it’s terrifying to see her the way she looked just a few weeks ago before she was pulled up to his ceiling.

Clumsily, he rushes to the window and gives Erica the signal they agreed on, then returns to Chrissy, sitting as close to her as he can without being on top of her or pulling her onto his lap like he so desperately wants to.

“It’s okay,” he says again, a bit louder this time. His legs are crossed between them but he can’t stop anxiously bouncing his knees up and down. “You’re okay, Sweetheart. You’re doing amazing.”

Whether he’s whispering truths, he isn’t sure, but he can’t just sit here and do nothing while she’s haunted by something that terrifies her so much. He knows what she must be seeing, if Vecna’s chosen to play out the same scenarios in her head. She must see her mother and her father, captured in that house she grew up in that must not be as perfect as it appears from the outside. He can tell that she’s scared by whatever he’s showing her because her breathing is quick, pants heavy and shallow all at once.

Something creaks behind her and his eyes dart to the rickety stairs, fearful that maybe Vecna got through somehow. He hopes it’s just Erica, although he isn’t sure why she would be up here when he already signaled to her that Chrissy’s been taken. And of course, why would it be Erica? Why wouldn’t it be Jason Carver? And why wouldn’t he be armed?

~~~~

#eddissy fanfic #eddissy #eddissy ff #hellcheer fanfic #hellcheer #hellcheer ff #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #look in the mirror ff #hellcheer angst #hellcheer fluff #angst #fluff

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poet-phel · 7 months

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Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

Whoso List to Hunt Sir Thomas Wyatt

Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all-triumphant splendour on my brow; But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

Sonnet 33 William Shakespeare

The sonnet by Sir Thomas Wyatt talks about a “hind” that is impossible to capture. It is written in an ABBA ABBA CDDC EE rhyme scheme. In the first section of the sonnet, the speaker claims to have followed the deer and it took a toll on his mind and body. It seems to be a fruitless venture he took up, as no one is able to catch this deer. The “hind” the speaker is referring to is a metaphor for a woman, and the speaker is just one of her suitors.

In Sonnet 33 by William Shakespeare, the speaker discusses the sun’s beauty in the first few lines. However, Shakespeare uses imagery to show that the clouds come in to hide it. It is structured in a way that includes three quatrains and one couplet at the end, and it follows a rhyme scheme of ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. The sun in the sonnet is actually a metaphor for the speaker’s lover. He is comparing the lover to the sun that brings light to his world, claiming he has a “celestial face.” However, when the sun is obscured by clouds, it’s inferred that the lover is out of his reach or possession. This can allude to a betrayal of some sort by whoever the “clouds” are in the sonnet.

In the third line of the sonnet by Wyatt, alliteration is used with the words “so sore.” Also, in this line, the speaker uses personification when stating that the “travail” is “vain” and is making him “sore.” There is also a metaphor in line 8, in which the speaker is comparing the pursuit of the deer to catching and keeping the air in a net. It can be inferred that the speaker is someone who has been rejected and is unable to obtain the love of the lady. It seems he has lost hope in this love, and that those who still have hope are wasting their time and also the speaker’s time by asking him the way to obtain the “hind.” It also seems that he knows the location of the “hind” and will give it to those who listen and wish to “hunt.” But, as for him, he will “no more,” as it is impossible to capture it. The deer belongs to someone else, someone with much power, as its neck is brandished with diamonds that read “Do not touch me.” These words on its neck are a metaphor for jewelry of some sort, most likely, that show that the lady they are chasing after is already with someone who is wealthy or has a lot of power, which can be inferred from the statement that their neck also states that the deer belongs to “Caesar.” And though the “hind” may seem tame, it is too wild for one of these suitors to tie it down.

Throughout the sonnet by Shakespeare, the sun is a metaphor for the speaker’s lover and even though it is described in a beautiful and powerful way, it can be seen as more complicated than that. The sun is written in a great light, yet it is then disrupted by clouds, in turn making it unable to be seen. This could allude to the lover being sullied or a sort of evilness coming to disrupt them. There is also alliteration being used, noticeably in the last line with iterations of the words “sun” and “stain.” Also, the imagery that is used throughout the sonnet is crucial to how we, the readers, can truly see and take in what is being said. The speaker states how the “sun” rises over the “mountain-tops,” claiming that it is also “kissing” the meadows. This paints the image that the sun is transforming the landscape as it paints it “golden” with its light.

Both sonnets are talking about their loves, yet they are unable to obtain them, as something is interfering. While the sonnet by Sir Thomas Wyatt has the speaker being hopeless and worn down from chasing after their love, Shakespeare writes his speaker in his sonnet to be infatuated with his love. There seem to be opposing perspectives to each speaker's own journeys and understandings. Wyatt's speaker had to chase his love, yet was never able to catch it. Shakespeare's speaker was able to be with their love and even bask in it, which can be inferred by the "many a glorious morning" statement in the first line. However, he was unable to hold onto it, as it was taken away from him.

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highdramas · 3 years

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your lips, my lips | b.b.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝'𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: language, possible tfatws spoilers

word count: 2404

summary: is there a more divine thought than being kissed by bucky barnes?

note: here's another installment in the twalb story <3 again, you don't have to read these in order, they stand independently, but they do all work together! PLEASE leave feedback/reblog! this is extremely helpful for me writing future parts to know what everyone likes or doesn't like!

enjoy! <3

how do you know when james bucky barnes is going to kiss you?

you’ve learned that you’re not good at figuring out when, how, or if he is going to kiss you. there have been countless moments outside your door, inside your apartment, inside his apartment, down the street at the pizza place, where you thought… this is going to be it. he’s going to hold your face in his hands and you’re going to feel the cold sting of metal that has somehow become so warm to you. he’s going to pull you in closer to him and your eyes are going to roll back into your head and you’re going to experience the bliss that is kissing james bucky barnes.

the time has never come.

because every time you tip your head back slightly and think this is the moment, it has simply never been the moment. sometimes, bucky clears his throat and gives his head a little shake, as if ridding himself of the thought that you both just shared. the thought that you could kiss right now and never look back and hope for the best. but you know bucky, you really know him, and you know that though he may not admit it often, he is fearful. and if he’s anything like you, he’s afraid of ruining this good thing that sits between the two of you, like a glowing ball of energy and goodness and understanding.

despite your fears of never wanting this feeling to subside or fade or crash and burn in some fiery death, that doesn’t mean that every moment you’re around bucky, you’re not thinking of him kissing you. because you are. and it’s driving you slightly insane.

right now, you sit with bucky in central park. you have learned many things about him, but one of the more recent things is that he has never been on a picnic. you had gaped at him then, and you think you said something along the lines of-- “you were wooing women in the 40s and never took one on a fucking picnic?”

that’s another thing about you and bucky.

you may fear a lot, but you do not fear him.

there has never been a moment where you have pushed bucky to tell you more than he was comfortable with. at the start, once he knew that you were already well aware of who he was and some pieces of his history-- it felt like you both started with a mutual understanding. an understanding that says, i know, and it won’t make me run.

but he has told you what he wants to, in bits and pieces. the first time, it was about yori. it was about the look in yori’s eyes when he talked about his son to bucky, it was about how bucky doesn’t know how he can make amends here, how he can say or do anything to possibly help a man who has lost his son at the hands of a man who he has come to call friend.

