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live-the-fangirl-life · 2 years

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Divine Intervention

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn

“The Ouija board says you’re a little shit.” / “Oh my gods, I think the crystal ball is working. The spirits are telling me you’re a dumbass.”

Written for Rowaelin Month 2022 Day 7: Holiday Celebration

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Rowaelin Month | Halloween Collection

Warnings: Language

1132 words

*This is purely fun, I dont any intend offense to those who believe in or perform the practices joked about in this fic.

*******

The storm outside raged on.

Thunder roared and howling winds tore through the night as lighting fractured the darkening sky; each blinding flash illuminating the dark canopy of rolling clouds, and giving form to the barren tree branches that crashed against each pane of the solarium’s large windows. Glass rattled in its aging frames as it withstood the onslaught of convulsing bark and torrential rain.

Inside, protected from the dangers both natural and otherwise, dozens of candles flickered, slowly melting and casting shadows across the faces of everyone in the room.

As the door closed on the mix-matched group of seven, shutting them in and setting the scene for the night ahead, the cacophony of sounds was muted by the old house, but nonetheless sang a haunting melody perfect for Halloween Night.

Aelin took that as her cue.

“The time has come!” She clapped, demanding everyone’s attention, and gestured towards the round table in the center of the room surrounded by seven cushions. “Take your place so that we may reach out to the spirits of the beyond.”

Aelin was nothing if not committed. If she decided to use her uncle's mansion as a Halloween haven then she left no inch undecorated. If she chose to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters then she would buy the best damn candy she could find. If she was dressed up as a fortune teller...then she was going to tell some fortunes. And there were no other people she would rather do so with than her friends in this room, regardless of whether they appreciated it or not.

“You’re as much a fortune teller as I am a nun,” Lysandra shot back but grinned as she plopped down on the floor to Aelin’s right and adjusted the short Wonder Woman skirt around her. Aedion, sitting down on Lysandra’s other side, chuckled as he fanned his Superman cape behind him.

“I’ve been bestowed the all-seeing gift by Saint Halloween himself,” Aelin retorted, settling in, and waited for the rest of their group to take their seats.

“It’s Halloween – All Hallows Eve,” Rowan huffed a laugh, taking one of his plastic knives and resting it between him and Aelin, “there is no Saint Halloween. This isn’t Valentine’s day.”

Fenrys removed his eyepatch and chimed in with a smirk, “And are you trying to say this so-called Saint is from the same belief system as –”

“Would you just— okay— c’mon— can we immerse ourselves, please?” Aelin groaned. But just then, another bolt of lightning flashed and lit up the room. She muttered a quiet thank you under her breath before reclaiming her character. “The spirits are near.”

Draped over the table was a rich, plum-colored, crushed velvet cloth. The only thing atop it was the opaque crystal ball cradled in its stand directly in front of Aelin. She leaned in close, trying to pull attention to the crystal –

“Weren’t you two,” Aedion interrupted, waving a finger at Elide and Lorcan, “supposed to be the Fortune Teller and Knife Thrower?”

Aelin sighed, drawing back from the table, and pinched the bridge of her nose. She rolled her eyes and looked at her Rowan. “Yes. But this one refused to wear the wig–”

“And we,” Elide jumped in, leaning into Lorcan’s shoulder, “look more like the Adams’ than those two blondes ever will.”

Not that Rowan was blonde…white…silver…close enough; the point still stood. Especially since Elide and Lorcan’s Morticia and Gomez Adams were scarily accurate. And this way, Aelin could have a little fun. So what if the Fortune Teller dress was a few inches too short?

“Broaden your minds!” Aelin urged in an airy vibrato as she swept her hands above the crystal. “You must look beyond! The art of crystal gazing is in the clearing of the Inner Eye!”

Aedion leaned closer to Lysandra and whispered, “Isn’t that a line from Harry Potter?”

He wasn’t as quiet as he thought he was. Especially when Elide confirmed from his other side, “The movies, not the books.”

Ignoring them both, Aelin lifted her voice. “We call upon the divine spirits this dark and stormy All Hallows Eve. Reveal yourselves on this night as the barrier between life and death is at its weakest.”

Fenrys snorted.

She paused with both hands raised in an overdramatic flourish and cut a sharp look his way. The tipsy Pirate didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he jerked his head towards a board resting on an old truck in the corner of the room. “The Ouija board says you’re a little shit.”

He groaned and shot Rowan a glare when the man’s elbow jabbed into his ribs. Across from them, Aedion coughed, trying his best to hide a grin.

Arching a single brow, Aelin held Fenrys’ gaze, but then her attention flew back to the crystal ball and she drew in a sharp breath. She ignored the stares she felt boring into her as she leaned closer to the opaque crystal and gingerly touched her palm to its surface.

“Oh, my gods, I think the crystal ball is working,” she explained breathlessly. Nodding quickly, Aelin looked between the ball and a now wary-looking Fenrys. The others mirrored her and leaned closer, out of curiosity or belief, she wasn’t sure, but she placed both hands upon the crystal and closed her eyes, focusing. A second later, her eyes snapped open, and her stare immediately met the Pirate’s. “The spirits are telling me you’re a dumbass.”

A loud snort came from Lorcan’s direction, and the next moment Elide was laughing too; the sound quickly echoing around the circle. Even Aelin couldn’t help the way her lips ticked up into a smirk before pulling herself back into character.

“Tonight, I shall look into the great beyond to discover your futures.” Aelin kicked the fog machine she’d set up under the table until silvery plumes swirled in the air.

She then swapped her low, lilting voice for a rapid, quickfire one that could’ve marveled a master auctioneer. “I am not licensed – in any capacity legally, spiritually, or otherworldly – a fortune teller, clairvoyant, oracle, or other synonymous authority. All actions performed tonight are purely for entertainment and should not be used as a basis for any life-altering decisions; any of which, I shall not be held responsible for. Any and all predictions, premonitions, or readings I divine are not legally binding and cannot be held as evidence in a court of law.”

She took a pause for breath and the momentary silence was immediately filled with more of her friends’ laughter. This time, she fully welcomed the grin spreading across her face.

“Now!” Aelin cried, once again adopting that wavering cadence to her words. “Give me your hands, and let us look into the beyond!”

*****

Taglist:

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#rowaelin #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #aelin #Rowan #aelin galythinius #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius x rowan whitethorn #aelin and rowan #rowan and aelin #rowaelin fic #rowaelin oneshot #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass #tog #rowaelinmonth #rowaelinmonth2022

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l0velace · 3 months

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MÆRA

《Incubation in 3..2..1..》

*krxh* "Dont you fret hun, i know its daunting down there in that chamber but we're up here with sweaty palms too. Now the fluid is breathable and full of that sweet ambrosia so go ahead and take a breath, relax, and drift away" *khp*

She's right its always a crapshoot isnt it tryn sumthn new nd honestly this fluid hasnt even reached my mouth and i already feel better, less tense, floaty like a salt bath if it were the color and viscosity of dirty engine oil..

Smells sweet, almost like rot but in a medicinal way... ambrosia huh, hear goes... tastes like fruit juice on my knee... not that hard to move through my lungs actually, i wonder how lon....

■

"Slipped right past hypnogogia... hope that ain't the case on the flipside. Lower the serum dosage 20%."

"Yessir, entering stage 3......stage 4..... cresting, begining reentry, stage 3"

"Drop another 20. Shit boy slow down. He lied to you Doc."

"It would seem so."

"No drug use my ass."

"We've reached hypnopompia sir."

"Atonia?"

"Yessir!"

"Hot Dog!"

■

Fuck, fuck why can't i talk? Shit somethings wrong w the fluid i cant move! What is-

"Hey sugar, i imagine you might be feelin' like a corpse in a casket right about now..."

No fucking shit! I fucked up!

"Like there's six feet of soil between you and sunlight..."

FucK! Im so dead...goddamnit!

"I'm gonna need you to start diggin' kid. I need you to take all the hypervigilance u can squeeze outta your adrenals and push out..."

They've been doin a lil overtime sorry!...shit come on! Pleaasssse

"Focus on the edges of your vision and try to see past all that filth in the pit."

Yah focus on the tears welling up. Great.

I wish i could do something other than freaking out. Fuck i didnt think a dark room could spin this much. Dont hurl. No hurling. Pleass God.

Wait how did Jacinta get in my-

Woah im outside.... That ridgeline its the Salspar Escarpment...

"There you go, Youre a natural kiddo! Now walk toward the escarpment keep your eyes on Salvor's Peak."

I can do that... heh mom always said i needed direction guess i got one. East by Southeast. Honestly one of the better directions westerly spring winds and the rings of Cathaş blaze violet in the afternoon sun. Oh fuck almost tripped that would have been embarassing Jacinta would hav- Why do my feet look so weird and my legs i look lik afucking bug! FUCK oh god wheres my dick?! Wheres my SkIN! FUCKFUKfuckFug I cant feel anything why didnt my knees hurt when i fell? My hands are tearing into my thigh but i cant feel it FUck im bleeding fuCk its everywhr fuck i-

■

"heyy kid how ya feeln?", Jacinta whispers.

She lightly brushes the hair out of my face. Her weight is flushing the mattress so that the side of my hip is pressed into hers. She clasps her hand to my forehead then my feels my quickly flushing face. The evening light leaking in through the shuttered windows lights her black hair to amber. She gives me a crooked smile.

"You're burnin up buddy. We gotta get some fluids in you..."

She turns to a small table behind her, her messy plait spills over her shoulder and swishes over the bare small of her back. The rattle of paper on board heralds

"Petragua or citralyte?"

I absently nod to the petragua and she replaces the other and proffers my mouth a straw.

Why am i always so... behind. Its like im in slow motion...always just barely responding...

She gazes down at me warmly as i suck down the plum-apricot-chem slurry. The infusion perks me up a bit.

"Alright now don't drain it dry. Don't want it coming back up all over my vest."

She pulls it from my lips and i eek a short and quiet sucking sound that manages a full 5 seconds of embarrassment even though the sound was .3 seconds long.

"Ill be real with ya. You did great..exceptional even! Most of the time we dont even get to a stroll the first time we just... well its a whole lot more work on my end than what happened with you so i just wanted to say... im proud of you."

She squeezes my shoulder and flashes me a big deep blue smile.

"I know all this been hard on you and you've put in a lot of work before you even got in the pit and it payed off."

She picks up the petragua again and hangs it in the air for a second.

"To your dreams...or better yet your nightmares."

She sips some of it then positions it back towards me again. I slurp with even more energy this time.

"Having such a strong liminal drive link seams to really make a difference. Honestly i think you two should meet but we have to get clearance pfft its bullshit. How are you supposed to pilot together if you don't even know eachother? How are we supposed to figure out what this spark is that makes the liminal drive work if we never get to observe you interactin' in a controlled manner? I swear im gonna have a word-"

*slurpppppp* she pulls it from my face.

"Oh listen to me blatherin' on, you only got 18 hours til you're on duty again. You can head back to your room whenever. Ill see you then ok? I just wanted to check in on you."

She finishes donning her vest and clacks and jingles out the door with her plait fishtailing behind her.

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eddis-not-eeddis · 2 years

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Every now and then my parents and the Golden Princess and I will bundle ourselves up into the gas-guzzler and hie unto the Amish produce auction. We always go with great ambitions, but we rarely get there on time (it is nearly a 100 mile drive, and tho my father drives like Jehu son of Nimshi, there is only so much you can get out of our old rust-bucket) and most of us forget our wallets, resulting in a mere 80 dollars scraped together between the four of us. When you want to buy 10 crates of watermelon, 80 dollars doth not suffice.

Tonight we made off with two bushels of peaches at the walloping price of $22 ea. (In context, everyone else got their peaches for about $18 a bushel, but Mama was determined to get those ones, and would not risk it.)

The peaches were our only acquisition, however, and Mama and Papa lost out on every other thing they bid on (except for a few ears of sweetcorn for roasting). Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Plums. Strawberries. Even the peppers my sister so desperately wanted, and the flowers my dad tried to get for my mom.

This wasn't the great tragedy it may seem, for Mom thinks spending more than $5 dollars on flowers is an extravagance bordering on a sin, and we really and truly did not need the tomatoes. Our own are still growing, and we were merely being greedy.

However.

The very last thing my mother had set her sights on was a single basket of broccoli. She wants to make a veggie pizza, and Dad has been pining for broccoli soup. She bid up to four dollars and was outbid by $0.50, and this, dear friends was not to be borne. I had upon my person twenty dollars in ones.

The auctioneer was winding down his spiel "...four-fifty, four-fifty, does anyone bid a five, five-five-five, anyone bid a five...going once, going twice--"

Up shoots my hand.

The Amish man brandishing the broccoli points in my direction. The crowd laughs. (Those broccolis were only worth about $4 to begin with.)

The auctioneer begins droning "Six-six-six."

I am ready to accept my basket of broccoli, when across the crowd, the man my mother was contending with once more raises his hand.

(Keep in mind that I am eating a hamburger throughout this entire scene. Just picture, if you will, myself, hamburger equipped, facing down a balding farmer in overalls. A bandanna is sliding out of his back pocket. The man has outbid my mother several times before. There is blood in the water.)

Before the auctioneer can rattle off his "Seven-seven-seven," my hand is up again.

The auctioneer is a master of his trade, but for all his skill, he cannot keep up with the two of us. Pretty soon my hand is permanently aloft--and so is my opponent's--while the auctioneer rattles off numbers as fast as he can.

The broccoli is nearing my limit. My parents know I only have twenty dollars on me, and my mother digs her elbow into my side and threatens "If you buy that broccoli, you will have to eat it all by yourself!

I do not like broccoli, so my hand falls faster than the millstone which smote Abimelech. The auctioneer keeps going until the Amish man displaying the wares follows my esteemed mother's example and jabs the man in the side with a well-placed elbow.

"SOLD!" The auctioneer shrieks, spitting out the price so fast it breaks the sound barrier and gesturing for his cohort to mark it onto the box before my nemesis can realize how much trouble he is in and stick me with the bill.

Afterwards the farmer came over to shake my hand and offer my mom some broccoli (which she very graciously refused—she felt he earned every bit of that broccoli) and the Amish men thanked me for getting them such a good deal.

I love the produce auction.

