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witch-hazels-musings · 3 years

Text

nightmares

Includes: Childe, Albedo, Xiao

Warnings -> STRONG emotional images (panic attack, spectral hands grasping at character, feeling of overwhelming fear and dread) -> leads to comfort

Synopsis: Nightmares plague the characters sleep and they wake up startled - the reader comforts them

I’m a SUCKER for painful things man - I want to put them through hell just to pull them back up again ...

Anthology

Childe

He was drowning, suffocating by the thousands of hands pulling him deeper into the terrifying darkness he ran from. Their nails dug into his skin, pulling it back to reveal the horrors laying underneath. The thousands of vile acts he had done in service of the Tsaritsa, for the Fatui, now pouring from him and feeding the hunger of the hands, urging them to dig deeper into him until there was nothing left.

He reached out toward the distant light, gasping and desperate.

Childe...

The light called to him, speaking his name as if he were worth more than being a simple tool, a means to an end. The dirty hands grabbed at his face, he struggled with every ounce of his strength to get away. The fear of seeing what lay beyond the reach of the light spurring his determination. He screamed and nothing came out, instead his mouth filled with bloody fingers.

Childe violently awoke, lurching forward with incredible force and urgency. He was drenched in sweat and fiercely forced air into his lungs. When he felt a hand on his arm he jerked away stumbling from the bed in heartbreaking distress.

“Childe …” he heard your voice, saw your hand reaching out to him, saw how you looked at him as if he were some wild animal: fearfully. “It’s me … do you see me.” he watched as you moved the sheets from your legs. “You’re safe, it’s okay.” you moved toward the edge of the bed, “Put the knife down.” He looked down into his hand and saw he was gripping onto the knife which he kept in the nightstand. His fingers wrapped so tightly around it that they had turned a painful shade of white.

The beating of his heart continued to race even as he straightened himself out, even as he rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

“I’m okay …” he spoke the words more to himself than to you, like a montra he recited every day. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

He heard the bed creak and, returning his attention to you, he saw you making your way toward him, hands open in an attempt to show him you didn’t mean any harm.

“Is it okay? Can I come to you?” the words are covered in honey, and he knew you were trying to cover up the hesitation of your steps. He placed the knife on the windowsill and nodded, making sure you knew he wouldn’t hurt you.

The feeling of your arms wrapping around him was akin to a drug. You provided him with comfort he’d never known, the sensation of your face resting against his chest, he reveled in it. Your voice had this magical power of reaching him no matter where he was, or what he was.

“Your heart is beating so fast. That must have been one intense dream.” your lips connect with the space over his beating heart.

“You can’t imagine,” he breathes into your hair, resting his face in it’s wild locks. He lets your scent fill him up, and this connection helps to calm him.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” you shift your head making him lift his own, you stare at one another in the moonlit room before he finally answers your question.

“I don’t want to make my fears your own,” he places a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m pretty tough, I can handle it.” you squeeze your arms around him in a playful manner which elicited a chuckle from Childe. “But, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’ll always listen, if you ever change your mind.”

His heart rate slowed, thanks to the proximity of your own giving it the ability to match it’s pace.

“Thanks,” He scooped you up and led you back to the bed, and once you got settled in between the sheets he slid down to rest his head against your chest. There he was able to drift back into a peaceful sleep by the rhythmic thumping of your heart and the movement of your fingers in his hair.

Albedo

There was a long hallway, incredibly long, unending. His footsteps echoed off the walls and when he glanced upward he couldn’t find the ceiling. A child was laughing further down the passage, and he followed after it until he reached a blinding light, without hesitation he stepped through it.

On the other side was a bustling city filled with laughing citizens weaving between one another, going about their day under the warmth of the sun. As he walked through the streets, he noted how the citizens didn’t seem to mind him. A woman stumbled before him and he reached out his hand to help her, when she turned to thank him her face contorted into uncomfortable, inhumane shapes. She screamed causing Albedo to stumble backwards and, in unison, every citizen stared at him, their mouths open, screaming. Their voices culminated into an unholy sound which unraveled his soul.

Suddenly, shackles appeared around his wrists, his ankles, his neck. Their icy touch seeping into his skin. When he touched them the screaming only grew louder which caused him to cover his ears, tears falling from his eyes onto the stones below, which were now covered in snow. He looked up and saw burning buildings. Screaming families desperately trying to hold onto their children as the walls crumbled around them. He looked onward, and without warning the ground beneath him opened up and swallowed him whole.

Albedo, in a hysterical fit, pushed himself off of his chest and onto his knees. His arms extended to keep him from the mattress and he watched how it became damp from the sweat dripping off of him. His heart was beating way too fast, he couldn’t breath, his chest felt tight and it began to make him panic.

“Albedo?” a voice called to him, but the beating in his ears made it impossible to hear. He felt a hand slide along his back and it caused him to sit up suddenly, smacking the hand away from him. When his eyes saw you in the darkness he wondered what face he must be making based on the way you looked at him.

“Albedo …” you called again. He grasped at his chest hoping he could find a way to pull the invisible weight off of him. His breathing still erratic. “Hey, look at me.” you told him, and when he looked at you he saw you were now sitting closer to him, your hand extended to his chest. The warmth of your fingers broke through the chill smothering his body and he watched as you pulled his hand to your chest.

“Do you feel my heartbeat? Feel my breathing.” and he did. The even in and out of your chest, the steady thump of your heartbeat. He felt them. “That’s it, match my rhythm.” You placed your other hand on his shoulder, which provided him another way to ground himself. The images started to fade from his mind and were replaced by the outline of your frame, illuminated by the soft light from the bedside table.

You looked at him and gave him a warm smile. “Keep breathing, I’m here.” You stroke his face and that’s when he learns he had been crying. He pressed his face into your palm, breathing in the sweet smell of your skin. “I’m here, and I’ll be here until you’re ready to sleep again.”

You stayed with him even as the sun started to fill your room and birds chirped out morning salutations.

Xiao

An epic battle raged around him, the sounds of victorious and pained screams mixing with the clashing of swords and heavy claymores. He was running quickly through the mass of bodies thrusting and flying through the air. His mind focused and clear, it had to be if they were expected to win.

To his left he saw the flash of red fabric, to his right he heard the booming voice of another and when he found the source he smiled to himself. It seemed that even through all of this the yaksha’s were able to relish and live. He felt his heart move at their elegant movements, how they used the strength of one another to quell the mania of the world. Xiao continued to run, his movements turning into a blur at the speed. In fact, he ran so fast that time seemed to move with him until he came skidding to a stop in an open field.

He looked behind him confused as to how he got here, wondering if he had passed through some portal or door. He was alerted to a shriek and turned forward only to feel a sharp stabbing sensation pierce his chest. It propelled him backwards and as he fell, red strings claimed him. They wrapped around him, completely enveloping him and held him suspended. Again, there was a shriek. He turned his head and wished that he hadn’t. He saw the face of his kin pleading and begging to another before being struck down violently. Their body ripping in half before him. The yaksha decorated in purple garments turned and with a great thrust of their weapon impaled another. Xiao watched as their body, bathed in blue light, went limp and with the flick of the wrist were tossed into oblivion.

Xiao writhed and pulled at the strings capturing his limbs, he spat and yelled but couldn’t escape. His head shook violently, unable to deal with the scene in front of him, and unable to do anything to stop it. He closed his eyes letting his angry tears drop into the black water slowly rising over his body.

“Xiao,” a voice called out and when he opened his eyes he saw the dangling bodies of his yaksha family impaled against the nothingness which drowned him.

He awoke in a fit. He felt the scream spill from his throat as he lurched upward. Around him things began to fall to the floor, toppling back to the ground as if a huge gust of wind had picked everything up all at once. Before his eyes a piece of paper fluttered past him before slipping under the trunk next to the window. Something touched his shoulder and in a second he had the perpetrator in a tight hold, one hand viciously wrapped around their wrist and the other gripping onto an arm.

“It’s me, it’s me!” his eyes were clouded, but he knew the voice. “Come back … it’s me.” The breath in his lungs was hot, almost as if he had been standing next to an active volcano. His mouth was heaving in an attempt to grasp back to reality, to still his overworked mind. The sound of humming filled the room, it’s soft, slow tone pulling him in. He focused on it, taking the tune in as if it were a lifeline, the only light in the dark space which surrounded him. After a bit, his eyesight began to clear and when he saw you, eyes closed humming to him, and his hand digging into your wrist he quickly let go.

“You’re back,” you whisper, sending him a soft, ‘i’m relieved’ smile.

He crawled off of the bed and made his way to the window, desperately in need for some fresh air, and an escape.

“Whatever you saw in your dream, must have been very frightening.” your voice stilled his movements. “I’ll be here when you decide to come back,” he looks back at you, your legs crossed, hands resting in the blanket. The moonlight illuminates the space there, casting white shadows along your chest and face. You look like an ethereal being in this moment, and there is a call in his chest to return to you.

His heart is still so heavy, and even though his breath has returned to a normal state, buzzing energy continues running through his veins. He looks at your wrist and can see a bruise beginning to form. He can’t risk letting his energy out with you near him, it’s too dangerous. Even though he feels the stab in his chest, he slips out the window and into the night sky.

In the morning when you wake up you find qingxin flowers resting on the table next to the bed. You lift them and inhale their scent.

“How did you sleep?” you turn to see Xiao perched in the window, his eyes downcast.

“Alright,” you sniff the flowers again, “you came back.”

He huffs at you and looks back out the window. His back resting against the windowsill, one leg bent so he can rest his arm on it, the other dangling over the edge. Sliding out of the bed you make your way over to him, taking up the space at his side. He looks at you and you can see he is looking at the bruise on your wrist. Placing his head in his palm he reaches down and grabs onto your wrist with the other. His fingers brush over the darkening skin.

“Welcome back.” you whisper into the wind.

#genshin impact #genshin impact musings #genshin impact fiction #genshin impact X reader #childe X reader #genshin childe #childe #albedo x reader #genshin albedo #albedo #xiao x reader #genshin xiao #xiao

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moonoreos · 3 years

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fic: it’s a metaphor

Dosan remembers that first day. He saw her in the midst of a bustling crowd. He saw her, and it was as if time had stood still. He very well knew time actually did not stop, but it sure felt like it had. Pedestrians zigzagged through the paved concrete to make their way across the park, but he stayed immobile. It was only when their eyes met that he released the breath he had been holding.

Was that the moment everything changed?

It’s impossible not to agonize over what could have been in the aftermath of heartbreak. It was all he could think about for a good while. He spent years trying to beat it out of himself, trying to convince his wayward heart that it doesn’t need an anchor, but one look at her and he’s right back where he began. Time away did nothing to dull the sting. It remains just as acute as it was the day it found him.

Or was it when it first dawned on him that sail off without a map held a world of possibilities?

She is leaning against his shoulder now, asleep and unaware of the chaos she inspires in his mind. The fire he stoked earlier crackles in the quiet night. He's not sure if the warmth emanating through his body is feeling its effect or the effects of her closeness that he has been starved for all this time.

Dalmi shifts a fraction, and the hair he’d tucked behind her ear falls over her face again. Reflexively, he reaches over and pulls it back for her. She has smudges of dirt on both of her cheeks. He thumbs over one side, and it’s barely a graze but he still feels the pleasant buzz of her skin. The smudge remains. With a sigh, he turns to the business plan he holds in his hands.

The possibilities were endless, Dalmi had said about Tarzan. Just how much could it learn?

Dalmi has always been a dreamer. A seasoned one at that who is keen on solving problems, not letting them become the nail on the coffin of the ideas she spins.

It was a concept he couldn’t ever grasp. To dream was to be brave, to want something so unfailingly that the prospect of failure itself would never be a deterrent. It was a terrifying idea. He could not set himself up for something that was just as likely to fail as it was to succeed. Life offered too many uncontrolled variables, too many uncertainties.

He flips through the pages, studying the scope and intended applications, the road to an MVP, short term and long term goals, and he can see it all so clearly. Dosan has never been particularly visually inclined, but Dalmi evokes something in him. She has a formula figured out, a way of imagining things, that immediately make sense to his one-track mind. She speaks, and he sees colors in her words—red, green, blue, and all the others he never thought of before he met her. He sees moving pictures brought to life in vivid sharpness, sees the solution of a problem he had never even thought of. Dalmi is a visionary, bursting with life and ideas for how it can be elevated. Dosan became familiar with the sense of fulfillment that had alluded him most of his life in working with Dalmi, in making her colorful, broad stroked dreams come true.

Perhaps that is why she came to be his dream. He wonders now; was it then that he reached the point of no return? When he realized that he wanted nothing more than to become the man who was deserving of her beautiful heart and the pure, unbridled warmth it exuded? It was the first thing he'd wanted unfailingly, even with the heavily skewed probability that he was going to fail.

Dalmi stirs awake, lifts her head off his shoulders leaving room for the cold air to rush in.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she says, not looking at him.

“You should get some more sleep.”

“No,” she says, decisively turning to him. “I didn’t come here to sleep. We need to—”

She is pointing at the Tarzan business plan still in his hands.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

What did he think?

His thoughts are clear as the starry night sky, but he struggles to verbalize them. This is another fork in the road. The first time he knowingly took the wrong turn. The road was riddled with several thorns, but the joy of falling in love with Dalmi easily overpowered any pain he felt, any pain he still feels. If given the chance, he’d take the same wrong turn again in a heartbeat.

But he needs to do right by her this time. It’s what Dalmi deserves. He will survive even if he is not standing next to Dalmi, even if there is someone else in place next to her. After three years being oceans apart, he’s just grateful that he gets to breathe the same air as her.

“What can I do to make you work with us? At least tell me the terms you want,” she prods, when Dosan doesn’t offer anything.

“Forget it.”

“Stock options, ten percent?”

“Dalmi-ah, forget it.”

“Or do you want shares now? I can try and persuade unnie.”

“The money I got when 2STO took over Samsan Tech,” he begins, steadying his voice. “I still have it. With that money, I want to acquire shares in Cheongmyeong Company.”

He turns to face her, holds her gaze confidently, as she furrows her brows in confusion.

“What are you talking about? That should be your money. Just join the company. About shares, I’ll talk to unnie—”

“That’s my condition.”

The question in her eyes makes the dull ache in his chest sharper.

“I know, you and Team Leader Han are…,” he can’t say it, he just can’t. “I will always respect your decision. In business and—, and in everything.”

He looks away, moves to pick up the cup ramen that is lukewarm to touch now. He can still feel the weight of her eyes on him. It makes the storm inside his heart rage even harder. He reaches for the second cup ramen and pushes it towards her.

“Team Leader Han and I,” she starts, pulling the chopsticks off the edge of the cup ramen. “We’re not… we’re not together.”

It’s possible his jaw would have dropped to the floor if he hadn’t been chewing mouthful of ramen. He slurps the last of it and looks at Dalmi uncertainly.

“But Team Leader—”

“It’s not true,” she interrupts, hastily.

Dosan would be much more upset with Han Jipyeong if Dalmi hadn’t been looking at him with her wide expectant eyes this very moment.

“I—,” he starts, and stumbles immediately. “I mean, it would’ve made sense if you two were together. He is your first love.”

“My first love, Nam Dosan from the letters, doesn’t exist.” She sighs, setting the cup ramen down. “My first love was an illusion, but my feelings for you, the real Nam Dosan, was never an illusion. I’m sorry I said things I didn’t mean.” Her voice is shaking by the end, her eyes filled with tears.

Dosan is overwhelmed, but his hands move of their own accord when her tears spill. He pulls her closer instinctively, an old habit borne out of the need to reassure her in times of distress.

“Dalmi-ah. Don’t cry.” He has her face cupped in his hands, wipes the tears running down her cold cheeks with his thumbs.

“I thought about you everyday,” she says, lips quivering. And Dosan can’t believe what he is hearing. He wants to echo her words, because it’s true for him too. His every waking moment was haunted by traces of her—sometimes as a pleasant memory that gave him the strength to pull through a difficult day, more often as an omnipresent ache in the hollow of his chest. He wants to tell her these things, so she knows what she means to him, but there is a knot in his throat that he can’t unentangle. All he can bring himself to say is, “Why?"

She blinks back her tears, looks at him in confusion. “Why do you like me?” He asks again.

He continues when she doesn’t offer a response. “I am not the one who wrote the letters. I’m not the one who comforted you. I lied to you, I hurt you. Why do you like me?”

Dosan feels tears stinging the corner of his own eyes. He’s still recovering from the whiplash after learning that Dalmi is not with Han Jipyeong, but these doubts have plagued him for a long time. Even when things were fine between them, before the house of cards crumbled, he could never be sure that it was really him that Dalmi liked.

She takes a deep breath, reaches for his hands that are still cupping her face. Her hands bring a sharp awareness, but Dosan doesn’t flinch. It warms his heart instead as she uses her own hand to steady his and nuzzles her cheek into his palm further.

Sensing what is coming next, he beats her to the punch. “You like my hands. Only my hands. How can that beat someone you held in your heart for fifteen years?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” The pain in her eyes is a pinch in his own chest. He would do anything to take it away from her, but he needs to know for certain so he persists.

“Why do you like me?”

“It’s a metaphor,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“What?"

“Your hands. They’re so much more than just that, they're all of you. I like you because of you. You’re the whole and only reason.”

It takes a moment for him to process this but when he does, he is dizzy with relief. Dosan feels his heart soar, and suddenly, he is a different kind of overwhelmed. Tears spill over his eyes, but he's smiling through them. Dalmi’s eyes soften, and mirror the relief on his own. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like they are on the same page again. And that means everything to him.

His eyes slip to her parted lips, his thumb inches closer and just barely grazes the tip of her cupid’s bow. She closes her eyes at that. Dosan doesn’t know much about physical intimacy, but he knows that that's a green light.

Nam Dosan has relived their first kiss countless times since that blissful evening on the Morning Group rooftop. He had been so sure he would never forget the softness of her lips, the dizzying force of her fondness. It had been one of the few things that kept him going when he woke up in a foreign city, not knowing how he fit in, for three years.

When their lips touch, he knows his memory had failed him. Her lips are ice cold but gliding his own against it is a high like no other. They kiss slowly at first, like they are building a fire from the sparks that fly between them. She moves closer, snakes her arms around his neck, and the fire ignites in earnest. Dosan chases after the heat, licks it off her bottom lip, and feels her breath hitche. Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss but he can’t bring himself to put much distance between them. Dalmi’s cheeks are tinted pink, and the smudges of dirt do nothing to deter from the picture of loveliness she makes.

She opens her eyes after a moment, like she’s waking up from a daze. Her pupils are dilated, and her brows raised in question.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse and overcome with emotion. He doesn’t wait for a response, immediately leans back in and closes the gap between them. There’s so much more that needs to be said, but it can wait. Tomorrow will come soon enough, and the sun will bring with it light and clarity.

For now though, under the cloak of the starry night, Dosan wants to curl closer to her warmth, and whisper his boundless longing into her lips.

#start-up #startup #tvn start up #nam dosan #seo dalmi #dodal

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jokertrap-ran · 4 years

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[7′Scarlet] Short Story: Toa: Morning Bustle Translations

*Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Commissioned by @melynir, thank you!

Commissions are still open!

2 weeks prior, Okunezato Supernatural Club’s off-day meeting.

Beep, beep, beep―—

The sound reverberated through the air. The alarm clock’s shrill alarm sounded.

Sleepy...got to get up...Mmngh, just a little more…

I pulled the covers above my head again.

―—This is the best time of the day; where the tug of war occurs between the animalistic desire of sleep and human reasoning.

Everything in this world functions on a rule of give-and-take. Happiness always comes with suffering. Happiness and sadness. The carrot and the stick. Punishment and sin...Oh, that one’s not right.

Quibbling mentally up in my head, I reached a hand out from my blanket cocoon towards the bedside table. I hit the switch on it and the alarm clock went regretfully silent.

And then, I slowly sunk back into the gentle clutches of sleep.

This is...can’t bear it...mumble, mumble.

Having fallen back into forbidden slumber, it was about time for my second “awakening” to arrive. With a shuffle and a rustle, “that” came snuck into my cocoon of blankets. “Meoww~” It cried as it started licking at my cheek.

“Ahaha...that tickles!”

I move to stroke it’s neck, but it didn’t stop “that'' from it’s continuous licking endeavours.

“Alright, I’ll get up. I’ll get up…!”

Something finally clicked in my head and I opened up the blanket cocoon I made before sitting up in bed.

“Morning, Ruri. I see that you’re right on the dot today as well.”

Meoow.

The Calico staring up at me by my feet had suddenly appeared before me last Summer. I had just been hitting the switch on the alarm clock to turn it off as usual when I heard something rattling at the window panes that morning. I had originally intended to leave it be, but it was just so persistent that I eventually decided to open the window a little..

Meoow. It took one step inside from the open window and looked up at me.

Ever since that day, I decided to leave the windows open when I sleep. Something even better and much more effective than my alarm clock would come slinking after the alarm clock rang. And it’d also sneak into my blankets. That’s why I just can’t help but to look forward to Ruri waking me up. I’d even bathe it, if I had enough time on my hands. That being said however, even I don’t know where it usually goes or what it usually does out there. There are times where I have to leave this house. Sometimes for a week at a time. Even so, it’ll still come by every morning, just to wake me up, as if it was already a routine.

What day is it today again…?

I looked up at the calendar hanging on the wall.

...I can’t see anything.

“Err, where’s my glasses...glasses. Where did I leave it again?”

Meoww.

“Oh, thank you”

And it has even taken to helping me find my spectacles recently! I took my glasses from where Ruri was holding it in its mouth and put it on. My field of vision cleared up and expanded the moment I put them on.

“Err...today’s the 17th of July? Heh, it’s going to be soon.”

I took off the glasses that I had just put on, moving back to bundling myself up in the blankets and closed my eyes.

Ahh, yes...the bliss of sleeping in again…

Meooowr!

“Come on Ruri, over here.”

―—BA-DUM, TSS♪

A sudden loud sound started up by my ear, right at that moment. It wasn’t something comparable to a mere alarm clock when it came to volume. I hurriedly leapt out of bed at the loud rock and roll coming from my phone; it was enough to render me a migraine.

“Wha- ...W-What IS this!?”

Looking around, I spotted my phone going off right next to where I had left my glasses.

“Dang, I haven’t changed my ringtone yet...”

Fetching my phone from beside my pillow, I glanced at the caller ID that was reflected on the screen. I gave a small sigh. I really didn’t want to pick it up, but they’d only call back if I ignored it… I resignedly hit the green button and answered the phone.

“Yes, hello―—”

“Toa! What time do you think it is right now!?” “You’re not telling me that you’re still atop your bed right now, right!?”

The person on the other end of the line had disregarded my greeting before going off, berating my right year.

“And to think that the others here come in one time...” “You’re going to be fired today if you don’t come in on time, you hear? F-I-R-E-D.”

“Um..I’ve already given up, so this doesn’t have anything to do with the others, don’t you think?”

“Argh! What’s with this guy!? This has only become all so complicated because you went off on your own accord saying that you’ll be taking a break since the 1st of August! Do you know what that means?”

“I know...I do feel bad for causing trouble for everyone.”

“Are you even aware that going all the way to such a rural country-side won’t net you anything? Even with all that considered, you persisted and...:”

I bit back a yawn as he went on and on with his sermon.

“...Hey, are you even listening? You just yawned just now, didn’t you?”

“Did not.”

I sucked at lying.

“Ll- Heck, that was a lie earlier, wasn’t it? Honestly...I really wonder who’s the one keeping an eye out for you and making sure that you do your work right, like you should be!”

“Err...It’s thanks to Gamaki…”

“My, how correct you are on that! What a good boy, aren’t you!? ...And if you understand at least this much, how about you get off that bed right this instant, wash up, brush you teeth, change, put on your shoes, open the door, get out and lock it behind yo―—”

Beep.

Mrrawo?

“Ah, it’s fine. It’s just the usual so you don’t have to worry about it, Ruri.”

Saying so, I tossed the phone back down on the bed.

“That person’s always like this. It’s not exactly impossible, but I wouldn’t want you to meet him.”

I yawned and stretched. I didn’t have to hold it back this time so I managed to enjoy a leisurely stretch.

“Yawwn...but, well, I really have to get up now.”

I got up from bed and started to stand up. And then―—

“Whoaaa!?”

My foot had stepped into the pile of clothes that I had haphazardly left there after having taken them off yesterday, catching me off-guard and eventually being the cause of my fall.

Crash!

“Oww…!”

I had crashed head-first into the floor as I laid there, slumped over.

“But..ahh...it feels so good to blank out in bed…”

...Meoow?

“Ah...I’m...I’m fine. I’m really such a clutz, aren’t I? Upsie daisie.”

―—BA-DUM, TSS♪

“Wha- Whoa- What!?”

The phone I had left atop my bed started going off again.

“I really have to hurry and change the ringtone.”

Beep.