you have watched as guilt and anger have made a mess of this beautiful man.

and what did you do in return?

sometimes, you didn’t speak. you didn’t think that was what bucky was looking for. you were simply there, with a listening ear and a careful touch.

other times, you did. other times, you couldn’t help yourself.

it was hard to sit and watch and listen to bucky torture himself over and over and over-- you would burst, you would take his metal hand in between yours and you would squeeze and you would say-- “you are not the things that they forced upon you.”

and bucky halted at that. bucky halted and he stared at you, eyes that were moments ago frantic and full of fright, trying to blink some of those feelings away. he would blink and he would try to slow his breathing and he would finally say to you, “how can you know what i’ve done and not walk away?”

“bucky, ever since i’ve known you, the only direction i’ve wanted to walk is towards you.”

he tells you the hard things.

but he also tells you the good things. the things before hydra.

like the dates he went on, the way his life looked in the forties.

so, naturally, when you found out about the lack of picnics in the life of the winter soldier-- you had taken it upon yourself to decide that a picnic was exactly what you two needed.

it was four months ago that bucky asked if you needed help building your cat tower. later, you would call him a creep for spying on you, but you would say it with a smile on your face and a light nudge to his ribs. and in four months it has been hard to stay away from him. that is, when he wasn’t away himself-- you know of his work with the falcon, and really, you think it’s a good thing. you met sam briefly a week ago, after they returned from god knows where, and sam had been nothing but a gentleman. out of the corner of your eye, you even think that you might’ve seen sam nudging bucky and murmuring something that you couldn’t quite make out.

so when he is here, you try and savor every moment, every laugh, every brush of his fingers against yours and every sweet look you two share.

and you hope that maybe one of these times, he will kiss you.

“damn-- this is good.”

the corner of your mouth turns up as you watch bucky sip on the sickly sweet wine you brought. there is a wide assortment of food before you-- strawberries and brie, crackers and cheese, plump purple grapes and chocolate that makes your mouth water. you had made sure to go all out for bucky’s first picnic.

“i didn’t know if you would like it,” you say, taking a sip from your own. “it’s like juice. so sweet.”

bucky furrows his brows. “you know i have a sweet tooth,” he mumbles and it makes your heart sigh because, yes, you do know this. you know him.

for a moment, you turn your focus on the scene in front of you. there are kids running around the park playing, couples laying in the grass, a dog owner throwing a frisbee to a black lab. everyone with their own little lives, their own quiet eternities that you will never know of. when you look at bucky, you wonder what these strangers wonder about you.

you stare and you are not embarrassed to do so, not even when bucky meets your gaze with a firm smirk. “can i help you?”

“no,” you shake your head defiantly. “just looking. is that allowed?”

“i guess,” he says and leans back on the palm of his gloved hand. “don’t know i’m much to look at.”

a snort leaves you. his brows furrow. “are you serious?” you finally ask.

“yes, i’m serious.”

“bucky, i don’t know how else to tell you this, but you are certainly not hard on the eyes.”

you watch as his face goes red and you have to halt yourself. “oh my god,” you say. “you’re blushing.”

“i am not. that’s ridiculous.”

“yes, you totally are! you’re blushing because i said you’re easy on the eyes!”

“it’s a natural bodily response.”

“sure, buck.”

there’s a beat of silence and you chuckle, if only to fill the air and to avert your eyes from his gaze. he’s staring at you with a slightly slacked jaw and a gleam in his eyes that you don’t think you’ve seen before-- and it feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped atop your head. “you’ve never called me that before,” he says quietly.

“oh, yeah, well--” you chuckle again and you shrug. “i don’t have to--”

bucky shakes his head instantly. “no. i don’t mind.”

you smile at him and you look down at your empty cup and back up to him. “we should start heading back.”

the two of you make quick work of gathering together your picnic. you laugh as bucky takes a swig from the bottle and you swat at him, saying public intoxication is very illegal, to which he rolls his eyes. you take the last sip of the bottle and then you’re on your way back to your apartment building.

the earth is on the cusp of spring-- where the nights are finally starting to get long and the air smells crisp, smells like pollen and change. you lean against bucky as you walk and you let out a sigh. “i love spring,” you murmur to him. “the world always feels so new.”

bucky looks over at you and he nods his head. “it’s nice,” he says in quiet agreement.

that’s one thing that you like about bucky-- he doesn’t fill silence unnecessarily. you do. you’ve been trying to break the habit in the months you’ve known him, much to his amusement. he has called you out plenty of times. “i can tell you’re itching to talk. i don’t mind. i like listening to you.”

he’s carrying the majority of your things and you offer to take something off his hands at least three times in five blocks, and every time he screws his face up as he looks at you, as if to say-- funny.

he’s good at saying things without really saying anything at all. you don’t like to think too hard about how he picked up that skill.

bucky helps you into your apartment with your things, and he goes a step further and he helps you put away leftovers and wash the dirty dishes you two had created. “i know if i don’t help you now, they’ll be in your sink until i come over again.”

so you stand side by side, he washes and you dry and put away. you play the bee gees and you’re surprised by how much bucky enjoys it. you’ve been traveling through decades of music with bucky, and now, you’re on seventies. bee gees, fleetwood mac, blondie, abba-- you’ve curated a perfect playlist for him. when you come home from work and hear him listening to it through the thin walls of this old apartment building, you try to ignore the way that your heart swells.

and just as fast as you got swept up in your day with james buchanan barnes, it is coming to an end. you walk him to your doorstep and you lean your head against the doorframe as he stands in it, lingering still, staring at you. “can i help you?” you mimic him from earlier.

bucky laughs.

you love that laugh. you want to earn it again and again and again.

“just looking,” he says in a voice that you have a suspicion is an impression of yours. your jaw drops, and he laughs again, and you don’t know if your heart could swell anymore.

your laughter mingles with his, like a waltz floating through the air until it dissipates above your heads. all that’s left is you and him and the dim light of the hallway and the god awful carpet. “well…” he motions behind him. “i should…”

“yeah.” you bite down on your lip and push back off the doorframe. “night, buck.”

“night, doll.”

your breath hitches and you put on your best smile and you watch as he begins to step down the hall, and finally, you click your door shut.

it’s like pure energy courses through your body. you place your hands on your hips and you pace, looking down at kitty who has emerged from your bedroom. she meows up at you, and you sigh. “oh, honey,” you murmur as you bend down to scoop her into your arms. “why won’t he kiss me?”

you stand there for a few moments before you begin to grow frustrated with yourself. why do you have to wait for him to kiss you? you know that the lines have been blurred long ago, that there is simply no way that he can look at you like that and not want to kiss you too. setting kitty down, you wipe your hands on your jeans and you decide that you are going to be bold, you are going to be brave. and if it blows up in your face… well, you’ve always been somewhat impulsive. you’ve found your way through things blowing up in your face countless times.

you swing your door open and bucky is already there.

with all of your momentum, you almost collide into him. he catches you by the elbows and looks at you, pupils slightly blown, concern on his pretty face. “were you going somewhere?”