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lounging-in-the-aether · 1 year

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marguerite, tu m’aimes?

i. un peu you dazzled in the light of that artificial sun the first time someone called you ‘pretty.’ bright and blushing as they painted you in the soft colours of spring among the bees and the ladybirds flitting through the fruit trees, in the playground where you skipped rope and hosted tea parties. chipping away at your innocence, they carved you from marble, varnished you in compliments, and hung you in the gallery where hungry eyes feast on pretty things under the guise of appraisal. the gaze objectifies all, but especially you. you are a trophy among la nature morte, enchanting for you glow in their admiration. until artificial sun sets at 11 pm and they turn away for what use is your beauty in the shadows, where they cannot behold you? is that not why i wither in the dark?

ii. beaucoup they taught us to read the long-dead lights to divine a wisdom written by the gods when they split us in two and cursed us to search for our perfect half, crafted in the embers of existence for the other. they said to pull on the red string, follow that tenuous thread into the labyrinth, and that when we locked eyes, time would slow into the beat of butterflies’ wings and we would be made whole. they told us to resign ourselves to it, to give ourselves and give ourselves and give ourselves and never once did they tell us to love responsibly. for we are all fools who would march into a decade long war to prove the purity of our devotion, for only true love’s kiss has the power to bring us back from the other side when we inevitably die in our passion. they fed us this fire, placated with just those three simple words and left us with the false certainty of ‘happily ever after’ so that by the time you arrived in the garden, i had teetered on the edge for so long, i was already falling.

iii. passionnément there is a tale of a prince and his rose, one who was exquisite but vain, claiming in naïvely spun lies that she was the only one of her kind. in time he came upon a blossoming garden where he learned that she was common and unremarkable in a sea of identical beauty. he felt angry and deceived but he learned that the other roses were empty and that he loved his rose not for her beauty or rarity, but because she was his. am i yours? am i vain for wanting to stand out to you as she did to him, so that any other flower pales in comparison? i gave myself to you after all. you told me to count all the stars in the sky and that would be how much you loved me but i have found that it is easy to promise that which you cannot quantify. so we stand in the garden, compost up to our knees, insects circling around us, there’s something sweet in the aroma of rotting. perhaps we are a ladybird on a plum, bright red burrowing in the creases of bruised purple, was it that rotting sweet that drew us in, the fleeting promise of broken tartness?

iv. à la folie they say your heart is the size of your fist so i pressed mine into my chest and clawed out that pulsing purple rotting flesh because i did not believe you could hold love. i present to you my broken pieces on a platter. what more could you want from me? you never taught me how to say goodbye, just held on as you killed me every time. your fingers are burned into my skin, your words rattle around my brain i am consumed by you and i would give it all, if i had anything left to give. but still you turn away in the darkness, find other comforts in the night leave me with empty assurances and broken promises and hollow words. i should have recognized their poison, for it is the same language whispered by the beholders, staring up in those galleries; oh you lovely creature, you are mine. it is but a silly game, non? one which preys on childish insecurities, marguerite tu m’aimes? i preened under them and i basked under you and one by one i was stripped bare. there are never pretty words for this. there is this an ugly churning in my stomach, a fire coursing through my blood. this feeling isn’t love but it is mine.

v. pas du tout in the end it is not the fanfare of battle or the explosion of a supernova, it is not a plea of madness, it is not a declaration of devotion, it is not a passionate death. it is a surrender, a heaved sigh at the end of a long day, trying to expel you from my system. it is the quiet certainty of acceptance that my worth had been built out of the mouths of observers who only ever wanted the prize, and i had never learned to value myself. and the pain. the etching of a lifetime of words into my skin, of beliefs branded into me. and there is that agonizing feeling of looking down at the gaping hole in my chest and finding myself empty, all the pieces that were taken from me scattered out of my reach. and then there are the pieces which i gave willingly and which i must learn to reclaim. i lie in a field of daisies growing freely in clusters and i marvel at the dignity of their existence as i try to draw patterns with the stars in the sky, which dwarf me in their majesty and infinity. i live among these beautiful souls who whisper reassurances, ‘we will show you the world and you will see your place among it, though you are for yourself that does not make you alone.’ and i am mine and i am beautiful and i am in pain and i am in love and i dazzle in the sun

-marguerite

february 25, 2021

#poetry #2021

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duckybarnes1917 · 2 years

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hi there! i saw you were looking for some inspiration for bucky fics so here i am! i was wondering a best friends to lovers bucky, where reader always sees bucky close to natasha, thinking they like each other causing the reader to avoid bucky. bucky then confronts her about it!

and i would love to be anon 🧺 if you take anon emoji assigning things hahaha!

Hello dear 🧺 anon! I really hope you like this one, it had me stumped for a bit!

Warnings: none, all fluff with a tiny bit of angst

Note about requests: I don't take nsfw requests from anons or blogs without their age listed.

This is definitely bestfriend!Bucky, yum 🥰

The door slammed behind you, louder than you had intended; your lip was trembling as you tried not to cry. Bucky’s heavy footsteps quickly approached before his fist gently knocked on the door.

“Are you alright, Plum?”

Your tears spilled over at the nickname. This was it; you swore this was your last straw. You had no one to blame but yourself. Being in love with your best friend was the stupidest cliche in the book–you knew better. Especially when all he seemed to talk about lately was your other best friend, Natasha.

“I’m fine! Just got a stomach ache.” You tried your best to sound normal, but you could tell by Bucky’s silence that he wasn’t buying it. “I swear, Buck, I’m just gonna lay down. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, okay. Let me know if you get cold.”

You held your breath as his footsteps retreated and then let out a quiet broken sob. The mission you had been on with Bucky had gone south; you were sore, exhausted, freezing, and trapped in a safe house in the middle of a snowstorm. And on top of all of that, you just had your heart ripped out of your chest. Again—your own fault for listening in on Bucky’s private conversations.

“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispered, sounding annoyed.

You peeked around the corner; he was sitting on the couch by the fire while you made dinner from the few scraps you could find in the cabinets. His body language screamed anxiety, which was nothing new, but then you noticed the red tint on his cheeks.

“Don’t, Nat,” Bucky groaned, “she’ll hear me. Don’t make me say it.”

Your ears picked up at that–he didn’t want you to hear. Why?

“Fine, fine!” Bucky glanced around the room nervously and lowered his voice even more. “I–I love you. Are you happy now?”

Bucky’s chuckle slowly faded as your heart pounded and tears sprung to your eyes. You always had a suspicion that they were more than friends, but ‘I love you’? That was beyond what you could handle.

The snow picked up outside, the wind rattled your window, and you were absolutely freezing. You stubbornly laid in the nearly bare bed, with one blanket wrapped around your shivering frame. Bucky had tried to check on you, but you didn’t let him in. You shouldn’t be mad at him, a good friend would be happy for him, but the rejection still stung. It had been you who had found him in Romania. You who had pretended that you hadn’t to give him more time to live in secrecy. You who had slowly broken through his hardened shell with nothing more than home-cooked meals and a smile. You were responsible for the social butterfly of man that he had become. When he finally accompanied you to New York, he barely spoke to anyone but you and Steve. And now he was out with Sam most nights and telling Natasha he loved her. And that laugh. A laugh that was once reserved only for you. You hugged yourself tighter and let your tears fall, crying yourself to sleep.

The next several days passed agonizingly slowly. You and Bucky barely spoke; you avoided him as much as possible in the tiny safe house. He tried to talk to you, and you could tell you were hurting him, but the pain was just too raw.

You were standing at the window, a mug of hot tea in your hands as you watched the snow continue to fall.

“It's beautiful, isn’t it?”

You jumped slightly, unaware that Bucky had been standing behind you. “Yeah.”

You tried to move past him to escape, but he caught your arm.

“What’s going on, Plum? You’re killing me, you know that?”

Reluctantly you looked up into Bucky’s eyes, they were shining with unshed tears, and your stomach twisted at the pain you saw there.

“Nothing–”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s nothing! You haven’t spoken to me since we got here. Did I do something? Just tell me, Plum. Please.”

He was basically begging you now, and your own tears started to fall because you had no choice but to tell him the truth.

“It’s Natasha,” you whispered, barely audible.

“Natasha? What happened? She hasn’t said anything–”

“No,” you pushed away from him, sitting on the couch and covering your face with your hands. “I heard you on the phone with her.”

Bucky knelt down in front of you, his hands gently taking yours away from your tear-stained face.

“I heard you say that you love her. It’s none of my business, but–” You couldn’t go on. Not when he was looking at you with so much concern, so much love.

“Plum, look at me.” Bucky gently held your face, stroking his thumb over your tears.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out through your tears. “I’m such a shitty friend.”

“Don’t say that; you’re my best friend, Plum. My absolute favorite person in the whole world. You know that.”

“Bucky–”

“Hold on, just let me say this.” Bucky waited for you to meet his eyes before he continued. “I never thought I would be lucky enough to have a friend like you. You saved me, Plum, and I owe you my life.”

You bit your lip, trying desperately not to start crying again–you knew the ‘but’ was coming.

“What you heard the other day–nosy–that was Natasha trying to help me practice telling you how I feel.” Bucky paused, waiting for your reaction. When none came, he continued. “How I feel about you, Plum. How I’ve wanted to tell you for months now how crazy, head-over-heels in love with you I am.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest again. “What did you just say?”

“Plum,” Bucky chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “I love Nat, yes, in the same way that I love Sam and Steve. But you, I love you more than I ever thought possible. These last few days of you ignoring me have been hell.”

“Are you serious?” You whispered, barely able to form the words.

Bucky’s face was inches from yours now. His soft pink lips almost caressing yours, your fingers running through his hair. How many times had you dreamt about this moment?

“Do you love me too, Plum?” Bucky’s lips just barely brushed yours as he spoke.

All you could do was nod, moving closer to touch his lips, but he pulled back.

“Need you to tell me, Plum. Been dreaming about hearing you say it.”

The tears were back as you caressed his face, pushing his hair out his eyes. “Of course, I love you, Buck–”

The rest of your love confession was cut off as Bucky’s lips crashed into yours. It was better than you imagined. No one had ever kissed you like that–with their whole heart on their sleeve.

“Bucky,” you pushed him back gently, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

Bucky slid you off the couch and into his lap on the floor. “Don’t apologize, Plum. I’m sorry you were so hurt; I feel awful. I should have just told you.”

“It’s not your fault; I could have told you sooner too.” You placed a hand on his broad chest; the smile on your face felt like it would never fade. “I’m just glad we’re here now.”

“It’s always been you,” Bucky pulled your lips back to his, “never anyone but you.”

#bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #snowed in #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #tfatws #best friends to lovers #natbarnes1917 fic request #🧺 anon

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noahhawthorneauthor · 2 years

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How to Embarrass an Immortal

And that’s when I crashed into him, or he crashed into me, rather.

Paper bags full of goods fly into the air, herbs and paint rain down around me as my ass plummets towards the ground. I brace myself, arms back and eyes shut tight, but I don’t make an impact with the stone. Instead, I find a tight arm around my waist, and a scowling pair of eyes that can’t decide if they want to be green or brown.

I gasp, frozen in time as I stare into his soul, one that clearly does not remember me. It stings more than I thought it would. I give the rather pissed off barn owl circling above a moment of attention, then back to his face which has changed immensely, hard set lines of worry crease his bronzed features. Not that I would need a second confirmation, but the birthmark along the right side of his gently angled jaw is present, just as bright as the first time I saw it. His cheeks are soft, flushed and partially hidden beneath waves of black falling from beneath a knitted beanie.

He’s hiding.

I shakily take his shoulder, covered in a colorful rainbow duster that conceals his bare arms and the parts of his dark torso not covered by his thin, loose tank top. I pull myself to standing and we separate, but it takes another moment for his hard stare to leave me. All at once he remembers the mess we created, currently being trampled on by the crowd around us.

“Er, watch where you’re going, y’know?” He mutters in a rusty baritone, like he meant to come off as pissed but instead its quiet annoyance. I kneel down and help him, gathering glass jars full of paint that definitely should’ve broken, and pads of paper that are now covered in footprints. I frown at the prints, I don’t remember the people here being so careless. I hand them to him and his eyes flick between mine and the paper, as if I’ve tainted his things. His irises are brown now, deep and near black.

“I apologize, I’m, new to Levena, got a bit turned around. I didn’t mean to-” The warm, syrupy voice I’ve pulled on, one that melts even the iciest of hearts, is reduced to a screech when explosions rock the night. Shamelessly, I yelp and take hold of the bewildered man’s sides, clinging to his duster. He’s a full two heads taller than I am, and I’m useless in this form. “Are we under attack? Why? Where?”

The body pressed against me shakes, and after a moment I realize it’s with laughter. I look up, finding his soft, deep plum smile veiling barely restrained amusement. “Newcomer I guess so, it’s just the fireworks.” He doesn’t put hands on me, but one lifts. I step back, preparing for him to push me away; I am just a stranger to him after all, but he only points up.

The stars are exploding.

I watch with pure awe as colors streak into the sea of twilight overhead, the scent of black powder and magic burning out my nostrils. With each boom, my heart rattles out of its cage with joy. I’ve seen many things since this rock started turning, but none so beautiful as this.

Speaking of beautiful, I glance back at the witch, only to find empty space. He sticks out in the crowd, the same height as the few Ents and Centaurs milling about, and that damned owl is perched on his head. I call out to him, waving ridiculously.

“Hey, witch!”

He stops, as do others in the crowd. Curious eyes bore into him and he pulls his brim down, but not far enough to hide the daggers he glares at me over his shoulder. Whoops, well, I’ve already caused a scene. I sprint through the crowd which parts for me, more observers interested in our ordeal, or rather, the presence of a witch. Witches weren’t infamous last time I was here, so why are they making a big deal about him?

By the time I get to him, he still hasn’t moved a muscle, not even tilting his head more towards me. I settle for standing by his side. “Let’s go out sometime, I owe you that much for making a mess of your things.”

He balks, the slightest bit of green flaring to life in his eyes. A mischievous smile takes hold, but then he shakes his head. “Can’t, but thanks. Enjoy the festival.”

I open my lips but the owl chirps, a bizarre noise. The man rolls his eyes at the bird, then glances at me with a renewed glow to his eyes. He makes to leave, but I wring my hands and blurt out ridiculousness first. “I’d enjoy it much more with a local to show me around, I’m not, looking for anything, just a friend.” Oh dear Gods, am I blushing?

All I earn for my awkwardness is a seconds-long sly grin, and the back of his head as he walks away from me once more. I become a stone in the river again, allowing the crowd to part around me as I wonder when the last was that I experienced embarrassment. Have I?

Well, I certainly have now.

#aelina isaacs #am writing #wip #my wips #writeblr #writer things #dark fantasy #mm romance #urban fantasy #mlm #queer reads

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bbweeb · 3 years

Text

Pickled Plum | Inumaki Toge x gn reader

I put parathesis with translations for what Toge said even though I know most of the fandom probably knows what those words mean anyway. This is my first time writing for him and its a challenge with his vocab and stuff, also it's been awhile since I last wrote fan fiction and published it so yeah, I hope yall enjoy!

My eyes opened, slowly adjusting to the darkness around my room. The brewing storm outside was loud, waking me up. Toge wasn’t there anymore which was odd, no signs of him in the small dorm. As you got up, you flicked on the lamp beside your bed, however it wouldn't turn on. My phone was dead, despite being plugged in. The power must’ve gone out because of the storm. Slipping on shoes to go find Toge. Everything was dark as I walked down the hall toward Toge’s dorm. Passing various unoccupied rooms when I suddenly heard fits of laughter.

As I get closer, I see the faint glow of fire from the irori (traditional Japanese sunken fire place). Standing in the doorway I see Panda, Toge, Itadori, Megumi and Maki sitting around the fire, suddenly quiet after they notice my presence.

“Ugh. Do you ever not follow Inumaki senpai like a lost puppy? It’s so annoying.” Maki scuffed.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Panda said to Toge.

“Right? If it's so annoying to us I don't know how he can deal with them constantly hanging off him.” Itadori giggled.

“Tell me about it. I feel like I can’t breathe.” He responded.

“You can talk?” I asked, confused as to what was unfolding in front of me.

“Of course I can talk!” Toge replied, angry as if it was obvious.

“I don’t understand.” I mumbled.

Toge stood up angrily. It was scary to see as he had always been calm and collected.

“I pretended to be unable to speak because I don’t want to speak to you. I only dated you because of a bet. Nobody here likes you so go away. Leave us alone!”

Tears streamed down my face, my vision blurry as I turned on my heels to run away. I turned the corner, running head first into someone's chest. Looking up to see Gojo, a smirk plastered across his face.

“What do we have here? A little cry baby running away? I would run far away if I were you. Thank god I’m not you though!” He laughed, walking away.