“Hello? Toa? You cut the call earlier, didn’t you? You did, DIDN’T YOU!? Geez, I can’t believe you! I’m sure it must be because I brought you up wrongly. I’m certain that’s so!”

“Um...Can you not rage at me first thing in the morning?”

“Y-O-U! Are you overseas? Does this mean that the time difference is really huge? Heck, is this an international call!?

“What?”

“Look at the television!”

I hurriedly turned to the television and turned it on.

“This...This is…”

“Right? Do you understand now?”

“...I can’t...see…”

“Your glasses! Go put on your glasses!”

Mrraoow.

“Oh, thanks.”

I picked up my glasses from Ruri and turned back to look at the television screen.

“Err, the television...Wait, wha? ‘The Queen’s Lunch’?

“I wonder what time that particular programme airs?”

“Rumble, rumble―”

Meoow.

“It just started but only because this is a 2h programme. And you! You live in the Metropolitan Area and yet-”

Beep.

Mrraoo?

“Oh, it’s fine. This happens all the time.”

Saying so, I grabbed ahold of a pen and marked another ‘X’ to today’s date. Now the 31st of July has come to an end.

It feels like forever.

But I’m getting excited, just from imagining how it’d be like in that countryside; in Okunezato.

#7'scarlet #7scarlet #Otomate #Toa Kushinada #morikubo showtaro #morikubo shoutarou #Translations #commissions #comission #Translation comission #Otome

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fizzyxcustard · 4 years

Text

Love (Guy of Gisborne)

Day 16 of Lyn’s Writing Event

Event Masterlist

Summary: This is an immediate follow on to day 15, which was Mamhilapintapei. Guy is about to head off for a very secret, and potentially deadly, mission. Is this the last time you see him?

Warnings: Fluff, angst, hints of smut

Comments: If you wish to be added to or removed from my fic tag lists, please let me know. I’m not tagging some of the shorter fics because the tag lists wind up longer than the fic itself (Lol!)

As you traced the dark hallways back to your chamber, you could feel the painful tears falling down your cheeks and the lump stuck in your throat. The last few minutes that you had spent with Guy had confirmed to you that he didn’t have any kind of feelings for you which you had always hoped for.

But as you got to your door, you felt a stern hand on your waist. You jumped at the sudden movement and turned around to see Guy, his eyes burning through the darkness. Before you could say or do anything more, he was kissing you. And you both remained this way whilst his hand searched for the door handle, letting you both in. You half fell in, but he caught you. Your lips were still tight against each other’s and the kiss deepened more. Warmth and excitement was raging through you like electricity and you wanted to rip every last piece of clothing from him.

Between gasps and pants, you found yourself lowered to the bed. And then slowly you stopped. Guy was over you smiling. “I knew letting you go like that would be something I’d regret,” he said softly and gave you another peck of his lips.

“I love you,” you whispered, resting back into the soft covers of the bed beneath you. The words felt so right and as you said them, Guy smiled.

“If I return....” Guy began.

“No...when,” you corrected him.

“Alright, when I return,” Guy said again. “Will you...”

He couldn’t help but smile at you again and kiss you softly, his arms still wound around you. Then his lips trailed down your neck, drawing pent up moans from you. “Will I what?” you groaned. “You’re not going to try and distract me.”

Suddenly you gasped as you felt Guy’s hand trail up your inner thigh. Your fists tightened around the bedsheets as he began to venture further still and sift through your folds.

Guy smirked. “I’ve rendered you speechless, have I not? Good distraction?”

You only just managed a nod of your head and bit your lip.

That night you both quaked against each other in your ecstasy and passion. Guy made you his, his body around and within you. And you would never have wanted it any other way. His heart was well and truly yours.

By the time you had recovered from your last round of love making, you lay next to Guy, your chest still heaving up and down and the small aftershocks of an orgasm still flickering through you.

“Will I what?” you asked, turning on your side to face him. You grinned.

“You forget nothing,” Guy chuckled. A faint blush lit up his cheeks and he gently brushed his hand through your sweaty hair. “When I return, my love, will you be my wife?”

***

You woke the next morning to see the bed empty. The sun was already rising higher in the sky and you could hear the hustle and bustle of the townsfolk below. Guy had not woken you upon his departure, and for an hour after waking, you lay and sobbed.

You said a prayer for your fiancee, begging God to bring him home to you where you could be married and start a new life together. Maybe even have a family.

Your duties that day were torture. All you could do was think of Guy, imagining the first time you had ever seen him. He had come to your stall, leaning against it with a smirk between his lips. Those cold eyes of his had warmed up upon the sight of you. But his history with Marian had always made you wary of getting too close to him, secretly scared that he would continue his pursuit of her.

***

Time passed, weeks stretching into months. Every morning you woke and prayed for Guy, still asking God to bring him home. You would get washed, dressed and put on your apron, hoping it would hide your growing belly. You were beginning to show now and would no doubt be the talk of the townsfolk. To them you were a harlot, not a woman who was without the man she loved and had spent one night with him upon his exit from her life, possibly forever.

You exited the castle and descended the steps, hearing a commotion on the air. “He returns! He returns!”

In your state of constant sadness, you looked up, not really taking much notice. Until you saw a very familiar figure, dressed all in black, sat on his horse, come strolling through the gates.

#guy of gisborne #robin hood #Richard armitage #fanfic #guy of gisborne x you #guy of Gisborne x reader #Lyn's writing event

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visionsofus · 3 years

Note

Hi! Since i saw you already did another the script song, may i ask "I'm Yours" or "Flares" both by The Script?

Thank you and please keep writing, i love your fanfictions they give me so much joy!

hi anon! thanks for requesting - I ended up choosing Flares because I felt it really fit with Wanda and Vision's early companionship. I hope you continue to enjoy reading <3

Track #15: Flares by The Script

| read on AO3 here | mixtape playlist | send me an ask with your song/prompt request |

Synopsis: Mere days after the battle in Sokovia, Wanda is still coming to terms with Pietro's absence and the new life she is faced with in upstate New York. Waking from a nightmare she leaves sleep behind and takes solace in Vision as an unexpected comfort.

Novi Grad was falling, taking Wanda down with it.

Distantly, she registered the strange sensation as she floated weightless above the city the was falling apart around her. She knew it was the end, could feel Pietro reaching out to take her hand, to guide her to another place beyond this physical plane. It was about time, she thought, Death had been trying to claim her since the faulty Stark missile all those years ago.

And so Wanda surrendered herself to the freefall, hoping that it would at least by painless, even if that wasn’t what she deserved.

What she didn’t expect was the Vision flying down to save her. He darted gracefully amidst the rubble flying up around them and didn’t hesitate to pull her out of the air. He slipped one arm around her back and another under her knees and they rose, him spinning between debris until they were clear of the falling city.

And it was as though Wanda’s heart remembered to beat, as though her body had momentarily given up but now screamed and begged for life. She was sure her heart was thudding out of her chest and her lungs burned painfully as she desperately dragged air in. The Vision didn’t say anything to her and even if she wanted to thank him, Wanda couldn’t speak past the tightness in her throat. He held her even as the sky around them raged with lightning and the god below split the city into hundreds of pieces.

He held her even as the tears began to stream down Wanda’s cheeks and the sobs came one after the other. Desperate to avoid the horrors below Wanda turned her head into the crook of his neck, ignoring how he flinched at the unfamiliar contact. The damning destruction was burnt into the back of her eyelids and there was no escape.

Wanda jumped awake, the dream, no, memory ending abruptly. She grasped at her neck breathlessly, still feeling the tightness of panic and grief and wiped at her eyes which had begun to stream in her sleep.

Her bedroom was dim around her but the moon outside was so bright that a little bit of its beam managed to reach past her windows. It made the shadows seem longer and Wanda gathered herself up, pressing against her bedframe and pulling the covers closer. She briefly considered closing the blinds but knew that if she did the next nightmare she’d wake up from would be of her time in Strucker’s lab.

The tears continued to fall though she barely noticed them, she’d been in a constant tearful state since arriving in America. She didn’t leave the compound building they’d placed her in and usually didn’t leave her room unless it was to eat. She avoided the others who lived on the other floors and turned down Steve Rogers’ invitations to join training with the other new recruits. Most days she was too overcome with emotion to do anything but lay in bed and cry, while other days she felt nothing and was so numb that she just slept and slept and slept.

Wanda’s heart seized when the room suddenly lit up with soft gold light for a moment, before going dark again. She blinked against the surprising brightness and shook her head, sure she had been imagining things. But then it happened again and for a moment it was like the sun had come out from behind a cloud before disappearing again.

Of course, Wanda’s next concern was that the light was coming from an explosion outside of the compound and fear raked its claws down her spine, making her shiver.

Pulling the covers up over her shoulders she eased out of bed and slowly approached the big windows that occupied one side of her room. She was prepared to run out and raise the alarm (not that she really knew how to do this, but she was sure the Compound AI would help) when she saw exactly what was causing the warm light.

Vision was standing out on the wide lawn, on his own. Wanda watched as he picked up a brick from the pile at his feet and threw it into the air. His extreme strength meant that the brick flew up so high Wanda was sure it had disappeared into the clouds until it spun back down, twice as fast. When it was about 20 feet off the ground Vision shot it out of existence with the stone in his forehead. That was the light she had seen. Wanda caught sight of her own reflection in the glass and her eyes which widened against the golden glow.

She felt a tug behind her naval, calling her outside even as Vision hefted another brick into the air. Curiosity and the strange drag in her abdomen had Wanda tugging on a sweatshirt from one of the piles littered around her floor and walking out the door. The Compound was hauntingly empty, and she took solace in knowing that it could have moments of peace such as now. Already she was used to the hustle and bustle of the superheroes she lived with.

Wanda hesitated in front of the door just long enough to second guess what she was doing. But her decision had been made the moment she left her room and so she opened the front door she hadn’t gone beyond since they’d invited her here to live. The driveway was rough and cold against her bare feet but she didn’t give it much thought, instead working to keeping walking until she reached the grassy lawn and Vision in the middle of it.

He had paused his brick destroying with his back turned.

“Hello,” Wanda said, realising how hoarse her voice sounded after a week of little use.

Only then did the synthezoid turn around, his gaze hesitant as he met her eyes. “Hello, Wanda.” She blinked, tilting her head feeling sure that it was the first time that he had used her first name before. The strange feeling that had brought her outside was back and she stepped closer.

“What are you doing?”

Vision opened his mouth once or twice as though trying to find the right words. “I confess, I was having trouble resting and a bit of research told me physical exertion can help.” He looked pointedly at the bricks.

Wanda walked around the pile and then looked to the pieces brick that lay scattered about them, suddenly conscious that she should’ve worn shoes. Those shards were probably going to break a few lawnmowers.

“Why could you not rest?” She asked instead and looked into Vision’s eyes, which seemed to change with the days. Or at least she was sure they had looked different when he’d been created compared with how they were now. Not that she was monitoring him or anything.

Vision again took a moment to think before he spoke. “It was very loud up here,” he said tapping at his temple.

Wanda nodded, knowing the feeling. “But can’t you just turn that off? You’re part computer, right? What if you just blocked out the things you didn’t want to think about?”

“Well, yes,” Vision said thoughtfully, “there is that, but I don’t know if I want to turn it off. I think I’d like to experience it all, even the bad parts.”

Wanda nodded at his interesting response and nudged at one of the bricks with her foot.

“Would you turn it off?”

“Probably,” she said quietly but knew that after the last week the answer was closer to a yes than it ever had been. She could probably have switched off someone else’s grief in their head but knew it wasn’t as simple when it came to being in control of her own mind.

“Would you like to try?” Vision asked and Wanda was slightly confused by the topic change. He hefted a brick in one hand. “I believe it is quiet cathartic.”

Wanda almost smiled at his understanding of such a feeling as catharsisbut nodded, taking him up on the offer before she could hesitate.

Vision smiled at her before turning and throwing the brick into the air, not quite as high as he had been doing before.

It was the first time that Wanda had used her powers since the battle in Sokovia but calling the red mist to her fingertips felt as natural as it always had since getting her powers. She watched the brick fall and squinted her eyes slightly in the darkness of the night. She raised her hands and followed the brick’s downward descent, catching it just before it hit the ground holding it there with her powers. She looked at it, trembling in the air and then snapped her fingers into a fist, vaporising it instantly.

She glanced at Vision and he tilted his head at her, a curious look in his eyes that she wasn’t quite able to place. He picked up another brick and she nodded, preparing herself more this time and wiping it out of the air with a single blast of carefully aimed red energy.

She wasn’t sure exactly how long they spent destroying the bricks, but the moon still shone high above them as they reached the last one. This time Wanda took it and sent it careening around in the air as Vision fired blasts of yellow energy, finally hitting it on his third try.

“That was close,” he said turning to her, the stone in his head glowing slightly at the expending of power.

She looked down at the space where the bricks had been, surprisingly disappointed that they were over. He had been right about the catharsis; she had felt an immense relief at blowing something up without causing any serious damage. And though she hated to admit it, it felt good to be using her power again.

“I didn’t anticipate company,” Vision said rubbing his hands together, a mannerism Wanda was sure he had picked up from one of the teammates, “I should have brought more bricks.”

“Another time, perhaps,” she replied, her lips turning up a little at her own suggestion and at what their companions might think if she started blowing up bricks in the middle of the night with the team’s robot. But Vision wasn’t a robot, he was something more. She’d known that from the beginning when he’d first broken out of the cradle. Even now she could see there was so much more to him, and she wanted to know. It felt strange to be feeling anything other than the suffocating grief that was her constant companion and Wanda suddenly wondered if she were allowed to be feeling such trivial things as relief or curiosity.

Vision distracted her with a wide smile that had her blinking in surprise. “I would like that very much.” She tried not to frown too much at the foreign idea of someone at the compound actually wanting to genuinely spend time with her.

“I suppose we should go back inside,” Vision sighed after a moment when it became clear that Wanda was not going to suggest anything more.

“Actually,” Wanda interjected, not wanting to return to her unfamiliar room just yet, “could we stay out here a little longer.”

For a moment she wondered if she had overstepped, if his eagerness before had been for blowing up the bricks and not actually spending time with her. But his returning smile was enough for her to ask the next question.

“Can you help me to fly?”

This time Vison seemed genuinely surprised at her admission. “Please,” she added on quickly.

“I can try,” he said, sounding uncertain.

Wanda took a few steps back, just in case, though she was sure she couldn’t hurt Vision even if she wanted to. “I was practicing this before but was never able to get it right,” she said and let her power grow, “could you catch me if I fall?”

“Alright,” Vision said taking a few steps back, his arms at the ready if things went wrong.

Wanda bent her knees and then directing her palms downwards, letting the power go, surprised at just how far she managed to send herself into the air. It was all fun and games until she started to come down, spinning slightly as she tried to right herself with her powers. She was stopped abruptly when Vision flew up to meet her.

“You looked like you were going to hit the ground,” he said hesitantly, by way of explanation even as they hovered together a few feet above the ground.

“Ok, thank you,” Wanda said her breath huffing in a little laugh. She used her power to push away from him and this time didn’t use too much, instead keeping a steady stream from her hands as she darted away. It was difficult and required more concentration than was expected. She couldn’t bounce off tangible objects around her as she was used to when fighting but had to control her density through the air. A few minutes of practice and she was soaring, breathless from using so much power but relishing the adrenaline rushing through her blood.

She arched up above the compound, pushing herself up with a boost and then letting herself freefall a little before bouncing up again. Vision was as effortless and graceful as always as he joined her, his cape fluttering behind him.

“How do you walk anywhere?” Wanda marvelled as she teetered before him, trying to hover in one place. “I’d fly everywhere.”

“It’s a wonderful feeling isn’t it?” Vision said smiling at her and darting in a circle around her.

“It is,” she said thoughtfully, managing a small and purposeful smile. At this Vision dipped as though he had momentarily forgotten how to fly, and she instinctively reached out with her power to support him. He regained himself quickly but held up a hand to marvel at the red power coalescing around his fingers as she withdrew it back to her.

“Remarkable,” he said under his breath. “It feels warm, familiar almost.”

Curious, Wanda tilted her head. His description wasn’t unlike how he felt to her, how his presence called to her. Familiar, yet unexpected. She wanted to know more but was growing tired of staying in one place and gave Vision a daring look as she flew off higher.

He was quick on her tail and they spun so high they were nearing the clouds. The moon shone even brighter overhead as it filled the dark sky above and Wanda held an arm out, marvelling at how bright it appeared now they were this high up.

Vision caught up and spun circles around her as they ascended, his gaze intent on her face and she desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.

When she had finally gotten her fill of the night air, she let herself fall, barely softening her descent and relishing in the air’s caress as it rushed past her face. Before she could make to stop herself, Vision once more had his arms around her waist and was slowly lowering her to the ground.

He let her go as soon as they hit the ground and Wanda looked down at her hands, tingling from all the power. Since she’d been experimented on, she’d learnt the power was something like a muscle, and the more often she used it the stronger it grew. Which explained why she felt so tired now, her depleted power and likely the late hour making her ready to return to bed. But it was satisfying. For the first time it made her not only want to go to bed, but to rise the following morning and actually dosomething.

“Thank you for letting me join you,” Wanda said as they began their walk back to the compound, agreeing in unison that it was time to return.

“There is no need to thank me,” Vision said, “and you know you are welcome to train with the rest of the team, Wanda.”

She was quiet as they stepped up to the front door. Steve had been asking her every few days to join. He’d coming knocking at her door in the morning and then after lunch again, letting her know that he was doing some training with the other new recruits and that she was more than welcome to join if she wanted to. But Wanda, struggling to do the most basic of things, couldn’t bring herself to reply when he did this.

“That’s kind,” Wanda said quietly as they walked inside, “but maybe not just yet.”

“Of course,” Vision said shaking his head, “forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said shrugging and fiddling with her sleeves as a reason to not meet his gaze.

They paused at the corridor to Wanda’s bedroom. “Perhaps if you need to blow bricks up again you can tell me?”

“Of course,” Vision said smiling hesitantly, “and anytime you need to talk or—or anything else, my door is always open.”

She smiled at how awkwardly he gestured over his shoulder and gave him one last small smile before continuing down to her own room. It had been a strange evening, but Wanda thought she might have found a reason to get out of bed the next morning. In anticipation her hands warmed, recalling the power even as she tried not to think of all the destruction it had caused. But she knew that hating her gifts and hating herself wouldn’t get her anywhere. It would just cause more harm.

She slipped into bed and in moments was asleep. It was different than any of the rest she’d been getting in the past days and nights. Different to the hazy hours spent drifting in and out of consciousness. This was proper rest, the kind that restored depleted energy. She didn’t dream, as though in getting so much power out she had also earned herself a little break from the relentless nightmares and grief. Within the quiet of her mind, she was distantly aware of the being who lived in the compound, not far from where she now lay, his energy, his mind calling to hers in a way she could not yet explain. A light in the endless week of darkness that had made her struggle to breath and cry so hard she couldn’t see. A flare of hope, growing stronger.

_________________________________________________

Update taglist open on request (dm or ask me and I’ll tag you when I update)

#wandavision #scarletvision #mcu fanfiction #wanda x vision fanfiction #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #the vision #post-AoU #visionsofusfics

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choices-love-affair · 4 years

Text

I wanna marry you part 2

This was an impromptu sequel as a result of request, hope it lives up to expectations, I really struggled with transferring concept onto paper so praying it doesn’t show, eek!

Part 1

The bright Boston sun had already begun its ascent high into the blue, cloudless sky long before Lorelei had even started to stir awake. She could feel the harshness of the light seeping in through the sheer curtains that covered the floor to ceiling windows which formed the entire external wall of Ethan’s bedroom, the view looking out onto the busy Boston Streets, already bustling with full coffee houses and cafes. She could feel her head already begin to swim and pound, the room turning underneath her. She refused to open her eyes, knowing that once she did and therefore acknowledge the pain and raging hangover that would ravage her body, the floodgates to hell would crumble and hit her with the force of a thousand suns. She laid there, trying to remain as still as possible to avoid the contents of her stomach from exiting, as she felt the warm presence of Ethan next to her, reading what she assumed was a newspaper, judging by the amplified crinkling sounds of each turned paged, assaulting her ears and head in a cruel manner.

“Too loud. Too bright. Too everything” she whined as she felt the weight in the bed shift and Ethan’s breath against her cheek

“You’re alive” he whispered; voice filled with humour

“Mmmm… just” she replied, voice still groggy

“How are you feeling?”

“I imagine death would be kinder” she mumbled back, still refusing to open her eyes “what time is it?”

“It’s just gone 9am, I didn’t want to wake you… although I was tempted to as I watched you dribble on my pillow… simply irresistible” he chuckled as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck and peppered kisses at her ear and along her jawline

“Please… please don’t make any sudden movements unless you want vomit to join that list” she remarked, shoving him away from her, Ethan let out a low chuckle as he sat back on the other side of the bed

“you know” he remarked as he flicked the paper back open and pushed his glasses back up on his nose “drunk Lorelei suffers with quite the case of verbal diarrhoea – that’s a medical diagnosis by the way –“ he quipped cheekily, glancing over and down his nose at her “I learnt many a thing last night” he continued, clearly amused with himself, humour laced his voice

“Oh godddd” she groaned as her hands came up to cover her face in embarrassment “what did I do?!” she said, voice muffled by her hands covering her face

“What didn’t you do?! Let’s start with how my kitchen now looks like a tornado had it’s way in there after you pounded on my door at 3am. By the way, I thought you were Mr Jones on the floor below” he informed her matter-of-factly, half-heartedly reading the paper “so you were a welcomed surprise”.

“That it?” she enquired; however, she was concerned the worst was still coming

“I learnt you like mustard, swiss cheese and tuna together, in a sandwich” he retorted, utterly disgusted as he scrunched his face up to reflect those feelings “the abomination still exists on the bedstand, however I wouldn’t recommend eating it now… or ever again” he exclaimed as Lorelei turned her head slightly and peeked through her fingers. She could see the sandwich in question, next to a large glass of water and two tablets and she internally smiled at his kind gesture “you almost took out my wall with a classic Mike Tyson sidestep” he continued “Oh! you’re also Australian apparently” he remarked in surprise, closing the paper and turning to his side to look at her “simply fascinating news, tell me more about my girlfriend that I supposedly know as well as the next stranger!” he joked, rubbing her arm lovingly

“I was born in Australia, Ethan. I’ve lived in America since I was six, I’m as American as they come” she retorted, clearly unimpressed with his accusations

Ethan ignored her as he continued “There was something else as well… something about a Cecelia Robinson if I recall correctly” he pondered to himself “apparently, she is… was… will be, very jealous of you. Although you didn’t say why exactly, but I’m assuming it’s somehow related to the crush you, and potentially her, had on me in high school” he added, a huge infectious smile erupted over his face “had some competition, did we?” he mused

“Oh. My. GODDDD!” Lorelei groaned louder as she pulled the pillow out from behind her head and smothered her face with it, kicking her legs in the same way a child would when having a tantrum “please tell me it ends there?” she begged, voice muffled through the pillow

“No, no it gets better” he chuckled “apparently when I stopped you from leaving, I was supposedly trying to get you into bed, you even threatened to tell my girlfriend” he cocked his eyebrow humorously at her covered form in the bed, Lorelei could hear how much he was enjoying this by the tone of his voice and she wanted nothing more than for the ground to open and swallow her whole. Ethan was clearly entertained with her antics from the night before, enjoying seeing her squirm “you told me numerous times how I’m such a wonderful boyfriend, how much you love me and…” he trailed off.

“…AND…?!” Lorelei urged, pillow still over her face

“You told me you, and I quote, ‘reckon you wanna marry me one day’” he finished off, watching as her body stilled.

Lorelei quietly screamed in protest into the pillow at what she was hearing before rolling onto her stomach and burying her face into the mattress, bringing the duvet up and over her head where she remained for a long moment, still and quiet.

“Lorelei?”

“yeah” she answered with embarrassment before slowly extracting herself from her blanketed cocoon “I’m sorry” she offered timidly, looking up at him, her hair a frazzled mess that fell over her face and eyes, eliciting a chuckle from Ethan as he attempted to sweep the hair from her face once more

“Why are you apologising?” he asked, continuing to run his hands over her head, smoothening and taming the tangled mess

“For showing up at 3am and making an absolute goose of myself, I don’t even know why you like me so much, honestly! And then I go and drop ridiculous statements like that on you - UGH” she groaned again, burying her face once more under the duvet “I know marriage isn’t something we’ve even thought about let alone discussed, forget everything I said, all of it!” she offered

“Shame, Cecelia sounded fun” he chuckled as he lent down and kissed the back of her head, before resting his mouth against her hair. Lorelei slowly pulled the duvet away from her face

“you can remember that part, she would actually be so jealous” she giggled, their faces close as he returned her smile “she would just die!” her boisterous laugh cut through the room before she winced and held her head, eyes shut tightly “owww” she whimpered

“Take the tablets” Ethan gestured, as Lorelei rolled over and sat up against the headboard, taking his advice. Ethan joined her sitting up, where they both continued to sit in silence for a long while, Lorelei wanting nothing more than for the sweet release of death to relieve her from the all-consuming pity of her self-induced pain.