“no!” you stammer out immediately. “no… no. i was--” you sigh and you lick your lips and you finally fix your eyes on him. “i kind of-- i kind of thought that you were going to kiss me, back there. and i was disappointed that you didn’t because… well, i don’t think i’m reading into things, but i really think that we might be on the same page about--”

bucky will never know how you were going to finish that sentence, and frankly, with all the frantic nonsense you were spewing, you don’t know if you even knew to begin with-- because he takes your face in his hands and his lips brush yours.

he’s rid the gloves. that’s the first thing you notice, that delicious cold of smooth metal again your cheek. the next is that his lips are so soft. the third is that you could kiss him forever and you think you could never grow tired of it. he is gentle yet demanding, passionate but so incredibly tender that it breaks your heart. it breaks your heart over and over again thinking about the way he thinks about himself, the things that were forced upon him.

you part. a string of spit connects your lips and it makes you laugh and it makes your cheeks grow warm. bucky reaches out with the hand made of metal and wipes your bottom lip and it makes your heart thump, thump, thump in your chest.

“we’re definitely on the same page,” is all he says before he takes your face once more. this time, you shuffle backwards and into your apartment, the door clicking shut. "there's just a dance to these things, doll."

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky fluff #bucky fic #the world's a little blurry #bucky x female reader #my writing #enjoy babies

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tomorrowxtogether · 3 years

Text

TXT’s Beomgyu is Writing His Own Story

PAPER is spending this week inside the minds of Tomorrow X Together (known as TXT). Check back tomorrow at 11 AM EST for our interview with Taehyun.

For Tomorrow X Together's Choi Beomgyu, every song evokes a memory. ABBA's "Dancing Queen" brings to mind long drives at dawn with his dad, windows down and stereo blaring; Lee Janghee's "나 그대에게 모두 드리리 (I Will Give Everything To You)" reminds him of numb fingertips and hours of guitar practice; the Your Name soundtrack is what he used to listen to on his way to school; and Billy Joel's "Vienna" makes him think of his parents and how they told him not to rush too quickly into adulthood.

Beomgyu's playlist is like a diary — a glimpse into the everyday moments that make up a young life. "I try to remember the things that I'm feeling, the emotions and the parts of my life that I want to hold onto," the 20-year-old performer explains to PAPER. "I think that the best way to express myself is through music, so I take these feelings and these parts of myself and try to create something beautiful out of it."

This is best expressed in TXT's 2020 song "Maze in the Mirror.'' Co-produced by Beomgyu and written by all five members, the acoustic track is an emotional time capsule of their trainee days — of sleepless nights spent staring at one another's reflections in the practice room mirror. It makes sense that Beomgyu's first contribution to the group's discography would be both wistful and wishful — a melodious contradiction not unlike himself.

He's been described as someone who "exists simultaneously at 3 PM and 3 AM," meaning that he's either extremely hyped or in his feelings at all times. He romanticizes the past and has a tendency to get lost in his daydreams, but he's present when he needs to be. Like right now, he's fidgeting in his seat and pulling at the wispy ends of his shoulder-length wolf cut while explaining why he prefers to listen to the radio. He likes the static. A manic pixie dream boy in the flesh.

"I think a lot about the past because I have a lot of happy memories," he says, rubbing his hands together. "When I go back to those times, I can feel those emotions again. I get kind of consumed by them."

Lately, he's been thinking of home a lot. He fell in love with music as a child at his father's influence. Riding shotgun in his dad's car, Beomgyu listened to the likes of ABBA and Air Supply on heavy rotation, and he was enamored by the way these songs made him feel. "That's when I realized that this is something that I wanted to do," he recalls. "Even now, when I need to lift my mood, I go back to music from that time that I used to listen to in the car with my dad."

Beomgyu picked up guitar shortly after. His dad taught him the basics and in middle school he joined a band. That's when he realized he had the power to make people feel things, too. "When I first started playing the guitar, I don't think I thought of it as, 'This is something that I want to do,'" he says. "But when I joined a band and started performing in front of people for the first time and heard their applause, it made me feel great. So I started thinking about pursuing music."

"I realized that if I was given the opportunity to debut that would give me the opportunity to tell my own story."

After being street casted in his hometown of Daegu, South Korea — scouts for Big Hit Music were so eager to audition him that they rearranged their schedule to accommodate his school exams — Beomgyu moved to Seoul, away from his parents and brother, and started his training. The standard trainee system among idol hopefuls includes rigorous lessons in dancing, singing, rapping, language learning, social media best practices and, for the members of TXT, songwriting and composition.

Beomgyu took a special interest in writing and production, and he even has his own studio in the HYBE building. The guitar his father bought him rests on the studio's walls. Although he had no real ambition of becoming a K-pop idol, he liked the idea of telling stories and making melodies — of creating a song for every moment in life, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.

"I realized that if I was given the opportunity to debut that would give me the opportunity to tell my own story," he says.

On the group's most recent album, The Chaos Chapter: Fight Or Escape, Beomgyu has co-writing credits on three tracks: "Balance Game," "No Rules" and fandom song "MOA Diary (Dubaddu Wari Wari)." "No Rules" captures a specific kind of Gen Z misanthropy — one heightened by climate change concerns and an ongoing global pandemic. "Can I please go back to where I was before?" they sing. "Where there are no rules."

Beomgyu's willingness to share parts of himself both in his music and with fans on community platforms like Weverse and VLive has brought him a lot of clarity in recent months. "These days I'm trying to keep a journal," he says, fiddling with his fingers. (Just because he's present doesn't mean he can always sit still.) "It's really important for me to have time on my own, and of my own. Sometimes I share my thoughts with MOA [TXT's fandom name], or I sit with those thoughts for a little bit. Once they start to take shape in my head then I share them with MOA. I'm doing a lot more of that."

"It's really good to be able to talk about my concerns and emotions with MOA and to get them off my chest," he adds. "Opening myself up has allowed me to receive that consolation myself."

He also finds strength and energy in the stars. When he leaves the company building, his eyes tend to wander upward, still a Daegu boy at heart. The thing about living in a sprawling city is that you often forget to look up. You're so focused on moving straight ahead that you don't take the time to look around you, — to gaze at the moon and the watercolor sky and to imagine what if? "I do look up at the night sky a lot and it gives me a lot of comfort," Beomgyu says. "Looking up at the stars makes me think. It gives me a lot of joy. During the daytime, I look up at the sky and I think things like, 'Are there stars up there shining right now?'"

Even the stars are tied to happy childhood memories. "I used to go stargazing a lot with my family and we'd listen to a lot of songs about stars," he says, his eyes crinkling in fondness.

If every song evokes a memory, then for Beomgyu every memory is just a song that has yet to be written.

#txt #tomorrow x together #210826 #article #Paper Magazine #beomgyu #choi beomgyu #Paper Mag #PAPER

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cafedanslanuit · 4 years

Text

[ k i n k t o b e r ] d a y 21 - masterlist

↪ character: todoroki shouto [boku no hero]

↪ tags/warnings: +18, female!reader, alcohol usage, stolen kisses, cheating (reader helps to cheat ig), passionate sex, slight angst

↪ a/n: the idea came to me while listening to ‘the winner takes it all’ by abba ~

Why are you here?

You finished the drink in your hand, feeling the vodka burning down your throat. You watch Todoroki greet the other guests and you want to yell at him to leave. Leave, leave, leave, fucking leave. It wasn’t enough that he had ruined your small party, now he had the audacity to appear.