My heart ached, my legs hurt as I ran back to my dorm. Slamming the door behind me. It felt like I couldn't breathe, my world turned upside down. Their words echoed in my head, no matter how hard I tried I couldn't stop hearing their voices. The room started spinning

Cries racked my body, shaking so hard it felt like everything around me shook. Their laughs echoed, getting louder as the time went on. I grasp at the photo frames around my room, pictures filled with people who didn’t care, who didn’t want to be around me. A photo of Nobara and I, her face contorted from a smile to one of disgust. Dropping the frame, not caring that the glass broke I looked at the photo of me sitting on Toge’s lap. His face looked angry as if he was being forced to be in the picture with me, Panda and Maki in the background, laughing at the situation Toge was in. Tossing that frame aside with the other one, I looked at another photo, this time it's Itadori, Megumi and I. We were sitting outside by the tree eating onigiri. It was like I could hear their voices, talking as if I wasn’t around.

“They’re so annoying.” Megumi sighed.

“I know right? I don't know how Inumaki senpai does it.”

“I wish they would just leave this school. They don’t deserve to be here.”

“I heard the higher ups don’t even want them here.” Itadori said. “Do you think Gojo sensei is regretting taking them in?”

“For sure.”

I threw down the frame, adding to the broken glass. I was a mess, tears all over my face. It felt like no matter how hard I tried to regulate my breathing, I couldn’t. Back pressed against the wall, I slid down to the floor. My head between my knees, unable to calm down. Everyone always leaves me. I am always an inconvenience to those around me. I’m the reason they leave.

The shaking progressively got worse, things falling off my desk, my clothes rattling around in my wardrobe. Books flying off the shelves. It's too much.

Suddenly my eyes opened, a gasp left my mouth. Cool hands grasped the sides of my face, his face just inches away. It was just a dream.

“Leaf mustard?” (You okay?)

I threw my arms around his neck, mumbling apologies. Toge sat up, wrapping his arms around me as he pulled me onto his lap, quietly humming a tune. His hands rubbed up and down my back, slowly calming me down as I listened to his heartbeat.

“Salmon cod roe.” (Getting your attention) He quietly mumbled after a while.

I hummed in response, knowing my throat was sore from all the crying I did.

He mumbled some more as if to say "It's okay. I'm here, it's just a dream."

I hummed again, gripping his shirt tighter as I let out a sniffle.

“Pickled plum.” (I love you) He said, squeezing me slightly.

“I love you too.” I responded, snuggling into him more.

#inumaki to/ge #jjk to/ge #to/ge x reader #inumaki x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #jjk fanfic #jjk ff

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tsauergrass · 4 years

Text

A while ago, @scaredpotta asked me for a prompt from the prompt list I reblogged. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and now I’ve finished, but then I discovered that they’ve de-activated their account :( I am so sad and so sorry that I’m late. I’m still going to post it and, @scaredpotta, even though I know you won’t see this, I hope you’re having a wonderful day wherever you are.

29. Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey

***

“60 dollars,” Draco says. “What can I get?”

Harry ruffles through the buckets of flowers in the cooler. “What are you looking for?”

“Something special. It is a note.”

Harry pauses. For days Draco has visited his flower shop, but not once has he ordered anything with a message. Usually it is four different shades of purple, or something classically romantic, or something simple but elegant, fragrant—hyacinths, roses, lily-of-the-valleys. Dahlias, accompanied with white-button poms and greens.

Harry turns to face him. Draco looks away, flushed, shifting back and forth on his feet.

“Well,” Harry asks, “What is it you want to say?”

“Let’s elope.”

Harry blushes crimson. Silly, because Draco is not saying the words to him—but to his lover, for whom he has come and visited Harry’s shop for days on end, arriving early to avoid the morning rush and bring them the flowers before the day starts. The flowers are always the freshest, the leaves still wet with dew, and Harry picks the best of them for Draco because Draco’s lover deserves the best. Because Draco deserves the best.

And it is harder and harder to fool himself every day, to tell himself that they’ve had history, that Draco already belongs to someone else—to watch Draco come in every day with a faint smile, the bell tinkling as he greets Harry good morning with two cups of coffee. His hair is soft in the morning light, white-gold amidst the exuberant flowers as he looks around—Harry wrapping his bouquet, trying to steal a glance or two—footsteps slow, bending as he sniffs at the buckets of flowers from the lower shelves. A laugh escapes and Harry pretends it is a cough when Draco turns, narrowing his eyes.

But there is no malice. There is only banter, witty and fast and sending a rush down Harry’s spine.

“Well,” Harry says, turning around. His face burns in the cool, moist air of the cooler. “The cleomes just came in today. I’ll pair them with some baby’s-breaths, if you’d like.”

“That would be prefect.”

And this is new, too—for Harry to hear the smile in Draco’s voice, a secret victory at every one of them, knowing they are there because of him. He picks out the cleomes with the most vibrant purples, the ones with their petals spread the fullest—cuts off the excess leaves, the motion familiar with ease. Spreads out the wrapping paper on the working table, smooths its edges.

“So,” he coughs, “you’re leaving.”

Draco pauses his sniffing at a hanging pot of petunias and looks at him.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Or so I hope. I am going to ask them today, whether they will come with me.”

“Oh.” Harry focuses on cutting the paper so he doesn’t have to meet Draco’s eyes. “So the bouquet. It’s a question.”

“It is.”

“Well, it’s not like you need to ask,” Harry laughs, dry, “of course they’ll come with you.”

“How do you know?”

Briefly, Harry lifts his gaze. Draco has tilted his head. Against the sunlight, Harry cannot quite make out his face, but it seems like his cheeks have flushed—a tinge of pink in the shadows.

“Well,” Harry looks back down again, swallowing, “it’s you. Who wouldn’t want to go with you?”

Silence. A while later, Harry raises his head. Draco is watching him still, his head tilted.

Harry finishes the bouquet in silence. Wraps it carefully, makes a couple last adjustments so the cleomes are shown to their fullest, the baby’s-breaths a lovely white. He hands the bouquet to Draco. “Sixty dollars.”

Draco takes the bouquet.

The last bouquet Harry would ever make for him. He wants to say goodbye, in a way however small: a hug, a handshake, a squeeze on the shoulder. Some proof that all these mornings weren’t nothing, hadn’t simply existed in his half-baked dreams—that Draco had enjoyed them, too, had enjoyed his little shop and the flowers and, perhaps, his company.

He might never see Draco again.

“Are you busy?” Draco asks.

Harry blinks.

“Do you have anything to do this moment?”

Harry blinks again. “I’m working.”

“Right,” Draco rolls his eyes, “and this is your shop. You are your own boss. Are you busy at the moment?”

“Well…I mean, no—”

“Great,” Draco says, turning to walk towards the door, “there’s something I need to show you. Just to get an opinion. Very convenient, won’t take long, my flat is a five-minute walk from here so we won’t even need to Apparate—”

“Wait, what—” Harry struggles to untie his apron as he stumbles over the register, “Draco, wait—”

“We can chat on our way. Have I told you about this person I’ve been buying flowers for? An idiot, let me tell you. An absolute idiot.”

The walk was brisk, the morning air crisp. Harry cannot keep up with Draco’s long legs. Draco walks rapidly, as though he has an appointment, the heels of his shoes clicking against the pavement as he rattles on without losing his breath. Harry stumbles along, bumps into Draco when he turns a corner—and there they were, in front of the doors of Draco’s flat.

“I haven’t tidied it,” Draco says, working the keys, flushed. “But I don’t think you need to close your eyes—”

A loud clack. The doors open.

Harry toes off his shoes and, gingerly, follows Draco past the parlor. The air smells of a soft fragrance, smells faintly of something familiar…

He stops, shocked, at the edge of the living room.

Vases and vases full of flowers. Familiar arrangements, all having come from his hands: the hydrangeas, the gerberas, the lilacs. The hyacinths draping from a tall vase, the dahlias in full bloom in a small pot on the windowsill. The roses, sitting in a tiny vase on the coffee table beside the armchair, a brimming array of red.

Beside him, Draco has flushed down his neck.

“But I don’t…” Harry trails off, looking at the room full of flowers again. “I don’t—”

“I preserved them. I learned the cooling charms.”

“But—”

“Harry James Potter. I buy you coffee every morning.”

Harry stares incredulously at him. “Friends buy each other coffee!”

“Oh my god,” Draco says, and kisses him.

Harry startles at it—then sinks into it, his eyes fluttering shut and his mouth falling open. Draco kisses him slowly, deeply, his hands coming around Harry’s waist—helpless, helpless in the heat of Harry’s mouth, wanting to pull away but unable to—Harry’s arms coming around his, pulling him close. He tastes like the coffee they’d had this morning, faintly bitter and sweet with too much sugar. The coffee Draco had bought for both of them.

Draco’s breath is cool on his lips. Harry hadn’t even noticed them parting, his eyes still shut, their mouths still close. He could feel Draco’s lips. He wanted to lean back in.

“What do you say?” Draco murmurs. Something rustles between them; Harry looks down, and there is the bouquet of cleomes he’d wrapped this morning, a lovely purple.

Draco laughs, breathless. “Elope with me?”

Three years later

They still come back every year. On the same day, to the same cliffs; they walk along the same rocky path near the ocean, laughing as they pull each other on, the waves crashing into the rocks and bursting into sprays, into the salty air.

At the bottom of the cliffs blooms a field of wild sea thrifts.

Harry can see it, now, from the balcony of their tiny hotel room: a hint of pink from behind the rocks, appearing and disappearing behind the relentless waves. It is barely visible in the dusk. The sky is darkening, into the color of a ripened plum.

Draco sneaks an arm around his waist, pulls him close. Harry leans into his touch. Noses at the hollow of Draco’s throat, the soft skin, the intimate warmth.

Murmurs, “What are you looking at?”

Draco hums. “Take a guess.”

“I don’t need to.”

Draco laughs. “Why did you ask, then?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Draco laughs again and turns Harry around. Three years later Harry still does not tire of it, watching Draco smile, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling as his cheeks fold—his face blossoming into the happiness. His pale eyes glint in the dusk. In the quietness of the moments before night there is only the sea, waves crashing ashore and breaking into thin foams.

Slowly, gently, in a low voice, Draco says, “I love you.”

The words glow warm and golden in the dark. Leaning in, Harry catches his lips; they are soft and sweet, just as three years ago when they first kissed.

On the nightstand by the bed, the vase of cleomes blooms in the young night.

#hp #harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #fanfic #my fic #flowershop au #my first!

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esperwatchesfilms · 3 years

Text

Clue (1985)

This is one of my all-time favorite films. I have no clue why. It might be the nostalgia factor. But I’m absolutely obsessed with it. I’ve seen it a million times, but I have never looked into the interesting trivia on its IMDB page, so this will be fun!

Awesome Fun Fact:

The color of each character's car is the same color as their playing piece in the game, and is introduced as follows: Colonel Mustard drives a yellow 1954 Cadillac Series 62, Mrs. White drives a black-and-white 1950 MG TD convertible, Mrs. Peacock drives a blue 1952 Packard 200 Deluxe club sedan, Mr. Green drives a green 1951 Plymouth Cranbrook, Ms. Scarlet drives a 1946 red Lincoln Continental, and Professor Plum drives a purple 1949 Pontiac Streamliner Station Wagon.

Prof. Plum: It’s frightened.

Something I Already Knew But Maybe You Didn’t: When Wadsworth cuts the power to the house during his solving of the mystery, it represents the point of divergence of the three endings.

Amusing Fun Fact: Professor Plum indicates at dinner that he works for the World Health Organization, part of the United Nations Organization. This means he works for UNO WHO.

Wadsworth: Professor Plum -- you were once a professor of psychiatry specializing in helping paranoid and homicidal lunatics suffering from delusions of grandeur. Prof. Plum: Yes, but now I work for the United Nations. Wadsworth: So your work has not changed. But you don’t practice medicine at the U.N. His license to practice has been lifted; correct? Miss Scarlet: Why? What did he do? Wadsworth: You know what doctors aren’t allowed to do with their lady patients? Miss Scarlet: Yeah? Wadsworth: Well, he did. Miss Scarlet: Ha!

Mrs. White: [after Mrs. Peacock swears that the reason she's being blackmailed is a vicious lie] Well, I am willing to believe you. I, too, am being blackmailed for something I didn't do. Mr. Green: Me too. Colonel Mustard: And me. Miss Scarlet: Not me. Wadsworth: [surprised] You're *not* being blackmailed? Miss Scarlet: Oh, I’m being blackmailed all right, but I did what I’m being blackmailed for.

Miss Scarlet: Well, to be perfectly frank, I run a specialized hotel and a telephone service which provides gentlemen with the company of a young lady, for a short while. Professor Plum: Oh yeah? [pulls out pen and a pad of paper] Professor Plum: What's the phone number?

Wadsworth: The double negative has turned to proof positive. I’m afraid you gave yourself away. Colonel Mustard: Are you trying to make me look stupid in front of the other guests? Wadsworth: You don’t need any help from me, sir. Colonel Mustard: That’s right!

Wadsworth: Mrs. White, you've been paying our friend, the blackmailer, ever since your husband died under, shall we say, mysterious circumstances? Miss Scarlet: Ah! [laughs] Mrs. White: Why is that funny? Miss Scarlet: I see! That's why he was lying on his back, in his coffin. Mrs. White: I didn't kill him. Colonel Mustard: Then why are you paying the blackmailer? Mrs. White: I don’t want a scandal, do I? We had had a very humiliating public confrontation. He was deranged. He was -- [points to head] Mrs. White: -- a lunatic! He didn't actually seem to like me very much.

Miss Scarlet: Why would he wanna kill you in public? Wadsworth: I think she meant he threatened, in public, to kill her. Miss Scarlet: Oh. Was that his final word on the matter? Mrs. White: Being killed is pretty final, wouldn't you say? Wadsworth: And yet, he was the one who died, not you, Mrs. White, not you! Miss Scarlet: What did he do for a living? Mrs. White: He was a scientist, nuclear physics. Miss Scarlet: What was he like? Mrs. White: He was always a rather stupidly optimistic man. I mean, I'm afraid it came as a great shock to him when he died, but he was found dead at home.

Mrs. White: I had been out all evening at the movies.

Wadsworth: But, he was your second husband. Your first husband also disappeared. Mrs. White: Well, that was his job. He was an illusionist. Wadsworth: But he never reappeared! Mrs. White: [chuckling, admittedly] He wasn't a very good illusionist.

Prof. Plum: Maybe he was poisoned!

Wadsworth: He decided to put his information to good use and make a little money out of it. What could be more American than that?

Col. Mustard: You lure men to their deaths like a spider with flies! Mrs. White: Flies are where men are most vulnerable.

Mrs. Peacock: No, I just want to powder my nose. Thank you.

Wadsworth: Sorry!

Wadsworth: The key is gone! Professor Plum: Never mind about the key, unlock the door! [smacks Mr. Green on the shoulder] Mr. Green: [grabs Professor Plum by the collar, throttling him] I CAN'T UNLOCK THE DOOR WITHOUT THE KEY! [releasing Plum, Mr. Green rattles doorknob] Mr. Green: LET US IN! LET US IN! Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet: [on other side of locked door] LET US OUT! LET US OUT!

Mrs. Peacock: Our lives are in danger, ya beatnik!

Communism is Just a Red Herring Fact: The line "Communism is just a red herring" is said in all three endings (twice by Wadsworth and once by Miss Scarlet). Not only is it is a pun (particularly after World War II, the Russian Communists were frequently called "reds", for example, the anti-Communist slogan, "Better dead than red."), but it cleverly refers to a MacGuffin (or a real "red herring") implemented by the screenwriters, because none of the murderers motives end up having anything to do with creating political conspiracy. There are various visual red herrings on-screen, such as a hammer and sickle on the shelf beside the torch Colonel Mustard finds, and a bust of Lenin in the attic.