“Please don’t leave me” she glanced at him sideways, awkwardness laced her features, Ethan let out a hearty laugh. “Last night would be enough to send you running for the hills, not my greatest moment, I’ll admit. The talk of marriage would have been the icing on the cake. Everybody knows how you feel about marriage” she mentioned as she took another sip of water, mindful of her pounding head

“Do they now, interesting. And how does everybody assume I feel about marriage?” he asked, settling into the bed comfortably as he watched her intently, arms crossed over his chest

“That you enjoy the endless gaggle of admirers too much to ever want to settle down with just one of them” she started giggling as she watched his expression fall into one of genuine shock

“I despise that godforsaken hospital and it’s never ending production of baseless rumours” he shook his head in disbelief “I’ll have you know that I have never been, nor will I ever be, opposed to the idea of marriage. I had just never found the right person” he assured her

Lorelei was halfway placing her glass of water back on the nightstand when she stilled, and slowly turned her head back to Ethan, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she appraised him and processed what he was trying to say “and you say I surprise you!”

He glanced down at their hands brushing against one another on the mattress, tentatively taking her petite one into his large, strong one and brushing her knuckles absently with his thumb, all too familiar with the softness of her skin, as it felt with everything else regarding the both of them, two parts of a whole.

“for the right woman I would give my forever to” he glanced up and met her eyes, the mood suddenly very serious and sincere, shifting his body so he was now facing her “Lorelei, I’ll admit, those rumours are quite justified, but only because I’ve never committed to anything other than medicine my entire life, it’s the only thing I’ve known to ever truly love. I have never surrendered myself to love with another person before, I’ve never allowed myself to ever get close enough or paid much attention mind if I’m being honest. But with you…” he sighs loudly, as if a weight is lifting from his chest “with you it’s just… different. Since you, it all makes sense why it never worked with anybody else. And the whole marriage, children, for as long as we both shall live sentiment, I see that for us. So, while drunken Lorelei is a goose!” a small smirk plays at his lip before disappearing into meaningful emotion “I pray she speaks a sober Lorelei’s mind”

Lorelei’s face pales as she processes the depth of his words and the meaning behind them “You…you’d want to marry… me?!” she asked, absolutely perplexed “why?!” her face contorts into one of genuine disdain

“Lorelei, you are my home. Never doubt how much I love you, ever. And should the time arise that we want to take that step together, I’ll be ready, in a heartbeat. It’s not like I’m proposing now, just saying that I have thought about it, and I potentially might follow through in the future. I just thought you should know that” he spoke so tenderly, squeezing her hand before lifting it and placing it over his heart against his bare chest, his confident demeanour now to shifting to one of uncertainty and apprehension as he waited with bated breath for her to say something, anything.

She instantly sobered, neither of them breaking eye contact, as though an unspoken conversation was currently occurring between them “Ethan …-“ she cut herself off, closing her mouth her lips pressed into a thin line before assessing him intently. Ethan lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a tender kiss across her knuckles “you know how I much I love you, right?” she desperately queried him “I mean fuck, I worship the ground you walk on!” staring back at him with newfound admiration

“I know” he offered her a sincere smile that reached his eyes, a glint now there that never existed before.

“…Breakfast? There’s a great café next block over that has a huge array of vegetarian options perfect for you” he winked, the tender moment suddenly shifting to one of lightness and potential “lord knows you need it” as he climbed off the bed and sauntered over to his ensuite, dropping his sweatpants down to the ground and off of his feet suggestively before walking through the door and turning the shower on. Lorelei sat for a moment more, the conversation swirling through her head before a content smile spread over her face. She followed the man who just confessed he had considered spending forever with her, into the shower, last night’s hangover long forgotten, her mind only filled now with thoughts of their tomorrow, forevermore.

Taglist: @ethandaddyramsey @trappedinfandoms @openheart12 @mvalentine @noboundariesplease @kaavyaethanramsey @newcolonies

#ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #playchoices #open heart

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imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

Ragnarok

TITLE: Ragnarok CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 6: Is This the Real Life?

AUTHOR: traveling-classicist

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you take care Odin when he was homeless on Midgard (based on the deleted scene from Ragnarok). You take him in and listen his crazy stories about Asgard and Thor thinking he’s just some crazy hobo who needs help. Then one day, Thor and Loki break into your apartment looking for their father. Hela returns in your living room and insanity ensues. RATING: This chapter is M for triggering content

AO3 Link: Here NOTES/WARNINGS:

MENTIONS OF PAST RAPE, MENTIONS OF PAST DRUG ABUSE, MENTIONS OF PAST PSYCHOTIC EPISODES, PTSD AND PTSD RELATED FLASHBACKS

We are getting into Theo’s backstory a little in this chapter and she has been through it, ya’ll. From a literary standpoint, I’m playing with flashbacks (I’ve never written proper flashbacks before) and I would love some CC if you’re open to giving some.

Also, sorry for the wait between chaps for this and my other fic (Loki’s Daughter). I’m having some medical problems (not COVID-19 related, thank goodness) that I’ve been trying to sort out so, even though I’m not working, I haven’t had a ton of time to dedicate to writing.

Anywho, enough of me. Enjoy.

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Theo staggered through the streets of Asgard, half-naked and covered in blood. She had no idea where she was. She could not see any street signs. She couldn’t find a taxi anywhere nor a subway station, not even a bus. All she could see in front of her were horses and carts. She must be near Central Park, she thought. That’s where all the tourists took those weird horse and carriage rides.

She really hated New York sometimes. There were cars and taxis everywhere until you needed one. The people parted around her as she limped through the street. Her foot hurt but she didn’t know why. She looked down. A little bit of blood squished up from between her toes with each step. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t have shoes on, she was quite sure she put some on this morning.

She looked up at the giant skyscrapers around her but did not recognize any of them. To her surprise, these buildings shown with a golden hue, unlike anything she had ever seen. They brought a new definition to a skyscraper, as they seemed to stretch upwards for miles. She squinted, covering her eyes to block the glare of brilliant light all around her. As she looked harder, she thought, for a split second, she could see flying vehicles darting about above some of the shorter buildings. She shook her head and looked again but they were still there zipping by one another. Thousands of them formed ribbons of traffic that wove in and out of the golden buildings around her.

Her eyes widened as she realized what they were. New York was under attack again. It was the Chitauri. It was Loki. He was back to take over Earth again.

It hadn’t been a dream. She had woken in a frenzy, covered in a cold sweat. Another nightmare, this time about Loki opening a portal to his army in her living room, but when she woke, she was not in her bed in her apartment. Nurses were surrounding her, holding cloths to her nose and mouth, restraining her to the bed. A man with a spear guarded the door. The sight of him sent Theo into a rage, she attacked the evil nurses with their drugs and ran away, not caring about the mess she made.

Now, she watched in terror as Asgardian skiffs flew about high above her head on their daily commutes across the city. She turned and ran, looking for a place to hide, running into an open marketplace. Vendors shouted prices and bids, selling goods and livestock from around the Realms. A man stepped in front of her, eager to sell her a decorative ceramic vase. She stepped one way but he stepped in front of her, blocking her path, speaking to her in a language she did not know.

“What are you doing, you idiot? We’re under attack! Look!” she pointed at the sky, briefly revealing her breasts beneath the tattered, silken robes that draped over her shoulders. The man stared at her bare chest. She gasped, following his gaze, and smacked him, sending him careening through his shop stall. Broken ceramics and pots scattered across the pavement.

Theo looked down at her hand in shock. It was red and reverberated with the sting of the slap. The slap was only meant to remind him where her eyes were. Not to kill him. She trembled as she turned to see the man climbing out of his ruined stall. He pointed and yelled at her. She took off, relieved he was alive, but terrified of what might come next. She made for some crowded streets nearby. She pushed people out of the way as she went. They flew against the walls with her shoves.

“Excuse me! I’m sorry! Make way! I don’t know what’s happening to me! I’m not normally this strong!” she cried as she ran down the street, sending people flying through the air, overturning tables, chairs, and children.

She came out on another square. She doubled over, panting, putting her hands on her knees. She hated running. She thought it was the worst way someone could voluntarily abuse their body. She straightened up and blinked away tears. She tried to cover herself with what was left of the clothes she was wearing. She vaguely remembered trying to tear them off to see what the evil nurses had done to her.

When she felt she was sufficiently covered, she looked around, trying to get her bearings. She stood in a large, open square. People bustled about, laughing and talking. Some stopped to stare at her, pointing at her absurd choice of clothing. She turned around and gasped, nearly wetting herself at the sit in front of her: a gigantic, golden statue of Loki, the Asgardian terrorist that attacked New York, towered over the square. It stood as tall as the Empire State Building. His curved horns cast terrifying shadows on the ground around her. She shrieked.

People turned to look at her, staring at the half-naked girl, screaming in the newly dedicated garden square. Theo fled. A million thoughts and scenarios began rushing through her mind, none of them probable or even plausible. As she turned several corners down different streets and alleys, the best probable solution she could come to was that she had been in a coma for six years after Loki had conquered earth, enslaving humanity, and she had just woken up with superpowers.

Tripping over her own feet, she stumbled and fell. Before she could hit the ground, someone caught her. A massive, green hand gently lifted her back onto her feet. Her vision blurred. Her heart raced, skipping every other beat. She jumped and staggered back, looking up to see the Incredible Hulk standing in front of her. He cocked his head to one side and looked down at her.

“No, no,” she said, stepping back. “No. This can’t be real. It’s a dream. I have to wake up.” She shook her head wildly, trying to force herself to wake up but it only made her dizzy. The pain began to creep into her chest. Her throat felt like it was closing; she couldn’t get air.

“No dream,” the Hulk said, stepping towards her. She screamed and ran from him. “Wait, Naked Girl!” he shouted, chasing after her.

Theo ran back through the alleys and onto the streets, pushing through the crowd, throwing people out of the way. They flew to the sides, hitting the walls of the buildings and the pavement. Pounding footsteps chased after her. The vibrations shook the ground beneath her feet as she ran. She darted down an alleyway and came out on another street.

Suddenly, two crows divebombed her, pecking her head and pulling her hair and tattered clothes. They cawed at her and scratched her bare skin with their claws. Theo put her hands over her head and swatted at them, but they wouldn’t leave her alone.

“No, you rats! Go away! I don’t have anything!” she cried.

The people in the streets watched the poor, half-naked girl struggle as the birds attacked her. She swatted at one bird and caught it with the back of her hand. It flew backwards and hit the wall of a building, flopping pathetically to the ground. She tried to hit the other one, but the green giant rounded the corner and bounded towards her, arms outstretched.

“Naked Girl, come here. Hulk help!” he shouted but it only frightened her more.

He grabbed at her and the crows but missed, tearing away a piece of the silken bandage that covered Theo’s midriff. Stunned, Theo whipped around and backhanded the Hulk across the face. He staggered and fell to his hands and knees, still holding the torn cloth in his hand. He felt the spot on his face where she hit him and looked up at her. Anger boiled up from deep inside him as he slowly rose to his feet.

Theo cowered beneath him, unable to fathom how she had knocked the Incredible Hulk halfway to the ground. Flashes of memory darted before her eyes.

An explosion, rubble flying into the air. A Chitauri vehicle flew overhead, closely chased by Iron Man. Bullets zipping past her head. The Hulk lifting a car and throwing it towards her.

She blinked the memories away. Staggering backwards, reeling from her first flashback in months, she put up her hand in defense, covering herself with her other arm. The Hulk still carried the cloth in his clenched fist. He stomped towards her, ready to smash her into the pavement. A lump caught in Theo’s throat. She was frozen to the spot. A circle of onlookers was beginning to form around them.

“Someone call the guards!” a person shouted.

“Get out of there, girl!” another cried.

“What is that thing?”

“It’s a monster!”

“Stay back!”

Hulk was jolted away from Theo by the cries of the people around them. He snorted at them and let out a roar that shook the buildings nearest them. The people screamed and ran away in terror like scurrying mice from a barn cat. Satisfied that he had taken care of the mean people that called him a monster, he turned back to the mean, naked girl who had hit him but she had vanished.

Theo ran as fast as she could, tearing up through the streets. She had never run faster in her life. Tripping occasionally on her own bare feet or an uneven stone slate, she tried desperately to find a place to hide from her pursuer. Her feet began to hurt. The pain was beginning to seep back through her body, radiating from that spot on her chest.

Despite the pain, she found she was running for much longer than she ever had before; a new strength in her legs and lungs. Her strides were long and quick. Her head was on a constant swivel, looking for a place to hide. She ran across another open square and back into crowded narrow streets. Descending steps and turning corners, she thought the more turns and twists she could take, the faster she could lose the Hulk behind her.

She stopped. The world came to a screeching halt that sent her tumbling face-first into the cobbles. She was breathing hard from all the running. She made a mental note to never do it again. She propped herself up on one hand, covering herself with the other. A quick look around confirmed she was alone in the alleyway between two tall buildings.

There was no sign of the Hulk. She looked up at the small patch of sky above, between the towers. The little flying vehicles she had seen before were nowhere to be seen now. She listened carefully. There were no screams or sounds of explosions. No bullets or blaster sounds. No flying whales or spangled superheroes. All she could see and hear were the sounds of a bustling city. In the distance, she could hear the familiar din of voices speaking languages she did not know, the sound of foot traffic, vendors selling goods, the sounds of machines – though they sounded a bit strange to her.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she told herself. “Loki didn’t take over Manhattan or Earth, you moron. It wasn’t real. None of it was real! This is just a dream. You’re asleep!”

She pinched herself as hard as she could. The pain burned on her arm. Maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was real. Maybe she was hallucinating again; psychotic again. She made a sharp movement with her neck, turning her head as if she had been slapped by an invisible hand. She wrapped her arms around herself, as she came to the realization she had had another lapse in public.

“You didn’t see the Chitauri. You… You just saw… birds… or drones…? or one of Stark’s stupid demonstrations. Yeah, that’s probably it.” She nodded as she spoke to herself.

“I don’t know what the Hell that statue was. Some art demo maybe? Some sick artist,” she reasoned. She rubbed her arms hard, trying to force the goosebumps that had risen on her skin away.

“And that wasn’t the real Hulk. It was just one of those buskers from Times Square… the ones that dress up like the Avengers and take pictures with the tourists… You… You just freaked out and… and… oh, no… you hit someone…” she said, putting her face in her hands. “No, no, no! You idiot! You hit tons of people!” she suddenly remembered the shopkeeper and all the people in the streets.

“No, no. We gotta go home. You gotta take your meds and call your doctor. No one is gonna believe you. We can’t go back to jail. No, no, not again.” Her voice quivered with fear at the thought of the police and a jail cell.

Her whole body began to tremble. She stood. Her knees knocked together. Afraid to walk towards the sounds of the city, she turned to walk down the steps of the alleyway. She had no idea where she was. Nothing looked familiar. She was not even sure if this was Manhattan anymore. Holding onto the wall for stability, she slowly made her way down the large steps, hoping it would lead out to a quieter area that had not seen her outburst.

The steps ended, flattening out into a street. There were a few doorways on either side of the street, leading to dark shop entrances or bars or restaurants. She could smell food wafting down the street as she walked. She looked up. The buildings soared above her, taller than they ever were before. It made her dizzy. Looking back down at her bloody feet, she limped on, slowly. She could hear voices coming from somewhere further down the street. They were laughing and talking. Theo felt a sense of a calm wash over her. Perhaps she could ask someone for help.

She readjusted, making sure she was well covered and decent. She did not like the fact that her little, pudgy tummy was showing nor that her thighs were visible, save for her pineapple panties and the scraps of whatever silken robes she wore, nonetheless that both breasts were free if she did not keep them covered with her arm. As she fought with herself over what part of her body was most important to cover, her eyes fell heavy on the tattered remains of the garments she wore. Memories began to flash in front of her eyes again.

A dark alley. She lay on the ground in a sobbing heap. Her dealer stood over her, zipping up his pants. Her clothes were ripped and torn. He tossed a dirty needle and a packet on the ground in front of her and laughed.

The laughter rang in her ears. She stumbled backwards, slamming into a wall as if she had been hit. Tears had filled her eyes. She wanted to go home. She needed her medicine. She needed to text her therapist. She needed to meditate. She needed to hug a puppy.

“Hello there, lass, are you alright?”

A large man walked towards her. She jumped and covered her breasts with her hands. She turned and faced him, gasping a little as tears still ran down her cheeks. He was bald with a great black beard and fat face with rosy cheeks. He wore very strange clothing. Brown robes with silver patterning. His accent was unknown to Theo but Manhattan was full of accents.

“Um, I—I don’t know where I am, sir. Can you help me? I’m looking for 81st Street. 81st and—”

“81st Street? Ha! What have you been drinking tonight, lovely?”

Theo took a step to the side, pressing up against the wall. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Oh, w—well, if you don’t know, that’s fine. I’ll just ask someone else. Thanks anyways.” She started to walk around him.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said, taking a step in front of her. “Why don’t you come inside and have a drink with me and my friends? You can ask them where this, uh, 81st Street is. See if they know.”

“Oh no, that’s alright. I, um, I really need to get home.” Her heart was racing. The man was looming over her now.

“Your accent’s a bit funny. I don’t know what tiny Realm you’re from, pretty lassie, but it’s rude to refuse an invitation to drink with an Asgardian, especially when you’re naked,” he laughed.

He put his hand on her shoulder and slammed her back against the wall, pushing her up against it with his body. She wanted to scream but her voice caught in her throat. Instead, her hand left flew up from her side and punched the man, full force, under his chin. He flew backwards, hitting the other wall so hard it left a massive hole where his head hit. Theo was gasping for breath, memories of her self defense classes flashing through her mind.

“What’s going on out here?” a man shouted, running out of a doorway beside Theo.

“He—He—He assaulted me!” she stammered. “I—I hit him to get him off of me but I didn’t mean to do that. I—” she trailed off, fearing she was admitting too much guilt over a man that clearly wanted to do her harm.

The second man ran to the first, checking to see if he was alive. More men started to walk out of the door, carrying giant mugs of yellow drink in their hands. A sickening feeling washed over Theo. These were the man’s friends he had mentioned. If they were anything like him, things did not bode well for Theo.

The fat man sat up with help from his friend. Blood ran from his lips into his beard. He spat out several bits of broken teeth onto the pavement and looked up at Theo. She turned to run but his ‘friends’ blocked her way. Five men encircled them. These men were practically giants, there was no way she would be able to fight them off. Her hand was still throbbing with the pain of hitting just one of them.

“You all can have what’s left of her,” the big man huffed as he stood. He rushed at her. Theo screamed, throwing a fist blindly. She stumbled backwards, slipping on a loose cobblestone. The man caught her arm and twisted it painfully behind her back. Her face was suddenly pressed up against the cold stone of the wall. She shoved back with all her might, sending them both careening backwards. Dizzied by the amount of strength she was displaying, she turned to see the other men closing in on her.

There was a sudden flash of green. Three men disappeared in the flash, leaving behind only guttural, blood-curdling screams and a single boot that had fallen off an unsuspecting foot. Silence fell over the fight. Theo took her chance to run but the big man caught her with the back of his hand, splaying her onto the ground. Stars flew before her eyes. The right side of her face went numb. She tasted blood but she was not sure where from. She had never been hit so hard before. She swayed deliriously on the ground for a moment before she heard another shriek from a man, followed by a gust of wind.

“What is this?” the fat man shouted. Now, only two of them remained.

Theo tried to get up but her head still spun from the blow. She lowered herself back down. As her elbow hit the pavement, the ground shook underneath her. She cried out, thinking for a moment something must have exploded or even that she had caused the ground to quake. She covered her head with her hands. Peeking out from beneath them, the Hulk towered over her.

Hulk glared at the two men hurting the naked girl. The took a few cautionary steps backwardss. He looked down at the naked girl, she was crying and bleeding. He gently stepped over her. She shrunk to the ground beneath him, cowering, trying to make herself as small as possible surrounded by the massive men. One man turned and tried to scamper away. Hulk took a single step forward and caught him in his fist. The man wriggled and writhed, squealing with fear. Hulk gave him a squeeze, turning his gaze to the big man. The man in his fist popped, writhing no more. The naked girl let out a yelp and hid her face. Tossing his body aside, Hulk turned his full attention to the big man.

Theo never knew what happened to that man. She didn’t want to. All she heard was a yelp, a rip of fabric, and what she feared was skin and bone, before she slammed her hands against her ears. Pulling herself to her feet, her eyes clamped shut, she ran in the opposite direction of whatever horrors the Hulk was performing to the big man’s corpse. After running some distance, she found the courage to open her eyes.

She came out of the dark alleys onto a sunny, bright street. The light blinded her for a moment, glaring off the golden buildings. She put her hand over her eyes. She heard caws overhead and looked up into the sun. For a brief moment, she saw the silhouettes of the two dive-bombing crows before she doubled over, baring her back to them so they did not peck at her face. They screeched and cawed at her, scratching her just as before. She looked up from the chaos to see three men with spears running towards her, shouting at her. In her panic, she swatted hard at the birds, making contact again with at least one of the feathery demons before fleeing back down the alleyway she had come.

She saw another alley to turn down and took a sharp left, then another, then a right. The network of alleys closes, and stairs were her only escape. She turned down a dark crevice between two buildings that dead-ended. Slumping down against the wall, she panted and cried. She sat there, rocking herself, trying to calm down. She pulled on her hair and dug her nails into her skin, chewing her lips and the insides of her cheeks. Her breath came in shuddering gasps. A sudden pain racked her body. She grabbed at its epicenter: a spot on her chest. She looked down. She could see a gaping wound down the middle of her chest in the dim light of the alley. Another flashback hit her like a brick wall.

A figure in golden armor and curved horns stood at the helm of a fast-approaching Chitauri vehicle. Explosions billowed up on either side of the street. She had nowhere to go. Frozen to the spot in the middle of the street, she saw a flash of blue light and felt a searing pain in her chest.

“No, Naked Girl, no cry.”

Theo screamed. A giant hand covered her face, muffling her, smothering her. She flailed and clawed at the hand but it was no use.

“Shhhh, guards hear you,” Hulk said in his lowest possible voice. He peered around the corner. Heavy metal boots echoed on the pavement above them as the guards searched helplessly for the Midgardian girl in the endless maze of alleyways.

“I…Can’t…Breathe…” Theo squeaked, muffled beneath the Hulk’s giant paw.

“Oh, sorry, Naked Girl,” he said, letting go of her. “No scream.”

She gasped, coughing as fresh air filled her lungs. She took in a deep breath to scream again but Hulk made a move to cover her face. She froze, the scream caught in her windpipe. She quickly covered her mouth with her own hands. Hulk stared at her, sitting still with his hand raised, ready to smother her if she made more noise. Theo swallowed her scream and slowly tried to back away from Hulk.

“Naked Girl hurt,” Hulk said, pointing at Theo. She wasn’t quite sure what part of her he was referring to. She hurt all over: her face, her chest, her feet. “Hulk help.”

Theo glanced around. She shook her head. “Y-You’ve done enough. Th-Thank you,” she stammered, nodding at him.

He shook his head. “No, Hulk know safe place. Hulk take Naked Girl.”

“No! Hulk will not take Naked Gi-, what am I saying? I’m not going with you.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“NO! And that’s final,” she said, standing, trying to cover herself again. “I’m done with men telling me what to do.”

Hulk stood, making Theo scrunch up against the wall. “But Hulk want to help.”

“Please, just go away,” Theo cried, hugging the wall.

Hulk looked at the ground. He did not like seeing the Naked Girl cry. She slipped back down to her knees, collapsing onto the ground as she cried. Then, he remembered something. Digging in the pocket of his trousers, he pulled out the ripped piece of fabric he had torn from her bandages earlier. He felt its smoothness in his hands and then offered it to her.

Theo looked up at him and then at the cloth in his hand. She sniffled and gingerly took it from him. A smile spread across his face. She sat there a moment with the cloth in her hand.

“Oh,” Hulk said. “Hulk sorry.” He turned around to face the other way, putting his back to her.

Theo glanced towards the open alleyway; her only escape route now that his back was turned. Pushing herself up onto one knee, she tried to stand again but wobbled uncontrollably, still reeling from the blow she had received. She plopped back down onto her butt and sighed. There was no way she would be able to run anymore. Her legs felt like jelly and her feet were bleeding. She could taste blood in her mouth and her chest throbbed with an intense percussive pain. She gave in and took the cloth, tying it around her chest for some proper coverage at last.

“You—you can turn around now,” she said.

Hulk turned and saw she was decent. He grunted. “Good. Now, we go.”

“Go where? Where’s this safe place?”

“Outside city! Hulk knows way. Come on.” He stood and walked out into the adjacent alley.