Leave, leave, leave.

Go back to your fiancée.

The day had started out great. You had been promoted at the agency, and were told you would get your own sidekicks. Beaming with happiness, you agreed when Denki offered to organize a small office party, proud of your achievements. While your boss, the main hero of the agency looked for a bottle of champagne for the celebratory brindis, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom for a bit. On your way there, you checked your phone, almost dropping it when the first post that appeared on your timeline was a photo of an engagement ring on Momo’s hand.

You read her post, saying how happy she was that it was exactly a year after they had started dating. Had it already been a year? You swallowed thick and kept looking at the photo, which Todoroki had obviously liked. He probably had posted something similar. You wouldn’t know, having blocked him from your social media a while ago, when their couple photos became too much to handle.

You shouldn’t have stopped trying. It had been a fight-- a stupid fight if you had to be honest. A miscommunication that shouldn’t have happened. You waited for him to apologize and he did the same. Days became weeks, and not too long after you heard whispers about him dating a girl from his school. But it was just a rebound, right? You would find your way back together again. You were sure.

You were.

Denki found you standing in the hallway, eyes lost on your phone. He took it from you, his eyes widening when he saw Momo’s post. Knowing your past history with Todoroki, he tried to comfort you, but you just nodded and followed him back to the office, putting on your best hero smile.

And now he was at the party. Why?

You stopped counting the times you poured more straight vodka to your cup. When you saw Todoroki approaching you, you made a beeline around him and entered the small kitchen in the office. You rested your hands on the sink and took a deep breath, doing your very best to calm the dizziness on your head from walking so fast.

A few minutes later, you heard someone coming inside, so you turned around with your hero smile. The moment you saw the half red and white hair, it dropped from your face.

“I wanted to congratulate you for--”

“What are you doing here, Todoroki?” you spat. He frowned.

“I came to congratulate you--”

“No, don’t bullshit me,” you said with a dry laugh. Looking at the kitchen door, you closed it, trying to avoid any prying eyes from your coworkers. “Don’t bullshit me, why aren’t you with your girlfr-- no, my bad! Your fiancée, why don’t you go back to her?” you asked, the liquor on your head making all the hurt that had been accumulating inside your heart turn into harsh words.

Todoroki stayed in silence, eyes fixated on yours. He parted his lips but no words came out. The silence between the both of you seemed to last an eternity, only the music coming from the office filling the gap. You took another look at him, at his black shirt and dark jeans and missed him. Your body craved for his touch, not having been this close since the night he left your apartment. The night you let him go.

You weren’t aware of the tears streaming down your face until Todoroki had cupped your face with his hands and was trying to wipe them off with his thumb. Your whole body started trembling at the contact and even more tears ran down your cheeks.

“I was a fool,” you whispered. Todoroki just kept trying to dry off your cheeks. “I thought-- I thought things would fix themselves and they didn’t. And now I get I was a fool, I’m so sorry, Shouto,” you whimpered. “I’m sorry I didn’t push harder, I’m sorry I let you go because I miss you so much. Every day, every night, I miss you so much.”

Todoroki’s eyes widened a bit at your words, but remained silent again. His hands were still on your face, but he was no longer trying to stop your crying. You put your hands over his and smiled softly at how familiar it felt.

“Does she kiss like I used to kiss you?” you whispered. You laughed softly at your own words and shook your head. “Don’t-- don’t answer that. I understand how it is. I understand I was the one that let you go. So, just… just this once, Shoto, I just…”

You surprised both him and yourself by pressing your lips against his. But it felt like home, even if it wasn't supposed to be like this, even if he was already a lost cause. You pulled away, face flushed in embarrassment, but immediately felt his hand pulling you from the back of your head again. Todoroki kissed you intensely, his hand clasped around your hair. Soon enough, both your arms were around his neck and your body pressed against him, kissing him back.

A loud crash made you pull away, and by the laughs of your coworkers, it seemed someone had broken a liquor bottle. You looked back at your ex, the reality of your situation dawning on you. You wiped the trace of your lipstick from his lower lip and gave him a small smile.

"Sorry," you muttered, before turning back and leaving. This time, he was the one that let you go. Denki looked at you questioningly, his eyes darting from you to Todoroki. 'We just talked', you mouthed to him and he nodded, before taking your hand and pulling you to the dance floor.

-----

Three knocks on your apartment door were enough to wake you up. You looked at your phone and saw it was already 3 am. The party had lasted until midnight and then you had taken a cab to your place. Two glasses of water and an advil were enough to send you to sleep.

Someone knocked again and you groaned, forcing yourself to get up from your bed. Putting on a robe, you walked to your front door. You wished you hadn't the moment you saw the same half red half white hair and mesmerizing eyes looking back at you.

"... Todoroki, it's 3 am," you yawned. He stayed in silence and you rolled your eyes. "Seriously, I need to get some sleep, I am really tired."

"I came because I can't stop thinking about earlier," he confessed in a neutral tone. Your head snapped back to him, your eyes wide open and lips slightly parted.

"What d--" your sentence was cut short by Todoroki entering your apartment and kissing you on the lips. As if it were a drug, you kissed him back without restraint, not caring how loudly he shut the door behind him. In a few seconds he was carrying you, your legs hooked around his waist as the kiss continued, rough, desperately and filled with more passion than you had felt in the last year.

Your back hit the couch, and memories of laying with Todoroki after a long day of work or watching a movie together right in the same spot came to your mind. You pulled him closer, your legs still wrapped around his waist as your fingers worked to open his shirt. Todoroki got rid of it along with your robe quickly and let his hands wander underneath your pajamas. You let out a sigh when he closed his hands around your breasts. Was it delusional for you to have missed his touch this bad? You always joked that your body was made for him, but feeling his hands match exactly the size of your breasts only reinforced the idea. You took off your pajama top and threw it to the floor. Todoroki’s skin felt hot against yours, almost burning as he took a couple of seconds to look at you.

“I missed you,” you whispered. He smiled softly and kissed you softly, his lips grazing yours for the longest time, as if he wanted to make sure you were real.

“I missed you too,” he replied against your mouth. You drank the chuckle that followed and pulled him back for another kiss as you fumbled with his pants, who made their way to the floor along with the rest of your clothes.

Todoroki’s hand travelled between your legs, his fingers sliding between your wet folds. The moans coming from your mouth became louder as he pushed two fingers inside, feelings your walls tightening around him. He used his free hand to cradle your face, his eyes set on yours as you whimpered under his touch. His thumb drew circles around your clit and your moans started sounding like his name, like a soft prayer, like a welcome home.

Moments later, Todoroki was pushing his cock inside of you, and even if he had taken his time preparing you, the stretch burnt, making you remember how long it had been since the last time he made love to you. This time, you held his head between your hands, foreheads pressed together as he moved his hips against yours at a controlled pace, as if he were getting to know you all over again. You tried to match him with your hips, making him groan against your lips.

Todoroki kissed you and increased his rhythm. His lips devoured you passionately, his tongue dancing with yours as he thrusted in and out. His body knew you so well, it felt like it was claiming it back. It felt familiar, it felt safe, as if you didn’t need anything else to enjoy intimacy with you. Even if you had experimented different kinks with him the years you had been together, somehow it all went back to him. It never was the heterochromic eyes or the toned arms you tried to find in other people. It was never looking for men who were also dominant in bed or the quiet ones.