ESE: 125/100

50 +10 for Tim Curry +4 for the dogs +2 for the dog poo shoe +5 for Mr. Green’s obedience (”Sit! No, not you, sir.”) +1 for Mrs. Peacock’s glasses +5 for amazing one-liners +5 for the discussion about why Mrs. White’s being blackmailed -10 for homophobia -5 for The Three Stooges antics when Mr. Boddy’s secret is revealed +5 for not shouting +5 for confusion +5 for most hilarious pairings +10 for secret passages +3 for the ironing board +10 for singing telegram +10 for Wadsworth walking through the whole thing +6 for 3 different endings -10 because the timing makes no sense for Mrs. White to have killed Yvette +10 for Mr. Green going home to sleep with his wife +4 for Clue card credits

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safrona-shadowsun · 3 years

Text

A Yawning Absence

The Harvester walked across the mounds of scattered bone and armor littering the estate courtyard, noting the tattered remains of old Winter’s Veil decor in silence. In strewn piles, remains lay on the parlor stairs, where once the House of Final Respite would have welcomed and comforted the living when they most needed it. Windows shattered, doors unhinged and tables upturned, it was a haunted ruin that was comforting nothing. A war had come to the sanctum, to her Elysian Sojourn, and in the aftermath it had left behind a graveyard of second-hand death.

Safrona knew from the start it was silly to think any place could be called a Sanctum, that any physical location could be safe enough to call home. Her Circle of Perished had given her that much, had made her believe it for the handful of years they made it so. But even off the face of Azeroth and cloaked in the space between realms, it had all come to a brutal end.

What stung the most was the cold truth that she had not been there to help stop it. She had not been there when the First needed her most, and now he was lost. She had been thrown down into the Maw, a living bloodhound used for the hunt of another. There was little victory in her eventual escape, returning now too late to find what had grown precious to her scattered to the winds. It was some cruel turn of fate, some curse even, she thought. Some fitting fate for something living off of stolen lives, to never be able to build a foundation for her own. Or perhaps a child of the Void was meant to be alone, if it dared to serve a purpose other than its own?

She took a deep breath, pulling her mind from the webbed refuse of despondency, blame. She had found the Voice and the Ears, and this reunion even if only by voice had been everything. They kept some hope alive that the one that held her heart was not another body strewn across the estate. The First of the Perished had returned many times before. Why should this turn be his last? Not when a piece of her burned still, somewhere within him.

She continued walking down the ruined halls, further scattering the remnants of discarded bone. A shambler was found within, noisily responding to her own steps on an unsteady frame. The weak light that animated it faded all too quickly as she set her Voidwalker upon it, brittle bone smashed to dust. Beneath bone and ash, she eyed something gentle, a flicker of shadow, caught between the ruin. She reached to delicately pluck it - an intact orchid, its black, velvety petals reaching toward its centerpoint red, ebon bleeding inward to its hybridized burgundy.

The vision washed over her with sudden sight, and sound. The sound of coins rattling against bones, the clanging of blade against blade. " How much will this one fetch in Revendreth?" Words whispered and shuffled in the dark before being consumed in flame and shadows, vibrant green and a deep plum purple. Orbs of gold filled with silver shimmering wisps, seemingly carted along paths in crowded streets, following the rhythmic sounds of a heart beating. " I don't believe the containment field will withstand the flames the Hybrid is releasing."

“Hey!” the unattached voice shot like an alarm, the vision and previous memory quickly fading to deliver Safrona back to the current day, and time. The bone, metal coin her Soulsinger often carried was hot between her fingers. She could not recall how long she had stood behind the counter of Empyrean Star Trades, polishing it religiously with her thumb. “You got that new route established yet?” Wennefer Shadowsun asked quizzically. Setting her jaw, Safrona tilted her face up toward the younger Shadowsun, trying to make her fingers appear fully engaged with the paperwork before her.

“I...no. Which one of our couriers is this one going to again?”

“Madpass.” Wennefer approached, turned the first page of contract from Safrona’s fingers to view it herself. “I even wrote it all for you. Just needed your okay and the sign off. That one’s a little above her pay grade and into hostile territory but you know Ceyla likes her challenges. You’d officially be promoting her from Runner to the Courier title. I think she’s been dependable enough...but...” The young arcanist narrowed her eyes on her sister’s face introspectively. “You good?”

“Fine,” Safrona exhaled, quickly signing her name to the lines expected of her. “Madpass has my,” she chuckled witheringly at the unremarkable pun that came to mind, “pass.”

Wennefer finished the chuckle into something much more cheery. “She’ll be ecstatic. She’s been waiting for you forever to clear this. I have another prospective runner we need to interview for the Trade next week. But better than that, I managed to schedule us both a night off. We’re going to that Howling Owl place you were talking about the other night the next time they have an event. I think we both deserve something a little fun. It won’t be anything crazy, I promise.”

“Wenne.” Safrona stated the name plainly, intently. “I need to go back.”

“Back...what?” Wennefer put her fingers to her temple. “Flame take me now - are you talking about going back to the Shadowlands?”

“Yes. I need to find someone.”

Wennefer snapped as she gathered the papers away from the Warlock. “Are you joking right now? Isn’t this what they had you do last time? FIND someone? Who’s god’s damned contract are you taking THIS time, Saf? Huh? They trying to put you down into that shitty hole they call the Maw too?”

A hand was raised, both to calm the escalating questions, and to ascertain this was of her own design. “No, Wenne. Listen to me. It isn’t a damn contract. This is just….this is me.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Both of the delicate mage’s hands were thrown into the air.

Truth was a hard bottle to open and pour for her sister, as it was for anyone not within her very personal circles. The attempt was made, however, that bearing. “I am missing someone, Wenne. Someone that slipped through the cracks when I was away. Someone that I don’t feel...right... being here. Being without.” She held Wennefer’s eyes. “Next to you, he is family to me.”

Blessedly, she saw the young mage calm, slowly, her features giving way to concern. “And you think he is out there? In the Shadowlands?”

“...I’m fairly certain of it now. And I don’t think it will be the Maw. It’s...elsewhere. I need to do my research.”

“Then you’re going to let me help you.”

“...wenne.”

“You know you aren’t going to talk me out of this.”

“I know. But again. I need you here. You did so well with the shop here. And you are a full Shadowsun now, with all my crediting. This is all in your hands as much as it’s in mine. If you want to help me, do it from here. Help me find what I’m looking for, build the routes where I am going, keep me on track.”

The arcanist nodded after a silent moment, seemingly pacified. “I can do that. But you need to promise me you’ll be answering me back to back on that Hearthstone channel. Because I WILL come after you if you don’t and drag you back here.”

Safrona smirked at the little spitfire as they came to their understanding. “That is fair. I will keep in contact. If not by Hearthstone then other ways. I am a courier after all.”

“Good, great. Because you’re a courier than needs to know that she has family here too. And we’re in this together.”

“Overdoing it on the sap there.”

“Deal with it, Saffy. We’re bringing it in for a hug now.”

“...Only because you’re my sister.”

“Awww.”

“Ugh why.”

{ @thefirstperished @nixyandrith @howlingowl-wra }

#Safwriting #Stories #The Perished #Sanctum Lost #Lost in the Anima #Warcraft Shadowlands

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merryfortune · 3 years

Text

Gachaplum

Written for 100ships Challenge on Dreamwidth

Prompt #77 Plum

Ship: Rocksaltshipping | Kureha/Spectre

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS

Word Count: 2,143

Rating: G

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Fluff, Self Indulgen, Inspired by a Tweet

“Are you enjoying your drink?” Spectre asked conversationally.

“Yep.” Kureha chirped around her straw.

The drink in question was a tropical iced tea with strawberry bursties as the bottom. It was sharply sweet, right to the core of her teeth, and that’s exactly how Kureha liked it. However it, in combination with the empty tote bag Spectre was carting around, was a horrible omen to Kureha. Her boba tea had been the only non-necessary treat that Spectre had bought for either of them and clearly he meant for impulse purchases, otherwise he wouldn’t have brought a bag.

But Kureha, with a little bit of dread and unuttered complaint, supposed that’s the kind of guy Spectre was. He was very mission oriented and put his organisation above himself. Today’s mission was grocery shopping, as mundane as that sounded but since Spectre and the others could be at sea for weeks on end, grocery shopping was huge and important. So, even though Spectre was empty handed right now, he had already spent big at the restaurant they had visited earlier and before that, at the luxury grocery shop they went to where they bought in bulk and would have it delivered to the docks for the Lieutenants to unpack.

And Kureha had been lucky enough to tag along since this was a somewhat rare opportunity for her and Spectre to hang out in real life. But what was the point of hanging out if they weren’t doing anything special? Kureha agaonised, maybe it was her fault for assuming it would be a date. Then again, they also had a fancy lunch together so maybe it was a date. This was too confusing, Kureha scolded herself. Besides, it's not like she wasn’t enjoying herself. She really was and that was probably the main thing but she wanted Spectre to enjoy himself too.

They had a delicious lunch at a Thai restaurant that had excellent decor and a wide range of food. They ordered a plate of their favourites each yet somehow ended up sharing their meals and soft drinks anyway. It had been wonderful, even if Kureha got a runny nose afterwards and that was a little bit embarrassing but Spectre didn’t bring it up, thankfully - except to rib her that even how she blew her nose was cute. Then, once they had had their lunch, it was time to get to business and Spectre had a very long shopping list.

He took her to a grocery shop inside of a mall with a celebrity level atmosphere. It was stocked with items and brands that Kureha had never heard of because they were so, so, so expensive and yet, he handpicked what he needed from them without so much as a blink at the price tag. Though, he did assure her that he and the other Knights had already budgeted to a tee so there was nothing to worry about. He was in and out rather swiftly, hardly looking at all the things that Kureha was certainly dawdling out and once he was done, he had his things whisked off and taken to be shipped off within the hour by truck.

With the shopping done, they had begun to exit the mall where Kureha had gotten thirsty and she had a keen eye for spotting cute and quirky shops that sold even cuter and quirkier drinks. Spectre had been more than happy to pay for her boba tea, even though she offered and it was very sweet of him but did make Kureha feel a little guilty since, again, that one drink had been the only splurge Spectre had allowed himself and it wasn’t even for him.

Now they were just sort of wandering along, making light conversation whilst Kureha finished her drink. They were sort of on the look out for a tram line or bus that would put them on a route where Spectre could drop off Kureha close to home and then continue back to the mariner but it was difficult since their homes were such polar opposites to another. Though, given that Kureha wasn’t quite ready to end this not quite and maybe it actually was a date-date, it was something of a blessing in disguise so they got to take in the sights of this precinct.

There were all sorts of pretty and intriguing buildings, the paths were lovely and well kempt without a nary crack or dip. The road was fairly busy with cars, taxis, and buses but it was the sidewalks which were busier with people coming to and fro. It was almost overwhelming with all the interesting things to see and do but even so, Kureha kept her eyes peeled for something - anything - that might just serve to prolong the inevitable and then she saw it: a bookshop.

Out of nowhere, to Spectre at least, Kureha grabbed his arm and tugged on it. He pulled back and twisted round to scold Kureha, a scowl on his face but Kureha was already prepared with the best puppy dog eyes she could plead with.

“I want to check out that bookshop, please.” she begged.

Spectre’s scowl softed, “That sounds fine.”

“Yay.” Kureha smiled.

Kureha pointed out the bookshop that she had spotted and Spectre escorted her there. Although, once inside the pristinely white doors, they sort of split off. Not that Kureha minded, that was sort of her plan. Spectre was a bookworm, albeit an incredibly fussy one, so maybe he would find something in here to read and even buy for himself whilst Kureha was mostly killing time. Mainly by trying to covertly stalk Spectre from the manga section whilst he investigated the language arts section a few rows of books over.

She held her breath, whilst trying her best not to get distracted by the latest volumes of a few series of manga that she had been keeping up with, as Spectre pulled out various books… only to all but immediately put them back once he was done looking at their backs. It was a little bit disappointing. Kureha sighed and her eyes downcast to a shiny new volume of her favourite manga but if Spectre refused to buy things for himself, so would she so she scuttled in closer to Spectre again across the floor of the bookshelf.

“See anything interesting?” Kureha asked.

“I’m considering learning French or Spanish as a hobby but I’m not sure which would best extend my current literacy skills so I think I’ll do more research before branching out from bilingualism to multilingualism.” Spectre replied.

“Fair enough.” Kureha murmured.

“Are you ready to go?” Spectre asked. “You seem equally empty handed as me.”

“I saw a few things but nah.” Kureha shrugged.

“Understandable,” Spectre said, “well, would you like to keep going on our way home?”

Kureha fidgetted, “Yeah, that’s fine.” she murmured.

Spectre made an odd expression but it was only the briefest flicker, Kureha was lucky to have caught it. Regardless, they did move on and left the book shop, unsuccessful on all fronts. Maybe their date had just run its course in the most uneventful way possible.

As they walked, Spectre checked his phone and noticed that they should be getting close to a good spot where it would be easy for them to find public transport to suit both their needs. At least according to the maps app that he was looking at, anyway so he had his fingers crossed that it ought to be somewhat helpful even if it wasn’t entirely accurate or true to life. Kureha smiled and agreed. At least she would have part of a bus trip left to spend with Spectre before woosh.

Back to video calls and texts as their only form of contact. It was nice, Kureha didn’t mean to complain, she did genuinely enjoy getting photographs of how Spectre’s plants were going and sending him back the homework she was struggling with but quality time was nicer. At the very least, Kureha wanted a memento of what little quality time they did get and a receipt from a Thai restaurant hardly counted.

Then, once more, in a complete stroke of luck, Kureha’s eye was caught by something that she saw. Not the building - it was just a generic convenience store - but by what adorned it: gachapon machines. Her face split into a huge grin and once more, Kureha grabbed Spectre’s arm and tugged on it.

“Yes?” Spectre said through gritted teeth at Kureha’s prompt.

“I want to use the lucky dip machines. Please, please, please: look, this one has plushies for that virtual pet game I like.” Kureha begged, clutching Spectre’s arm desperately, and her hazelly-green eyes were sparkling so how on Earth was Spectre meant to resist all of that?

The answer, of course, was that he couldn’t. Though, he did give a long suffering sigh, he did let Kureha pull him aside as she used the gachapon machine that she saw outside the convenience store that they had been passing by.

“Would you like me to give you some loose change?” Spectre asked as he stood next to it, trying to look like a mature adult whilst his girlfriend was very much happy to enjoy her childish side.

“No, I’m right, I’ve got it covered.” Kureha said as she dug out her wallet from her handbag. She put in more than enough coins for herself and for Spectre, too. If he refused to treat himself then Kureha was going to force whatever thing she got from it.

She turned the crank a handful of times and heard the plastic balls rattle inside deep within the machine. Kureha smiled as she waited for the internal mechaninations to stop and then she opened up the flap. She grinned as she held onto both lucky dips that she had bought.

“Here you go, you can have this one.” Kureha said as she forced Spectre to take one of them.

Spectre made an unamused expression as he let Kureha put an orange-coloured plastic ball in his hand, “And what am I meant to do with this?”

“Open it and let’s see.” Kureha replied and she demonstrated, as though Spectre didn’t already know how to open a gachapon.

She struggled, a little bit, but eventually got the two halves of her purple plastic ball to split open. She squealed in joy as she unveiled her mystery toy. It had a keyring so she threaded her finger through it and swirled the toy itself off her finger. The little plushie that she had won took the form of a felt, anthropomorphic plum with American style cartoon features adorned with a stitched on ribbon bow.

“This is Plum and she’s my favourite of the virtual fruit pets.” Kureha said.