Theo leapt up, sending her head spinning like a top. “Wait! Wait! We can’t go out there!” she said, trying to keep her voice down so he wouldn’t smother her again. She wobbled on her spaghetti legs, leaning on Hulk’s massive arm for balance. “Those cops are after me.”

“You? Ha! No cops. Guards,” he said slowly to her so she would understand. “Follow Hulk.”

Theo shook her head in despair. He turned down the alleyway and beckoned her to follow. She looked back towards the sound of the pounding metal boots. This dream kept sucking her back in; she did not know what reality to trust.

“Naked Girl coming?” Hulk asked as he walked.

Theo sighed, looking down at the ground. She didn’t have much of a choice. If she was stuck in this dream and Hulk was going to take her somewhere safe, maybe she would wake up there, she figured. She followed after him, down the alley steps.

“My name is Theo, by the way,” she said, sheepishly.

He grunted at her. She looked around awkwardly, the silence biting into her. As they descended the steps, they descended further into darkness. Despite it being broad daylight above, their position at the base and in between the massive buildings that towered all around them, shadowed the sun and left them in a state of semi-permanent twilight. Theo stayed close to Hulk, keeping her eyes on every dark door they passed, in case some other greasy, greedy men would step out to harass them.

Suddenly, Hulk stopped. Theo bumped into him. She quickly jumped back.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said.

He grunted again and knelt down, inspecting the ground. Theo glanced about, warier of the dark street they were on than whatever he was looking at. She looked up at the blue sky far, far above them. It seemed unfathomably far away. Looking straight up the buildings made her dizzy. She started to sway but Hulk steadied her. She flinched at his touch, taking a step to the side.

“Wh—What are you doing?” she asked, quietly.

He looked down at the ground again and brushed off a dirty manhole cover. It was massive; nearly ten feet in diameter. As Hulk rubbed away some of the grime, Theo could make out intricate knotwork in the metalwork of the cover. She had never seen anything like it. Not that she paid a whole lot of attention to the manhole covers of Manhattan but this one was simply huge. She thought she had seen knotwork like it before. Perhaps it was Celtic? No, she thought, it was more familiar.

A book on her coffee table. Odin sipped his coffee. She sat down beside him and picked it up. Another Norse mythology book. Turning the page, it showed an image of an old manuscript with intricate knotwork. A triquetra, an ornate knotwork border around the page, and an intricately designed world tree made of knots.

Odin! She had forgotten all about Odin. Everything was fuzzy. She tried to remember back further but it was like trying to catch fish with her hands in murky water. She put her hands on her head and closed her eyes but nothing came to her. She groaned. Why couldn’t she have flashbacks to the things she wanted to remember?

Hulk stood, putting his fingers into a few holes on one edge of the cover and lifting it with terrifying ease. He pushed it aside and gestured for Theo to go down the hole beneath. She peered down into the blackness below. She thought it was dark in the alleyway but no light reached the bottom of the sewer drain. She looked up, glaring at the wall, trying to think of what correlations her subconscious was trying to point out about her life by having her literally end up in the gutter in her dreams.

“We’re going down a stinky, dirty sewer? That’s your safe place?” she asked Hulk, folding her arms.

“Not stinky! Little dirty,” he admitted. “But safe! No guards.”

“Ugh, well, I guess it doesn’t matter if this is just a dream,” she said, as she reluctantly climbed down. “I think.”

#Loki #Lover #God of Mischief #Others #Submitted fic #submission #traveling-classicist #chapter 6 #ragnarok

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mavmax · 3 years

Text

Doomsday | Self-Para

When: Last Thursday

Where: Around Santa Monica

Warnings: Panic Attack (no it wasn’t Maverick. DON’T COME FOR ME)

Featuring: Lexa Maxwell

6am - 7am

Thursday started out like every other. Wake up at 6am, head to the gym, workout, head home, hit the showers, and eat breakfast watching TikTok while the news plays quietly in the background. Normally, he didn’t pay attention to the news but his parents, especially his dad was particularly on his ass about hearing about Maxwell Energy’s stock spiking again. With that money, he could use that to anonymously fund his favorite pizzeria. The cogs in his head were slowly beginning to turn as he took another bite of his honey nut cheerios.

8am - 12pm

A fifteen minute drive to UCLA from Pico wasn’t bad around this time of day. Time passed by while listening to his favorite radio show, the talkshow hosts roasting each other and egging on Gossip God as today was the infamous Thirsty Ask Thursday. Many residents of Santa Monica sat at the edge of their seats, but Maverick, personally didn’t care what was said about him. Even the worst of rumors, he’d taken head on with a smile on his face...much to his sisters’ chagrin.

Arriving to class on time was a bonus at least. Sliding into his seat and his glasses resting on his nose. He had zoned out a few times while taking notes, mostly thinking about the weekend. Basketball game Friday, hang out with the boys Friday night. Mom’s chemo was Saturday morning, followed by Maxwell Energy’s congratulatory luncheon for Lexa’s first year as CEO. He had bugged Lexa earlier about throwing a party but she fought back saying she wasn’t going to brag in the middle of a crisis--whatever the hell that meant. Sunday was meant for relaxing, although knowing his parents it would mean brunch with the family before he could actually relax. It was a lot.

The hours seemed to have droned on until his final class from 11-12:30pm, except there was more bustling in the class than usual. Everyone had their laptops out, one side taking notes, the other side anxiously waiting for none other than Gossip God to make his weekly appearance on The Santa Monica Times page. Maverick remained focus on his notes until the green circle began to appear on the right side of everyone’s laptops signifying that Gossip God had been awakened.

There were occasional whispers among students while the professor attempted to teach the best she could, knowing that people would be more focused on gossip than the actual class. Maverick gave his professor props for holding it together, which is why he was hyper-focused on his work until someone nudged him to look on the right hand side on his screen when he suddenly saw pictures of Eric and Soo-Yun plastered all over the site. He could feel his heart drop to the very bit of his stomach.

“Eh, it’s fair game,” Mav whispered with a pout. Everyone around him was rather shocked at his reaction. Not at the fact that he was pouting, but the fact that he wasn’t seething. Raging. Incredibly angry, hurt. Instead, it was just a pout. Like a kid not getting his way at the store because his mom said no. It was simply that.

1pm

Maverick was headed home after grabbing some lunch on the way when his favorite radio station was reporting Gossip God’s Thirsty Ask Thursday posts that were coming up. Some were comical, others were...not. He hoped those people were thick skinned or had one hell of a support system for the shit that was being said. Before he was headed to the exit, his phone began to ring. It was Flo, Lexa’s receptionist.

“Talk to me,” Maverick responded with a smile.

“Mr. Maxwell--I mean--M-Maverick, I-I’m sorry to interrupt you right now, but is there a possibility you can come to the office right now?” Her voice was in a hushed whisper.

“Yeah, what’s up?” He asked.

“Well, um...Miss Maxwell...she--” She trailed off when there was the sound of a loud thud.

“Oh. Say no more. I’m on my way,” Mav added.

“Thank you, please hurry!” She quickly said before hanging up.

Maverick shook his head. He saw this coming a mile away but he had to have a stubborn ass big sister. He had to go in as carefully as he could otherwise he’d probably lose his own head. He shot a text to Izzy to keep her in the loop about everything and warned her to stay her ass off any social media for the next 48 hours with how everything was going.

1:30pm

As he made his way into the office, he practically bounced in, already clearly having gotten over the ordeal that one of his best friends was messing around with his crush, but it was what it was. He was attractive, he was smart, and athletic, he wasn’t going to dwell on that shit and get all bent out of shape, for what? Lexa on the other hand...it went deep for her. She and Eric had this special bond, but...it looks like she was too late, or maybe he wasn’t into her like that and she misread it. On the upside, their dad wasn’t in because it was their mom’s doctor appointment and Lexa’s floor was just her and Flo. Flo wasn’t a snitch, thank god.

Flo’s face brightened up.

“Maverick, how great of you to have made it! Miss Maxwell’s right this way,” She said quickly.

“How’s she doing?” He asked curiously, trying his best to peek through the blinds, to no avail.

“Between being worried about your mother and...whatever was said on Gossip God, badly,” She said with a soft sigh. After Lexa’s revelation, he promised to keep it a secret, but one thing he knew was that this was Lexa’s mania acting up.

“Don’t worry about it. The whole thing’s been pretty stressful, I think Lexa’s just taking on too much, you know?” He added. “Are there any meetings that she needs to attend?” He asked curiously.

Flo looked at her screen and then said, “She’s got a 2:30 and a 4pm. Shall I cancel those for her?”

“I’ll go on her behalf. She’ll have the rest of the day off and tomorrow as well,” He reassured the woman with a smile. Flo nodded, seeming to relax at his reassurance.

He entered his sister’s office to see her with her head down and her phone with a spider-webbed crack. He sighed, shaking his head.

“Lex,” He began carefully. “Hey,” He nudged her and watched as she lifted her head, mascara streaming down her face.

“It hurt that much, didn’t it?”

She shrugged, going to reach for tissues to wipe her eyes.

“I thought I could keep it together with mom and work, then this happened and I couldn’t control the surge of emotion,” She sighed.

“You need a break,” Mav began before Lexa interrupted him with,

“I need to get through the rest of these meetings.”

“Alexandra. You need a break before you implode on yourself. Sometimes all great leaders need a break. You’ve busted ass this past year. You deserve it,” He said with a wry grin. Lexa glared at Mav for a moment before relenting.

“You need a hug?” He offered

“No,” She said with a grin. “But thank you, Maverick. I do need a break. I also need wine.”

“Is it about-”

“We’re not going to even mention it.”

“Bet.”

5pm-7pm

Maverick playing boss for the day was weird. Sure, he knew everything that parents and Lexa had taught him, but it was always weird to sit there and talk to these hot shots and watch them all look at him up and down, surprised to hear him knowing his shit. Hell, it was exhausting. He couldn’t even imagine how Lexa dealt with that shit as a woman.

Finally, he made it home, crashed on his bed as his phone began to blow up between Gossip God alerts and friends reaching out to ask him if he was okay. Frankly, he was fine, despite taking a bit of an L, but you win some and you lose some. After ordering pizza because of the lack of willpower to cook, he scrolled watching some horrible pieces of gossip rolling in about his hyungie, Sunwoo and his friends Kian and Jae-Sang.

“Jesus, GG, can you let up on those three for once?” He mumbled to himself.

To add insult to injury, Ivy, his friend AJ’s sister was also heavily involved, they even threw in AJ and Lydia as well. This Thursday was particularly brutal for a lot of people. All he could hope was that everyone was okay. He wasn’t going to message anyone seeing as how, it was bad enough that their business was aired out for all of Santa Monica to see, but he did want to let everyone know that he would be supportive for them and so, he took to twitter to make known his stance.

@MavMax: My friends names must be candy to @gossipgod, but beware bc those names will rot those pearly whites of yours.

@MavMax: My money’s on Jae-Sang & Kian to whoop @gossipgod #JustSaying

@MavMax: Shout out to the realest ones out here hustling. @gossipgod’s just jealous for wasting his youth on talking shit about his peers.

@MavMax: RT:@AJSiciliani: “All talk no action” @gossipgod

And with that, Maverick left his phone off to the side and tuned into Netflix to watch Bridgerton, and finish up his homework for the rest of the week.

#sp

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fancat-not-fangirl · 4 years

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It’s Not You Pt.10

a/n: I will be writing a few chapters focusing on their time together during winter break, so be prepared for fluff fluff and more fluff

No wonder Dean liked the Impala. The car was perfect. The seats were comfortable, there was lots of space, it was sleek and shiny, and, best of all, it smelled like Dean. Cas couldn’t quite explain what Dean smelled like, though. It was a mix of car oil, leather, and pine, but with something sweeter mixed in, too. It didn’t matter though, because it drove Cas crazy. Absolutely crazy.

“Turn on the blinker, you fucking moron!” Cas had been previously staring out the window, watching the snow covered trees slip by, but he now turned his head back to Dean. It seems as if he wasn’t the only crazy one here.

It was a Saturday. More specifically, it was the Saturday right after the day that schools let out their students for winter break. Most of the kids at Cas’s college had decided to go home on Friday, and in hopes of avoiding traffic, Cas and Dean had slept over on campus and woke up early Saturday morning, ready to leave. Sam had also left on Friday. He had decided to stay with Gabe at Gabe’s apartment, but his usual two hour drive to Gabe’s turned into a five hour long road trip due to the sheer amount of cars on the road. Cas and Dean may have avoided the heavier traffic the day before, but people were still streaming to get to their vacation spots. The highways were stuffed to the brim with cars, and Cas never realized until now what bad road rage Dean had.

They had passed the first hour or two somewhat peacefully. Dean had pointed to various stains and scratches on the seats and interior of the car, explaining how they got there. One particular blue colored patch of leather beneath Cas was apparently from the time that Sam had fallen asleep with a blue lollipop in his mouth as a kid, and the blue drool had gotten on the seat. There was also the toy soldier, stuck in the ashtray in the back, not to mention the legos that rattled in the heaters. What Dean was most proud of, though, was the carved DW and SW on the inside of the car, no doubt the brothers’ initials. Cas suddenly wondered if he’d ever have the chance to carve a CW alongside them.

“If you don’t use the blinkers, you might as well shove them up your asses!” Dean was still grumbling to himself about the car that had cut him off on the road. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and if looks could kill, most of the drivers in sight would have died long ago. But, in all honesty, it was a bit amusing. Cas rarely saw Dean in a bad mood, and the curses and threats he kept throwing at people that couldn’t even hear him were very creative.

“Dean, they can’t hear you.”

With a glower at Cas, Dean opened the window and craned his neck out, yelling an extremely loud “Fuck you!” to the long line of cars. When he got no response, Dean stuck his head back in and rolled up the window. There were now snowflakes littering his hair, and with a smile Cas reached out and brushed them off.

Dean seemed to soften at that, and sent an apologetic smile Cas’s way.

Cas’s victory was short-lived, because the car in front of them stopped abruptly, sending Dean into yet another cursing spree.

Cas sighed. This was going to be a long drive.

*****

Cas hadn’t seen his house or his mother in weeks. She was constantly busy with her job as a travel nurse, and was usually away on weekends. They had both decided beforehand that it would have been better if Cas stayed at the college over the weekends, mostly because he’d have nobody to talk to at home. But this time her boss had let her take a few days off so that she could celebrate Christmas with Cas and Dean. Cas smiled to himself as he imagined the ugly sweaters she had no doubt knit for both of them.

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when Dean rounded the last corner and drove up to Cas’s house. It looked exactly like he remembered. Two stories, white shutters, blue siding. The Christmas lights weren’t up yet, and Cas had the feeling that his mother would make him put them up later.

The Impala purred to a stop, and both boys ducked out of the car. Dean went around back to get the bags, but when Cas started that way too, Dean waved his hand and gestured to Cas that he’d handle it. Grinning and blowing Dean a kiss, Cas took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the front door.

He looked down at himself. Dean had bought him the sweater that he was currently wearing, and Cas quickly wondered what his mom would think of the bear on it. His shoes were still the same ones he had left home in, although they looked less new than they did before. Cas caught a look at himself in one of the windows, and quickly smoothed his hair down.

“Relax, angel, you look fine.” Dean’s voice in his ear made Cas jump, which prompted Dean to chuckle. But despite his reassuring comment, Cas saw that Dean was just as nervous as he was, maybe more. Dean had his hands full of bags, and he was fidgeting with the wrappers on the presents and shifting from foot to foot. Dean’s mom had died when he was a kid, and Cas knew that Dean never had any real experiences with having a mother figure in his life. As he rang the doorbell, Cas decided to thank God that his mother was the way she was. She could be exactly what Dean was missing.

They didn’t even have to wait a full minute before the door was swinging open and they were greeted with the smiling face of Cas’s mom. All of his time without her came crashing down on Cas, and he launched himself into her arms. She smelled like cookies and butter and all good things. Her arms wrapped around him, and Cas realized just how much he had missed his mom during his time away at college.

His mother released him with a gasp and lunged forward at Dean, who was still standing on the porch, his arms piled high with bags. She ushered him into the house and immediately started relieving him of his baggage. Dean was looking a bit shocked, and his eyes travelled around the house, taking everything in.

He let out a surprised squeak when Cas’s mom finally freed him of the last bag and proceeded to envelop him in a hug. Cas giggled at his discomfort, firmly deciding that he’d tease Dean about it later.

“It’s, umm, it’s nice to finally meet you Mrs. Novak-” Dean began, but was quickly cut off when Cas’s mom pulled back and placed a finger to his lips, shaking her head.

“Now, now, there will be none of that. You can call me Claire. No formalities here.” She took her finger off of his lips, instead running her hand through his hair. “Let’s take a look at you.”

Her eyes raked him over, and Cas tried to contain his laughter at Dean’s helpless glances as her hands cupped his face.

“Well, you’re very pretty. And your eyes are so green.” She turned her head and winked at Cas. “You got yourself a good one, angel.” Cas couldn’t agree more. She then slapped Dean on the butt, which Dean was obviously not expecting. “Make sure you keep him.”

Claire then gathered the bags and presents in her arms and bustled out of the room, leaving a very distraught and confused looking Dean in her wake. As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, Cas burst out laughing. Dean’s mortified face did nothing to help, and it was a full minute before Cas got himself under control.

Still giggling every few seconds, Cas looped his arm through Dean’s and decided to give him a tour of the house. Dean’s eyes hungrily took in the picture frames on the walls and books on the shelves. Now it was Cas’s turn to do the explaining. He gestured to couches and corners, relaying stories and memories from his childhood. Dean listened to everything with interest, although his face still hadn’t lost its blush from his encounter with Cas’s mom.

They passed the living room. The Christmas tree was already up, but there were no ornaments on it yet. Cas yet again guessed that the task of decorating it would be assigned to him.

Dean’s face lit up when he saw the kitchen. Cas remembered all of Sam’s stories about Dean’s love for cooking, and smiled at the spark in Dean’s eyes as he saw the accommodating baking space. Claire was now rushing about, preparing dinner for them. When she caught them trying to peek inside the oven, she shooed them out of the kitchen, claiming that she’d call them down when she was ready.

So Cas and Dean trudged upstairs, picking up the bags Claire had left at the foot of the stairs. First, Cas showed Dean the guest room, where Dean would be staying. He had his own TV and bathroom, and Dean looked overjoyed when he saw that he had a bathtub instead of a shower.

Then, with Dean’s prompting, Cas led Dean to his room.

Dean whistled as Cas opened the door. The walls were covered with posters of Bruno Mars, as well as photo collages of Cas with his family in various foreighn countries. Blushing a bit, Cas tried to stand in front of his vast LEGO collection as to hide it from view, but to no avail. Dean had outright laughed when he saw the many many Lord of the Rings LEGO sets Cas had. Picking up the Legolas, Dean disconnected the legs and held the figurine out to Cas.

“Look. A legless LEGO Legolas.”

That sent both of them into a fit of giggles, and even after they stopped laughing, Cas couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face.

“Well,” Dean finally sighed and sat on the bed. “It’s better than any motel room I’ve ever been in.” His eyes then went wide, and he fell back and spread out on Cas’s bed. He turned his head towards Cas and said, “This mattress is so much more comfortable than your college one.”

Cas chuckled and nodded, about to jump in alongside him, when his mom’s voice carried up from the kitchen, announcing that dinner was ready. Smiling, Dean heaved himself off the bed and they walked downstairs, hand in hand.

“Mom!” Cas protested and rolled his eyes when he saw her standing at the table with a camera, already having snapped a few pictures of them holding hands.

“Sit sit sit.” She gestured at the chairs, and when they did so laughing, she put the camera up and said, “Smile!”

Her grin turned into a small frown as she looked at the product, and insisted that they take another one because the lighting wasn’t right in the first. And another one after that. And another one. And another one.

Cas finally managed to convince her to put the camera away and sit down with them. They started eating.

Claire had really outdone herself this time. She had made lasagna, which she knew was Cas’s favorite dish. Along with a salad, she had made mashed potatoes and gravy, as well as garlic bread. Dean was obviously not used to meals like this, and he piled a little bit of everything onto his plate.

“So. Dean Winchester. Cas has told me a lot about you.”

Dean swallowed his lasagna down quickly and nodded, preparing himself for a series of questions.

“But what he hadn’t told me, was what a gorgeous car you have.” That was probably the last thing that Dean had expected, and he quickly shot her a grin and straightened his back.

“She sure is. Her name is Baby, and she’s a-”

“1967 Chevy Impala?” Claire finished for him, and Dean’s surprised look turned into one of respect. Cas knew that whoever liked anything about Baby was immediately put on Dean’s Nice List.

It was amusing, really; the way that Dean and Claire got along. After Dean got over the initial shock of having his ass slapped by a forty year old woman, he hit it off with Cas’s mom. They shared a love for cars, and Cas had to stop himself from laughing when the conversation had turned to needlework. Apparently, Dean was excellent at sewing, due to the fact that he constantly stitched up Sam’s ripped clothes when they were children.

Claire looked a little disappointed when Dean had said that he didn’t knit, but her question had obviously reminded her of something, because she had left the table and quickly ran upstairs. While she was shuffling around, Dean turned to Cas with a mouthful of potatoes and a grin on his face.

“I love your mom.” He mouthed to Cas, and speared another forful of lasagna into his mouth.

Cas snorted and nudged Dean with his elbow. “I thought you loved me.”

Dean winked at him. “She’s a close second, though.”

Claire returned then with two packages in her arms and a mischievous smile. “I know I’ll forget later, so you boys better open these right now.”

Dean and Cas happily pushed themselves away from the table and were each handed a package. And, just as Cas had predicted, under the wrapping paper there was a bright neon green handmade ugly sweater waiting for him. He quickly shrugged off his current sweater and replaced it with his mom’s new one. He heard Dean’s small laugh and turned around to see Dean sporting his own ugly sweater, but his was red.

“Smile!” Came his mom’s voice, and both boys turned around as Dean slung an arm around Cas’s shoulder, who in turn wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist. She took a few pictures, then ushered them back to the table.

“You better not get any food on them, or I’ll kill you.”

Cas and Dean looked at each other and laughed.

*****

When the meal was over, Dean insisted on taking their dishes to the sink and washing them, which Cas helped him with. They put on the radio, and soon the three of them were singing along to all the Christmas songs that came on. Cas and Dean were standing side by side, swaying along to the music, hips bumping into each other. They came close to starting a soap war with the bubbles, but Cas knew that his mother would never forgive them if he got her kitchen dirty. Therefore the fighting was kept to a minimum, and although the kitchen remained clean, the same could not be said for the boys, which had soap suds in their harid and bubbles on their clothes.

The dishes were clean and dry in less than half an hour, and Claire declared that she was turning in for the night. While Cas and Dean had been washing the dishes, she had been setting up the fireplace, which was now alive with a soft, warm glow.

As they came into the living room, Cas and Dean saw that she had arranged blankets on the floor near the fireplace, along with a bunch of pillows. Dean let out a small sigh at the inviting picture, and squeezed Cas’s hand. Smiling, Cas was about to step forward and hug his mom, but she just shook her head and pointed above their heads. They looked up and came face to face with mistletoe.

Laughing at his mom’s schemes, Cas lowered his gaze to Dean. Dean, who looked like the luckiest man on Earth. His eyes were brighter than Cas had ever seen, and his face was glowing with joy. And then he was leaning down and pressing his lips to Cas’s, and this kiss was so full of love and passion that Cas’s knees went soft. Dean’s strong arms held him up, and Cas allowed himself to melt into his soulmate’s embrace.

Everything was perfect here with Dean, under the mistletoe. Their stomachs were filled to the brim with warm food, and there were blankets and pillows waiting for them by the fire. And Cas was happy. Happier than he had ever been in his entire life.

Cas heard the clicks of his mom’s camera behind them, but for once, he didn’t mind.

#supernatural #dean winchester #destiel #sastiel #castiel novak #gabriel novak #sam winchester #soulmate au #college au #fluff #winter break #christmas #destiel fic #it's not you

8 notes · View notes

radiosteve · 5 years

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Need Your Loving Tonight Ch. 9

Summary: Having a cold usually sucks, but is it really that bad when you accidentally fall asleep on the shoulder of a cute bassist? Despite being sick, you decide to stay for Queen’s show. But as it turns out, not every Queen show goes according to plan.

Note: More fluff and more Deaky in this chapter! As always, the italicized part is the reader’s thoughts. The photo is one that I found on google. I do not own any rights to it. If you want to be added to the taglist send me a message or an ask and I’ll add you!

Warnings: Language, slight angst, fluff

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader, John Deacon x Reader

Words: 3.8k+

January 28, 1972

The heat in Brian’s car broke last month, leaving the two of you to freeze on your drive to Bedford College. A shiver ran down your spine as you gripped tightly onto the warm layer of faux fur surrounding you. Ever since you managed to get a stable job after graduation, you quickly started to become very fiscally responsible (which was a good thing for the boys since you still helped them balance their books for the band). Buying this nice, fluffy coat felt like a true big kid purchase and you didn’t regret a single penny spent. However, it wasn’t until after you had already gone out to buy the coat that you realized that Roger had a jacket that was quite similar, but oh well. Your body suddenly became stiff and you felt every muscle in your body tense. With your eyes fluttering closed, you let a soft sneeze escape from your lips.