It was just Shouto. The one thing missing was always him.

It doesn’t take long for him to take you over the edge, and he follows shortly after, breath hitching against yours. Todoroki attempts to pull out, but your legs wouldn’t let him.

“Stay,” you whispered weakly and he nodded, pressing a soft kiss on your lips before resting his head on your chest.

Once his head is out of the way, you’re able to see your apartment once again. On the window in front of you, you can see the sun is going to rise any moment, yet all you think about is staying a bit longer with him. Maybe going out for breakfast to the old diner Shouto liked, and going for a stroll until--

Your eyes stop at the door, and the memory of him leaving a year ago comes back to your mind. Furrowing your eyebrows, you look back and see him lying with his eyes closed and calmed respiration. He was there. He came back. That had to mean something, right?

… It had to.

You caressed Shouto’s hair strands and he smiled softly, eyes fluttering as he looked back at you.

"Shouto…" you whispered, a knot forming on your throat. He took the hand you had on his hair and squeezed it gently.

"Hmm?"

"Shouto… you should go home."

This is my home, you yearned for him to say. I’m home, or maybe another way of him showing you how much you meant to him. How much he was willing to give up to be back in your arms for good.

You wanted desperately to know if your apartment was still a home for Shouto, if he still wanted to build something with you. Because if he did, if he really saw you as his home, then maybe you could--

Todoroki pulled out of you, ignoring the small gasp that left your lips. He stood up and quickly started dressing up, his back turned to you. You closed your eyes, but it still wasn't quick enough to not let a tear fall down your face. Even if you were quick at wiping it off, he never once looked back, not even before he disappeared behind your apartment front door.

Your ragged breath and whimpers emerged only once you thought he was far enough, covering your body with the robe that was laying next to you.

It still smelt like him.

You still smelt like him.

---

Todoroki looked at himself on the elevator mirror, trying to fix his hair the best he could, even if he didn't think he would run into anyone in the middle of the night.

'You should go home'.

Your words echoed inside his mind, as he kicked himself for not understanding it sooner. You had been clear enough for him to understand that wasn't his home anymore. It didn't matter how much you had just trembled beneath him, or the way you had looked at him with what he thought was love as he buried himself into you. He had fucked up, he had fucked up by leaving his true home more than a year ago, and now there wasn't a place for him anymore. He understood. He had to understand.

Even if it took him his entire life.

#todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2020 #todoroki shoto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #bnha todoroki #todoroki shouto #todoroki shoto #todoroki smut #todoroki #allie after hours

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aprilsrant · 4 years

Text

Lay all your love on me | Oliver Wood x Slytherin!Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: (Y/N)’s been crushing on the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain for over three years. Now, in their seventh and last year of Hogwarts, her friends are determined to get them together.

WORD COUNT: 2,833.

WARNINGS: underage drinking. (If there are more and I didn’t put them, let me know).

NEXT PARTS:

Honey Honey! (part two)

When I kissed the teacher (part three).

A/N: so, this came out because of a random idea and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. For some reason, I like to imagine wizards dancing to ABBA, of course it’s the muggleborns and maybe halfbloods that know about them. This was written while I listened to Lay all your love on me, slowed down, on repeat. I algo gave the reader’s friends name because it was easier, and I may or mat not based their personality on my own close friends…

English is not my first language so if there are any mistakes, I’m sorry! Reblog if you can, and if you have any suggestions or requests just DM!

Masterlist.

tags: @peeves-a-legend (thank you for everything).

The Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff Quidditch match had ended with a win for the eagle’s house, although the other team did not make it easy for them. The Hufflepuffs were known for their patience and hard working nature, giving up easily was not one of their traits and that’s exactly what everyone had seen on the match this afternoon. They knew their opponent’s Seeker, Cho Chang was getting better with each game she played, so the Captain of the Hufflepuff Team decided their best chance was, if he wasn’t fast enough to catch the snitch that is, to lash out against the poor Keeper.

And so they did.

The Chasers, Preece, Macavoy and Applebee, were unstoppable. On the occasion the Quaffle landed in their hands, which had been like seventy percent of the time, they would use many different strategies to confuse the other players, including the Keeper, and score a goal.

Even after their brilliant performance, Ravenclaw still won by twenty points ahead when Cho Chang caught the snitch. A small distraction from the Hufflepuff Seeker and Captain had cost them the victory, but that didn’t discourage the badgers, hell, (Y/N) thought nothing could after how well they had played. She had never felt so much respect for the usually overlooked House.

That was pretty much the reason why the Ravenclaws were so eager to celebrate their win and had invited the whole school, or at least everyone up to the age of fifteen, to their Common Room. Many people believed they weren’t capable of throwing a good party since they were supposed to be smart and have their head on a book every minute, but (Y/N) never doubted them. One of her best friends was a Ravenclaw and that girl sure knew how to have fun, school and good grades being the last thing on her mind whenever she got sight of the Firewhisky.

If you had asked for (Y/N)’s opinion, she would tell you Ravenclaws were the seconds best at Hogwarts on the matter of hosting parties, Slytherins right up to them. Albeit that may have been biased, she herself was a Slytherin and, thinking about it, she never went to any Gryffindor parties because, well, no one except her other friend wanted a Slytherin there. Many of them thought they were some kind of saints just because they were brave and didn’t realise they were, instead, a bunch of reckless and prejudiced twats. The remaining house, Hufflepuff, took parties to a whole other level and sometimes it became all a little too much. She wasn’t much of a party person but she still enjoyed them from time to time, but they went insane any time alcohol was in the room and started to come up with crazy ideas that would, with no doubt, get them expelled.

After waiting ten minutes for a member of the house to step out and answer the riddle for her, which (Y/N) knew you didn’t need to be part of the house to reply but even as a Slytherin and having, supposedly, a cunning and intelligent mind she sucked at those kind of questions; she, and twenty others, finally entered the Ravenclaw Common Room, which was completely renovated since the last time she had visited it.

The circular and wide room was filled with students from all the four houses making it seem smaller than it actually was. The moon shone, filtering through the arched windows, barely illuminated but some flickering and colour changing lights on the ceiling made it work. The furniture was against the wall on the left side so people could dance freely in the middle, while the tables on the right bursted with food and bottles of alcohol. A muggle radio had been placed on one of the large table’s corner and to (Y/N)’s delight, it wasn’t playing any songs by the Weird Sisters. She loathed that band since last year when some students, presumably Gryffindors, enchanted the speakers on the hallways to repeatedly play one of the group’s songs.

The girl started to move towards the left side of the room, avoiding the crowd growing larger and larger. Trying to catch some familiar faces, she stood on her tiptoes and observed the room, but the lack of light and her problem with seeing things from afar, made her search harder. A couple of minutes had passed when she recognized the trio she was friends with. They were waving and screaming her name, trying to catch her attention, right beside the door that led to the dormitories.

(Y/N) grinned at them while walking in their direction. Once she settled on Isla’s side, her best friend since childhood, some of her nerves were washed away a little. It was easier for her to be in a place packed with people if she had her close friends as company. Dorian, the last one to join the group in their fifth year, offered her a black cup with, judging by the smell, Quintin Black, her favourite. The corners of her mouth quirking up as a way of saying thanks without having to shout at him to make herself be heard through the loud music.