Somewhere in the back of Spectre’s mind, that did ring a bell. Kureha might have sent screenshots to him of her virtual pet habit and an animated cartoon plum may have been one of them. So, his expression of bemusement faded and turned to surrender. He opened up his gachapon too but Kureha was way more excited than him regarding it.

“I got…” Spectre idly commentated and was mildly surprised by his lucky dip. “I got Plum, too.”

“Wow, what’re the odds?” Kureha laughed.

Spectre’s eyes flicked to the poster plastered to the inside of the gachapon machine that displayed which possible toy was possible to win, “Well, it looks like there are seven characters and we got two, so it was likely a one in fourteen chance assuming all the characters are present in equal measure inside the machine.” he said.

“I didn’t mean it literally.” Kureha laughed even harder.

Spectre smiled a small smile and began to inspect his plush Plum. He thought it was kind of ugly, to be honest, but if Kureha liked it then he could perhaps entertain some fondness for it. The felt was a bit too coarse for his liking.

“I’ll be sure to look after this.” Spectre murmured.

Kureha blinked and her heart fluttered, “Really?” she exclaimed softly.

“Of course,” Spectre said, “it's a precious gift from my precious Kureha. I will treasure it.” He put his own finger through the keyring at the top of the small toy’s head and then put his hand on Kureha’s shoulder, the toy bumping between them. Spectre leaned in and kissed Kureha’s forehead. “I promise to treasure it.” His words brushed over Kureha’s skin like a flower’s petal.

Kureha’s face went bright red upon being kissed, “I’ll treasure mine too.” she eked out in a tiny voice.

“That goes without saying, my silly darling.” Spectre replied and he pulled back. “Come on, we’ve had a long date already, don’t you think? Aren’t you ready to go home yet?”

“I’m ready now.” Kureha said, smiling huge and holding onto her little toy.

#100ships challenge #writing tag #rocksaltshipping #yumejoshi

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ikeromantic · 3 years

Text

A Kasugayama Christmas Carol

I think this is what happens when you’re playing ikesen on your phone and watching A Christmas Carol. I have no other excuse. This bit of holiday fluff is 3700 words (yes. omg)

Starring:

Kenshin Uesugi as The Scrooge

MC as ‘the assistant’ or Cratchit

Shingen Takeda as Tiny ‘Tim’

Yukimura Saneda as Nephew ‘Fred’

and Sasuke as all Ghosts

Kenshin did not like celebrations. They were a waste of time. Efforts could be better spent on war: preparing for war, training for battle, making swords and armor, building walls . . . And yet, every year in the dead of winter his assistant always wanted to celebrate. “It’s a holiday,” she would whine and ask for time off. Try to decorate. Make fancy food. What a waste.

This year, he decided it was enough. This year, no one would have a good time. Scrooge them, he thought. So he was ready when the girl from the future waltzed into his office, hands full of ribbons and origami stars.

“You will get those out of my sight,” Kenshin ordered. His mismatched eyes were small and cold, and very cruel.

His assistant winced. “But Kenshin - can’t we have just a little celebration? I’ll even bring you some pickled plums and special sake.”

She was good, he thought. Tempting him like this. “That sounds - wait, no! You get back to your desk and work on those intelligence reports. I want to know who we’re fighting in the spring. How many warriors I’ll need to muster. How many swords . . .” Just thinking about the coming battles made him feel a little better.

It didn’t seem to make the girl any happier, but Kenshin didn’t feel at all responsible for her joy. She could cheer up and do her work, or do her work with a frown.

Her head dropped, the smile falling from her face. The expression of pure disappointment almost made Kenshin change his mind - afterall, would it hurt so much to have a bit of cheer in the castle? But no. He was a man that never lost a battle. Not even a battle of wills.

It was well after dark when the girl stuck her head into his office again. “K-Kenshin? Sir?”

He looked up from his battle diagrams. “Yes?”

“C-could I go home now? It’s a holiday and - and my friends are waiting for me. I was supposed to get off work two hours ago but I was trying to finish everything first. I-It’s just too much for one day. Sir.” The words tumbled out of her mouth in a flood.

“You can leave when you’re done.” Kenshin bent back down over his own work, annoyed at the disruption.

He heard the girl slide the ricepane panel shut, her tread slow as she returned to her desk. “I pay her too much,” he muttered. “Such defiance. Deserves nothing.” But as he thought it, he remembered he didn’t actually pay her at all. She’d been a chatelaine for his enemies - he captured her, brought her back and, well, she had to have something to keep her busy. So all in all, hiring her was a pretty good investment.

Midnight neared and it was only then that the girl wearily stood, stretched her arms and back, and then trudged toward Kenshin’s office. This time she didn’t even open the door. “I finished,” she told him. Her voice was low and weary. Exhausted.

“Then I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow to start on the next batch!”

“Lord Kenshin . . . please . . . could I have tomorrow off to spend with my friends? I - I mentioned it’s a holiday?” Her pleading took on a desperate note.

“I suppose you’ll be spending it with those other poor fools. Tiny Shingen and my nephew Yuki. Wasting a whole day to make merry!”

She squeaked something that sounded like a yes.

Kenshin frowned. This wasn’t what he liked hearing. Normally, her voice was sweet. He liked to hear it call out to him through the day, masking irritants like chirping crickets or squawking birds. She knew his tastes very well . . . “Gah, fine! Take the day off! But it’s coming out of your salary.”

“My Lord, you don’t pay me. So . . . I guess I’ll see you the day after tomorrow?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” He tapped his fingers on the desk in annoyance. He’d like to give her one last, good glare before she took off but the door was shut.

“Th-thank you, my lord! Have a h-happy holiday!” Her rapid footsteps, almost skipping across the boards gave the lie to her earlier exhaustion.

“I should work her harder,” Kenshin muttered. “Then she wouldn’t have time to make friends besides me. I mean - that she would miss because she’s busy working. I don’t have friends.”

The lonely warlord eventually put his own work away and settled down for a nightcap. Warm sake and some pickled plums. Then he went to his room, dressed for bed, and lay down. Usually, he’d fall asleep as soon as his head met the mat, but tonight he just couldn’t seem to get settled.

Wind made the branches outside creak, and the window panes rattled. Eventually though, his eyes drifted shut. Welcoming darkness. Dreams he would not remember come morning. Or so he thought.

Ghost of Sasuke

No sooner had Kenshin began to drift into dreamland than he was woken by the clanking of heavy chains and a grumbly voice.

“Keeeenshiiiiiiin,” the disembodied voice groaned. And the clanking grew louder and closer.

The warlord’s eyes went wide and he stood, grabbing his beloved sword Himetsuru Ichimonji. “Who’s there,” he shouted, swinging the blade in a wide arc.

“It’s me. Sasuke. Don’t you remember me, Kenshin?”

And then in the darkness, a face materialized. Glasses, fluffy brown hair, and a pale green neck scarf.

“What’s wrong with you? Why do you look so pale? And your skin . . .” Sasuke’s skin gave off a pale glow. Kenshin pointed the tip of his sword at the ninja.

“I died, Kenshin! Because of youuuuuuuu . . .” The Sasuke-ghost wailed, and his hands shot out of the darkness to grab at Kenshin’s nightrobe.

The warlord scrambled back, away from the spirit. “No! That’s not possible. I think I’d remember if you died.”

“Your training . . . killed me,” the Sasuke-ghost whispered.

Kenshin shook his head. He had trained Sasuke hard - hard enough to turn him into one of the best ninja in a generation. But he hadn’t killed him. Had he?

The ghost came closer, chains clanking. “Now, because of you, I am bound for eternity to suffer. Because I went along with all your violent schemes. I enjoyed war too . . . and now I will pay for it. Forever!”

“I don’t believe a word,” Kenshin growled. “You’re not really here. This is just a bit of undigested plum. An upset stomach from a bad batch of sake. Spirits aren’t real. And my ninja isn’t dead!”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.” The spirit drew back into the darkness, disappearing from sight. “I only came to warn you, Kenshin. Tonight, you will be visited by three ghosts. The completely original and definitely not trademarked Ghost of Holidays Past, Present, and Future. You must listen to them. Or else.”

Kenshin laughed coldly. “I am not afraid of you, spirit. Or these . . . not . . . trademarked . . . ghosts. Let them come!”

There was no answer.

The warlord waited, crouched and tense. Nothing else happened. Tired and even more annoyed, he went back to bed. “Have to stop eating pickled plums so late at night,” he murmured. Then rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

Ghost of Holidays Past

His eyes barely shut when a strange laugh startled him awake again.

“Ho ho ho,” the laughter boomed, and a finger tapped Kenshin on the shoulder.

The warlord leapt up and started to reach for his sword, but the absurd sight in front of him stopped him in his tracks. A face that seemed old and young all at once, with a beam of light pointed up from its head. He thought for a moment that it was Sasuke again - the thing had glasses on, just like the ninja, but this spirit wore a strange gown and wide, dangerous smile.

“Who - what are you?” Kenshin inched away from the thing, beginning to feel a bit nervous.

“Didn’t I - I mean, Sasuke, warn you I was coming? I am the Ghost of Holidays Past, Kenshin. And I have come to show you things you’ve forgotten.”

The warlord got to his feet. “I haven’t forgotten anything. So you can leave. I am tired and I want to go to bed now.”

“Oh, I think not Uesugi. You are coming with me.” And the spirit grabbed his hand. The thing’s skin was cold and clammy, like holding to a fish. It led Kenshin out of his room and into a bright-lit hallway. There, people were wasting time and making merry. There were bunnies with colorful ribbons on their necks, and a girl . . .

Kenshin gasped. For a moment she looked like his assistant - the Oda captive and timetraveler. But then he realized it was Isehime. And the boy beside her - was him? It was hard to tell. The face was young and he couldn’t make out the eyes but . . . the boy was wearing his clothes and playing with Isehime and the rabbits. They were laughing together.

“Do you remember now? The joyful times you had before?”

Kenshin blinked. He absolutely was not crying. It was just dust and the bright light. Yes. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned to the spirit. “I don’t want to see this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

The Sasuke-similar Ghost of Holidays Past nodded. “I can’t force you to watch. But I think perhaps I’ve jogged a memory loose.” He let go of the warlord’s hand.

Kenshin stumbled back to his room and slid the door shut. What an awful vision that had been! His memories of Isehime came rushing back - all of the good times they had before cruelty and politics ended their youth. Had it been worth it to waste all that time in fun? He shook his head. No. No. That was for children too foolish to know better.

“Enough, spirits,” he growled as he got back into his futon. “I don’t want you showing me anything else.”

Ghost of Holidays Present

Kenshin’s order barely left his lips before another spirit arrived. Just like the last one, it wore glasses too. But this one had a big, bushy beard and a round belly.

“Ho ho ho! I am the Ghost of Holidays Present, here to show you what you’re missing!” The spirit stopped speaking for a moment to adjust his beard. It was slipping sideways as he spoke. “We have a journey tonight, Uesugi. Now come on!” The ghost leapt onto the window sill and held his hand out.

“This is foolish,” Kenshin grumbled. But he stood up and took the spirit’s hand anyway. “You aren’t going to show me anymore visions of . . . her - of Isehime - are you?”

“No. That was past. This is present. You see, the time-differential really isn’t that complex when you take into account the potential for flexion in dimensional space as relates to - ah - I mean, ho ho ho! Let’s uh, go!” The ghost grabbed the offered hand and pulled Kenshin out the window.

“Are you sure you aren’t my ninja?” Kenshin asked, eyeing the spirit as it led him through Kasugayama.

“Who me? No! I’m just your friendly neighborhood ghost.” He poked his round belly. “Your ninja isn’t fat like I am right?” He *carefully* tugged his beard. “And he doesn’t have a beard, right?”

“That is true,” Kenshin agreed. “Just when you were talking. It sounded like the nonsense he says sometimes.

“It’s not nonsense,” the ghost began, but stopped to point. Ahead, there was an open window. Warm lantern-light spilled out onto the snowy ground. Inside, Kenshin could see his assistant. Only . . . she was beautiful. Her hair was down and she was smiling so brightly it made his heart clench in his chest.

“What - what is this? What are you showing me, spirit?”

“Kenshin, this is the holiday-that-is. Watch.” The ghost let go of his hand.

A figure came up behind the girl, a large man with light brown hair and grey eyes. Kenshin remembered him - a former warrior everyone called Tiny Shingen - a joke, as he was not at all small. He was smiling too. Kenshin’s assistant turned around to look at him and Shingen lifted her up, starting to spin her around. But he stopped, pain twisting his smile into a pained grimace. He began to cough and grabbed at his chest.

“Oh, Shingen. I’m so sorry. If only I had more . . . firewood, yes, firewood to ah, to keep our little home warm. Then you wouldn’t cough so!” She went to a small stove and picked up a kettle to pour Tiny Shingen a cup of tea.

Another man entered the room - one Kenshin knew all to well. His always cheerful nephew Yuki. He was Kenshin’s last living relative, but honestly, the warlord couldn’t stand him. He was always giving away things and being . . . kind. Not the type of behaviour a war-focused warrior ought to be engaging in. Seeing him here made Kenshin think the boy had too much free time on his hands. He ought to make him train more. Maybe send him out scouting . . .

The girl gave Yuki a hug and he squeezed her tight. The sight sent a dangerous current through Kenshin. No one ought to be touching her like that. So intimately. She was his captive! His assistant! But . . . she looked so pleased. Had she ever smiled at Kenshin that way?

The three of them huddled around the small stove for warmth. But they all looked so happy. Chatting and laughing. As if even this meager life was worth living.

Kenshin couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed from joy or pleasure. Or hugged. He wondered if he still knew how. He tried out a ‘happy’ laugh. It sounded like a dry cough. Worse than Tiny Shingen.

“Um, what was that?” The ghost gave him a side-eyed glance.

“Nothing.”

“Ah, right then. I think that’s enough. Let’s go back to your room.” The spirit turned to go.

Kenshin grabbed his sleeve. “Wait! Tell me, spirit. Is this really happening? Or is it just a vision, like what I saw from my past?”

The ghost nodded. “It is really happening. Right now. These people are celebrating and joyful, just to be together. Even though you’ve denied them so much . . .”

Kenshin nodded slowly. Perhaps . . . war wasn’t the only thing. He could try to relax. Just on holidays. Maybe pay his assistant. Or. Give her a hug. He smiled at the thought. It might even be pleasant.

When he got to his window, he stopped and asked the ghost. “Is there one more of these visits tonight? I - I think I’d like to see more of my assistant.” He wasn’t sure why he felt hesitant to ask, but these sights stirred something uncomfortable in him.

“There will be one more visit, Kenshin Uesugi. One more spirit. The Ghost of Holidays Future.” And then in a sudden poof of smoke, the Ghost of Holidays Present was gone.

Kenshin climbed back into his room through the window and sat down on his futon to wait. He was almost excited.

Ghost of Holidays Yet To Come

Kenshin did not have long to wait. There was a rustling outside his window. When he turned his head to look, all he could see was darkness.

“Come, Kenshin Uesugi. I have things to show you.” The voice came out of the darkness, echoing and cold. Nothing like the previous ghosts of the night.

Still, Kenshin really wanted to see more of his assistant. What she would be doing the next year, for example. Perhaps this ghost could show him a future where Kenshin and the girl played with ribboned rabbits and hugged each other.

He stepped out into the darkness. In it, he could just make out a form. Heavy robes covered the body, and over the face, a mask. Horned, with bulging eyes and sharp fangs. Like a shinigami, he thought. But he was Kenshin, God of War. Demons did not scare him.

The ghost said nothing, only turned and began to walk.

“Should I follow? Where are we going?” Kenshin hurried after the spirit.