“Do you still have that cold?” Brian peered over at you, his hair matted down by a knit hat and his chin shoved into the collar of his big winter coat.

“Sort of, but this cold ass weather really doesn’t help,” you chattered through your teeth as Brian’s gaze refocused on the road.

“Sorry, love. We’ll be there soon,” he reassuringly placed his gloved hand on yours and held it. After a few more minutes of driving, the two of you finally arrived at the school. Brian popped the truck as you got out and went to grab his guitar. The case began to slip from your grip due to the flimsy fabric of your gloves. You heard Brian audibly gasp from behind as you tightly pulled the instrument closer. A wave of relief flooded your chest as you handed the guitar off to Brian, knowing all about his obsession with keeping it safe. “Don’t you dare scare me like that again. You know that Red Special and I have a special bond. I couldn’t go on performing without her,” Brian spew, half-jokingly, half serious.

“I’m sorry, Bri. But both you and Red know that I have no malicious intent,” you lightly chuckled as Brian narrowed his eyes at you.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” Brian muttered under his breath as he slung an arm around your shoulder and walked towards the building. As soon as you entered, the two of you slipped down a long corridor and made your way to the backstage area. The ‘dressing room’ here was even smaller than the one at Surrey College and you could tell that all of the boys had noticed.

“First gig of the year boys, how’s everyone feeling?” Brian’s question got mumbled answers from Roger and John, but they could barely be heard over Freddie’s response.

“I’m just lovely darling. Such a pleasure to perform for so many people that seem to genuinely enjoy us and our music,” Freddie’s arms stretched out from his sides as he spoke. Roger smiled at what Freddie was saying while John let out a soft giggle. “Ah Y/n,” Freddie called out after seeing you standing near the door. “How is the cold, my dear? Feeling better I hope,” You walked into Freddie’s outstretched arms, as he held tightly to your waist. “You look much better. Your face has regained some color and your nose isn’t nearly as runny,” Freddie poked your nose with his finger, and you recoiled as you laughed.

“You almost gave me a heart attack when you waltzed into my apartment the other day. I was half asleep from the cold medicine and I thought you were trying to rob me,” Freddie erupted into laughter as you sat down on the couch against the wall. John’s cheeks had turned pink from giggling at the banter taking place between you and Freddie.

“Is that why you grabbed that magazine off the coffee table? You were going to beat Fred and I with it?” John’s words came out softly and sweetly. You nodded, knowing that John wasn’t mocking you, but even if he was you would have laughed along anyway. Because, in all honesty, just being around John made you want to laugh. Everything about him made your heart flutter and your head swirl. It seemed so difficult to conceal your ever-growing feelings for him, but you knew that it was the right thing to do. Your very last intention was to break up the band by creating some unneeded tension between two of the members. Brian would probably never speak to you again and you’d be forced to move back to New Jersey in order to save yourself from shame. Geez, what a terrible thought.

The conversation continued on, ebbing and flowing throughout the room, getting the boys excited to play tonight. You chimed in when you wanted, trying your best to function normally despite the drowse you felt from the cold medicine you chugged before Brian picked you up. The feeling of fatigue took over about 20 minutes before the boys went on stage. Your head lulled to the side, landing on John’s shoulder as your eyes heavily shut. He felt your hair scratch against his face and the hot breaths fall from your lips. John shifted his arm, resting it against the back of the couch to make you more comfortable. A small smile grew on his lips as he watched you sleeping pressed against him. It was something he thought would only happen in his dreams. And even though this wasn’t quite the way he imagined; John still savored every moment while trying not to draw the boy’s attention to the two of you.

Nevertheless, John’s efforts proved to be unsuccessful. It was Roger that noticed you guys first. He had been glancing at you periodically throughout the night, trying to catch you looking back at him. But this time when he turned his head, he wasn’t met with the sight of your beautiful, yet tired eyes. No, instead Roger peered over to see your lips faintly parted, your hair tucked behind your ears and falling down the back of your neck, and your head cuddled into the shoulder of his bandmate. That same feeling, the one he experienced when you rushed out of his apartment that May morning a year and a half ago, filled Roger’s chest. His eyes began to water, and he blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. Why was he crying? What was the big deal? It’s not like you were his girlfriend. And he’d seen you go on loads of dates since the two of you slept together. Roger had even heard you recount steamy sex stories to Freddie when you thought he wasn’t listening (but the truth is, Roger always listened to you, especially when you didn’t think he was). All of that had never made him feel the way he felt now.

Heartbroken and jealous.

He had no right to be, but Roger knew he couldn’t help it. There was something about you and John that set everything apart from all the other dates and hookups you had after Roger. Something about the soft look John gave you as he watched you snuggle further into his side. Or the way you seemed to fit perfectly into him with comfort and ease. Roger’s heart began to beat so quickly that he thought he might go into cardiac arrest soon. The soft touch of John’s hand against your loosened shoulder, the chunk of hair that fell in your face, only to be pushed aside by John’s nimble fingers. It all drove Roger insane, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It wasn’t until he heard Freddie’s loud words that Roger snapped from his raging trance and looked up.

“Poor girl fell asleep already,” he walked towards the sofa that you and John sat on, gently resting his hand against your forehead, only to quickly pull it away. “Fuck, she’s burning up,” Freddie squatted down in front of you as Brian rushed over. Roger wanted to push past the two boys and sweep your head from John’s shoulder, placing it in the comfort of his lap instead. He desired to stroke your hair and coo in your ear as he fed you warm soup and cuddled under a blanket with you. Roger so desperately longed to be the one that took care of you whenever needed. But he wasn’t. He was just your friend. So instead of bustling over to you, Roger waited a few seconds before calmly walking to where Brian now stood.

“I thought she said that she was feeling better,” Brian looked down at you with concern etched across his face. They all seemed to be genuinely worried about you as you slept. Roger felt worse, knowing that he wasn’t able to do anything to help improve your condition. And what killed him was the panic that seemed to have overtaken Deaky as he felt your forehead. That was when it hit him. Roger realized why he seemed to be so bothered by you and John. It was because John liked you, Roger could see that now. John had been so shy, nervous, and tentative around you because he had a crush on you and that made Roger jealous. He just hoped that somehow, despite the major doubts spinning around in his head, you didn’t feel the same for John. Freddie stretched his hand out to gently caress your face, hoping to wake but not startle you. Your eyes slowly fluttered open as you hazily peered at Freddie.

“Darling, you’re burning up. I think we should have Sally come pick you up. I don’t want you out in public feeling like this,” Freddie’s tone was soft and caring. You moved your head from John’s shoulder, sitting up and leaning into the couch. Your eyelids felt heavy as you fought to keep them open.

“No Fred, I want to see you guys perform. First show of the year, right?” a smile teased on your lips before it was replaced by a sneeze into your arm. “I can just take some more medicine. I brought it in my purse,” you picked your bag up off the ground and pulled out the liquid syrup. “Don’t make me go home Freddie Bear,” you mustered up the best puppy dog eyes you could, speaking in your baby voice to convince him. ‘Freddie Bear’ was a teasing nickname you first started using one night after a Queen show in the beginning of ‘71. You went with the boys to a party and got very, very drunk. Freddie, despite his own inebriated state, tried to cut you off from drinking anymore. You then pulled the ‘Freddie Bear’ nickname out of your ass and he let you have one more beer. Ever since then, the nickname had become your failsafe.

“Fine, but I’m still going to call Sally and have her pick you up right after the show,” Freddie stood up when you nodded and fixed the strand of hair that had fallen in your face. You heard Freddie pick up the phone as you started to pour the cold medicine into the small plastic top that came with the bottle. Brian turned away from you only to return with a glass of water a few seconds later. You thanked him and downed the liquid medicine like it was a shot. Your whole body recoiled at the taste before you quickly brought the water to your lips as a chaser. You fell back into the couch cushions with slight exhaustion. A shiver raked through your body and John noticed.

“You alright, love?” his eyebrows furrowed with worry as you pulled your knees into your chest.

“I’m fine, just a little cold,” you shivered again, placing your bag back onto the ground. You could see something in John’s eyes but couldn’t tell what it was exactly. Before you could continue evaluating, John had wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him.

“There,” his words muffled as he placed his chin on top of your head. “Now you won’t be cold,” the vibrations of his words echoed in his throat and you nearly giggled at the way it felt against your cheek. You snuggled your body further into John’s, blaming your coziness on what felt like ice flowing through your veins. The two of you sat like that for a few minutes before a man peeked in through the door.

“Five minutes ‘til stage, lads,” you reluctantly removed yourself from John’s arms, holding out a hand for him to take as you stood up.

“Come on boys. Let’s get this bloody show on the road,” you spoke jokingly before being interrupted by a loud sneeze. They all chuckled at your cute sneeze before walking out of the dressing room. Brian lead the way to the stage, followed by Freddie and John as you brought up the rear with Roger.

“You did it again,” Roger leaned into you with a slight bump of the shoulder as he spoke. You just looked up at him confused as the two of you reached the backstage area. “You used a British term,” he smiled, and you returned the gesture, letting out a sarcastic laugh. Another shiver took over quickly after and Roger’s eyes flooded with concern. “Here,” he took off the jean jacket that he was wearing over top of his t-shirt and handed it to you. “I won’t need it onstage anyway.” You graciously accepted the jacket as you started to feel goosebumps pop up on your arms. Roger turned away from you to stand next to the boys near the closed curtain.

“Good…” a sneeze interrupted you before you managed to continue. “Luck!” all four of the boys smiled at you before running onstage when the curtain opened.

--------------------------------

The boys stormed off the stage after finishing their short set. A scowl was etched across Roger’s face as he brushed past you, heading towards the dressing room. He seemed to be the angriest out of four the boys. If anything, Freddie saw the whole situation as a bit of a joke, while Brian and John were mild tempered enough to be understanding of it. You slowly cracked the door to the room open, seeing Roger standing in the middle with a broken drumstick in one hand while running his other through his now tangled hair. After telling the rest of the boys to stay outside for a minute, you walked into the room and stepped closer to Roger.

“Rog,” you breathed out, coming closer as Roger turned to face you. “You can’t let it go to your head,” his face was a deep shade of red as he puffed air rapidly in and out of his chest. “This kind of thing is bound to happen from time to time. The best thing you can do is accept it and better prepare yourself for the future,” your words were calming and gentle, but Roger was too worked up to let himself get over it so quickly.

“Six people, Y/n! Six people came to our gig! It’s ridiculous!” Roger threw his arms into the air as he spoke, the anger in his tone just worked him up even more. “This is my life, my so-called career! And here I am, playing to an audience of six people!”

“Technically it’s seven if you count me,” you muttered, trying to get Roger to laugh. But instead, Roger turned to you, looking even angrier.

“You’re really not helping, so can you please just get out,” Roger’s words were laced with ice as they slipped from his tongue. He was too caught up in his own fit of rage to realize that you were right. This is the music industry and not every concert is going to sell out just the same way that not every album goes gold. You stumbled to the door, turning back to look at Roger just before you walked back into the hallway.

“So?” Brian asked after you closed the door. “Any luck at calming the little drummer boy down?” you just shook your head in response before leaning your back against the wall.

“That’s alright darling, you did your best. Now you should go wait near the door for Sally to come get you. She’s going to be here soon,” Freddie chimed in, placing his hand on your shoulder. You pushed yourself up from the wall, pulling your purse up your arm before seeing Roger’s jacket still draped around your torso. You pulled it off, replacing the denim with your own fur coat before giving the boys a hug goodbye and handing Roger’s jacket to Brian. “Johnny, why don’t you stay with Y/n while we go try to ease Roger’s mood?” John nodded at Fred’s suggestion and began walking next to you.

“Feel better, love!” Brian called down the hallway before disappearing into the dressing room door. You and John joked along at Roger’s hissy fit as you traveled down the corridor, reaching the large set of double doors leading to the parking lot.

“We should just wait in here,” John’s voice was gentle as he stopped just in front of the door. “You’re already ill enough, don’t need you getting any worse,” you shot John a close-lipped smile and slowly slid down the wall, curling your knees to your chest as you sat on the ground. John mimicked your actions on the wall across from you.

“You did really well tonight, John,” the side of your head now rested against your kneecaps. “I mean you all did. It’s kind of shocking how few people showed up,” John could hear the scratch in your voice before you started to cough. He waited for your coughing fit to end before he spoke again.

“Not really. There are plenty of reasons as to why only six people came. Could have been poor advertising, different music tastes, financial reasons, some other big event, or maybe they just don’t know who we are yet. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t much matter,” John’s eyes never left yours as he rambled on. “All I care about, all the band should care about, is that the people who do show up at our gigs have a great time. That’s the real reason I want to play music. I just want to look out at the audience’s faces and see a great big smile,” John’s own lips curled into a smile, and yours did too.

What John didn’t tell you, was that when he said ‘audience’, he really just meant you. During their gigs, John frequently looked for you. Whether you were in the crowd or backstage, John’s eyes trailed across the sea of people looking for you and only you. And when he saw that heartwarming, genuine grin plastered across your mouth, he had to resist every urge to jump off stage and seal your lips with his. These days, it felt like everything John did somehow brought him back to you. It was as if he was a planet orbiting your sun. Like you were the driving force behind everything he thought and did. And man did it scare him. John felt overwhelmed by the sheer thump of his heart against his chest whenever you entered the room. He knew that he was falling for you, falling fast and hard.

“That’s really sweet John,” your smile slowly faded as you lifted your head up and rested it against the wall. Your neck craned upwards as you looked towards the ceiling.

“Hey, what’s wrong,” Deaky asked, noticing the shift in your body language. A sigh escaped your lips before you tilted your head back down, still avoiding John’s gaze.

“I don’t know. Guess I thought that I’d be able to calm Roger down from his little outburst. It’s a dumb thing to worry about,” you brushed it off and looked down at the floor. “He just worries me. Sometimes I feel like he’s heading in a downward spiral. I mean, the drinking, the girls, starting to get into some drugs, and now losing his temper like that. I’m just worried that the Rockstar lifestyle will tear him down too quickly,” a shaky breath fell through your words. John stood up and walked over in your direction before sitting down next to you. His hand grabbed for yours as it rested on the ground.

“It’s not dumb to be concerned about your friends,” he gave your hand a light squeeze. John had a way about him that made you believe that he’d never been angry before in his life. I hope he stays that way. So gentle and calm. “If anything, it’s endearing to be so worried about your friend’s future. Roger is lucky to be so close to you, we all are,” his head turned in your direction. “I find no faults in being caring and compassionate, even if the other person doesn’t deserve the affection you give them.” you stared at Deaky with tear filled eyes, unaware as to why you were even crying. With a light chuckle, you brushed the tears from your eyes.

“For only being 20 years old, you are way smarter than me. Smarter than anyone I know actually,” a soft smile formed on your face and John mirrored it.

“I could never be as intelligent as you. Not in a million years,” Deaky countered playfully, gently squeezing your hand once more. It was then that you realized how close the two of you were sitting. How you could feel the wisp of John’s breath against your lips and the sensation of his soft hand in yours. John started to lean in, feeling the same close proximity tugging on his chest, urging him forward. Your lips were only a few inches apart, slowly getting closer and closer. Every last bit of air in the atmosphere exited your chest as your breath hitched and the Earth stopped spinning. Your eyes fluttered shut, just two inches from those soft, cushioned lips. John’s mouth was about to ghost over yours, when the loud honk of a horn and the bright flash of headlights ripped you apart. You quickly rose up, feeling the rush of blood in your head.

“Thanks for waiting with me John. Good night!” you flung yourself through the doors, filing into the passenger seat of Sally’s car as John stood with blushed cheeks behind the glass door. Your heart was still pounding as Sally drove to exit the parking lot, turning onto the main road.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sally looked over at your disheveled hair, seeing your thumb rise to your lips. Your teeth ripped into your cuticles, peeling back a piece of skin with it.

“We were just talking,” a nervous smile danced onto your lips before you replaced your thumb with a different finger.

“Yeah, just talking,” Sally spoke sarcastically before grinning cheekily and returning her focus back to the road.

Taglist: @retromusicsalad @bohemiansweede @deaconsroger @queen-crue @ohtheseboysilove @queeniesteiins @kemeryyyy @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ixchel-9275 @luvborhap @ziggymay @deakysmisfire @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @briarrose26 @greatdinosaursalad

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cchellacat · 5 years

Text

It’s Just A Little Crush

Anon ask. Prompt, no rush. “My cock is prettier than that.” Comparatively.

I’m assuming for any Seb Character and I had the perfect idea for a short wintershock for it. Enjoy.

Bucky/Darcy 18+ A little smutty, very fluffy.

Bucky rummaged through the drawers, moving things about, cursing under his breath. He was sure she must have a hair tie somewhere. Usually he’d find them lying about the apartment, on tables, under cushions, dropped in the cat bowl my Mr Floofypants.

Today though, it seemed there wasn’t one to be had. It’s why he’s here, in her room searching, he’s meant to be going over to the compound for some additional training of the new recruits.

Ever since Darcy had moved in he’d not needed to buy any of his own which had been a godsend because he was always loosing them.

Having Darcy as a roommate had worked out pretty well. The last six months had been the happiest in years. She was certainly a better roommate than Steve, if only for the fact that she could actually cook. They swapped nights for cooking and clean up, it was a good arrangement.

He’d never have imagined that he’d be comfortable with someone else in the apartment, but when Steve moved out to move in with Natasha he’d realised that the rent on this place was going to take a chunk out of his pay check. He’d eventually resorted to putting a note on the board in the break room at the compound. He’d never expected a single girl like Darcy to want to move in, he figured it would be one of the guys from the security teams or another agent.

The apartment was too good to give up though, perfect access to the city and a reasonable commute to the compound. He loved the place.

The day he put the notice up she’d hunted him down twenty minutes later, waving the note like a victory flag. He’d been too stunned at the bouncing chattering bombshell to tell her no. She’d ran him over with a mixture of charm and sass.

Honestly, at the time he thought she was crazy. He was at least twice her size and had a foot on her, but she just bustled around him and bossed him about without a care. He loved it. He’d never tell her, but she made him feel normal again. Somehow, she didn’t see a monster when she looked at him, she just saw him, Bucky.

He moved to the next drawer and tugged at it, finally getting it open he stopped in surprise. He could feel a flush rising in his cheeks at the contents and slammed the drawer shut on instinct. He really shouldn’t be in here, going through her things, what the hell had he been thinking?

His mind however wouldn’t let him move away, he was froze in place. Listening intently to make sure he was alone, he tugged open the drawer again and bit his lip. Under a gauzy piece of lace he could see the outline a red star. Pushing the panties aside he saw it. A vibrator, silver with a red star at the top. He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or smug. He’d known she had one, their rooms might be on opposite sides of the apartment but he had excellent hearing.

He was half hard just thinking about it, about the noises she made while getting herself off. He’d lain awake in agony the first few times, trying to ignore it, the breathy little moans she made, but it was impossible not to picture her, legs spread wide, her dainty hands working into her pussy. Eventually he’d give in to the urge and he’d palmed himself, stoking his cock to the sound of her pleasure, coming with her with a muffled moan of his own into a pillow.

The only downside to living with Darcy was sporting a hard on at the most inopportune times. The dame was handful, she didn’t seem to register him as any type of threat and would waltz through the living room in nothing but panties and a t shirt that barely skimmed her bottom. She had no problem barging into the bathroom while he showered to brush her teeth or hurry through the kitchen in nothing but a towel. If it had been any other woman, he’d have thought she was doing it on purpose, but she seemed completely oblivious to the effect she had on him.

He lifted the vibrator and turned it in his hand. The red star seemed to be mocking him. It couldn’t be a coincidence though, surely? He looked around the room, really looked and started to notice things he must have been overlooking before. There were at least three of his t shirts, two on the floor and one over a chair, she’d been wearing them to bed lately. Then there was the cork board on one wall. Pictures of the two of them.

The day they’d went to the zoo in central park.

A selfie taken at a little coffee shop in Soho she’d insisted had the best espresso in the city.

A snap he didn’t realise had been taken in the communal area at the compound during am movie night. The same night there hadn’t been enough seats for everyone. He’d hauled her up into his lap when she’d been about to sit on the floor. It had been a good night, he’s enjoyed every second, having her nestled into him, her had resting on his chest as they watched the movie, it had been all he could do not to let her feel the hard on he’d had for the majority of the night with all the squirming she’d seemed to be doing.

Now he looks back on all those moments and reassesses. Breakfasts and dinners together, he always drove her to work, she always packed him lunch… they had been doing everything together except sleeping together. How the hell had all this slipped past him?

He’d been so busy ruminating that he failed to notice the front door opening, so when Darcy suddenly appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, her mouth open in shock and a bright blush spreading quickly over her cheeks, he’d dropped the fuckin vibrator to the floor. The subsequent buzzing that issued from it had Darcy make some inarticulate sound of rage and horror and had her running from the room, the front door slamming loudly in her wake as she took off.

Bucky swore colourfully and grabbed the damned vibrator, switching it off after a brief fumble and then went after her.

Darcy nearly tripped twice trying to get as far from Bucky and the apartment as possible. Her whole body was shaking with a mixture of mortification and anger. Part of her wants to turn around and storm back in there, give him a piece of her mind for going through her things, the other half of her brain is screaming with embarrassed fury, urging her to run.

Oh god, why did he do that? She’s been so fucking good about not giving her super massive crush on him away. She liked the apartment, she liked him and the strange little routine they’d made. She loved spending time with him. Fuck, what on earth possessed him to go pawing through her knicker drawer?

She only made it a few blocks before she heard him behind her, shouting her name. She keeps going, ignoring him, trying to compose herself before he inevitably caught up with her. The sound of heavy foot falls had her scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve, her feet still moving her along.

The feel of a large hand catching her elbow to stop her had her freeze, stopping abruptly, she let out a surprised oomph as he stumbled into her, his arm catching around her waist to stop her toppling forward.

“Darcy….” She didn’t move, her back pressed to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard. He trailed off and she kept her eyes shut, wondering when he would let go of her, instead, he sighed behind her and his other arm came around her waist.

“Darcy, I’m sorry. I was just looking for a hair tie, I swear I wasn’t snoopin through your things for anything… fuck. This really isn’t coming out right. Please just say something Darce, shout, tell me off… just don’t stop talking to me doll.”

“I am so fucking embarrassed right now Barnes.”

“Don’t be, this is my fault, I wasn’t thinking and… I’m sorry sweetheart. I am really fucking sorry.”

“Can we pretend it never happened?” She asks in a small voice.

Bucky turns her in his arms.

“Darce…” she doesn’t look up at him, her eyes now firmly fixed on the avengers logo on his tight black t-shirt.

“Just… I just want to go home.” she says quickly, hoping to stave off any more discussion of the incident.

“Alright. Lets go home.” He sighs and lets her step back from him, but instead of walking beside her on the way back, he throws an arm round her shoulder and pulls her into his side.

All the touching is going to her head. She doesn’t get it. He’s never this touchy feely with her. I mean sure, she is with him, all the time, but he hardly ever reciprocates. She’s thankful for his continued silence right up until they reach the apartment and then she’s nearly shaking with nerves. She knows he doesn’t want to drop the subject, she almost dreads stepping through the door.

As soon as they’re through she hurries off to her room, closing the door tightly behind her. The silver vibrator lies mockingly on the bed and she feels her face heat again with embarrassment. She grabs it and angrily stuffs it back in the drawer. She is going to kill Jane for buying the damn thing as a gag birthday gift for her. As her best friend she was the only one to know about Darcy’s crush on Bucky. For a stuffy scientist, Jane sure did have a pretty dirty sense of humour.

She can’t face going back out into the apartment proper, so she undresses quickly and pulls on a t-shirt. It’s not until she curled up in bed that she realises it’s one of him. She is so done, what on earth must he think of her now?

It’s a few hours later that she’s startled by a knock at her door.

“Darcy, can I come in?”

She pulls the covers round her and debates on it, but ultimately, if he was going to bring it up, it was better to get it out of the way now, rather then draw it out.

“Come in.”

The door opens and he stands in the doorway. He’s changed too. Soft sweat pants and a tank top. Fuck, she loved him in a tank top, it showed off everything. Every toned muscles and line. Was it her fault she found him so attractive? No, she’s pretty sure anyone who spent a half hour in his company would feel the effects. He’s got a charm about him that draws you in whether you want it to or not.

He only hesitates for a moment before coming to sit on the bed beside her.

“What do you want?” she asks, far too aware of how close he was to her.

“I wanted to make sure we were okay and… Look, Darcy, I…”

She can see he’s struggling to say something.

“Just spit out, okay?”

Instead of saying anything he seems to come to some decision and leans forward, his eyes locked on hers. She can feel her own eyes grow wide in shock.