The Multicolour Quartet — name they all despised but stood with it because it was one of Dorian’s drunk comments when he realised how they were all from different houses; (Y/N) was the Slytherin, he was the Gryffindor, and the other two, Isla and Ethan, were both Ravenclaws — easily fell in a conversation about Isla’s brilliant performance as Chaser for her House’s Team, the other three complimenting her whenever she started to list all the errors that almost allowed the Hufflepuffs to win.

Spacing out of her friend’s chat, (Y/N)’s eyes peer round the room looking, nearly in a desperate way, for someone in particular. Answering the comments the other three made with a simple nod of her head or a yes to seem like she was paying attention, her eyes fixated in a figure directly across from them, supporting it’s body’s weight on a wall. He was surrounded by some of his classmates and friends from the same house, but she could still see, albeit with great trouble, his short brown hair and his right hand holding a black cup, equal to the one she had.

She failed to realise that her friends had noticed where her attention travelled to. Sharing knowing glances and smirks they knew it was time for (Y/N) to talk to the boy she’d been crushing on for three years now. Isla and Ethan left saying some people were starting to cause trouble, not that (Y/N) had actually listened to them, too lost in attempting to catch another glimpse of the boy. That ended on Dorian, the most chaotic of the four, finding the way to make them, at least, share two or three words.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her left arm dragging her along the room and pushing people on the way. That belonged to Dorian and it didn’t take long for her to understand what he was doing, his mischievous smile betraying him. Her eyes widened and she shook her head while planting her feet on the floor, putting all her strength on them so he wouldn’t move her. She didn’t succeed. Obviously because of his friend’s stronger hands.

A chant of pleas and several no exited from her mouth, but it was useless. If something got inside Dorian’s head, then nothing could stop him from doing it. A trait they both shared and the cause of a few of their arguments, neither of them knew when to back the hell down. Not even the promise of (Y/N) doing his Arithmancy homework for two weeks made him stop on his tracks. Dorian had really compromised to the cause because she knew how much he detested that subject, only taking it to please his father.

Before she could raise the offer to a month, they were already in front of him and the group he was chatting with.

Oliver Wood smiled at the two friends, recognizing only one of them but still being kind and inviting towards her, whose heart was about to jump out of her chest from how fast it was beating.

“Hey, Wood, how’re you doing?,” Dorian greeted him first and then nodded at the others as if he was saying hi, “preparing for the Quidditch match next week?”

(Y/N) stood awkwardly by Dorian’s side, looking and smiling shyly at people she had never interacted with. She was going to cut this boy’s head of the minute everyone left.

“Yeah, the Hufflepuffs played like hell today.” She heard Oliver say. His words tumbling with each other. Was he already starting to get drunk? “I think I’ll need to book more practices if we want to win next week”.

Luckily, or not, Dorian noticed he hadn’t introduced his friend to the group yet. And even if she didn’t like to just stand there like a rigid stick, she hated the new attention.

“This is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), by the way,” he announced while placing his right hand on the upper side of her back and pushing her body to the front. And the shy smile made an appearance on her face once more.

She whispered a small hello, looking at everyone but Oliver, and instantly felt the need to jump off the Astronomy Tower, not long after making Dorian the next designated Gryffindor Ghost.

“What house are you in? I’ve never seen you before,” questioned one of the boys next to Oliver with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and a lost look on his eyes, as if he was trying to place her and remember the colours of the tie she used daily.

“She’s not a Gryffindor, maybe that’s why you haven’t seen her much,” Dorian answered before she had the chance to, “she’s actually a Slytherin.” A new expression on his face now, intimidating the others to see if they dared to express some kind of negative or stupid comment to his friend about the house she belonged to. No one said anything. She saw Dorian smiling proudly from the corner of her eye, but in that moment (Y/N) had the weird sensation she was some kind of prey to starving lions.

The group began to talk to each again, like nothing happened, all except Oliver, who was looking at her with his eyebrows raised and an intriguing sparkle in his dark brown eyes.

Dorian spoked once more.

Does he ever shut up?

“Remember the other day you said you were falling behind in Potions and Transfiguration?” Oliver nodded at him, signalising her friend to keep talking. “Well, I have the perfect person to help you with that. (Y/N) tutors me from time to time in those subjects too.”

Forget the Astronomy Tower, she desperately needed some kind of magical earthquake that could crack the floor beneath her feet and swallow her whole.

It’s not like Dorian was lying, she had helped him, and still did sometimes, to study for an important test, not only in Potions and Transfiguration, but also in the rest of the subjects they shared. Merlin knew that boy was a disaster when talking about paying attention to classes. But that didn’t mean she was good enough to tutor Oliver freaking Wood. (Y/N) could treat Dorian how she wanted if he wasn’t trying to, at least, know what she was talking about, they were friends and most of their time together was spent hitting each other, but how was she supposed to act around the precious Gryffindor Quidditch Captain?

“Great!,” Oliver exclaimed quickly. A sudden blush crept all the way from below his turtle neck to his cheeks, but she couldn’t identify if it happened because of the alcohol or embarrassment from sounding “too enthusiastic”. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I was about to start looking for one. McGonagall said that if I don’t get my grades up to an Exceeds Expectations, I won’t be able to play the rest of the matches.”

“That sucks, but you’d found one already so you two can start immediately with the tutoring sessions”, Dorian commented slily while looking at her with the smile of a champion adorning his face.

He was trying exceptionally hard, she had to give him that.

In a swift movement, she drank the whole content of her cup to see if the knot that had formed on her stomach would go away. The blonde girl, perhaps a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, beside (Y/N) noticed her drink was missing and offered her to reach out for one of the bottles of the table across. The Slytherin nodded and asked for the bottle of Quintin Black if there was still one.

“So you like Scottish things?” Oliver observed, with his eyes lighted up and his bottom lip stuck beneath his teeth, when he saw her grab the bottle of alcohol filled to the middle with onyx liquid.

“She sure does.” She heard Dorian mumble, he had tried to hide the smirk burying his face on his cup but (Y/N) took notice of that too. After giving him a pointed look, she turned her head towards Oliver, who, hopefully, hadn’t heard her friend’s remark; if he had, he was good at concealing it.

Her response was interrupted by the starting melody of “Lay all your love on me”, one of her favourite songs, and a voice that could only belong to her best friend, screaming her name. Out of nowhere, Isla took her hand, said something to Oliver and Dorian about returning her to them later, and yanked (Y/N) to the direction of the made up dance floor, making her almost drop the cup she was holding.

It was an unspoken rule between them, whenever one of their favourite songs was on the radio, they would stop what they were doing, important or not, and start to dance and sing, without caring about other people’s opinion. It was something like a ritual that had become a safe space and a signature of their friendship for both of the girls.

A few seconds through the song had played when Celine stopped dancing and approached her friend, whispering something in her ear.

“Okay, don’t look and don’t freak out, but Oliver hot stuff Wood is staring at you.”

“What? What do I do?”

“Just keep dancing, I guess, maybe he likes it.”

“I don’t know how to dance, why would he like it?”

Confusion and panic in her eyes, (Y/N) tried to think about all the logical reasons Oliver Wood, one of the most attractive guys in the school, could be watching her dance. The girl knew she wasn’t beautiful, even if her best friend repeatedly said so, she wasn’t funny or interesting and, on top of all, she belonged in Slytherin, the House with the worst reputation.