There was no reply. But soon, it became apparent where they were headed. Out of the darkness, a crowd of stone monuments and the gentle slopes of ancient kofun.

Kenshin stopped. “Wait, spirit. Why are we going to visit graves? Aren’t you supposed to show me holidays?”

The ghost turned and from the depths of its sleeves rose a bony hand, fingers curled in a universal come-hither gesture.

Feeling unnerved, and wishing he’d brought his sword, Kenshin continued on. Into the dark graveyard. The figure stopped before a fresh dug grave, the marker laying on it’s side nearby.

The ghost took a lantern from its vest and lit it with a flick of its fingers. In that dim, flickering light, the warlord could just make out the characters carved into stone. Uesugi Kenshin.

“What? No! I am the undefeated God of War. Nothing can kill me. I should know. I’ve tried.” He put a hand to his mouth surprised by the honesty this spirit coaxed from him. He looked up at it. “What - what is it that kills me? Poison? An assassin? Sickness?”

“Bitterness,” rasped the cold voice. And it gestured to several fresh graves nearby. On them, Kenshin could make out the names of his assistant, and her friends. His nephew Yuki. Tiny Shingen. And Sasuke.

“Then. This is all my fault?” He knew he’d caused countless deaths on his many campaigns. Soldiers that came to his banner, and numberless enemies. But this was different. If the spirit was right, they would die because of the flaw in his soul - not from some hostile force.

He swallowed, feeling again the hot sting of unshed tears. “Why do you show me this? Do you think I can change? I have reasons! I have lost . . . so much. If I open my heart again, then what?”

The spirit gestured with a bony finger back toward Kasugayama. There, silhouetted against the city’s lanterns, the form of a girl. His lovely assistant. Could things be different between them? Could he learn to be more than her captor and taskmaster? Kenshin wasn’t sure, but he decided in that moment to try. He was, afterall, the undefeated God of War. It would be ironic if he was his own undoing.

“I think I understand,” he said wearily. “I want to change. I do. I don’t know how but . . . I will try.”

“And you will have help,” the ghost said quietly, in a voice so like Sasuke that it made Kenshin look twice. It laid a hand on the warlord’s shoulder. “Now go home and sleep. Dawn comes.”

Kenshin obeyed. He felt bone-tired, his chest hollow with regret.

Holiday Epilogue

The morning dawned bright and early. Kenshin woke to the song of birds, and the bustle of the castle. He felt energized. Purposeful. He got up and put on his best clothes, then began summoning servants. There were so many things to get done! Food, wine, music - and decorations! Yes!

His vassals clearly thought he’d lost his mind, but they knew better than to disobey. His years of harshness served him well in organizing a feast - and not just for his vassals. For the whole town. He wanted everyone to celebrate with him- on this new day, where anything could happen.

When the people gathered and began filling their plates, a gentle sweet voice spoke up behind him.

“Kenshin. Did you really set all this up?”

The warlord turned, and there she stood. The captured Oda princess, his assistant - no, if he was honest, his slave. But no more. He knelt and took her hand. “I am so sorry for all I have put you through. Today - today is the first step in making it up to you.” He turned his mismatched eyes from her hand up to her gaze. She was wide-eyed, cheeks pink. “Can you forgive me,” he asked.

“I already did,” she smiled. And there it was. That brilliant warmth that made his heart pound.

“You are too good for this world,” he sighed. “I want you to know - if you want to leave, you can. But if you stay . . . if you stay, I’d like to treat you like a princess. An Uesugi princess.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “I don’t want to go. I have friends here now. But, what about them? Tiny Shingen needs medical care. And Yuki - he needs etiquette lessons and some time in a hot bath -”

“What did you say, boar woman?” Yukimura shouted at them from across the courtyard, where the feast was laid out.

Kenshin stood. “Nephew! Come here! I want to apologize.”

“No thanks! I uh, already forgive you too! But I prefer to stay out of stabby range.” Yuki chuckled as he said it, but he didn’t get any closer.

The girl smiled and squeezed Kenshin’s hand. “It will take time to show him you changed.”

The warlord nodded. “I suppose it will. But in the meantime - I will have the best doctors look after Shingen. Is that . . . alright?”

“I’m sure Shingen will appreciate that,” she replied.

“Is that a goddess with my name on her lips,” asked Shingen as he stepped out into the courtyard.

Kenshin felt a spike of jealousy, but he took a breath and smiled. “Please don’t flirt with my assistant. Just . . . go get some sweets and wait for the doctors to arrive.”

Shingen’s smile was wide. “I haven’t even started to flirt, Kenny. But alright. I am feeling peckish. I’ll be back later to see how my angel fares.”

Sasuke flipped down from a nearby roof to land in a one-knee crouch, superhero style right in front of his lord. “I might have a better idea for Shingen’s care my lord. If I can offer.”

“I thought you were dead. I saw your ghost.” Kenshin reached out and grabbed Sasuke’s cheek, pinching it. “You feel real enough though.”

For some reason, Shingen and the girl were laughing. Yuki was too, from his spot across the yard.

“I assure you - I am very muth alive. Pleath let go of my cheek.”

Kenshin released his ninja. “So you are. You can tell me all about this idea later. Today, we celebrate. It is . . . a holiday.” And he smiled down at his assistant, who still held one of his hands.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen kenshin #ikesen shingen #ikesen sasuke #ikesen yukimura #ikesen kasugayama #a christmas carol #otome guys #otome #fluff #christmas #holidays #i'm sorry #fanfiction #fanfic

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barnesandco · 4 years

Text

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (3/14)

Story Masterlist

The plum seller at the farmer’s market saves Bucky from being captured for the attack in Vienna that he didn’t commit, but is she really all that she appears to be, or are ulterior motives involved?

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 2020. Square filled: “Bucky’s Safehouse”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of wounds and accidents. A couple of uses of the word “shit”.

A/N: This chapter’s a little slower, but bear with me (and my terrible dialogue writing).

She’s pacing. Has been for half an hour, fists clenched at her sides as she tries her darnedest to wear a hole into the shaggy rug in front of the sofa he’s sitting on. All the windows are shut and bolted, every curtain drawn, midday light filtering feebly into the room just enough that none of them crash into furniture when making their way around the small space. Not that there’s much furniture to speak of: a small, handmade table in the corner that also houses the kitchenette, a sofa, and a bed against the wall opposite to where he is seated.

His knee bounces up and down, so fast it’s almost vibrating, and he clenches his gloved, metal hand around it to make it stop. Getting worked up isn’t going to get either of them anywhere, or so he tells himself, trying to work up the courage to say the same to her. Anything to make her quit pacing, because her movement is making his head spin. Her shock seems to have faded away, but his body is starting to catch up to the crash, a pounding headache settling in his skull.

It had taken almost an hour to get here, and he’s now just as eager to leave as he was to arrive. They’re sitting ducks. Safer, sitting ducks, relatively speaking, but easy targets nonetheless, and they need to keep moving. The repercussions of the car crash, still aching in their rattled bodies, make that impossible, for the time being.

After pinching the bridge of his nose, he reopens his eyes to find her staring at him with unabashed concern. An impatient tap to her toe, and he wonders if she’s waiting for something, or worse, someone.

Following his gaze to her feet, she immediately stops. Drags a chair from the dining table to sit down on it heavily, hands on her knees, the turmoil evident in the depths of his eyes such a contrast to the shield that has glazed his own over, no emotions escaping for her to interpret and misuse. Opening her mouth, she seems to think better of whatever she was about to say, and she shuts it again, pressing her lips together tightly. Bucky thinks that if she is a spy, she’s shit at hiding her emotions. He can read her like a book, he just doesn’t know what to make of what is written on the pages of her behavior.

“How long do you think we can stay?” She asks eventually, nervously, a tremor in the rapid breath she exhaled her question in, the content of it echoing his own thoughts from moments prior.

“Not long. Rest tonight, but we should pack up some of the supplies here and leave early tomorrow.” He says, folding his hands together, rubbing at his knuckles harshly. They still smell of antiseptic.

His wound has healed completely, and hers are bleeding less, so he’d wager that there is little to be concerned about in the way of physical repercussions of the accident, but they’ll need their strength. Apparently, she agrees, nodding towards the bed as she gets up. “I’ll take first watch,” she says, and Bucky stands, watches her retrieve her map from her bag, unfolding it apparently to do some planning, before going to the bed. If she wanted to have him killed, he’d be dead already, he tells himself, turning to the wall, trying to relax in the presence of another person for the first time in his memory.

---

He’s awoken by the scent of hot chocolate filling the cabin, its sweet, heavy scent covering everything in a damp layer of soft goodness so rich he’s dizzy by it. Sitting up, he can see her standing by the small stove in the kitchenette in the corner, stirring the concoction that is intoxicating his every sense. He can’t remember the last time he tasted chocolate, but the joy that comes with it is an association even he would be hard-pressed to forget.

The domesticity of the scene, misplaced as it is with him having slept with his boots on, and her backpack ready and waiting by the door, strikes him with an unfamiliar pang in his chest. Even by moonlight, with her face turned away from him, her presence is magnetic. Shaking these impractical feelings out of himself, he gets up to go to the bathroom.

When he emerges, she’s sat at the small table. Rather, on the table, as there is only one chair, which she has graciously left for him, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of his spot. She watches him cautiously, eyes boring into his with a curious intensity, and that wit that indicates that she’s too clever to get relaxed around. The sleep did him good, and he tells himself he’s ready for whatever the rest of the night holds for him.

“I’ve been looking at some possible routes, and I thought we could discuss what to do next,” she tells him, tracing the rim of her mug with the casualness of discussing the weather. After having seen her take the first sip, he drinks his, too, relishing the hotness pouring over his tongue and down his throat.

On the table is an outspread map and an open notebook, that he rises from his seat to look at more closely. Lines in blue ballpoints have been traced outwards from there location and there’s a red line -- in marker -- from Bulgaria, to Turkey, to-- “You want to go south,” he notes, following this highlighted route through the Arabian Sea and to the eastern coast of--

“Africa,” is her answer, and it’s all he can do to only raise an eyebrow in surprise, rather than let his jaw drop the way he wants to. She sighs. “Look, I considered Russia first,” -- he did, too, for the guarantee of not being extradited -- “but that’s where they’ll expect us to go and they’re monitoring the situation north too closely--”

“How do you know that?” He cuts in, standing up straighter now. Ordinarily, survival instincts and awareness such as hers would be a great tool, but it’s the source of said awareness that worries him. She’s a farmer, not a soldier, not a spy, so why is she so good at running away?

Deflection is a response that does not work with him, but he watches her make an attempt at it anyways. “It’s what I would do if I was them.” Impressive, her layman’s response, but Bucky isn’t fooled.

He's staring her down, piercing gaze interrupted by a strand of hair that falls in front of his face. Somehow darker than the blackout curtains behind him. Pushing it back impatiently, he waits, still. Hopes for an explanation, something to alleviate even an iota of the anxiety that vibrates in his skin when he’s around her, his epidermis tingling with something he doesn’t understand.

Surprised to find not only frustration and stubbornness in the blue of his ocean-irises, but also desperation and fear, she falters. “I’m not a farmer,” she says, as if Bucky doesn’t know that already. However, he is taken aback by her ability to voice his thoughts exactly; she can extract them from the depths of his broken mind and put them into the world. Her words are suspended in the air like dust particles in sunlight, a state of stalemate, between the light and the dark, words that neither of them are sure what to make of. So the memory of humor, embedded into the muscle of his tongue makes its appearance, inopportunely.

“Yeah, no shit, sweetheart.” She laughs. Well, she starts to laugh, and is only able to stifle the sound into a short giggle that is as sweet in his ears as the hot chocolate starting to go cold on the table next to him. At his bemused gaze that comes across as confused, she loses it. Closes her eyes and shakes her head, hand -- with deep purple nail polish starting to peel off -- desperately pressed over her mouth to stop.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, regaining her breath, eyes shimmering. “I know it’s not funny, it’s just--” A sigh, and another exhale of a laugh. “This situation is just ridiculous, and I can’t tell you who I am, not yet, but I will.” Her tone turns serious, voice lowering now to convey sincerity, and Bucky watches her pick at the skin around her nails. A nervous habit, something to look at besides him and his questions. “I promise, I will.”

“You know that’s not good enough,” he answers, watching her raise her eyes to him, seconds, minutes, what feels like hours, after she’s spoken. “Give me a reason to trust you.”

“I don’t know if I can, James.”

“Try.” Try like your life depends on it, because it just might.

“I can tell you I’m a journalist.” Bucky wants to tell her that that doesn’t make him want to trust her any more. Reporters are just as dangerous to him as the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre that is surely still on their tail. “I was injured while working in the field last year and decided to go on sabbatical, to take some time for myself. Starting staying in Romania with my grandfather, who owns the plum farm I was selling for,” she says. “I recognized you the moment I saw you, but I didn’t feel the need to report you, and when the attack happened, I knew you had to leave, and I could help.”

It’s quite the story, he’ll admit, and he believes part of it. But there are a lot of moving pieces to this puzzle that she is, and he doesn’t have time to put it all together. For now, he has enough to stay. To follow and hope for a good thing, for the first time he can remember. She picks up on his hesitation, which colors the air in spite of the efforts he has been making -- and is tired of making -- and attempts to talk straight through his tensions.

"I'm sorry. I really am. The person who killed all those people at the UN is still out there, and he's trying to get away with it by framing you. If they catch you, he wins. We need to get you somewhere that can't happen, so we can work on finding him." When she speaks again, it's a low whisper, and he can tell that she regrets it. Hates that she sounds like a poacher trying to entrap its prey, when in fact, her purpose is quite the opposite. She's trying to keep him away from the poachers. Little does she know that he's shocked. Frozen again, for a different reason. He thinks this is the first time he's heard compassion. It's petal-soft and hits him in the gut. He reels from the impact of the honey-slow drip of her voice flowing through his ears. Gentle throughout their journey thus far, it is now vulnerable. And that's new.

She breaks him out of his reverie with a murmur of his first name, and that’s when he realizes he never asked for hers. Winter Soldier though he may have been, he’s losing his touch. Maybe he does need a partner to get him out of this mess, this time. If that’s what she is, and the jury’s still out on that one. “Why do you care so much?” Bucky asks, watching her closely.

“I can’t help it. I just can’t watch them take you away,” she answers, and oh, how Bucky wishes he could believe her, and that honest-to-goodness smile, although now she seems to be neither. How he wishes the world was as black-and-white as she’s making it appear, that the swirling enigma he has been sucked into would stop, just long enough for him to see the clear picture, but alas. His world is a carousel, where the circus music is loud, blaring sirens, that she leaps to her feet at the sound of, and that has him reaching for his backpack.

#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader fluff #marvel fanfiction #mcu #marvel #avengers fanfiction

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until-we-fall-in-love · 4 years

Text

la volpe

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader, slight Marta Cabrera x Reader

Summary: You and Ransom have a complicated relationship.

Warnings: Smut, slightly dub-con because Ransom is an asshole, slightly unhealthy relationship, mild bdsm, rough sex.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello everyone!! no one asked for this and yet here it is!! i hate ransom!! but alas, now i have this smutty fic of him so lmao enjoy?? also i’m physically incapable of writing ana de armas and not making it somehow romantic im so sorry i just have too big of a crush on her and marta

let me know what you thought of this!!!

***

The musical clinking of glasses and cutlery is soft against the piano twinkling in the background. The lights are low and glowing, candles and sparkling, dim-lit chandeliers overhead. The restaurant is dark and lavish, velvet and smelling rich and spiced and enticing. Wine is placed before you, plum and bitter berry tasting. It’s fine and expensive and you swirl it delicately in your sparkling glass.