She’s pretty sure he’s about to kiss her. Unconsciously she leans into him, unspoken permission given and then his lips are on her and she can’t think of anything other than the delicious rasp of his beard tickling her face and the softness of his mouth as he draws her closer. It’s soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that has her wondering if it was a dream, it felt so perfect. When he pulls away from her she’s stunned silent and somehow she’s ended up sitting on his lap.

“Wish I’d figured out before now that you liked me, we coulda been doing this for months.” The flickering amusement in his eyes has her tummy doing flips.

“God you’re sure of yourself Barnes.”

He just grins at her and nudges her nose with his, places tiny soft kisses along the edge of her mouth, teasing her mercilessly. She can’t help but grn right back, returning the kisses with some of her own.

He’s going slow with her, afraid if he comes on too strong she might run again. It’s a struggle not to tumble them both over so he can have her under him, but he restrains himself and seduces her kiss by kiss.

He lets her set the pace but once she’s over her shock things progress quickly, clothes are quickly discarded, scattered around the room as the urgency between then ignites.

it’s like fire in her veins, the kisses he presses to her skin feel like they are inked into her soul. When he finally enters her she wants to stay in that moment, never leave it. He feels so good inside her, hot and hard and stretching her, his hands ad mouth wandering, kissing her everywhere, tracing her skin reverently with calloused fingertips. Darcy babbles out all her thoughts aloud between cursing and whimpering his name. It’s like a dance, bodies moving in slow motion as skin presses into skin, the feel of him pinning her down so gently has her canting her hips sharply, encouraging him to be less careful, silently telling him that she’s not made of glass. She comes with a wail of his name ghosting over her lips and then he has her on her knees, taking her from behind, his large body pressed to her back, kissing into her neck, one arm tucked under her, fingers wandering south.

in the aftermath, Darcy just wants to sleep. She feels so warm and satisfied, curled up on his chest, his heart beating in her ear. She risks a glace at his face and her smile widens at his hum of approval.

“You know.” He begins, stroking his hand through her hair. “My cock is prettier than that.” He gestures vaguely towards the chest of drawers where the vibrator was in hiding and she giggles into his skin.

“You are so full of it Barnes.”

“I think you got that mixed up doll, pretty sure you were full of me!”

When they finally stop giggling like a couple of teenagers, he pulls her in close and kisses her again. She snuggles up and closes her eyes.

Maybe she’ll buy Jane a gift basket instead.

#wintershock #bucky/darcy #smut #lemon #fluff #It's just a little crush #hbc drunk drabbles

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sheikah · 5 years

Photo

Close Quarters

This is the first bit of a fic that I intended to be for @annabelleebythesea back in December (hence the winter and Christmas setting haha) but couldn’t finish in time. It’s still only halfway done, but I’ve decided to publish the first part so that it’ll hopefully motivate me to finish the rest later :) This is unbeta’d and just for fun. Enjoy! Read below or on AO3.

“Think of it as … professional development.” Olenna Tyrell smiled blithely as the room erupted with protests. It was one thing to ask faculty to attend an in-service meeting before the Christmas holiday, but quite another to force them up the mountains for a team-building retreat. Even Dany, ordinarily agreeable and understanding when it came to Olenna’s stringent policies, couldn’t help feeling a little mutinous at the idea.

“And just what professional qualities will we be developing while holed up in your time share, Principal Tyrell?” Cersei Lannister’s dislike for their principal was well-known, and as the drama teacher she was, expectedly, outspoken and a little theatrical.

For once, Dany found herself in agreement with Cersei, however impertinent her question. She couldn’t see the logic in a faculty ski trip.

True, Dany was somewhat new to White Harbor and its flagship secondary school, Winterfell High. She was in her second year of employment teaching history and had yet to establish many lasting friendships among her fellow teachers. But that was alright. Friends and colleagues weren’t a part of her classroom, and she managed quite well in the instruction of her classes on her own. No snowy excursions or forced mingling with other faculty were going to improve her rapport with her students.

But unlike many of the outraged teachers in the room Dany lacked a valid excuse for avoiding a holiday getaway. She had no family waiting back home for a visit, no children of her own to look after. In all likelihood she would spend the entire holiday break at home with her three cats were it not for this trip. A lonely prospect, but not enough to stoke her interest in the retreat.

To her right, Tyrion Lannister, resident wine-sodden English teacher, shifted restlessly in his seat, a sardonic grin forming on his lips.

“I hear the luge is all the rage on the conference circuit this semester. Excellent way to build your CV.” There was a scatter of chuckles from among the gathered faculty, though Cersei, Tyrion’s elder sister, seemed less than amused.

Principal Tyrell merely stared at Tyrion without a flicker of warmth until the room fell silent again.

“If you ever bothered to attend a conference, instead of spending your weekends at the pub, you’d understand the importance of networking with others in your field, Mr. Lannister,” she returned coolly.

Tyrion sat up a little straighter at the jab, but offered no argument.

“That’s all very well,” Cersei pressed, forcing a strained smile. “But we’re not in one another’s fields, are we? Missandei is fluent in languages I’ve never heard of, but she can’t teach Mr. Snow’s students trigonometry. Neither of them can direct a full theatrical production. Our work is different. Each of us, every day, has a different approach to what we do. And sending us all into the mountains for some juvenile bonding ritual is no way to improve our test scores.”

“What do you care about test scores?” Sansa Stark demanded from the next row over. “You’re the theater teacher.”

“You’re one to talk. As if home ec is really setting our girls up for success on the SAT,” Cersei sneered.

“It’s not just about that. A trip like this, we might all get to know each other.” Sansa offered Olenna an angelic smile. If nothing else, she was better at faking it than the rest of them.

“Yes,” agreed Oberyn Martell, eyebrows wagging suggestively. “I think we could stand getting to know another better.”

Dany sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at them both. Sansa was the home economics teacher and a nice girl from what little Dany knew of her, if a bit of a brownnose. But her support of Olenna’s silly trip felt like treachery to the rest of them. And as for Oberyn, the always-inappropriate gym coach? He was just eager for an excuse to carouse with his colleagues

“It’s about communication,” Olenna insisted. “Look at you all! You’re riotous at the prospect of a paid holiday simply because it involves interaction with one another. You need each other. To discuss learning trends, problems across disciplines, classroom management styles, conflict resolution, conduct issues, ideas for student engagement. You’re almost as detached as our phone-obsessed teenagers! But we need to work together, to improve our learning environment, student completion, and, evidently, faculty morale.”

A scoff sounded behind her and Dany turned to find the aforementioned Mr. Snow glowering as usual. Jon was the resident math teacher. He was young, like Dany, and the students loved him. She couldn’t imagine why.

“Something to add, Mr. Snow?” Dany asked, turning in her seat to fix him with her lilac stare. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes when they found hers, but it was gone just as quickly.

“Of course not, Ms. Targaryen.” There was ice in his reply, a promise of more and unkinder words left unspoken. Typical.

Olenna passed a curious glance between the two of them before nodding with finality.

“Good. With that settled you’ll all receive the details of your itinerary through your faculty email. The only thing left to decide on is transportation arrangements.”

“Transportation?” Tyrion asked. “Won’t we all just pile merrily into one of those yellow deathtraps the students are lucky enough to ride in every day?”

Olenna’s glare was enough to make even Dany flinch.

“Our school busses are very safe, Mr. Lannister, I assure you. The incident last year had nothing to do with the integrity of the vehicle. Mr. Dondarrion didn’t see the oncoming vehicle in time on account of his … impaired sight.”

Tyrion only blinked at Olenna, his smile never wavering. It took all of Dany’s self-control not to erupt into laughter at his side.

“For the gods’ sake, can we end this meeting? What transportation are you providing, Principal Tyrell?” Cersei demanded, already standing to leave.

“None.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Olenna answered calmly. “None. While our busses are more than safe for their intended purposes they aren’t rated for ascent to high elevations, especially in the winter months. No. You’ll need to take your own vehicles. We’ll pay for your mileage, of course, but we’re only budgeted for three reimbursements, so you’ll need to carpool.”

A synchronized groan rose all around the room, but Dany was silent, panic overtaking her at this latest development. She hadn’t considered the possibility that she might need to drive herself, much less any others. She wasn’t used to driving here, to the snow-laden roads and their treacherous slickness. Back home, she could count on one hand the number of times the roads had frozen over. Her city wasn’t prepared for it. Why bother? That far South, it simply wasn’t cold enough. So any time the conditions didn’t favor driving, businesses simply closed, the citizens bundled up safely in their homes until the streets were passable again.

Since the move to White Harbor Dany had used a rideshare service to get to work when the weather was poor, always telling herself that she’d learn how to drive in the snow eventually, when she was ready. Just not yet.

Apparently she’d have to teach herself over the next two days. That, or hope she was lucky enough not to be chosen to ferry the others up the mountain in her car.

“Cersei,” Olenna said, interrupting her reverie. She squinted down at a notebook that lay open on the podium before her. “You’ll drive up first, being that you’ve got no after-school engagements on Friday. Based on their schedules, it looks like you can take Sansa and Missandei with you.”

Cersei swore under her breath but nodded, Sansa looking more than a little disappointed behind her. In front of Dany, Missandei turned in her seat, a grimace of dismay on her pretty face.

“Fuck me,” she mouthed, shaking her head. No one in their right mind would want to ride up with Cersei. Dany couldn’t help sympathizing her with her friend. She indulged in a bit of pity for herself, too. She’d hoped that if nothing else, she and Missandei would at least ride together.

“Samwell,” Olenna continued, still eyeing the schedule carefully. “You’ll also leave Friday afternoon, with Oberyn, Tyrion, and my granddaughter.” This time Dany couldn’t suppress her snort of amusement. Of all the employees at Winterfell High, Samwell Tarly was the most tightly wound and by-the-book. He was a nervous man, always wary of disgruntled students and overbearing parents. How the timid librarian was going to survive a weekend away with the likes of Oberyn and Tyrion ribbing him was beyond her. At least Olenna’s lovely granddaughter, Margaery, would be there. She was kind but firm, the students’ best-loved counselor. With her around, the men wouldn’t be too hard on Sam.

Looking around the room, Dany realized with horror that this left only three people unassigned: herself, Davos Seaworth, the aging guidance counselor, and Jon Snow.

“Mr. Seaworth is out with the flu,” Olenna reported, finally looking up from her schedule. “So that leaves … Ms. Targaryen, you have the honors’ society meeting Friday evening. And Mr. Snow, you’ve got fencing practice. That means the two of you will have to ride together, leaving Friday night.”

No.

Dany opened her mouth to protest but Olenna spoke first, her eyes suddenly glued to the ornate gold watch on her wrist.

“We’ll adjourn now. Much to do. Look for more information in your emails.” With that, the principal bustled out of the room in a sweep of her dark green skirt, leaving the rest of them grumbling in her wake.

“I can’t believe this,” Dany muttered, meeting Missandei’s pitying gaze. “I can’t ride up with Jon.”

She turned hesitantly to see if he was still behind her, wondering if she should approach him first to make a plan, explain that she couldn’t drive. But he was already gone, the desk he’d been sitting at vacant.

“What is it with the two of you anyway?” Tyrion asked, quirking a brow at her as they filed out of the room with the others.

“What do mean? Nothing.” Dany paused, staring down to fiddle at a hangnail on her thumb as she scrambled for the right words, determinedly avoiding Missandei’s knowing look. “I don’t like him is all. I’d think even you could understand that. He isn’t the friendly sort.”

The lie was easy, natural so that she almost believed it herself. The truth was less simple, and dodging it now only brought the memories back with staggering force.

It had been almost a year since the office Christmas party. Dany had only been teaching at Winterfell for three months back then, still learning the ropes, still getting to know its colorful cast of faculty and staff

She and Missandei had been fast friends. They were close in age, hired at the same time, and Dany’s interest in world history paired well with Missandei’s knowledge of various languages and cultures. They often planned joint projects in their classes together, had dinner on the weekends, and spent lazy evenings at one another’s apartments grading papers and splitting a bottle of wine.

Dany’s friendship with Tyrion was less conventional. He’d been dubbed her “new faculty mentor,” a job he approached with dry humor and no real advice. But the arrangement had paired them together at various work functions until she had developed a grudging affection for the sardonic older man.

Dany was grateful for her newfound friends, and for the most part she was happy with her colleagues at Winterfell; but even then, Jon Snow had found his way under her skin. He was quiet and withdrawn in the lounge, his nose always in a book, earbuds in place to block out any chance at the distraction of conversation. He taught math, she knew, but he was usually reading fiction instead of working through equations. Adventure thrillers and fantasy epics.

Every day he brought a healthy lunch from home, and he was almost always early through the door in the morning because he came to work straight from the gym. His dark-colored dress shirts fit well enough to show the sturdy build of his arms and shoulders. At least his hard work was paying off.

Outside his classroom he never talked to anyone save his best friend, Sam, and the occasional chat with Tyrion for a book recommendation. Even his cousin, Sansa, seemed to prefer Margaery to the company of the seemingly cold Jon. So Mr. Snow was a man of rigid discipline and few words, but Dany liked nothing more than a hopeless cause.

It didn’t help matters that she frequently looked up from her morning coffee in the lounge to find him watching her silently from his seat across the room. The moment she caught him looking he’d quickly drop his gaze back to the book in his lap. Ordinarily it would have annoyed her to be stared at, but Jon’s attention was a little flattering. He was handsome, with a fine, bearded jaw and big brown eyes framed by Warby Parker wayfarers. Yet despite his frequent glances her way, they’d never spoken past the obligatory introduction in her first week.

Jon’s withdrawn behavior would’ve been sufficient to catch her attention on its own. Dany had a history of involvement with inappropriate or unavailable men, after all. Her catastrophic breakup with Drogo would have been reason enough to move across the country, even without the job offer at Winterfell. So Dany had been ready to write Jon off as another case of her inconvenient attraction to, for lack of a better word, assholes.

But then she’d seen Jon teaching. She’d happened by his classroom on the way to the lounge during her free period, and the little rectangular window into his room framed a portrait of an entirely different man.

He was animated and energetic, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows as he moved from one corner of the board to the next, scrawling out numbers and graphs and turning to his students with a smile so dazzling it stopped her in her tracks. Who got that excited about algebra?

Maybe he wasn’t the office grump after all, just a man who didn’t much care for idle small talk and forced pleasantries. Dany could respect that. She wasn’t exactly a social butterfly herself, and being the new girl in a small town like White Harbor was a lonely business. A part of her wanted to fix that.

So she’d gotten absurdly dolled up for the office Christmas party that year, barely zipping herself into a sequined red cocktail dress and using the occasion to break in a pair of her highest heels, shiny black patent leather.

The party was held off-campus so that they could all indulge in the booze they so desperately needed around the holidays. The school’s hospitality fund had gone toward an open tab at the sports bar off Main Street, Tyrion’s favorite weekend haunt.

The place had been spruced up for Christmas, string lights along the bar, red and green window paint near the entrance broadcasting season’s greetings to the passersby. The tables had been pushed back or removed to make space for a crude dance floor, and music was blasting through the sound system at a near-deafening volume.

Dany could feel the bass in her bones, a humming vibration that excited her. It’d been too long since she’d had any real fun or done anything for herself. She was always so focused—working toward her next career goal, learning new ways to approach her students. That night was supposed to be different.

Things started off well enough. She slid up on the barstool next to Tyrion, already a few beers in and chatting up the bartender.

“Targaryen!” he’d greeted her enthusiastically before sweeping his eyes over her dress. “You look like an HR violation waiting to happen.”

Dany snorted, shaking her head demurely. That was good. She hadn’t worn a skin-tight, sparkly dress to blend into the background. But it wasn’t Tyrion’s admiration she was after.

“Put her first drink on me,” he instructed the bartender, throwing a friendly nod Dany’s way.

“Thanks. Vodka soda, please. With a twist.”

Tyrion frowned at her drink order.

“And two shots of whiskey straight up,” he added, winking at Dany’s surprise.

“Tyrion, no,” she protested quickly. “That’s too much, I—”

“Not to worry,” he sang out with a grin. “It’s not for me. One for you, and one to quiet down this insufferable chatterbox to my left.”

“Who?” she wondered aloud. Tyrion just patted the bartop twice in parting and slipped easily from his seat and onto the floor. On the other side of his now-empty stool sat Jon Snow. His expression was one of confusion to match Dany’s own as Tyrion picked up his drink and backed away from them.“

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warned, and with a wink, he disappeared into the crowd.

Dany scoffed before turning back to Jon. He looked smart in a slim cut black suit. He wore black a lot, she’d noticed. Black like his hair. He had nice hair.

“Hi,” she offered simply. The greeting came out in an awkward sort of yell to be heard over the music and the dead space of the empty seat between them.

“Uh, yeah. Hey,” Jon returned. She saw his gaze dip to take in her outfit, the plunge of her neckline. He swallowed with a bob of his Adam’s apple before dragging his eyes back to hers.

A clink of glass against the bar signaled the arrival of the shots and Dany eyed them apprehensively. She didn’t drink nearly often enough to be comfortable shooting whiskey. But she’d resolved to have fun tonight. To relax. And with this night marking the beginning of a week’s holiday break from work, she didn’t have any reason to be up early the next day.

“We don’t have to—I mean, you don’t have to take it. Tyrion is just—he’s pushy. But you don’t have to drink that,” Jon assured her, leaning across the stool to be heard over the noise of the bar.

That’s more words than you’ve ever said to me, Dany thought, a smile tugging at her red-lacquered lips.

“I know,” she said, taking the shots in hand. She held one out to Jon with a nod of encouragement. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Snow.”

Jon stared at her hand for a moment of indecision before accepting the proffered whiskey.

“Merry Christmas, Daenerys.”

“You can call me Dany,” she offered. “My friends call me Dany.”

They toasted with a clink of their glasses that sloshed some of the liquid onto Dany’s fingers before she brought it to her mouth and downed it one gulp. It was strong and bitter on her tongue, burning all the way down her throat, and Dany had to fight the urge to gag from the taste. She’d never been one for hard liquor.

Jon appeared totally unaffected, swallowing it without the merest wince of discomfort. He looked up just as Dany was sucking the spilled, sticky drops off her skin, eyes rivetted to the sight of her finger between her lips. He shifted in his seat before turning back to the bar.

Dany sighed, taking the vodka soda Tyrion had bought for her from the bartop and sipping it to dispel the lingering flavor of the whiskey. She could see Jon fidgeting out of the corner of her eye, nursing a pint of some draught. The empty seat between them felt like a canyon. She wanted him to scoot over and sit by her. Strike up conversation. Something.

But he didn’t. Instead he traced a fingertip idly through the frost of condensation on his beer glass, determinedly keeping his eyes straight ahead. Apparently, he was done talking.

Dany pressed her lips together in irritation, her stare boring into the side of his head. She wasn’t used to this, to having to be the pursuer. In any other circumstance she would be the one rebuffing a man’s advances.

She polished off her whole drink waiting for him to make a move. And then another. It was a lot for someone her size. Even more for someone who drank as seldom as she. But Jon’s silence was maddening enough to keep her going, anything for a distraction from the awkward tension that hung palpably between them.

It was tempting to abandon him altogether and join the crowd on the dancefloor. Dany had already spied Missandei in a sleek black cocktail dress, dancing close with her boyfriend Grey. They looked happy. And she knew that somewhere out there Tyrion was several whiskies deep and engaged in some drunken philosophical discourse with an unwilling participant. Most likely Samwell Tarly. That’d be something to watch.

But she was too curious about Jon to leave things as they were. This was the closest they’d gotten to a real conversation. She’d seen him all those times in the lounge at work, even in faculty meetings. He stared at her. That meant he was attracted to her, didn’t it? So what was he waiting for?

Missandei bellied up to the bar next to her, giggling helplessly, Grey in tow.

“Dany!” she greeted her, patting her a little too hard on the back before ordering another glass of wine.

“Why aren’t you dancing?”

“Wrong shoes for it,” she fibbed, shrugging. “Enjoying the party?”

“Very much,” Missandei confirmed. Grey only smiled. He didn’t speak much English, which was just as well since Missandei was an expert in his native Valyrian tongue.

When her wine was delivered Missandei raised it to Dany, who toasted her with a clink of her own glass.

“Merry Christmas, Dany.”

“Merry Christmas,” she returned brightly. Missandei’s jovial spirit was infectious, even as she peered over Dany’s shoulder, no-doubt eyeing her sulking neighbor. She raised a brown questioningly at Dany before taking another sip of her wine.

“See you out there then?”

“Maybe later,” Dany replied, hoping it was true. She had to admit that it looked like a lot more fun than her current occupation.

When the couple had gone, she turned back to Jon with a sigh loud enough to be heard even over the boom of the music.

“So,” she began, scooting toward him and onto the empty barstool at last. “What’s your problem?”

His face hardened instantly, posture going rigid.

“Excuse me?”

She was being rude. She knew that much, but the heady combination of liquid courage coursing through her veins and the weeks of compounded curiosity about this man spurred her on anyway.

“Why did you come here if you’re only going to sit there pouting?”

“I’m not pouting. I’m having a pint at a bar. What else would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, dance.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t dance.”

Dany rolled her eyes, sucking at her straw as it rattled loudly in her empty glass.

“Another one, please,” she called, raising her drink in the air to call the bartender over their way.

“You might want to slow down,” Jon cautioned. “You’ve been putting those away pretty fast all night.”

“So you’ve been watching me ‘all night,’ but couldn’t bother saying a word?” Jon shrunk back, clearly uncomfortable. Good, Dany thought. At least he can feel something.

When her drink arrived she took it at once, defiantly holding Jon’s gaze as she brought the straw to her lips and took a deep drink. The nerve of him, really, telling her she ought to slow down. He made no further protests, though, and Dany could feel his eyes on her mouth as she drank.

“So you don’t dance,” she noted. “And you don’t talk.”

“I never said I didn’t talk,” he fired back.

“But you haven’t.”

“Well, neither have you!”

Fair enough. She swallowed, trying to find a suitable response. He was right, of course. But she’d left the door open for conversation, hadn’t she? She’d told him her nickname, she’d taken the gods-damned shot of whiskey. The ball had been in his court, then, and he’d let it roll right past him. For an hour.

“Fine,” she relented finally. “We’re talking now. So, um. Why did you come here tonight, anyway? This doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself,” he answered, swishing his drink idly in his hand. “This isn’t exactly going how I’d thought it would.”

Interesting.

“How did you think it would go?”

His hand stilled around his glass, his eyes finding hers. There was something in them that sucked the air right out of her, something serious and suggestive. Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe he did want her.

“I, ah.” Jon cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I thought for sure Tyrion would’ve been kicked out by now.”

She giggled at his unexpected humor, nearly toppling from her precarious seat on the stool. “Maybe he has,” she pointed out, shrugging. “Haven’t seen him in awhile, have we?”

Jon smiled at that—a handsome, disarming smile. It put her at ease to see it, to be reminded that under his coarse exterior was the kind man she’d seen in the classroom before.

“So when you aren’t sitting at bars avoiding dancing and talking,” she teased. “What do you do for fun?”

He shrugged. “I like training, exercise. I run and hike with my dog. I do a bit of reading. And I’m a fencing instructor.”

Dany snorted, inhaling a burning swig of her vodka soda and coughing to clear it. Her eyes teared from the choking sensation, but even through the blur she could see Jon’s scowl.

“Fencing?” she asked, gasping for breath. “Fencing?”

“Aye, fencing,” he answered, bristling. “What of it?”

“You’re—you’re a nerd, Jon Snow,” she announced, his obvious grumpiness only adding to her amusement. She tried to imagine it, Jon in one of those little white practice suits she’d seen in the movies, face hidden behind a mesh mask, curls stuffed under a helmet, sword-fighting like they were in some period drama. Being a history nerd herself she could appreciate the hobby, but it didn’t make the idea of the surly Jon prancing his way through fencing footwork any less hilarious.

“A ‘nerd?’ Gods, what are you, ten?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

“You’re a fencing math teacher. Face it.”

“Fencing is a noble craft, an art-form dating back centuries. You ought to know, history expert and all.”

“Still a nerd,” she grinned.

“I’m not,” he insisted, but she could see the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

“Alright, if you’re not a nerd, then prove it. A nerd wouldn’t dance with me,” she challenged playfully. “Come on, prove me wrong.”

He blinked at her, slowly uncrossing his arms.

“Fine,” he agreed, shrugging out of his jacket. He stood up and held out a hand, refusing to meet her eyes. “One song.”

Dany’s lips curled upward in a sultry grin, excitement thrumming through her. She wanted him. More than she’d thought she would, and the prospect of dancing with him had her body bursting with anxious energy. She took a final sip of her drink before setting it on the bartop next to her clutch and accepting Jon’s hand.

It was warm, warm and rough and big. He laced his fingers through hers and then turned away leading her through the press of bar patrons and out to the dancefloor.

The crowd had somewhat thinned from earlier that night, though Missandei and Grey were still going; Margaery and Sansa, too, laughing breathlessly and stumbling about. Dany didn’t really see anyone else she recognized among the dancers, though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness.