“No idea, but whatever it is, keep doing it.”

Her best friend winked at her, a large and contagious smile spreading over her face. Grabbing one of (Y/N)’s hands, she made her twirl around following the fast beat of the song. Seizing the opportunity, (Y/N) glanced at Oliver and discovered that he was, indeed, staring at her while he drank from his black cup.

A random and unexpected laugh flew out of her mouth. Her best friend, carefree as always, began to giggle with her while dancing around the room. She had never felt more alive, and some people would think she was ridiculous for actually thinking it, but singing her favourite song at the top of her lungs, dancing and laughing and just having fun with her best friend. Excitement running through her veins uniting with the nerves Oliver’s attention towards her had provoked; a slight headache caused by the alcohol mixing with the new confidence coming from the same thing.

Aware of the dark brown eyes focusing on her, she turned around once more, but this time she didn’t look away. She kept singing, beaming at him from the middle of the dance floor, and maintaining eye contact. A sudden thought appeared on her mind, if she’d had maybe one more full cup of Quintin Black, perhaps she would’ve been confident enough to ask him on a date.

Don’t go wasting your emotions, lay all your love on me.

Don’t go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me.

(Y/N) didn’t think that he would take that as an invitation when she whispered the words while looking at him, it wasn’t even meant to be one, but Oliver Wood had left his cup on the table next to him and was now walking towards her.

A little small talk, a smile and baby I was stuck.

I still don’t know what you’ve done with me.

#harry potter #harry potter oneshot #harry potter imagine #harry potter x reader #slytherin!reader #oliver wood #oliver wood x reader #oliver wood x slytherin!reader #slytherin #harry potter fanfiction #oliver wood imagine #fluff #oliver wood fanfiction #oliver wood oneshot #hp imagine

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emerald-phoenix-dragon · 3 years

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"straight as a ruler"

Hey yall, here’s the long-awaited deamus fic that we’ve all been waiting for! If you want to follow my tumblr, it’s on my instagram profile now :). And if anyone from tumblr wants to follow my instagram, my handle’s @em.jade_dragon on there! Do like, share, save, reblog etc my posts, it really helps! More interaction (i.e interaction with my stories, commenting) would be very much appreciated :D. Anyways, without further ado, let’s get into things!

This is an eighth-year AU. TW/CW: food, alcohol, parties. stay safe everyone!

After the war, Professor McGonagall (now headmistress) invited all of the previous seventh-years back to Hogwarts to give them the chance to learn all of what they missed out on, as well as complete their NEWTs if they wished to do so. Most of the students did end up returning, even though a lot of them already had jobs (or offers that they had accepted).

The “eighth-years” were given their very own common room, and Dean was very glad for this.

It had been a relatively easy Saturday, and now, it was around 6pm, and the sun had just set. And because it was a Saturday, everyone was prepared for the event they all looked forward to - the weekly eight-year party. When Dean finally arrived on scene, albeit slightly late due to some solo quidditch practise (they didn't have any teams, but the eighth-years often had fun matches that were inter-house) to take his mind off something that had been bugging him for a while: Seamus. he couldn't quite put a finger on why he was having that nagging, butterfly-feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of his late best friend, but he kept on ignoring it hoping it'd go a way. He had the slightest suspicion what it might've been - after all, Dean was pretty sure he was pansexual, so it wasn't completely unexpected. But he'd intentionally tried to forget about it. He had, for a little, whilst he was outside, but now, as he entered the common room, he grew queasy again knowing his best friend would be looking for him.

As soon as he stepped foot inside, he noticed that a lot of people were already half-wasted. He must've been later than he thought.

"Dean-y, there you are!" He turned to see Ginny Weasley bounding towards him cheerfully, her eyes a little glassy. Other than that, she appeared to be pretty sober. "Gin, hey," Dean replied, giving her a light hug. They'd dated for a short while previously, but had broken it off after they both realised they were better of as friends. He was glad for that - they'd never have worked out, not when Ginny was practically in love with another classmate of theirs (spoiler alert - it wasn't Harry). He knew she, Neville and Luna had snuck into the party again. Not that anybody minded.

Ginny laughed loudly, and ran a hand through her cropped shoulder-length hair. She'd reportedly gotten Neville to cut it for her. "Needed a change", Dean remembered her telling him a month back. It suited her. "Dean, helloOo?" Ginny waved her hand in his face, and Dean blinked. "Come on, let's go say hi to everyone else!" she said, and promptly dragged him to the end corner of the room. There, on the couch, sat the golden trio, squished in with the bronze trio group. Neville and Luna were there too - Neville and Blaise were engaged in a flirty conversation on the floor, and Luna smiling fondly at them. She turned when Dean and Ginny approached.

"Oh, hello, Dean. How was quidditch practise?" she asked sweetly. He told her it was fine and she nodded. "Got a case of wrack spurts around you. Seamus, too."

Dean wondered what it meant. He was about to ask but before he could Ginny had strolled up to her girlfriend and had begun kissing Luna rather passionately. Sighing, he sat down near Blaise.

Hermione and Ron were cackling loudly with Pansy, who was telling a story involving Draco and the giant squid. Draco was silently sulking, leaning against Harry who was playing mindlessly with his partner's hair. "Dean, mate, you made it!" Harry said, nodding at him.

He smiled slightly. "Yeah. What'd I miss?" "Well, Dray here's been traumatised by Pansy and Ron and 'Mione-" "-They were not!-" Pansy cut in, now listening to the conversation as Hermione and Ron started discussing something about Percy Weasley and his new relationship with Oliver Wood.

Dean and Harry laughed. Malfoy scowled, but their eyes were light. "-Anyways, Ron and 'Mione and I had a fun time teasing Blaise and Nev, and at some point we were all dancing to ABBA music but we settled down again." Harry continued.

Ron nodded. He made a terrible impression of Parvati and Lavender, who had been singing along, before he stopped and seemed to remember something. "Oh yeah, and Seamus came looking for you. Not sure where he's gone now, but Luna said something about some girl rejecting him and now he's probably sulking-" Luna, by this point, had tuned into the conversation, with Ginny now sitting in her lap and gazing lovingly at her. "I never said she was a she, Ron. But yes, he had quite a lot of fuzz around his head." "You should go check on him, mate, he's your bestie!" Ginny suddenly exclaimed, her voice slurring. Dean nodded and got up, exiting the scene.

***

Despite having left his circle of friends rather swiftly, Dean had been interrupted several times for small chats and drinks with people in the room before he could even start searching for Seamus. He'd heard the latest gossip from Padma Patil and Wayne Hopkins, been given a bottle of fire whisky from Theo Nott, and had discussed the uses of owl feathers with owl enthusiast Michael Corner. At this point he'd gotten rather tired and was a tad bit intoxicated.

He ended exiting the common room and heading down into a more quiet hallway to try and sober up, when he'd heard quiet sniffling in the corner. Curious, Dean cautiously approached the noise to find Seamus sitting hunched against the wall, a bottle cradled in his palms. When Dean approached him, Seamus looked up and wiped the tears from his eyes rather swiftly.