Your eyes flicker up to the man across from you, seated casually, leaning back in his chair with broad shoulders covered in a black, finely knit sweater. It’s expensive, you can tell simply by looking at it. Designer, you’re sure. You know his shoes have blood red bottoms. He drips wealth still, smug as ever, handsome as ever.

“You look good.” He says with a smile curling at his lips.

You take a sip of wine. Your back is straight, the black, cashmere turtle-neck clinging to your figure. The delicate, ruby earrings glint under the low light, your hair pulled back elegantly.

Of course you look good.

“What do you want, Ransom?” You ask, setting the glass down carefully. You study him with cutting eyes, skeptical, but composed.

“Can’t I take my girl out to a nice dinner?” He asks, his eyes glimmering.

“Haven’t been your girl in months.” You counter, drum your crimson colored nails against your glass. You grow impatient, sigh lightly and glance away from him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that, princess.” He croons all low and soft, leaning forward onto the table. You like when his eyes flash like that, sincere for you. Just on the right side of desperate. He deserves it, since it’s been months since you’d last heard from him.

You’re actually certain he has a new girl on his arm now.

And you want to make him squirm a little.

You roll your eyes at him, at the way he tries to butter up to you with the nice dinner and a few compliments. You know he wants something. He always wants something and the gleam in his eyes is too sharp and pretty. Greedy, greedy man that would gorge himself on you, on this life, if you’d let him.

You bite your lip, watch as his eyes track the movement like a predator.

He at least needs to work for it.

“I could be doing a thousand other things right now, Ransom. Why am I out to dinner with you?” You ask instead, your lashes fluttering prettily as your eyes land on him once more. Your features are aloof and cold and haughty. It makes his blood boil, you can see it in the curl of his lips.

He huffs lightly, “Oh, yeah, busy Harvard graduate student, isn’t that right?” His voice is just shy of a sneer when he asks, “How’s the dissertation going, kitten?”

“Well, thank you.”

You look down your nose at him as his own eyes settle into a glare. The blue of his eyes burns and smolders, bright and sparking on you. Your gazes are as sharp as knives, gleaming and ready to gut each other.

You wait until he relents, takes this loss to hopefully get a win. He lowers his eyes with another breath, concedes.

He’ll give you another compliment, maybe reach across the table to touch you. Then he’ll ask you for what he needs.

“I am glad to hear that.” He says smoothly, “I know how much it means to you. I’m sure it’s incredible.” And he offers you an earnest look, the one you’re sure he’s used to get into plenty of girl’s panties.

And like clockwork, he reaches over to brush his fingers against yours, which are gently resting on the stem of your wine glass.

He gives you a smile like that’s supposed to work.

You roll your eyes, pull your hand from his.

You watch the heat and anger rush over his features and wonder if he’s going to make a scene. Now that would be fun. You wonder if you’ll get to toss your wine all over that expensive sweater, storm out only for him to follow hot on your trails. And he’ll drag you to the car and you’ll scream at each other until you’re kissing and your nails are biting into his skin and he’s trying to teach you a lesson in manners—

If your cheeks flush, he doesn’t notice, because he snaps, “Are you always such a brat?”

You smile for the first time that evening.

“No, you just bring out the worst in me.” You quip back before taking another slow, savored sip of wine.

He scoffs, “I could say the same of you.”

“Then why am I here?”

Now he does soften a little, “I want you to come home with me for my grandfather’s birthday party.”

Your brows furrow and you settle back into your chair, skeptical. “Don’t you have a girlfriend right now? Why not just bring her?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to your own question.

“You know you’re the only one I bring home to my psychotic family.” He says and now he captures your hand with his, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, leans close and in your space. His cologne is familiar and washes over you, spiced and warm and musky. Expensive.

“You’re psychotic, too.” You respond, but allow your fingers to slip into his. His hand is warm against yours and it slides against your palm, open and large. His fingers brush over the pulse in your wrist, move along the sensitive skin there.

“That’s why you fit in there, princess.” He says and gives you a shark’s smile, so hooked and gutting. He lowers his voice for you, “And,” His eyes roll up to catch yours, “I’ve missed you.”

The hint of vulnerability in his face makes you hum lightly, amused or pleased or warmed by it. You’ve missed him, too, in truth. Nobody is like Ransom.

There’s something about him and you that always keeps you two returning to one another. He’s inevitable, you think. You’ve never known anyone to get under your skin in such a way, to burrow their way into you and refuse to leave.

He’s a disease.

One you can’t cure yourself from. He’s ruined you for anyone else.

But you think you’ve ruined him, too.

It’s been months since your last fling with him. Years since you officially dated but you’re both always circling back to one another. He doesn’t bring any other girls home besides you. He was only ever serious about you. You’re both fated in some way, your stars entwined, looped and crashing into one another again and again. A dance that never ends, that you never want to end.

“Yeah?” You ask, soft and breathy, leaning towards him now, too. “Whad’ya miss about me, Ransom?”

His eyes flicker lower, over your form and they roam slow and savoring. He licks his lips fleetingly. “Well,” He begins, “I miss fucking you.”

The vulgarity shouldn’t shock you, it shouldn’t make you flush, but it does. You blame the little wine you’ve had. You pull from his touch once more, continue your game of cat and mouse and try to keep your thoughts from sliding into memories of him on top of you. At your neck with teeth. Parting your legs.

“Pig.” You scoff, shaking your head and pulling your hand from his. “You have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but she’s not you.” He muses, “No one’s you.” He adds, tilting his head slightly. “So c’mon. Come home with me, baby.” He then almost purrs and smiles again, slow and charming this time. He means it now and it’s the kind of smile that gets him out of trouble if he ever tried to wear it. It could be boyish, if it wasn’t so hungry.

You pick up your wine glass once more, glare over the rim before taking another sip. A bigger one this time, let it burn down your throat and warm your chest. You think your heart is beating faster than it should as he looks at you as if he wants to lay you out on this very table.

“Get me a diamond bracelet and I will.” You tell him, your bottom lip sticking out a little as you gaze back at him.

His eyes spark, dance with the flame of the candle. He looks a little crazed now, like he’s lost a few screws and hasn’t bothered to find them again. He looks a little wild-eyed and it’s enticing, the uncertainty in him. The promise of pain and pleasure and the fast pace life of the wealthy. All beautiful and dirty and filthy fucking rich.

He takes your hand and kisses it, slides his lips to your palm. To your wrist where your pulse flutters underneath his mouth, beneath the touch of his tongue. The threat of teeth. He murmurs then, his voice smooth and low and so lovely it makes you shiver;

“Anything for you, princess.”

***

The Cartier white-gold, diamond bracelet catches in the sun proudly and flashes brilliant light as your hand slides into Ransom’s while he helps you out of his car. You step out onto the gravel driveway and smooth out the tight, leather black skirt hugging your hips and thighs. You inch it down as you ready to see the Thrombey’s once more after nearly a year. You adjust your cream, turtleneck sweater, too. The knitting chunky and loose, oversized on you but chic and soft to the touch.

You have to be sure the wine dark bruise on your neck is covered, the red marked rings around your wrist are drowned in the sleeves of your sweater. Can’t have his family realizing his tastes in bondage, not that you think he would care, but you certainly do.

In fact, the mere memory of it makes you flush with heat in the crisp autumn air.

You’d barely gotten into Ransom’s apartment in the city before he’d shoved you hard against the door. A picture rattles, swings precariously. He kisses you with a brutalness you haven’t felt in months, the quick cut of his teeth at your bottom lip. His hands on your body, hungry, greedy hands that want to take and take and take.

You’d shoved him back, tried to get him off you as you glared up at him with fever dark eyes. Your chest was already heaving, rising and falling in quick bursts, your face flushed with color.

You’d already look frazzled, hair slipping from the updo it’d been in. His little hell cat, little brat that’s gotta try and fight him on everything.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You’d gasped, your lips already raw and spit-slick and he’d wanted to absolutely fucking ruin you--

He had smirked lazily, as if the whole world was his to take. But there was a restless bite to him, a deep seated and painful desire. A desperate hunger that was raw and open on his face as he looked at you like you were his for the taking.

“C’mon, baby,” He purrs, nearing you again, despite your palm going to his chest. As if that’d keep him back for long. You could tell by the look in his eyes, the dark, sharp gleam that he was going to get what he wanted. “I just wanna show you how bad I missed you.”

And you could feel how bad he’d missed you, the hard line of him now pressing back into your hip as he crowds you again. Your back hits the wall again, his hands already dragging under your clothes to find sensitive, bare skin.

He groans slightly, maybe at how soft you are, maybe because he does just fucking miss you.

But you’re not done protesting, even if your stomach is twisting in excitement. Even if there’s heat building on the inside of you, making you grip at his broad shoulders slightly.

“Get off me, Ransom.” You try to snap, but your voice is getting all high and breathy like he loves. You squirm, try to push him off once more.

He laughs slightly as you manage to wriggle out from beneath him. You dart for the bedroom and if you’d truly not wanted him, you would’ve slammed the door in his face. But you leave it, let him follow after you.

He shuts the door behind him, then. Strolls in leisurely.

“You think after months of not speaking, you just get to take what you want?” You ask in the haughty little way that makes his blood sing. It’s more to taunt him, more to test is control.

You could tell he didn’t have much left.

“Yes,” He drawls, arrogant, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get on the bed for me?”

You inhale sharp and quietly, your wide eyes staring at him as he wanders closer. The bedroom, though large and luxurious, now feels too small. Like there’s no more oxygen and a single spark would send it up in flames.

“Make me.” You say, just to watch it all burn.

Within seconds, he’s on you, pushing you back onto the bed where the air leaves your lungs in a taken, guttering breath. His knee comes right up between your legs, his hands back on you and roughing you up.

You wrestle with him and he laughs again, excited, dark and knowing. “Oh, you wanna fight, huh?” He rumbles, grappling with your wrists. His strength shouldn’t make you all hot-blooded for him, shouldn’t make you want to sink into the silk sheets and let him do whatever he pleases but it does.

You ache already, in the core of your body.

He gets your hands down on the bed, pins you with his weight and his strength and his large hands. You arch your back, pull at your wrists to try and free yourself. Cry out when he squeezes harder.

“Am I gonna have to tie you up?” He says through his teeth, manhandling you, keeping you down with his weight. He releases your hands, but he’s on you, and it’s only so he can loosen his belt and slip it off.

You’re like a little doll, so easily possessed by him. So easily detained. You squirm and kick uselessly beneath him. The belt is slipped around your wrists, the cool leather tightening as he loops it in such a way that binds your hands together and above your head.

You’re about to snipe something about how the hell he’s supposed to get your clothes off now, but suddenly he grips the front of your t-shirt and just rips.

You gasp, mouth popping open in surprise for a moment.

“Fuck you,” You curse then as he starts pushing the shirt to the side, baring your chest to him, which is clad in a lacy, creme bra. His hands immediately glide over the skin exposed, the soft skin of your chest.

“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do.” Ransom snarks, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of your bra, digging in like he might—

“Don’t you dare!” You hiss, “This was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He tries to wager, pulling at the fabric a little, forcing you to arch up for him. And what a pretty picture you make for him, already all disheveled and roughed up, eyes shining, hands bound on his bed.

“No!” You try not to whine too much but your voice pitches upward as he palms a breast roughly through your bra, watches you with dark, hooded eyes. And thankfully, for whatever reason, he takes mercy on you and only pulls it downward, so your breasts spill from the top.

His fingers are gentler than you thought they’d be as he rolls your nipple slowly. He leans down to consume you in another bruising kiss, mouth hot and demanding, a little slick and open-mouthed. Messy in its roughness.

His fingers turn into a sudden, stinging pinch and you mewl lightly into his mouth. He swallows it down hungrily.

And then his lips drag to your neck, leaving you gasping and squirming, his teeth setting to fragile skin, mouth against your pulse. He sucks hard, until it turns into a blooming bruise of pain and heat.

“Ransom!” You yelp when it becomes too much, but the damage is done and you know there will be dark marks where he wants. You know there will be evidence of him all over your body by the end of this.

The rest of your clothes are removed in a hurry, tossed aside, thankfully intact.

He always gets what he wants, it seems.

It’d make you livid if it also didn’t make you so--

“Oh, princess, you’re so fucking wet.” He nearly purrs, fingers sliding through where you’re silken and petal-soft, velvety and flooded with heat.

He gets over excited, too desperate for you, only loosens his trousers, pulls himself out. You feel overexposed with his clothes still on, your bare skin littered with evidence of him, open and vulnerable to him.

He strokes himself, slow, with your slick before positioning himself. You can tell he’s painfully aroused, too impatient, because the smooth head of him glides along where you’re weeping and sensitive. You mewl, try to twist away from him but he grabs your waist with one, strong hand and holds you still for him.

“Do you have a condom?” You ask, breathless, watching as he makes another slow pass through your folds.

He snorts slightly, too fascinated with the feel of you, the way you glisten on him to even look up at your face. “No,” And then, “Aren’t you still on the pill?”

“Well, yes, but--”

He presses in a little too easily, just the head, and you gasp sharply at the stretch of him already. But! Your mind frets, but you should still be cautious! But it hasn’t been a full week of your new pack! But, but, but!

“Ransom,” You warn, wishing you could push at his thighs, straining slightly with the belt still holding you together. “Don’t-- unless you have a condom.” You get out.

“I’ll be careful,” He says flippantly, sliding out slowly and back through your aching folds.

He teases you more, makes you ache something awful. Makes your hips buck up and a whine be pulled from your chest. Gets you all desperate until he glides all the way in, bare, and fitting far too snug inside of you.

“Ransom!”

He groans, which falls off into a dark, rumbling laugh at the way you keen and squeeze achingly tight around him despite all your protests. A little velvet vice, and he’s delirious and heady with you, struck breathless at the sensation.

“But you just feel so fucking good like this,” He gets out, drops his head onto your chest, wraps his arms around you tight. You shouldn’t, but you give in to him, let your head drop back and moan, broken and soft, as he fills you.

He likes to fuck close and intimate like this, deep and dirty and with this violent sort of tenderness for you. He likes to make you lose yourself in the slow, rough push and pull of him, so you can’t do anything but take him and cry doing so.

Your memory is abruptly cut off when Ransom’s hand comes down on the back of your neck, the heated flashes of images you’d been thinking about burning through you. As if he can sense where your mind has gone, (and maybe he can, maybe he can see it in the way your eyes glow and get all wide-- the same way they do when he says something dirty that you shouldn’t like, but do, the slight soft desperation in them), because he smirks slightly. Hooked and curved and too sharp.

He quirks a brow, “Let’s make this quick.” He says, “So we can leave and I can push that skirt of yours up and--”

“Behave,” You hush, even if your cheeks are still burning, and you pinch his side for good measure anyways.

He hisses and swats your hand away before you tip your chin up and stride forward, only for the dogs to come rushing out towards the pair of you. Ransom grows upset, jolting back at their jumping and barking. He hates these dogs, whereas you’re able to press onward, allow Ransom to wallow for a moment.

He shouts at them, before hurrying after you and into the safety of the arching, dark doorway.

The party is already in full swing; you’re both late, of course. Ransom wanted to spend as little time as possible here tonight. But upon entering, you’re quickly and eagerly greeted by his mother, who has a drink in hand.

“Oh! Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” She says, perhaps too loudly, but rushes forward to wrap you in a hug. You’re well-liked by most of his family surprisingly, who usually let loose scathing remarks about Ransom not deserving you.

And you put on a good face for them, try to put on the air of the Harvard princess; you know wealthy people well, even if you haven’t always been the richest. Mundanely middle class for most of your life, but you worked hard to go to Harvard, to play in the big leagues. You know what they like to hear from you and see from you; so you play rich.