The music was even louder here, the tall speakers abutting the crude wooden dancefloor. It was typical club fare, lots of bass, energetic beat. Ordinarily it wasn’t Dany’s type of music, but tonight she couldn’t have chosen anything better. When Jon turned to face her she saw uncertainty and nervousness etched into his features, but when she guided his hands to her hips they felt natural enough, and soon they were swaying and stepping in time with the song.

It didn’t take long for them to slip into an easy rhythm. The music pounded out louder than her own pulse in her ears, the dark of the bar casting everything in a haze of smoke and laughter. Dany was just drunk enough to be fearless and free. She didn’t even notice when she stepped out of turn, or the pain in her feet from her ill-advised stilettos. Everything blurred together into sensation and instinct.

It had been awhile, but Dany had loved dancing and clubbing with her friends back home. Even so, dancing with a man was different. She’d always seen it as a test of chemistry, rhythm and compatibility made physical. If that was true, Jon was passing the test with flying colors, holding her temptingly close one moment and spinning her out with an effortless flow in the next. Dany found herself returning the flash of his smile peeping out at her in the dark. He was good.

“I thought you couldn’t dance!”

“I never said I couldn’t,” he shouted back over the music, lifting her abruptly out of a dip, her hair whipping in the air. “I said I didn’t.”

For a heated moment they stood, breathing heavily from the dance, her face inches from his.

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

The song ended on an instant of silence, their panting breaths suddenly deafening in her ears. Dany tried to hide her disappointment. It was over too quickly. Jon’s closeness, the grip of his hands and the dizzy excitement of moving with him on the dancefloor had only served to make her want him more. A tease. But despite his earlier “one song” declaration, when the next song filled the room with sound, he didn’t let her go.

Instead, he twirled her around in his arms, plastering her body to his and splaying his palms over her hips to hold her against him. She gasped, covering his hands with her own and relaxing into his hold. The song was slower than the first, and she writhed against Jon in time with the beat, her ass pressing at his hips.

She fell into something like a trance. All their prior hesitance melted away into a delicious euphoria as she danced shamelessly in Jon’s arms, breathing in the spice of his cologne, relishing in the heat of his palms through her dress, his breath at her ear and on her neck as they moved together. The second song blended into a third, and then a fourth, and soon Dany stopped counting. She felt wild and desirable, sweating from exertion, hair a mess and skin flushed. Jon was everywhere, all lingering touches and breathy exhales, his body moving sinuously with hers.

It felt filthy to dance with him this way, especially at a work function of all things. But Dany found it hard to care about prying eyes with Jon’s hands sliding up from her waist, the pronounced feel of what she knew to be his erection throbbing at her backside.

For months she’d done nothing more than steal a glance across the staff lounge, pass in the hall close enough to brush his shoulder. Every moment had made her ache with some unsatisfied need. To be so close now, finally, was enough to make her wet with anticipation. The palpable attraction between them, the reciprocal, fluid sync of their movement went beyond anything she’d ever expected.

Jon’s quiet reserve had intrigued her before, but she’d never dreamt it was masking this—that underneath his careful exterior he was so passionate and uninhibited. It was like her touch had flipped a switch, lit a fire, burning his mask away to reveal a wolf in a man’s clothing. Yes—a wolf, and she wanted nothing so much as to be devoured.

Dany could feel her dress riding up almost to her hips as she danced, grinding back on Jon with his leg shoved up between hers. Every touch was like a promise of what could be if only they weren’t in public, if only they were alone.

She lifted her hands to feel for him behind her, grabbing blindly for his face, her fingers raking through his short beard. His palm was hot on her throat, guiding her head back until it rested at his shoulder, angling her face to his.

All at once the music crescendoed and Dany crushed their mouths together, grateful then for the towering heels that gave her height enough to match him. The kiss was rough and frantic, charged with all the building fervor from their dance. His lips were soft but unyielding, his beard scraping roughly at her mouth as he opened his lips to kiss her deeply. She met the hot slick of his tongue with her own, tasting the faint tang of his beer, the cool of some minty gum.

Jon dropped a hand from her jaw down lower to traverse the décolletage over her dress, then lower still, scandalously low. She moaned into his open mouth as he all but groped her through the fabric. She hadn’t worn a bra with the strapless dress, leaving nothing but the thin, sequined fabric between the flesh of his palm and the aching sensitivity of her nipple.

It was getting to be too much, too intimate, and even her booze-drenched awareness knew how wildly inappropriate it was, how mortified she’d be if their colleagues noticed what was happening. But it was only when Jon pulled back, gasping, that she had the clarity of mind to act.

She turned around in Jon’s arms to face him properly, still breathless from the kiss. She stood, drinking in the sight of him. His eyes were lidded and dazed, lips wet and kiss-swollen. Her lipstick was smeared all over his face. It only made her want him more, like she’d marked him, like he was hers—no longer that untouchable-hot-guy from work but the very-fuckable-hot-guy who’d all but dry humped her on the dancefloor.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” she breathed, leaning in to speak at the shell of his ear.

“Okay.”

Dany took his hand and marched him off the dancefloor, navigating through the throng of people and back to their former places at the bar. In a daze she collected her purse and settled up her bar tab, staring at her reflection in the huge mirror that spread across the wall behind the bar. She looked strange and unfamiliar, her eyes ringed in dark, smudging makeup, hair sticking to her damp skin, cheeks flaming.

This was completely mad. She was a schoolteacher. A sensible and responsible woman. She didn’t go out to clubs picking up men, especially not men she’d have to confront in the staff lounge at work after the fact.

She was wrenched from her thoughts when Jon came up behind her. He was back in his suit jacket, looking at least a little more put-together than she did. She noted with some satisfaction that there were still faint splotches of pink coloring his face from her lipstick. His arms wound around her waist and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder before meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Ready to go, gorgeous?”

Dany’s heart thumped double-time at the possessive wrap of his embrace, the hint of mischief in his voice. How could she say no?

At her eager nod of assent Jon helped her into her coat and then guided her through the throng and out the door. When the brisk chill of the night air hit them on the sidewalk he pulled her in close, enveloping her in warmth. Dany let out a breath, nestling against his chest

“I didn’t drive here,” she murmured.

“Me neither.” Jon fished in his pocket for his phone, still shielding her between his arms as his thumbs tapped the screen rapidly, calling an Uber.

“My place or yours?” she whispered, stifling a giggle at the cliché. She could hardly believe it even now. She wasn’t one for one-night stands or going home with a guy on the first date. But she couldn’t stomach facing the silent loneliness of her cold apartment. Not tonight. And while Dany wanted to blame it on the vodka sodas, it was more than lust or loneliness that drew her to Jon. She liked him. She’d never been good at any of this, but he made it easy, natural.

“Uh—what’s your address?”

Dany spun in his arms, wriggling his phone out of his grip to type in her address. It took a few attempts, her fingers clumsy and unwieldy from the booze.

“Let me—” Jon began, noting her difficulty.

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, shrugging him off. After two more tries she finally spelled her street name correctly, confirming their ride. “Hope you like cats, Jon Snow,” she said with a grin, returning his phone to his pocket.

He smiled, nodding, but there was something off in his eyes. He looked distracted. Different. Dany opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but thought better of it when their ride arrived. The driver shot them an impatient glare and Jon dropped his arms from her sides, moving to get the door.

At Jon’s invitation Dany got in first, sliding across the back seat to make room for him beside her. When he didn’t follow she leaned over to peer up at him where he stood framed in the car doorway, a hand on the hood. He was looking down at her with an inscrutable expression that made her stomach drop.

“Be safe tonight, okay?”

“What? What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbled, his dark eyes shifting away.

“What do you mean? Jon, get in,” she said, hating the pleading tone that entered her voice. “Don’t do this.”

“Good night, Dany.”

He pushed away from the car, shutting the door hard and stepping back off the curb. Dany gaped at him, scooting hurriedly toward the window and fumbling with the controls to lower it, but the car pulled away before she could.

Pressing her face to the cold glass she could just make out Jon’s shrinking form. He remained on the sidewalk, watching the retreating vehicle until they were out of sight. Even then, she couldn’t help noting how handsome he looked—hair tousled in the breeze, hands jammed in the pockets of his well-tailored slacks.

Asshole, she thought bitterly.

That night the alcohol was enough to soothe her to sleep in spite of her wounded pride and infuriating lust. But the rest of her week’s holiday from classes gave her ample time to nurse a healthy rage at and loathing for Jon. It was cruel of him, teasing her that way, touching her that way, kissing her that way, only to send her home without so much as an explanation. In her darker moments she blamed herself. She should have known better, really. He couldn’t have truly wanted her. If he had, he wouldn’t have been so cold and silent at work. In her experience, if a man was interested he made it known. Loudly and often. Why should Jon be any different?

He was different, though. Jon Snow was a snob, she’d decided. A snob and a tease. She tried to console herself with the notion that she’d dodged a bullet—clearly sleeping with him would have been a mistake of epic proportions. He’d done her a favor, really. If they’d gone through with it she’d be left with nothing but regret. Right?

When classes resumed the following week Dany did her best to act as though nothing had happened. Jon must have returned to the bar after their ill-fated encounter, because no one—not even Missandei—mentioned their leaving together. All conversation in the faculty lounge focused on Oberyn’s salacious dancing and Tyrion’s over-indulgence that led to him falling asleep on one of the newly-felted pool tables at the bar.

Dany was grateful for the gossip. She wanted nothing so much as to forget that night and the tumultuous emotions that had followed it. The alcohol had helped some. As it was, she could only remember the party in pieces, flashes.

The problem was that the images in her memory, jumbled as they were, were hot. Every time she thought of dancing close with Jon, the shameless snap of her hips, the moist heat of his breath on her neck, she had to squeeze her thighs together against the tingle of recognition, of desire. Despite her lingering anger her treacherous body wanted him still, which only made it more difficult when she saw him again.

He cornered her at the coffee pot, stepping in near enough that only she could hear.

“Dany,” he began, his voice a hurried whisper. “About last week. I—”

“Save it,” she cut him off, stepping away from his closeness, from the disorienting scent of his cologne, potent with memories. “And my name is Daenerys.”

There was a blink of pain in his eyes before his expression shuttered again. He left the break room in a huff.

If Dany was honest, she was desperate to hear his explanation. The unanswered questions and wondering what she’d done wrong were enough to keep her up at night. But her pride wouldn’t allow her to show it.

Thankfully, that morning was the only time Jon attempted to broach the subject, and from that day on he’d treated Dany with nothing but the same chilly civility she’d noted in him before the party.

Eventually she’d broken down and told Missandei what had happened, and her friend had been supportive and encouraging, repeating the oft-used “he doesn’t deserve you” refrain. Dany wanted to believe it, but Jon had been the one to reject her, and while there were no outward signs of what happened between them, a peculiar tension remained—a heat that made the air between them simmer with something vacillating between hatred and hunger.

So now, a year later, all those months of confusion about that night and her growing frustration at his stony demeanor coalesced into a bone-deep dread at the prospect of a weekend away in close quarters with Jon.

He’d left in such a hurry after Principal Tyrell’s meeting that they hadn’t had the opportunity to plan, which meant that sooner or later, one of them would have to initiate contact. The thought made Dany’s stomach turn.

Three days later it had become clear that Jon was leaving it up to her. Dany had been expecting him to approach her at work, drop by her classroom, find her at lunch. Anything. Instead he seemed to be avoiding her with more than his usual determination, so that by Thursday evening she still hadn’t seen him at all.

Dany was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, Drogon spread out on her lap, a stack of ungraded papers guilting her from the coffee table. All her bags for the were trip packed and ready to go for the following day. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d have to be the one to reach out to Jon.

She clicked open her phone, her thumb hovering over her contacts with mounting anxiety, when the ding of her text tone sounded out, startling a hiss from Drogon.

She snorted with laughter as the notification lit up her screen: “New message from Pompous Dickhead.” The entire faculty directory was synced into all their contacts through the school’s email app, so Dany had always had Jon’s number in her phone. But Missandei had taken the liberty of changing his record from ‘Mr. Snow’ to the delightfully crude new moniker after Dany shared the story of their unfortunate Christmas party rendezvous. She’d never had occasion to contact him before or change it back. Maybe she never would.

After all, Missandei was a language expert. Who was Dany to question such an apt description of Jon’s character?

She opened the message with a smirk, her eyes scanning quickly over the brief text:

Pompous Dickhead: “Meet outside the back entrance tomorrow at 6. Be ready to get on the road. We’ll take your car.”

Dany shook her head, setting her glass down and thinking over how to reply. She couldn’t be the one to drive them up into the mountains. She wouldn’t. But she wasn’t about to admit fear or weakness to Jon.

“No. Let’s take yours. See you at 6.”

She sent the message with a shaky hand, dreading his response. She’d prefer not to lie, but if Jon pressed, she’d just say her car was in the shop. Anything was preferable to making herself vulnerable after the way he’d already hurt her pride.

The ellipses that signified Jon typing a response flickered into view, then disappeared. A moment’s pause and he was typing again. Dany bit her lip, anxiety prickling at her scalp. Maybe it’d be easier to just agree, to take her chances behind the wheel. At least if they wrecked she wouldn’t have to go on the stupid retreat.

But then his reply finally came.

Pompous Dickhead: “Fine.”

Rude, but at least he was consistent. Dany sighed. This was going to be a long weekend.

#jonerys #jonerysfics #jonerys fanfic #jon x dany #modern au #teachers! au #hope this isn't too cringe lol #my writing #ill add a second part to this eventually #especially if there's interest!#please lmk if you like it :)#also this showed in no tags so signal boost for ya girl lol

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scato006-blog · 4 years

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Searching for a title and feedback.

New to this, would appreciate any feedback.

My mother’s hand squeezes around my infantile one, small, petite, and plump even for a 12-year-old. I feel the cold, hard shaft of the metal handle, the gun weighty in my hand. My mother’s breath, laced with Bacardi rum and stale Marlboro lights, coaches me to squeeze harder, my tiny fingertips biting under the pressure and turning light purple at the tips from being held so forcefully.

“You have to hold it like you mean it, steady.” She coaches.

“I don’t want to,” I whine, almost silently.

The wind kept biting my plump cheeks, and I felt my legs, bare in the November air, tingling and pocking with cold bumps.

This has become a routine, my mother getting intoxicated or high, and taking a sudden interest in her children and choosing the worst time to suddenly teach us some life skills. My brother, with his autism, is too heady a project to undertake. So, it is me, who at 11 pm is hauled from my kitten covered sheets and dragged outside for an impromptu lesson on protecting myself, undoubtably due to some loosely based on a true story Lifetime network film where a girl, most likely Tori Spelling, is victimized.

Thankfully, she loses interest surprisingly fast this time, and when she loosens her grip on my hand, I am able to wrestle past her, knocking her to one knee as she curses and I bolt back into my bed and lock the door. She staggers in and pounds for several moments, calling me names, before I hear her door shut and know she has passed out.

My mother hasn’t been quite right since my father died. I see her leaving often to doctors’ offices, complaining of ailments ranging from pains to depression and anxiety disorders. Her pills litter the tops of our 80’s style maroon kitchen counters; every consistency you can imagine from syringes to tiny multicolored capsules. In the mornings, we see her guzzling down the liquid medications, never using the tiny, clear ridged top that is supposed to serve as a barbie sized measuring cup. Instead, she uses that as a pseudo lid when she gets too inebriated to remember where she put the child proof cap the pharmacist carefully clicks into place. Her arms are littered with pock marks from needles. Some self-inflicted and some from all the blood draws ordered by her physicians. She has become obsessed with this idea of teaching us how to protect ourselves since my father passed. Which later I will realize is terribly contradictory, since the basis of most our inflictions come from her blatant negligence.

It isn’t until I start having sleepovers with girls outside my neighborhood that I will realize this isn’t a normal occurrence. I spend time with girls whose parents bake them cinnamon buns in the morning slathered with extra crystalline icing, whose mothers collect little figurines cased in glass cabinets without fingertips smeared on them and father figures who go off to work, kissing cheeks instead of backhanding them like the other dads in my neighborhood would do. It’s a foreign world to me, and oddly, it makes me surprisingly uncomfortable to be in such a serene environment. Almost mundane as wild as that may seem to some. Beige. I always notice this common color scheme in these safety net homes, everything was always varying shades of beige from the carpets to the placemats to the sheets. Beige everywhere.

In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, as she bustles around the kitchen getting my brother’s routine down to match the Velcro pictured descriptions that are supposed to help with his over stimulation. I can tell there is something tangible and tense in the air, the blatant ostracizing of me from our tiny family unit. I will learn later that it is due to embarrassment over her own actions, but in the moment from my young perspective, I have somehow failed her.

I gather my things, my teal Jansport backpack smeared with pen marks and patches, and dig in the back cabinet, shoving expired bags of chips and soup out of the way to find a long lost granola bar and walk out the door, pausing before turning the silver knob to look back slightly out of my peripheral at my mother to see if she pauses at the sound of me leaving. She doesn’t.

The bus stop holds a sense of comfort for me, knowing that I will be headed to the one safe institution I have in my young life, school. There are rules, teachers, consistency, and scheduled mealtimes. I know what is coming and when. I know what is expected of me and it isn’t laced with alcohol and substances, or parties in my home with strange men who grab in places they shouldn’t and burn your arms with their cigarettes when you try to yell in protest for someone who is too inebriated to come to your rescue.

Teacher’s take special interest in me, I must exude some sense of chaos at home, my behavior is mildly disruptive with chattering to my fellow neighboring classmates, often causing my desk to be moved adjacent to the teachers to curve my “social butterfly” antics.

Years later, I will run into my favorite English teacher, Ms. Mueller, and she will subtly hint at the signs of abuse she saw from my rumpled clothes to my bruised arms and vacant expression from exhaustion. She will tell me of a time she went to my mother’s store, at the height of our home tsunami during my high school years, and the words heatedly exchanged between them. From that point on, in school, before I have this knowledge, I will choose to spend an hour every day after school with her and be exposed to various forms of literature. She will bring books with her and give me deadlines throughout the year, hoping to keep me driven and expand this world I escape to through books.

Oddly enough, my thirst for books came from the very person I was trying to escape.

In fifth grade I had a teacher I absolutely loathed. It was truly, the first person I had a deep hatred and resentment for. I remember the feelings of rage and a craving for the demolition of our high-ceilinged classroom. Ms. Symzick was a small, petite woman who would prance around her classroom in various shades of loud pinks and magenta, shouting in her irritatingly shrill, chalkboard scraping screeching voice. She had a serious inclination to class favorites, and those favorites tended to be the children of affluent parents she co-vacationed with in the Bahamas and Jamaica, frequently referencing scuba diving explorations and inside jokes she had created with the kids poolside while they showed off their attempts at underwater hand stands. She accused my indifferent attitude towards her and my inability to pay attention to her reading “out loud” to the class on comprehension issues. My mother responded, in typical Tammy fashion, and greeted me that afternoon with a stack of VC Andrews books. Her philosophy was that I needed something to read that could hold my attention in a mildly traumatizing way. Make the book risqué enough for me to care, and it would cure my non attentive approach to active listening. It certainly worked.

While my classmates were reading books about bridges crossing into Terabithia to conquer exciting pretend lands, I was obsessed with mentally trying to connect the incest family trees of wealthy families stuck in attics, toiling away pasting together paper flowers to create gardens. I craved reading about these fucked up families, and was elated to find that not only where the books thick with small font which meant they lasted longer than my classmates small flirtations with literature, but they also were in series so I could follow these families for generations. I would blow through a book a day if it was the weekend, absorbing finally, every comma and black small printed letter flowing into my mind through an osmosis of obsessive reading.

I sit next to Holly and hold her hand under our jackets in solidarity. Holly has the same house as I do, which is baffling and comforting for my young mind. Her brothers shout and throw things in their drunken rages, blaming their parents for their adult failures and losses of custody over children. Her father sits on the couch, sleeps on the couch, drinks on the couch, argues from the couch, he exists on the couch, never intervening. When he would winded from yelling, he would clutch a small, metal vile necklace he always wore. I would learn later it contained a single pill that would melt under his tongue because he was prone to panic attacks from his time in the military.

Holly will sneak into my room, late in the night, when things get bad and she climbs into my bed, cold hands and feet pressed against my calves for warmth. She rustles under my sheets and presses her perfect little bud lips against my cheek and snuggles into my neck and falls asleep fast, just as our thermostat registers the drop in temperature from the window being pried open for her to come in and the furnace clicks on, as always, I fling my leg out from under the blankets, so as to not wake Holly and soak in some cool air as her body heat radiates against my own. I love her and want to protect her, as she is the only one who has ever expressed a kindred likeliness to what I experience behind closed doors. She protects me as well, when my mother opens the door slightly to see if I am awake or when she is under the influence ready for another “life lesson,” she will always close the door and slither away when she sees Holly’s body next to mine.

Holly knew about these moments, in the dead of night when my mother would make her way into the room. She was the one who saw the handprint makes in shades of black and blue, purple then fading to yellows and lime greens. She would take my arm, and lay her hot, brown palm slowly and softly on top of the blue and purple marks so gently, brushing the tops of the soft baby arm hair then would turn over, as if nothing had happened. It was the act of acknowledging, that would transition into acts of protection. She knew if she was there, those marks wouldn’t appear. Holly became an ever-present staple in my life, it was truly as if she was holding me together, fastening my frayed edges to keep them from being burned by my mother and faceless men’s lighters.

This is my day to day, and night to night. The seeking of comfort in concrete things and people outside my home and struggling to find a purpose outside of myself.

Years pass, the same abuses remain constant, even after the school nurse contacts my mother over concerns she has when she sees my bandaged fingers from a screaming hot iron. The difference is the older I get, the more I learn to fight back, slick mouthed and learning to block hands quickly with forearms. I develop the internal switch, for numbing and hardening emotions to dispel any sense of misery or hopelessness, I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable around her and show any form of pain or exaggerated anger. I treat her with complete indifference, which in her drunken, high moments causes absolute meltdowns. Her emotional levels skyrocketing due to inebriation, and my disconnect growing more profound with each outburst. I start to want more, more than these walls and house. I want to sleep peacefully, quietly, and safely. A concept I had never visualized for myself that I thought was coveted for children with two parents and yards without brown spots and littered with dog feces.

I sit, at 15, in my English class, the scared space I have carved out for myself. Ms. Mueller, walks past, having just kicked Gary out of class for shouting at her.

“Dyke gave me a F,” he rages after we are returned our midterm grades.

“Out!” Ms. Mueller declares, stunning me at how she so gracefully and passively dismisses him and his hate slurred words.

As she passes back to her desk, I feel a blue piece of paper get slid under the flesh of my forearm. I slide it under my notebook, I can tell through its delivery, she doesn’t want me to attract any attention through receiving it. She looks pointedly at me, and when the bell rings I rush out to see what it is she has slipped me.

She knows I am not happy with her today. Ms. Mueller detests Holly. There is this just under the surface acknowledgement that they don’t address one another, ever. Holly feels Ms. Mueller is trying to come between us and take time I should be spending time with her and instead am choosing to spend it reading, which is the most boring thing in Holly’s mind. Oddly enough, Holly has detention or make up tests almost every day after school, so her time wouldn’t be spent with me regardless. Holly is known to have her behavioral issues, shouting at teachers and authority figures much in the same fashion as her older brothers do to her and her parents. It is a cycle that has already began its inheritable rotation.

“She’s not good for you, you have too much inside you for that one.” Ms. Mueller had told me suddenly, interrupting me reading silently beside her while she worked on the summer reading list for the class, and my own which had easily an extra fifteen books added to it. At the time, I didn’t really understand what it was she meant.

“Too much inside me? What the hell?” I thought. I glared defiantly at the top of her head, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and rustle her short, cropped hair out of its artfully tousled with hair paste landscape just out of spite. She didn’t look up, nor acknowledge my anger filled face, and after some time I set my mouth in a taught line and kept reading. Leaving that day without saying a word when our hour was up.

I open it up and see it’s a flyer, for some summer program called Upward Bound and kids interested in colleges. I had never imagined myself being on some pristine collegiate campus. That was also reserved for the cinnamon bun kids whose parents showed up to every sporting event, cheering them on from the sidelines and pumping their fists in the air, visualizing college scouts coming with hefty scholarships and grants. Not for me, who begged for rides to and from practices, relying on my grandparents for transportation sparsely, so they wouldn’t see the state of our house. My mother would always get angry when her parents came to drop us off, always insisting on coming in to survey the

damage in the house from holes in walls to dirty dishes crawling with critters and cats licking dirty pans for burned egg pieces.

I folded the flyer in half and hastily shoved in under my stack of books on the bottom self in the locker I share with Holly. I am always the bottom shelf, to take my lacking height into consideration. She can’t see it; she will lose her mind. I know this, our codependency has blossomed into a full relationship of unhealthy proportions, two emotionally crippled humans attempting at something far too adult.