"Guess you finally decided to turn up whilst your best mate got his heart broken, huh?" he said bitterly, his Irish accent coming out thicker than it usually did. Dean's heart melted a little, and he felt incredibly guilty. "Seamus, I'm so sorry I was clearing my head out a bit at the quidditch pitch and lost track of time, I feel awful I-" Seamus put a hand up, telling him to stop. He stood up and put the bottle on the floor. Dean couldn't help but notice how soft Seamus' hair looked tonight, and how toned his muscles were through the thin school shirt. Seamus, unfortunately, noticed Dean's staring. "What're you staring at for?" "I- nothing", Dean said quickly, awkwardly scratching his neck, looking away at the wall for a second. He'd forgotten how incredibly fit the Irish boy was, even though he was both taller and more muscular than Seamus. They stood in silence a bit, before Seamus spoke up. "I asked someone out today. Thought I'd give m'self a shot, y'know? But they said no. It wasn't a girl who- who rejected me. It-" he breathed out shakily, and Dean realised how incredibly shattered he was, and put a hand on Seamus' arm without thinking about it too much. "-It was a guy. Stephen something from Ravenclaw."

Dean didn't know what to say. He had wondered if his best friend had been 'bent', but never really thought about it too deeply. Inwardly he felt his guts churn and he suddenly felt strangely content, but he wasn't sure why "I- I'm so sorry mate, that's awful," he began, and trying to lighten the atmosphere, continued, "Maybe Steph wasn't into white guys?" His best mate laughed, and it was a broken, hollow sound. "Thanks Dean-o, really makes meh feel better. Perhaps he's into you, eh?" "I- well I'm not into him-" he began, but Seamus cut him off. "Bloody no shit, you're straight as a ruler!"

"But I'm not. Straight as a ruler, you say. I'm- I think I'm pan, Shay." "I- what?" Somehow, without Dean realising, Seamus had brought his hands onto his chest. And now all he could feel was his calloused palms digging slightly onto his chest, over his erratically beating heart. "I thought I was the gay bloke out of the two of us! Like, I dunno, at least the only fruity one."

"I guess you thought wrong." Dean said awkwardly.

"I guess I did." They stood there for another minute, staring at each other.

And suddenly Dean remembered that he was still holding onto Seamus rather tightly, so he made to let go, when he felt hands sliding down to his waist and gripping him. Astonished, he glanced up from staring at the floor and looked into his best mate's deep brown eyes. He reached his other hand out unconsciously, cupping his chin. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" Shay said, the lilt in his tongue sounding for some reason really hot.

Next thing Dean knew, Seamus had crashed his lips onto him, pushing him into the opposite wall of the narrow corridor.

He didn't respond at first. Seamus stopped for a second, pulling back. "Kiss me back, you dolt, or I swear to merlin I'll be punching that fucking sexy face of yours-" Next thing Seamus knew, Dean was snogging him back.

~fin

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dandeebakes · 2 years

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Thank you @smooth-crimminal for tagging me 🤩

Three favourite albums I've been listening to lately. Two of my all time favs and one new love…

Want One-Rufus Wainwright

Rufus my beloved. This is my number one favorite album of all time. I discovered Rufus when I was in college in rural Maine, after growing up in small town New Hampshire. Want One was given to me by a friend who, at the time, was the only person who knew I was struggling with coming out. As soon as I heard it I beelined to this record store called Bull Moose (Maine, y’all) and bought his entire discography (at the time) and lost my damn mind. He was the first artist I ever heard sing openly about queer love and queer relationships and it CHANGED MY FUCKING LIFE. This album so important to me.

ABBA: The Definitive Collection (the two disc set, duh)

ABBA. All day every day. Even when I’m not listening to ABBA, I’m still listening to ABBA. ABBA plays in my head 24/7. Growing up in my stupid small town I got picked on because I unabashedly loved disco, and not The Backstreet Boys or Hanson or whatever else was “cool” at the time. But I didn’t care then and I still don’t care now. *Dani Rojas voice* Disco is Life!

Phoebe Bridgers-Stranger in the Alps

I JUST start getting into Phoebe Bridgers and I’m a little obsessed. Motion Sickness is my current favorite song. I listened to it on repeat like 8 times yesterday.

I’ll tag a few folks I’ve known for a while and few folks I’d love to get to know better!

@stitchyblogs @rcmclachlan @lemonistas @themrsscience @colinhughesboyo @your-poetic-cousin-clover @sharonfieldstone @itslucyhenley

#honorable mention to Tegan and Sara heartthrob #sorry if you've already been tagged #I LOVE learning about peoples favorite music

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the-leafiest-leafwing · 3 years

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AbsoLUTELY i can

First off cricket plays with blue's antenna and you can't convince me otherwise

Also yk that part in hive queen (I think) when blue's silk wraps around cricket's wrist and connects their talons? He does that a lot and cricket thinks it's adorable

After reading the lost continent I got this idea that cricket had a secret passion for art which was reawakened when she had to paint blue's scales, and after realizing that, blue's like "wait we don't have paper because we're on the run from the government" and therefore lets cricket paint his scales as a substitute

cricket prob has adhd or autism. you can't prove me wrong

sometimes cricket will go off on long rambles about some obscure interest of hers and blue will just be sitting there listening very carefully, resting his chin on his hands with a dorky lil smile on his face

whenever they're cuddling they have a very hard time deciding who gets to be the little spoon

blue gets flustered very very easily. so does cricket but a lot of the time flirting just doesn't compute with her

blue writes poetry. whether for cricket or not, he loves writing poetry

when cricket realizes blue didn't get to buy candy and stuff like that a lot bc he's a silkwing, she makes it her personal mission to take him to as many sweetshops as possible and buy him ALL the honey drops

thats sort of part of my headcanon that cricket comes from a pretty rich family, specifically her mom

(modern au) blue likes listening to lofi and soft rock music

some of his fave songs are the middle, mr. brightside, and semi-charmed life. he also really likes hozier and glass animals

cricket listens to a little bit of everything, but she likes old artists like queen, abba, and the beatles. also she has a lot of dark academia playlists

(human au) when cricket gets her period, blue gives her his flamesilk as a heat pad for her cramps

(ok now back to normal)

cricket actually really likes being out in the savanna. it calms her mind, like the way music does for qibli

oh yeah she and qibli would get along great

out of all the jw members blue would probably resonate with moon the most

in their own lil group (rebels of pantala!!), blue is the mom friend and cricket is the one who accidentally gets in trouble and drags the others along with her

blue has recurring nightmares but they go away when he sleeps near others

before he met cricket he would go to luna or swordtail for comfort, because one of his moms works at night and the other has to work in the morning so blue wants to make sure they get as much sleep as possible

remember the scene in hazel's room in the poison jungle (I'm pretty sure) where they go to sleep and swordtail has his wing over blue? that's a habit formed by all the times he comforted blue after his nightmares

#i kinda got carried away but yeah here u go #i love them sm #wings of fire #wof #blicket #blue wof #cricket wof #rebels of pantala #wof headcanons #wings of fire headcanons #long post #i wrote these really late at night so some of them might not make sense but im proud of them nonetheless

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rotzaprachim · 4 years

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Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.)

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

#the old guard #joe x nicky #the old guard fic #yusuf x nicolo #yusuf al-kaysani #nicolo di genova #my writings

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