“It’s been far too long!” She continues, pulling away to look at you, and then, “Didn’t think you would’ve stayed with him!” She snarks then, squeezing your arm and you force out a laugh.

You know not to mention you haven’t been with her son.

“Well, you know Ransom,” You shrug lightly, a dainty, graceful lift of your shoulders, “He doesn’t like to come around much.”

“No, the little shit.” She shakes her head, but her smile reappears after a moment, “C’mon, let me get you a drink!”

And you are led deeper into the house, deeper into the Thrombey’s absurdity and vanity and spiraling greed.

Playing rich is fun for awhile; your diamond bracelet sparkles in the low light and the clothes are expensive and flattering but there’s only so much you can take. You grow tired of putting on your best fake, glittering smile and parading around the big house.

A moment of reprieve when you speak with Ransom’s grandfather, the man of the hour, Harlan.

He’s always liked you dearly. Not because you have expensive boots on or because you’re poised and can put on a mask of wealth for an evening, but because you study literature. As an author, he thinks it’s one of the most noble pursuits, one of knowledge found in digging through books, getting lost in the stories only to emerge with concrete ideas and arguments. Larger concepts and critiques of society, a bigger picture that so few seem to grasp and pay attention to.

So Harlan asks, as he does when he sees you, “What are you reading right now, my dear?”

And he doesn’t mean what you’re studying, but what you’re enjoying.

“The Beautiful and Damned.” You tell him and a sudden laugh rumbles from him.

“A good one to revisit while you’re with my family, surely.” He says, all good natured and warm.

But the moment is fleeting with everyone vying for his attention, and the evening slinks onward. Petty squabbles are had, more drinks are poured, food taken and eaten and taken.

While Ransom talks privately with his grandfather, you rest on the couch beside Marta, tucked away in an alcove, reclining leisurely beside the girl you’ve met the past few times at the Thrombey gatherings. She’s lovely and doe-eyed and she smiles very sweetly at you. It’s a little timid and soft and you wonder how her dark lashes might feel against your cheek.

You offer her wine from your glass, which she declines with a shake of her head. Her smile is earnest and you manage to make her laugh somehow, soft and quiet sighs and giggles that fall from both of your lips. She is slow to open up but now she unfurls before you, petal soft and wonderful and glittering eyed in the softly lit room.

“You’re my favorite part of the Thrombey’s,” You tell her with a slip of a smile, take another sip of your wine and you think her eyes are following your lips. You feel a flush crawl along your face.

“Not Ransom?” She asks, because you think she’s wondering. Everyone wonders about you two, about him. No one knows your relationship, no one understands it. They don’t have to, but while you can hear Ransom faintly from the other room begin to raise his voice, you let out a huff of air. Almost a scoff at her question.

“Please,” You say, eyes flickering over to the closed door, where Ransom and Harlan hide behind. “I haven’t been Ransom’s girlfriend in years.” You admit and maybe it’s the wine that makes the words slip from you, drop like precious diamonds from the cave of your mouth. Maybe it’s the honesty of her face, the twinkling empathy in her eyes. She’d be soft, so soft and gentle and--

“I hadn’t even seen him in months until a few days ago, when he asked me to come.” You add, take the last sip of your wine bitterly; it’s turned sour and puckered and dry in your mouth. You set the glass down.

“That’s awful.” Marta says quietly and you don’t realize how close she’s gotten, your thighs touching, almost hip to hip. Your arm is leisurely thrown over the back of the sofa, behind her.

“Yeah, well,” You say and it comes out breathier than you intend, “That’s Ransom.”

“Why did you come?” She asks then, not rudely, but genuine.

You hold up your wrist and your diamond bracelet sparkles in front of her eyes, catches in the darkness there to look like a star. “I got a diamond bracelet if I came.” You say and it’s meaner than you intend it to be, but maybe you’re a little more upset than you thought. Maybe you wanna throw a fit. Maybe you want Marta to comfort you with lips and soothing words.

Maybe it’s just the wine.

“That’s not the only reason you came, though.” Marta probes gently, “Is it?”

Your jaw ticks and your lashes flutter as you turn to face her. “Why else would I?”

“Because you love him.” She whispers.

“Love’s a big word, Marta.” You respond, hushed and secretive, and your fingers slip into the hair at the back of her neck. A strand of it slides over your knuckles as you twirl the chocolate lock slowly, silky soft against your skin, “It’s so heavy.”

She blinks slightly, a rush of pink spreading over her cheeks. “Sometimes.” She whispers, leaning into your touch.

You wonder if she’d whimper if you pulled her hair, how she’d feel against your throat with teeth and tongue. If she’d cry out all pretty and soft, if she’d give what she gets.

“It is with Ransom.” You say, but you don’t think it would be with her. It’d be as light as the sigh that escapes her, the little breath that comes from her chest. As light as feathers and silk, snowflakes that swirl in the night sky, petals on the wind.

A door explodes open, rattles on the hinges, through the whole house. It makes you both jolt away from each other.

Ransom barrels out. You huff, spring up quickly as you watch him grab his coat and wrench the front door open.

“I’m sorry,” You tell Marta, “It was nice seeing you.” You say earnestly and then move to follow, to find your coat, and hurry out the door and into the chill of the night.

“What the fuck?” You shout to Ransom as you slam the front door shut behind you.

His eyes flash dangerously in the darkness, “Get in the fucking car.” He says, “We’re leaving.” And he slides into the front seat and slams the car door just as hard.

He’s in a mood, then.

You hustle over, slip into the passenger side and he peels out of the driveway and down the dirt path.

He’s eerily quiet. Uncharacteristically so. The growl of the car fills the silence with rumbling, with an unsettled sound that rattles through you.

You don’t dare break the quiet first.

And the quiet stretches and stretches, stretches thin until it breaks--

“I forgot something.” He says suddenly, jerking the car to the right, pulling off the road.

“What’d you forget?” You ask, browns furrowing. He doesn’t answer you, though, only stops the car, kills the engine. He stares in silence for a moment, as if he’s making a decision. You can feel your heart in your chest, the steady thrumming that skips when he raises his eyes in the darkness. The red light of his dash casts him in crimson, in unnatural white light.

The whole world feels at a stand-still, on a teetering precipice.

“I’ll be back.” He says and he leaves you, slides out of the car and into the night. Your stomach sinks for some reason, the plummet catching you off guard.

So you wait for him, alone, as a decision that changes everything is made.

***

Ransom is quiet still, pensive, when you both return to his apartment. After all that anger, you thought maybe he’d take it out on you. You’d both yell and scream and then end up making up on the kitchen countertops, furiously trying to rip away clothes and egos and pain.

But he’s uncharacteristically gentle with you as he lays you out on his sheets. Silver light from the moon, the faint stars, cut across the bed like a knife. Slices over his face in a diagonal, one half eclipsed, and the other luminous and sterling silver.

He gets rid of your clothes with reverence, looks over you with hunger and thinly veiled tenderness. A violent sort of need that makes him seem wolfish, even in his gentleness. He covers you, enfolds you in shadow and the curling strength of his arms.

He slides down your body, parts your legs and rolls the warmth of his tongue against where you’re most vulnerable and soft. He flutters his eyes up to you, threads his fingers through yours so you have something to hold onto.

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying, arching off his sheets, twisting and turning and tormented. Until tears slide from the corners of your eyes and you’re aching and open and then he gathers you in his arms, nudges his waist into the crook of your own and fits himself in the depth of you.

You gasp, open mouthed, as he finds home. His own groan blooming from the pit of his chest and out against the hollow of your throat. His hands are bruising, gripped too tight, but you don’t even care, not as you toss your head back, let it fall against his pillow.

The way he looks at you is somewhere between desperation and viciousness. He wants to possess you, he wants to make you delirious with him. Maybe because you’ve made him as mad with you. He wants to infect you the way you’ve infected him.

He wants to belong, he wants to keep you forever. He wants to give you everything, and you think maybe he says so. Maybe he gets it out into the crook of your neck, maybe he presses it into your skin besides all the marks he gave you. His, his, his.

He curls around you afterward, slides his hands over your vulnerable belly, the skin soft beneath his broad palms.

“Let’s leave and never return.” Ransom says and you blink, bleary and sleepy, glance at him with a flutter of your lashes.

“Where would we go?” You murmur, carding your hands through his hair.

“Paris, maybe.” He rumbles into your skin, fingers creating a strange, swirling pattern on your stomach.

“You can read and study and write.” He says and for some reason, your heart squeezes painfully. For some reason, you’re still foolish to imagine it. Sitting pretty in a cafe, a worn book in your hands, glasses of wine between the two of you. He’d look stylish and handsome against a violet rose sunset.

“And what would you do?” You ask softly, a whisper.

“Anything I wanted.”

Quietness falls upon you both again, slow and heavy. He fingers the skin of your stomach, slides over it in strange rhythms only he knows. You’re nearly on the brink of sleep when he turns his face up to you, totally shadowed now, and says;

“I have to tell you something, baby.”

And you can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the beginning of the end.

***

He’d said it was his hour of need and you’re smart so you listen and you absorb. You’re appalled and you’re a little shocked but you--

You keep your head on straight. Ransom starts to unravel.

The moment it’s discovered that his grandfather apparently comitted suicide, he starts to slip into a dangerous edge. He starts ranting and raving and then he’ll go deadly silent and then he’ll become prickly and hot. You are cool and collected.

You are waiting for your time to strike.

A detective is hired by Ransom in an attempt to win it all; and you are careful, walk the tightrope slow and steady. You keep him sane and dull the sharp part of him.

And then, the way a ribbon is pulled apart, Marta slips right into Ransom’s jaws. His plan didn’t work; Marta didn’t kill his grandfather. Ransom technically didn’t, either.

You think, maybe, it could’ve been put to rest here. You think maybe he could've walked away. But Ransom never half does anything, doesn’t ever not finish the job. He spirals.

You wait for a time to strike.

***

Your time is quick and fleeting and you remember piece of a conversation, a snippet of information that could change everything.

You speak with Fran on the outskirts of the family as they discuss heavier matters. She chatters a lot, on and on about just about anything. And you carefully weave the conversation, guide it slowly but surely towards this one factor;

“You have a friend that does toxicology, don’t you?”

She nods enthusiastically, tells you about what he does, how interesting it is. How long she’s known him. You gaze at the family, at the way they try to be hush and talk and end up bickering. Fran’s voice comes in and out, the world turning slow.

Another argument breaks out. Voices raising, cutting over each other. Ruthless. And poor Marta who has to deal with them all, whose only in this position because--

You glance at Ransom, watch his handsome face screw up into a mocking smile as he speaks with his relatives. Smug, greedy, too arrogant. You think about what he said; running away to Paris. To Rome or anywhere in the world. You wonder if you could’ve been happy with him-- dream about a life never lived. A path never taken.

Because later, when Ransom tells you to keep watch so he can slip the antidote back in Marta’s bag, you step away. You hide in the bathroom, peak through the crack in the door, breathe slow and quiet as you watch Fran catch Ransom in the act.

Watch as it all comes crashing down; a domino effect that will slide into place now. You watch as you tip the first scale, as you set the life you could’ve had with Ransom up in flames. Fran disappears, obviously upset and reeling with what she’s discovered.

You emerge once more, greet Ransom with a kiss on the cheek.

A Judas kiss, betrayal placed softly upon his skin.

You force yourself to look into his eyes, so he doesn’t suspect a thing. You smile at him, the kind of smile that makes him kiss you. Hard and quick and furious. He calls you his Bonnie, says so against your lips.

You laugh and hope it doesn’t come out as tumbling and mad as it sounds to your ears.

***

When all is said and done, Ransom ends up behind bars, just as you knew he would. Just as he should be. He thinks you had nothing to do with it, he thinks you’re gonna help him out of this one, too, somehow.

So you visit him in prison, dressed in Chanel and fur and the Cartier white-gold bracelet that flashes so prettily. Your heels click against the cold, tile ground as your approach the stall to speak with him. He sits behind the glass in an orange jumpsuit, garring and horrible. It’s unzipped slightly, showing his broad, muscled chest, rolled up at the elbows. A far cry from his lavish coats and scarves and sweaters.

His eyes glint when they see you, a tilting of his head that is arrogant and predatory. His smile is hooked when he sees you.

With all of your grace, you glide to him, take a seat in front of him. In front of the glass. You both stare at each other a moment, his eyes always so hungry and wolfish. Heat flares slowly inside of you, an inkling of torment from hell, from the devil before you.

Slowly, with measured ease, he picks up the phone to speak with you.

You reach for it, too, your eyes still on him.

“Hello, princess.” He rumbles into the phone.

“Hello, Ransom.” You say almost hushed.

“I miss you,” He says with his curling smile, a flash of sharp teeth. You think of them at your neck, on your pulse that beats rapidly.

“When I get out of here, let’s leave.” He then says, soft and murmured, “Let’s leave and never look back. I’ll take you wherever you want.”

You hum on that, look over him slowly, and you think that seeing him here, in the jumpsuit, behind the glaring glass, leaves your dreams of Paris dashed and destroyed. The idea of loving him, sitting on that balcony with a book in your hands and his hand on your thigh as you watch the city fall into dusk shatters right in front of you. You can put it to rest once and for all, dig a grave inside the pit of your chest and bury it.

“I don’t think you’ll get out for a long time, I’m afraid.” You tell him finally.

His eyes darken, brows furrowing, “What are you talking about? I’ll get the best lawyers, you’ll help me--”

“I won’t.” You say, finding his eyes, shaking your head the slightest amount.

His eyebrows shoot up, his face becoming cold and hard and outraged, “You won’t?” He asks, and then, “Thought you were my Bonnie?” His jaw ticks in anger, in pain that bubbles up inside of him, “You know I could get you here on assisted murder. I protected you. You knew everything--”

“Oh, Ransom,” You say, a slight sigh, pitying and soft. And now it’s your turn to be sharp-smiled, a slip of fox’s wit, “Who do you think led Fran to look into the toxicology reports?” You ask lightly.

He blinks, his mouth suddenly falling open.

“How do you think she caught you replacing the antidote to Marta’s bag?” You ask him, tilting your head, the look in your eyes cunning and quick and burning.

He stares in disbelief.

“I know I’m psycho,” You sigh, lift your finger to the glass, draw a swirling pattern as if you’re stroking his face. All that you feel is the cold, clear glass. “But you didn’t think I’d let you get away with this, did you?”

He sits back in shock, staring at you. And then a laugh bursts from him, rough and hard and he looks at you with awe, with a wild sort of amazement.

“Backstabbing, rotten bitch.” He says, but it’s with fondness. Like he can’t believe someone bested him, like he can’t believe you could be so cutthroat or ruthless, “You really were made for me, weren’t you?”

He looks at you like he wants to take you up against the glass in front of everyone, like he wants to punish you and praise you and love you so violently that you can’t see or feel anything but him.

But there is no rough love making, there is nothing but the glass between you and the triumph and the ache inside your ribs.

“It seems so.” You say and you let your hand fall away from the glass, your diamond bracelet clinking lightly. You take a last look at him, sear him into your memory like this, looking at you like you’re both the best and worst thing the world could ever give him.

“Goodbye, darling.” You purr, even if your heart is burning, even if your breath is tight. And then you hang up the phone and rise, graceful and elegant as ever.

You can hear his laughter, feel the way his eyes try to keep you here, brand you and scorch you.

You walk out with your head high, a too-clever grin touching the corner of your lips and a weight off of your shoulders, but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You’ll miss him, you think, even if all the world knows you shouldn’t.

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