I wait, as always, for her to come meet me briefly, and she does. Angry brown eyes, jet black hair, browned skin from her native American heritage, and slanted eyebrows. I forgot she was angry with me from this morning when I pulled my hand away from hers when Kim snatched the jacket up that hid our weaved fingertips.

“Mr. Mason is such an asshole,” she huffs slamming her books in the locker, standing on her tip toes to launch them to the back where we hear them ding as they hit the metal back.

“What happened?” I ask, gauging her temperance to see where we are at. Holly drives the emotional state of our relationship; she being the more volatile of the two of us.

“He gave me detention for missing all that homework,” she huffed as she slammed the locker shut. “I just want school to be done already, I hate it.”

I watched her stalk off, wordless, now definitely wasn’t the time to broach the subject of an academic summer camp that focuses on colleges. Holly was not interested in anything remotely studious, let alone something that would separate us for an entire summer.

I watch her turn the corner of the light seafoam green colored hallways, waiting until I can be sure she is completely out of sight before slamming my elbow into the door right above the turn lock, causing it to pop open, a little trick Tommy showed me last year when he had this locker. I hop up on the toes of my sneakers and grab the flyer out from my Roman History classes textbook.

It is in that moment; I realize I don’t want to stay closeted with Holly and hide holding hands. I don’t want to stay in a home I feel constantly threatened in, showing all the scars on my skin and inside of my flesh. I don’t want to be stuck slinging burgers at the diner down the street, or as a cashier at the grocers. I don’t want to struggle against the New England seasonal depression of grey skies to salt crusted and frost heaved roads. I don’t want to be tied to this place where I feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, never moving forward and back, just in one constant place.

The flyer announces the meeting is today, in Ms. Mueller’s classroom of course, but an hour after we usually meet. I know Holly has detention, so if there was ever a time I could go and take a glance at what this whole thing is about, it is today when she will be occupied for a definite set amount of time.

I watch the clock anxiously for the last two periods, bouncing my leg in anticipation, choosing to focus more on the seconds hand than the other two since it moves at such a faster pace. Holly isn’t in my last two classes; they are AP and she is sequestered into the more remedial ones where they mostly watch movies instead of getting lectures from young teachers who still feel they can make a difference and impact our lives.

Ms. Mueller is at the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed, her cuffs folded up at the elbow, creased slacks and pointed shiny ebony dress shoes, almost as if she was waiting for me. Now that I look back, I think she was.

“Well here she is, take a seat.” She gestures to the open door.

I look in and see every seat is filled mostly with kids from other schools and a couple familiar faces of girls I have barely exchanged two words with. I slide into a seat near the door, resolving that if I need to make a quick getaway, I will at least have an easy shot to the door. Ms. Mueller positions her chair in the doorway; it’s like she can sense what I am thinking and gives me another one of her pointed stares.

A young man with a lot of vigor and energy and radiant brilliantly white smile bounds up to the front of the room. I will learn almost immediately that his name is Craig when he finally stops bounding around and announces who he is, that he went to Bates College, and dives into a lengthy description of what Upward Bound really is. There are other individuals up there as well, all standing in a line with various colleges strewn on their tee shirts and sweatshirts: Colby-Sawyer, Keene State, UNH, Plymouth State, are some of the names I spot.

The program is a six-week summer session that focuses on preparing students for college and even offers opportunities to take college level classes that can be accredited. Six weeks on a college campus, right in my hometown, sleeping in the dorms, going to classes, they even offer sporting events and excursions to local spots for day trips. It sounded too good to be true.

I looked around the room and saw most of the kids had that same look as I did, clinging to every word. “Give me an escape, please. Tell me I won’t fall through the cracks and be left right here where I started.” Their faces all seemed to say.

Craig took the basic Q&A after his dialogue of wonderous academia enchantment and promise, everyone asking the same things I was wondering. I wouldn’t raise my hand and attract attention to myself, no way.

I saw her then, Jodie, sitting with her hand up to ask more about the sporting opportunities offered, field hockey specifically. She sat with her blonde hairspray scrunched hair, long eyelashes and friendly, wide open blue eyes. I was amazed at how drawn I was to her instantly, like she was the bright glinting Christmas tree of hope in contrast to Holly’s darkness and shadowing pessimistic outlook on life and humanity. There was also this underlying feeling emanating from her. She was wearing adidas snap pants and her field hockey jacket, I knew without knowing, I knew she had the same attraction to females as I did. When Craig answered her question to her satisfaction, Jodie thanked him, and I saw her sign the sheet to enroll and receive more information. I watched that sheet for the rest of the presentation and when we were wrapping up, Ms. Mueller caught me at the door, the sign sheet in her fingertips.

“You forgot something,” she stated, a black pen in her other hand, held out to me.

I stepped aside, opening my mouth to let out a string of excuses, all based in fear and simultaneously worried that if I failed at this camp, I would disappoint her.

“Don’t.” She held up her palm that held the pen. “Sign the paper.”

I realized in that moment; this was my chance. I was on the edge of something, a choice. I knew what I would lose, and I quickly sobered to the reality that what I stood to lose, didn’t outweigh what I had to gain.

So I made the choice, to take a chance, put the pen to that blue paper, and signed my name, choosing to take that chance, choosing something so much bigger for myself than I could have ever imagined and taking the first step to end the cycle that would have ensnared me just as it did many others. It even would claim Holly in the end, leaving her to browning pine trees, closeted and affairs in secrecy, the shame and impending alcoholism, cursing from her couch just as her father did.

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incomingtrouble · 5 years

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Mourning is not for Cold Hearts

A story about Asher considering his past, and the darkness that haunts it...

Even despite the chill of Undeath, Asher sat by his lonesome, shivering on his bunk. His blankets and pillow were scattered, draping over the side of the bed, much like his paws, as he considered his position. Or, perhaps, he should think the lack thereof. No longer the esteemed Forgemaster of the Dread, in charge of maintaining the weapons and armor of the terrible saronite-plated Death Knights, he was now just Asher Domitri, simple undead warrior, tucked into the far corner of the barracks. Not that it mattered much to him. He was never the type to squabble over petty titles in life, and in death, was even less obliged. So what if Fredreich thought little of him enough to demote him? It was all the same to him. No matter what he did, he was still just a simple Undead worgen. He inhaled through his nose, taking in the cold air of the fortress. He could understand why the Commander did little to make it hospitable - They did not need the frivolities of living, like warm beds, comfy chairs, stoked fires, or fresh food. In fact, most undead didn't even bother with such things. The dark energies that animated them were enough to sustain most. Yet, Asher was one of the few that enjoyed the warmth of the bed, dull as it could be. He sighed, flopping back onto it. The springs made a distinct squeak, and the whole frame shook under his weight, but beyond that, the room was quiet. So few others bothered using the barracks, and he himself had scarcely visited when he still toiled away in the forge. He closed his eyes, the blue fading within them, as he considered the events of last night. A meeting, called upon by Ser Roderick Gallowood for the Dread. As a member of it, and fairly well recognized at that, he was expected to attend - not that he would have preferred it. He was far too busy making adjustments to his ghoul's shoddy armor to tend to the dismal politics of the Dread. In fact, he would have rather climbed back into his grave than go and be treated as a fool. Perhaps he should have -- "Sorry mate," He could imagine himself saying to the Commander. "Too big of a work order to take a break now. Jus' give me my orders when you figure 'em out." Instinctively, his haw tightened as his thoughts flitted elsewhere. A golden coat in the sunlight, donned in fine attire, with glasses hanging crookedly off his snout. Asher could imagine the perfect face, the stunning blond fur of Victor Brickenhill. His baby blue eyes glimmered lightly as he looked across the table, but with a sinking feeling, the worgen recalled that it was not towards him. Yet, instead, they had softened on the glowing eyes of a handsome Night Elf, his ears pricked towards Victor. Asher had brought him a bouquet of flowers - specifically not roses, but various herbs and blooms for alchemical mixtures. The flowers had been dropped as he, crestfallen, retreated before the pair could notice him. Although he wished for the thoughts to stop, they continued. Asher thought of the first time he had met the man, looking hunched and uncomfortable in the bustling tavern Asher worked at previously. Addie had plucked at the strings of fate, encouraging Asher to be the one to wait on him. It was a simple interaction, at first - Victor hastily ordered an order of potato crisps, well done, and did his best to return to his book. Asher was enthralled, and when he returned with his greasy side dish, he had worked up the courage to ask Victor about his book. A long discussion on dragons and their culture ensued, and though eventually the evening rush called Asher back to his duties, he couldn't wait to see Victor again. The following months had been a blur. Each day, Asher would wake up and manage his way to work. Each day, Victor would visit, and they would talk about their interests -- At first, it was all about dragons, and he had been more than curious to sate the barkeep's curiosity with his studies. But it drifted to all sorts of topics. Asher became enamored, and though he struggled to find the words for it, Victor managed, one day, to squeak out the most important words Asher ever heard him say. "Can I walk you home tonight?" If he had known what it would lead to, would he have still said yes? Asher's eyes flitted open, and landed harsh on the wooden ceiling. It was Victor who made the connection of his last name - Domitri, the same as a family of dragonslayers when Arathor was still in power. They tended to the threat of black dragons, though ashamedly, even fought against the other flights they had come across. History had forgotten them as their ancient enemies succeeded in wiping nearly all of them out, and though Deathwing had been killed and the Black Dragonflight was shattered, a few of the corrupted dragons lingered, hiding in societies with false identities. The investigation the pair had made into his past brought those dragon's attention to him, and Asher was unveiled to be the Last Dragonslayer of the Domitri line. Once more, he considered what a useless title it had been. He was unable to kill the dragon pulling the strings, only her followers, never finding out her true identity. Well, other than the fact that she was a black drake, and an endlessly cruel one at that. Perhaps someday she would see reckoning. But you won't be the one to see it through, he thought grimly. His mind flitted back to the last evening. Of course Roderick had been furious with him. Talking back to the true leader of the Dread, Fredreich of the Nightfall, was completely taboo for its members. He refused a mount completely, having since only travelling by his own four paws. His weapon was seen as entirely inadequate - Though, it was hardly his fault that the saronite they gathered from Northrend was only plentiful enough for repairs on the existing member's armor. Gallowood hadn't even taught him proper runeforging. How was it his fault that he had failed him then? The worgen swallowed dryly. Ever since his discovery of Victor's new partner, he didn't care about his life, with the living, or with the dead. He had resumed wearing his old armor, wielded his old blade, and avoided using his powers as much as he could. Perhaps he was hoping he'd be lucky to be gutted again as he traveled to and from the Dread. He could imagine the look of pride on some scumbag thief as he raided through the meager belongings of a powerful Death Knight. It would be a fitting end, he thought. Just as he cared little for his life, the hands of fate would grant him a death that little would care for either. All except for Addie Thompson, his friend and confidant back when he was living. A stellar fighter, like him, who was forced to take a side job when her mercenary deal fell through. He imagined her now, in Bannhurst, as she wiped the bartop, probably flirting with some fair maiden. The thought made him smile, and the smallest flicker of happiness went through him, before being followed by an aching sadness. She would do well without him, he figured. She had lost friends before, and though she was relatively unphased by his being raised (more so shocked by the gruesome scar on his damaged hip) he knew he wasn't entirely the same in her eyes. By far the only thing she had been shocked by was the fact that a bunch of dumb highwaymen had gotten the jump on him. After all, he was once a trained soldier, and even though he did not fight every day, he was still tempered by the various fights with the dragoness's followers. Gears clicked in his head as suddenly it came upon him. Wasn't it suspicious that these highwaymen knew exactly where he was, on his way through the roads of Bannhurst? He wasn't too far from the city's center, merely going through a pass to reach the neighborhood he and Addie lived in, and although it wasn't used as often as the others, it was still frequented. Where were the guards? More importantly, why hadn't they found his body sooner? How did they know who he was? Asher startled himself upright, his tattered ears pricked. It couldn't have just been bad timing, could it have? In between guard shifts, his mind lulled by thinking of seeing Victor again, perhaps a little bit tipsy...But he hadn't drank that night, had he? A flurry of questions ran through his head, but a sickening dread built up in his gut as he realized he could find answers for them. It was convenient how the guards weren't there, even though the shift change must have been just hours earlier. How three men, armed to the tooth, could walk freely through the streets at night without being caught. How perfectly vulnerable Asher was, without his weapons and armor. How he held little of worth on him, and yet, the only thing that might catch a potential thief's eye, the tarnished silver locket of his mother's she had give him lifetimes ago, still hung from his corpse's neck. Why there hadn't been an investigation, even now, when knowledge of his life in undeath was within the system. Why he hadn't been asked about his own murder? The worgen's throat tightened as he thought back to his Dragonslayer title. Could she really...? No. He and Victor had killed all of her followers in the Blasted Lands...hadn't he? Surely such a simple, forgotten drake hadn't been able to amass more fanatics, unless they weren't working for her specifically, but...perhaps her gold. They were mercenaries...They must have been, sellswords bought by the dragoness's false identity's wealth. But even she could not have known of the agreement he had made with Roderick during the final Legion invasion. Nobody else was around when he approached him, still sore and broken from his time on Argus, begging for the second chance to continue the fight, should he ever fall. She had failed in killing him for good, and now, he was back, possibly even powerful enough to take her on himself. A fire burned in his chest. Rage built up inside of him, rage he hadn't felt since he learned of his Dragonslayer title, and the mischief his drunken, stupid father had pulled to desecrate it. The worgen slid off of the top bunk, landing harsh on the ground. There, curled up in the corner, was Hammerbite, the ghoul servant Asher had raised to aid in the forge. Well, at least, one of them. He kicked it harshly awake, and the ghoul made a cry. Asher ordered him to collect his things. The worgen rose to his full height, cold anger pulsing through him. He knew what he must do, even if nobody else must know. He did not know who he could trust, even within the Dread. Perhaps, the commander, as he would be needed for anything to succeed. Asher needed to know how to truly be a Death knight, and Sir Roderick would be capable of teaching him. He must learn to manipulate his powers. He must succeed at whatever he had to do. And then, he figured, as the obedient ghoul returned with his things, he would have a dragon to kill.

#Asher Domitri #Worgen #World of Warcraft #blades of greymane #Writing

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slave2writing · 6 years

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World in Flames (3/?)

Part One

Full Chapters posted at Fanfiction.net and ArchiveofOurOwn

The sun began to set behind the bridge, casting the ocean in a brilliant hue of gold, the color spilling across shadows of skyscrapers looming above the city.

In preparation for the festival, police officers were being dispatched on the corner of every city block where the parade would soon be passing through. The floats were primed and ready, resting in Avatar Korra Park. Banners were strung up and held suspended above the concrete streets, some featuring the Fire Nation insignia, others depicting the solemn faces of popular Fire Lords or grinning Avatars. Families were camped out on rooftops, warming their hands around fire pits, roasting meat and laughing over stories, droplets of alcohol spraying over the sides of residential buildings.

Asami shoved her fists inside her coat pockets, skin prickling in discomfort as she kept bumping into people while trying to make her way back to the apartment, the city streets thickening with activity and tense anticipation.

While Fire Nation immigrants and descendants had never been explicitly forbidden from celebrating their ethnic heritage, their cultural center had previously always passed on the opportunity to publicly celebrate the beloved Fire Days Festival out of fear that any show of pride would come across as insensitive in the wake of the Hundred Year War.

It was a bit disconcerting for some pedestrians traversing the downtown area to see it taken over by street performers juggling fireballs, a chorus of school children being led in a traditional Fire Nation hymn, boisterous athletes racing around with spirit masks, grown men howling in pain while their friends and families keeled over laughing at the sight of them attempting to win a flaming fire flakes contest.

Ducking a bobbing lantern, the beginnings of a parade march about to take place, Asami neared her apartment building and raised her hand in greeting towards the doorman whose eyes always crinkled up when he smiled.

“Hey, Miss Sato!” He seemed excited about something, straightening his uniform with two quick tugs on the ends of his jacket.

“Bao.” She greeted him politely, passing through the door he quickly pushed open for her, taking out her mailbox key and reached in for the stacks of magazines she subscribed to. It was a healthy mix of scientific breakthroughs and revolutionary fashion. Gathering them up in her arms, she was mildly surprised when the doorman abandoned his post to follow her inside, beaming as he got the elevator for her, dragging the gate open and making to step inside with her.

Asami granted him a confused smile. “Ah…?”

“Oh,” Bao paused mid-step, still brimming with some excitement. “I thought you might need someone to help you into your apartment. Open the door?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Asami arched a dark brow and waited for the doorman to sheepishly step back, closing the gate and the door to the elevator. She shook her head in bemusement, unsure if that was his weird and out of the blue attempt to hit on her, and punched in the penthouse button.

When the elevator rose to the tenth floor of the skyscraper, the light flooded through the windows carved into the box, the top half of the building providing Asami with a view as she continued to rise. Though she still had the mansion on the outskirts of the city, she found the massive estate far too quiet. She preferred her solitude to be accompanied by the hustle and bustle of the sleepless metropolis. She pressed her forehead against the small oval window, the light of a dying sun combing through her raven hair, she could almost feel the heat seeping across her scalp.

The elevator came to a halt, its passenger gently swaying before her body steadied. Balancing the stack of magazines in one arm, Asami drew open the gate and pushed open the elevator door which opened immediately into the penthouse foyer. Her low heels clicked on the small marble steps, and the main door creaked open, more of the dying sunlight spilling into the open suite than the young woman’s eyes could briefly handle. There were spots of shadow though, where her gaze jumped to for relief; the tall bonsai trees placed in almost every corner of the apartment, a human figure partially hidden beneath the shade of a large leaf.

Asami didn’t think to scream, or run away, or even contemplate fear. There was a spark of indignation, and then a full blown avalanche of rage propelling her forward, the stack of magazines slipping from her arms, each page slapping the floor.

The figure turned, startled by the war cry, and Asami barely had time to register the familiar shade of bright blue eyes before a gust of wind was skirting around her body, and she was lurching forward into nothing but solid wall, the bump of her nose brushing against it when suddenly there was a rock hard arm wrapped around her waistline, and heated breath on the nape of her neck.

“Sami, it’s me.”

Her body went to war; muscles loosening, going lax in the Avatar’s arms, while her heart pounded violently against her chest, breath quickening. When the Avatar seemed to trust she wasn’t about to attack, the arms around her waist relented, and Asami turned around.

“Korra.”

A blindingly white grin shone on the heiress’ glittering black gaze, like moonlight scraping the night sky. “Hey.”

There was a brief pause, the air between them still. And then they were both colliding in a hug, the shorter Avatar burrowing her face in jasmine scented tresses, inhaling her best friend’s comforting fragrance. Asami’s arms tightened around Korra’s broad shoulders, heart rate accelerating, thudding between her ears and at the base of her throat, she could not imagine Korra would be unable to hear it.

“You’re a lot softer than your statue…” Asami mumbled into her friend’s neck, cheeks immediately tinting pink when her brain registered the admission.

“Huh?”

“Nothing!” Asami pulled away, clearing her throat and plastering on a rather watery smile. “It’s so good to see you, I thought we were meeting at Narook’s though.”

Korra followed the young CEO into the kitchen, smiling when Asami gently stepped out of her heels and began to fix them both cups of tea, the height difference between them no longer quite as stark. “Bolin tried to reach you and then asked me to just fly over here, we’re postponing until tomorrow.”

Occupying herself with the kettle, Asami worked to find legitimate excuses around the kitchen to avoid her friend’s eyes. “How disappointing. There’s nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Just official duties got in the way.” Korra waved her hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Official like… royal?”

Korra hesitated, leaning against the kitchen archway, watching the tall brunette ruminate on which tea bags they ought to indulge. “Yes.”

The confirmation was deafening. For a moment, Asami was horrified to feel there were tears on her cheeks… only to exhale in relief when she realized it was just steam from the boiling water. “Well,” She said. “That makes sense. I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to spend the festival with a princess of all things.”

Korra released a breath tinged with laughter. “Sami, you’re one of the richest people in the world, and I’m the freakin’ Avatar. Royal titles don’t impress me much.”

“A pretty face does.” Asami muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The kettle shook, carved into the shape of a dragon, steam shooting out through the nostrils. Asami bent down and blew out the flames.

They relocated deeper into the apartment, where the large windows looked out onto the darkening skyline of Republic City. Each room in the suite was separated by fusuma, the wooden doors sliding open to allow the air to flow. Asami and Korra sat opposite one another on the floor pillows, their side profiles illuminated by the dying sun bleeding into the room.

They fell quiet for a few moments, save for the gentle drill of Asami’s nails against the side of her teacup. She watched the Avatar sip from her own, always averting her gaze when Korra looked up over the rim.

An exaggerated mmmmm-hmmmmm finally broke the silence, Korra draining her tea much too quickly, cheeks puffing out as she filled her face with it. A decidedly unladylike snort exited Asami’s nostrils.

“Whuh?” Korra’s voice was a little muffled, literally trying to talk around the liquid sloshing around her tongue. “S’good!”

“I see that.” Asami hadn’t realized her shoulders were raised so high, until they were relaxing, slumping down to a natural level.

“You make really good tea. I’ve always thought so.”

“I don’t think anyone else appreciates my brew quite as much as you. Consequently, no one is in as much danger of choking.”

“I am not going to choke.” Korra stubbornly took a larger gulp of the slightly bitter concoction.

“What will the gossip rags say when they hear the Avatar found comatose in my apartment, brought down by a lungful of tea. Oh, come here.” Asami set her cup down and crawled forward, green eyes the same shade as the tea leaf clinging to the bottom of her friend’s pouty bottom lip.

Korra’s bright blue eyes caught her own just as Asami’s thumb brushed against the parted mouth, gently wiping the leaf from her friend’s sweet stained lip. “The headlines would read Miss Sato is a hero.”

A tiny shiver ran down Asami’s back at the use of her surname. She’d never been quite sure if Korra understood what hearing that did to her. She thought she hid her reactions quite well. “For having you collapse on my floor?”

“For bringing me back.” Korra’s eye contact was steadfast, like the roll of an ocean wave steadily crawling towards the beach. “You do know how to resuscitate, don’t you?”

It felt like the room was collectively holding its breath. Asami’s lashes fluttered as the Avatar leaned in closer, their noses gently bumping against one another. In the distance, musicians hired for the festival were starting their preliminary notes. Plucked strings and trilling songstresses stretching syllables that haunted the air, lingering in the dying light. It felt like a spell had been cast. Webbed traps binding the city in magic; silk chains wrapped them in music. It spilled into the apartment suite, it splashed against their dark hair and burning bright eyes.

Korra leaned forward, crossed legs unfurling, and made to close that last inch of distance between them. But the weight of small hands gave her pause, Asami pressing against her shoulders and leaning away from her in the space of a silent note.

“What would your princess think?” The heiress cracked a smile, trying to appear playful, but the words were as slightly bitter as the taste of her tea.

Korra fell back on her bottom, the spell broken. “She’s not my - ”

“The festival is almost starting. You ought not be late.” Asami rose from the floor, cheeks tinted pink, like the blush of a rose. “She doesn’t seem like a girl that likes to be kept waiting.”

The Avatar rose with her, raising a hand to try and touch the taller woman’s shoulder. “Asami, she and I - ”

“Korra, it’s fine!” There was a whip of lengthy, ink black locks as the inventor strode towards the balcony, inhaling the air, scented now with the fried delicacies wafting up from the food carts rolling through the darkening streets. Floating lanterns had been set loose throughout the districts, and were bobbing in the air. One of them was rising the length of her apartment building, slowly gliding towards the sky, its amber luminescence catching them in the act.

Asami turned its back to it, biting her lip as she looked upon her friend, blue eyes stricken with a mixture of emotions she couldn’t unpack. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Pausing, Korra deliberated on that as she entered the balcony as well, chewing on her own lip. “You’re right,” Her agreement was slow, chin pointing upwards. “You’re the one who ended things, after all.”

“Yes, I did.” Asami’s hands curled around the balcony edge behind her.

Korra sucked in her breath, chest puffing up beneath her tribal garments. “Is that why you’re so bothered? Can’t believe a princess would want to slum around with the likes of me?”

“You know I don’t think that.” She watched Korra grab for her staff which was leaning against the wall.

“Whatever, I have to go.” With a snap of her wrist, the blue wings of her gliding staff were erect. Korra hopped up onto the ledge. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Korra, wait - ” Asami’s fingers brushed against the heavy skin of the tribal trousers, but the Avatar was already diving off the balcony, the elements sweeping her up and pushing her forward. A deep, long dive into the darkness and narrow gaps of the glittering metropolis. A dark silhouette illuminated by flashes of amber lighting, the bobbing lanterns catching her in mid-flight, the roar of the crowd merging into the streets rising and falling depending on where they caught sight of the soaring guardian.

Asami was left alone on the balcony, her fingers still warm from where she’d made contact.

#world in flames #korrasami #legend of korra #fanfic #fanfiction #archive of our own #Korra #Asami

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